#christianity mention

[prokopetz]

About twenty years back, there was this weird transitional period after companies had figured out that harvesting their users' demographic information was a potential gold mine but before we lived in a hellish panopticon where any website operator could look up your IP address and know what you had for breakfast where some sites would try to get you to fill out, like, detailed demographic surveys before they'd let you access their stuff. Not just age, gender and geographic location, either – some of them would fish for employment status, marital status, brand preferences, even religious affiliation. A lot of folks I knew would just pick the first option in every dropdown, but my move was always to fill in the demographic information of the current Pope, at least as far as I was able to determine it (brand preference was always a tricky one). I like to think that, thanks to my efforts, their data sets are haunted to this day by a phantom pontiff.

[sincerelybubbles]

ok shy bau reader and the team finally managed to get her to come a rossi dinner party so she can meet the rest of the team families that she hasn’t met yet, maybe after her first date with hitch and the team realized quickly she softened very fast with the kids and jack and her just seemed to click really fast and jack had her talking more than any of the team has so far… hotch is star eyes

hotch x shy!bau!reader \\ Dinner and Delights

Warnings: brief mention/allusions to Christianity. Otherwise, fluff! More insight into what Aaron is thinking :) I got very carried away, I hope you enjoy <3

"Woah hot stuff, where are you going so fast?" Morgan intercepts you with an arm around your shoulder as you attempt to slip out of the BAU unnoticed. "Hopefully to get ready for our big dinner plans?"

It's not that you don't want to go to one of Rossi's famous dinner parties, you're just afraid that your sub-par social skills would be noticeable by tenfold in a more casual environment.

At work, you can hide your quietness by talking about the psychology of the unsub, your specialty as a licensed psychologist. You can pretend you're not hiding in your shell when the team is all laughing and talking about personal lives by quietly listening while pretending to read your maps and journals. You can observe them and spend time with them, because you do truly love them all at this point, without feeling bad that you prefer to listen over talk.

And that's really it - you prefer to listen to them. You would say you've all but warmed up to all of them. You like Morgan's teasing, Emily's stories, Reid's rambling, Rossi's sarcasm, and Hotch's...

Everything, but the thought snaps you back to the present before you can dwell on memories of a sweet date in a dark restaurant.

"Of course," you succeed, nodding and sending him a tight-lipped smile.

"Hey," he slows you down and stops in the hallway, turning you to face him gently before lifting his hands in a placating gesture as if you were an animal he expects to run. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with but I promise none of us are trying to lead our little lamb to slaughter. We know you're quiet," the admission embarrasses you and makes you feel guilty pleasant that he sounds so gentle about it, "and nobody minds, I think it's cute and I think the rest are just happy our other genius isn't as vocal as Reid."

Your nose scrunches at the small dig and you open your mouth to protest at putting Reid down to lift you up.

"And look at that! Another thing we all love - you're quiet but won't let anyone say anything about the other behind their back. You're a good person, we all just want to spend some less-intense time with you. So, go home and doll yourself up, and get ready to see Hotch wine tipsy. We all know that's your main motivator." Morgan winks at you and moves quickly down the hall and away from you, laughing, before you can protest.

He's not wrong, though, and you shake your head as you move toward the elevator.

You end up on Rossi's doorstep, choking the neck of a bottle of expensive wine between two sweaty palms. Your heart is in your throat, nerves humming in anticipation.

Your team cares about you. Nobody expects you to be anything you're not. Gentle affirmations meant to soothe over your skin in gently lapping waves erupt into steam; like water hitting lava rock. You're too tense, too worried about not saying enough or too much; saying the wrong thing or saying the right thing only once and never living up to the expectation of repeated occurrences.

"Hey," Emily says from behind you. You turn to see her jogging up to stand beside you, brushing off her pants and adjusting her jacket. "You brought wine!" She cheers happily, reaching past you to turn the nob and open the door.

She gestures you inside, making no comment about your obvious hesitance. With her by your side, your nerves are calmed. Aside from Aaron, she's the easiest for you to be around. You don't feel any expectations with Emily. She doesn't talk too much or too little, doesn't push, doesn't ever send a pitying look when you opt out of activities outside of work.

"Château Lafite," you say to her, lifting the wine and shaking it gently in the air as you walk inside.

"Oh! Fancy wine."

"Wine?" Rossi asks, rounding a corner. He's dressed slightly more casually in a soft sweater and jeans, drying his hands off with a pristine dish towel. "The more the merrier, bring it in here."

You follow his gesture back into the kitchen, leaving Emily to go to what you presume is the living or dining area.

"Where did you find this?" Rossi asks, taking the wine from you to examine it and letting out a low whistle as he appreciates it.

"Just my local winery," you say, neglecting to admit that you go there often enough that the owner leaves the nicer stuff behind the counter for you.

Lonely nights crave wine, twisting them into lovely things you can appreciate. You enjoy your own company after years of quietly observing others. You've learned how to observe yourself, too, after all of these years.

And, even though you don't quite realize it, the self-awareness carries like confidence. That's what Aaron sees in you: observant eyes darting across a room and noticing everything, understanding flickering before anyone else catches a cue, deft movements across the paper while taking notes, and swift motions always with a purpose.

It's what he sees now, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans while he leans in the doorway of Rossi's kitchen, watching you. How could he not? You're a lovely creature, always begging for his eyes to settle on you for another second, and then another.

He knows the moment you realize he's in the room, minutes before Rossi. You stand straighter, tilt your chin lower, and are aware far before you tilt your head to the side to send him a soft smile. He returns it before Rossi can catch him. It's a warmth he wants to reserve for you.

"Dave," he interrupts the other man's monologuing about the wine he's sure you already know all about, "Jack would like to know if he and Spencer can use your chess set when he gets here?"

"Of course, I'll get it from my study." Rossi leaves, passing you the wine and gesturing to the opener.

Aaron steps in before you can start the process of opening the wine. He doesn't quite know why, but he wants to do it for you. He finds himself wanting that more and more recently: to do simple tasks for the sole purpose of you not having to do them. Opening doors and pulling out chairs are simple gestures that he did with Hayley, but he wants to do sillier, smaller, things, too. Straighten the pens on your desk back into their cup, reorganize the files on your desktop, untangle the wires of the headphones he really should reprimand you for using at your desk, open a damn bottle of wine he can't pronounce the name of but that he heard you say so gently to Emily as you walked in.

"Jack's here?" You ask, handing him the wine and crossing your arms over your chest as you lean back against the counter to watch him work.

He relishes how your eyes focus on his arms, pupils dilating, as his muscles work under his thin henley.

"Yes, I have him this weekend and he likes to spend time with Reid and Garcia."

He has to step closer to reach above you to get the wine glasses. He could ask you to step aside, tuck his hand against your waist to move you himself, or simply walk into the next room to grab the glasses sitting on the table. But, instead, he tucks one foot in between yours, puts one hand on the back of your head to guard it from the cabinet, and opens it to find the nicer crystal there.

Your breath hitches across his neck and he remembers the chaste kisses he's given you before. Nothing serious, nothing has been yet because he's waiting for you to lead him into that, but tantalizing nonetheless. He steps back to pour the wine, standing closer to you than he started.

A little for you, passed gently, and then a little for him. Dave could pour his own glass.

You take the wine and sip it slowly, tongue darting out to taste before you sip. He's reminded of communion as a child. The blood of christ, sacred, something to be tasted but not meant to satiate. Reverence in a sip, devotion in a small act.

He wants to give you the same thing. The desire hits him in the sternum, suddenly, leaving him winded as he watches you lower the glass. Your eyes are locked on his, you haven't seemed as hesitant about holding his gaze recently - something that makes him melt - and he wonders if you can feel how he wants to take care of you. How he wants to show you the same force that water uses to carve canyons. Persistence and pressure, time and care. He's willing to take his time, he's filled with the same patience as everything all together in nature. He's a rabbit perched on its hind legs, sniffing the wind for safety before darting forward; the bird hung in flight between beats of wings, the whisper of wind carrying small seeds miles away to wait and watch the growth. Wait, wait, wait, however long it takes, he's there. For you.

It's a strong feeling to fully realize in David Rossi's kitchen, but he's grateful for it, anyway.

"It's good," you comment softly, eyes smiling.

"Is it?" He asks, setting his glass down and retaking his spot nearer to you. He misses your warmth. "Can I?" He asks, brushing his fingers across your jugular before cupping your cheek.

"Taste the wine?" You tease, eyes flickering to his glass. The gentle jest pulls a chuckle from his chest. Another thing you've become more comfortable doing around him. His blood and bones sing at how familiar you can be with him.

"Yes," he says in a breath, dipping his head down to brush his lips against yours.

And you're reciprocating - you've always reciprocated, enthusiastically, just never in the pressing way you are now. You set down your own glass to hold his arms in both of your hands. Fingers dig into his arm as you sigh and open your mouth, new lands to explore, tilting your head back to grant him full access.

"Daddy?" Jack asks and Aaron pulls away, a man parched and staring at an oasis in the middle of a desert, before Jack can round the corner. He doesn't go far, though, hand traveling down to the small of your back as he turns.

"Jack?" Aaron replies, waiting for him to come around the corner.

"Hello," Jack says, stopping in the doorway and looking up at you with wide eyes.

You've met him a few times before, always in passing, but you still smile warmly and wave at him.

"Hi, Jack."

"Do you know how to play chess?" Jacks asks. Aaron smiles at the eagerness on his son's face.

"Yes, I do. Would you like to play?"

"Yes please!" Jack jumps forward to grab your hand, pulling you into the living room before you can react.

You go easily, though, following him with a gentle laugh that warms the coldest parts of him. Pieces of him he doesn't think have seen the light in years brighten at the sound. He's heard you laugh before but something about the sight of you laughing because of Jack illuminates needs that he didn't even know he had. Needs you're meeting before he can feel the yawning desire of them.

He follows, unable to resist the desire to see you two interact over and over again. You're setting up the board, listening to Jack chatter on, nodding intently.

[10yrsyart]

SO i storyboarded this comic and drew the first page back in 2015, and then totally and completely forgot about it 😂 i remember around that time i was struggling to accept that chronic illness was my life and couldn't be ignored.

it was really cathartic to come back to finish this, both with improved skills, and improved mental health. i feel like God allowed me to forget about it, just so that He could gift it back to me now, as a reminder of our growth together.

"(The Lord) lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along." (Psalm 40:2)

transcript:

Papyrus: SANS!! Sans: hey bro, how's the library job goin?

Papyrus: OH, EHM.. IT GOES WELL! HOW ARE YOU, ARE YOU TIRED??

Sans: not... anymore than usual?

Papyrus: WHAT ABOUT HUNGRY? HAVE YOU LOT YOUR APPETITE?

Sans: what-

Papyrus: DO YOU SUDDENLY FEEL SAD WHEN YOU'VE PREVIOUSLY BEEN HAPPY?

Sans: bro-

Papyrus: FEELINGS OF WORTHLESSNESS? IRRITATION? APATHY?

Papyrus: I'VE BEEN RESEARCHING ILLNESSES ON THE LIBRARY COMPUTER. I BELIEVE YOU MAY HAVE AN ILLNESS CALLED DEPRESSION.

Sans: - ..nah, i'm sure it's just.. me being lazy. like I always am, right? don't worry-

Papyrus: I HAVE FAILED YOU, BROTHER!

Sans: pap, no-

Papyrus: I SHOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD THE SIGNS!!

Sans: papyrus-

Papyrus: I HAVE BEEN CALLING YOU LAZY WHEN YOU ARE IN FACT SICK! THIS IS UNFORGIVEABLE OF ME! IT MUST BE REMEDIED!!!

Papyrus: WE ARE ON THE SURFACE NOW, BROTHER! THERE IS NO NEED TO FEEL SO HOPELESS. WHATEVER YOU NEED, I WILL HELP YOU! I KNOW YOU TRY TO HIDE THAT YOU ARE FEELING SAD, BUT YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT ANYMORE.

Papyrus: I AM HERE FOR YOU.

Sans: thanks, pap.. i.. i love you.

Papyrus: I LOVE YOU TOO, SANS. YOUR DOCTOR RECOMMENDED HUG SESSION BEGINS NOW!

Sans: just bill my insurance.

[nyaskitten]

Seawalker should be renamed to Jesusshipping smash like if you agree.

[spitblaze]

why the hell is christian music so devoid of lyricism. like i KNOW you guys can do better ive listened to sufjan stevens. ive heard that one jars of clay song. theres so much ground you could cover thematically and tonally and lyrically but like. it feels like a genuine oddity to find a song EXPLICITLY about christianity that sounds better than 'overproduced amateur who decided their first pass at the lyrics was good enough to sing to millions of people and also god'

[mossdaggar]

Unemployed Promo Post

Hey y'all, I'm Moss, a queer game designer who heads Brewist Tabletop Games. Late December, I quit a toxic job environment when my mental health was at its lowest. I fortunately had a big game launch just before I did, but I've now been out of work for 6 weeks (I've had interviews and I've got some hope!) and it has left me in the red. I'd love if you'd check out my games or boost this to people who might. <3 A notable release I've had is HELLWHALERS, a TTRPG of nautical and Christian-religious horror. Play as damned whalers hunting a leviathan whale in a bid for redemption in this token and d6 based game. There's even a metacurrency with its own gambling mechanic! I also have Rel1ct, a GMless eldritch body horror solo or duet TTRPG inspired by things like Annihilation and The Color Out of Space. Play with cards and dice in a journaling game that TTRPG reviewer/designer Sam Leigh called a "TTRPG that will wreck you". There's also my experimental gridless tactical TTRPG that is a love-letter to JRPGs and weird math, Infinite Reverie. It's only $9 right now, but the 2nd edition is coming this year, and it'll just go up in price from here. It's complete and playable in v1, but the layout is /bad/. Pip, the other half of Brewist Tabletop Games, is working on a gorgeous and fantastic redo of the game, and you'll want to pick it up before that price jumps! You can also find a draconic duo of games bundled together, Kn1ght and Dr4kk3n, two games about fighting their own respective terrible dragons, but in two very different ways. Kn1ght is a GMless solo or duo journaling game, the original model rules that Rel1ct was based off. Dr4kk3n is a d4 based dungeoncrawl for 3-4 players and a GM built on Caltrop Core engine, pioneered by designer Titanomachy. Regardless of whether or not you can pick them up, all my games can be found at brewisttabletopgames.itch.io, and as a thanks for looking, I'll be adding a few community copies of each of these games. There are also a smattering of pay-what-you-want and small microgames available on our itch as well.

[nepentheisms]

You ever find yourself down and out, going through a real dark night of the soul? Well if your name's Vash, then fortunately for you, you've got a Meryl Stryfe on your side.

She came in clutch, and I'm proud of her. Nightow even conveys the moment Meryl's words of resolve reach Vash as a burst of light in the dark. After Vash kills Legato, we see his soul teetering on the brink. He feels truly lost, boxed inside an all-black space, wondering what reason he has to go on living, "What's there left to see?"

And as if in answer to prayer, sparks of light begin to appear around him. As our eyes follow the flow of panels down to the lower left, we're then hit with the impact of the space around Vash brightening dramatically as he hears Meryl's words. Her faith calls him out of the void, and he gets the answer to his question: Here are the people fighting to realize your dream. Here's the woman who declares that she's among those who will share your burden because it doesn't matter if you broke the vow that defined you for so long - you're still worth believing in. And here, right in front of you is a fragment of your sisters' memories - the key to finally bridging the gap between them and humanity. There's so much left to see.

I love how in every version of Trigun, it's the sheer persistence of Meryl's faith that pulls Vash out of his lowest points (I know Stampede hasn't reached this climax in Vash's emotional journey yet, but I think what we've seen with Meryl helping him break Knives' control is a foretaste of bigger things to come). That tenacity and refusal to give up are so central to her character. Once her convictions are set, she's incredibly steadfast in them, and it's this steadfastness that makes the Mary Magdalene comparisons even more fitting.

In Thomas Aquinas' reflection on Mary Magdalene, he calls her devotion "constant," and says "it deserves praise" as a quality that "made her fit to see the angels." Aquinas remarks that while the other disciples left when Jesus was buried, Mary Magdalene stayed because of her "stronger and more burning affection." Thus, she is privileged among the saints as the chosen witness and messenger:

"Notice the three privileges given to Mary Magdalene. First, she had the privilege of being a prophet because she was worthy enough to see the angels, for a prophet is an intermediary between angels and the people. Secondly, she had the dignity or rank of an angel insofar as she looked upon Christ, on whom the angels desire to look. Thirdly, she had the office of an apostle; indeed, she was an apostle to the apostles insofar as it was her task to announce our Lord's resurrection to the disciples."

So how fitting is it that Meryl ends the story as a news reporter and thereby having even more power to tell Vash's story? She has witnessed the most hidden aspects of him (a fact that makes a great point of comparison to the characterization of Mary Magdalene in the extracanonical Gnostic Gospels), and there's so much she could say to help the rest of the world learn to understand him. She now has the resources to share his message on a much greater scale, and in those last few pages we see that the people Vash met in his travels, people like Lina and her grandmother and Badwick's family, are among those watching the broadcast. Meryl gets the word out to others who came to know him directly: He is risen.

"Mary answered and said, What is hidden from you I will proclaim to you. And she began to speak to them these words: I, she said, I saw the Lord in a vision and I said to Him, Lord I saw you today in a vision. He answered and said to me, Blessed are you that you did not waver at the sight of Me. For where the mind is there is the treasure." -Gospel of Mary (extracanonical)

[bread-tab]

okay random 4am rant time, don't take it too seriously, but: people need to recognize there's a difference between "bad worldbuilding" and "worldbuilding styles you personally don't like."

bad worldbuilding is, for example: internally inconsistent, bigoted, or something else that messes up the plot or characterization of the story itself. sloppy. careless.

things that are *not* bad worldbuilding:

minimalism.

i've been thinking about this in the first place because i saw a post about the Murderbot Diaries a while back (don't know who made it, don't care; this ain't personal) saying the worldbuilding in those books is bad and lazy. to me, as an avid sci-fi reader and writer, that is clearly not true. but i understood why they thought this. the series uses extremely minimalist worldbuilding which intentionally withholds a lot of detail, in a way that is consistent with the (nonhuman, robot, depressed robot) first-person POV. this could also be a feature of the author's writing style in general—i haven't read her other works—but i wouldn't bet too much on it.

the signature of intentional minimalism is that there *are* details about the speculative setting—they're just doled out very thoughtfully and sparingly. the intent is to leave you a little hungry for more. it's to make you think very carefully about the details you do have. this is best suited to stories that already have elements of psychological and/or mystery plot types. the worldbuilding you do see should still be believable, internally consistent, and have interesting implications if you think about it a bit. but you are for sure going to have to think harder to get it.

if you're not in the mood, i will concede, a minimalist style definitely comes off as a bit dry. if you are in the mood, it's relaxing.

whimsy.

this is a big one for sci-fi fans in particular. see: the constant debate about whether any particular story is "hard" or "soft" sci-fi, and whether soft sci-fi is bad, etc etc. but worldbuilding doesn't have to be realistic to be good. you're allowed to have Jedi and humanoid aliens and time travel in your sci-fi. you're allowed to have historical anachronisms and astrology and po-ta-toes in your fantasy. whether or not they're silly isn't the deciding factor on how "good" these worldbuilding elements really are.

the key thing is tonal consistency. you've got a serious high-fantasy setting with its own strict, un-Earth-like theology and magic system, and you throw Santa Claus in there? yeah, that's not gonna land well. but C.S. Lewis can get away with that in Narnia just fine. why? because the Chronicles of Narnia are whimsical children's stories with a strong Christian/Western mythological influence already, and their central conceit is a crossover between the mundane world and the magical world. of course Santa can cross over too. it's whimsical, but it's not actually random. (and if you ventured into straight-up comedy, you could get away with random too. as long as it's funny.)

the unreliable narrator.

i don't have a good example for this off the top of my head (maybe Murderbot again? idk, i'm sleepy, fill in your own) but i'll tell you how to recognize when this is done well.

by definition, an unreliable narrator has some key misconceptions about their own world. so how do you tell what's going on as a reader? how do you know the writer isn't equally confused?

you connect the dots. solve the puzzle. in practice this is similar to reading a minimalist setting—but instead of just sparse clues, you also have a boatload of red herrings. you can catch some of these misleading details by comparing them to your real-world knowledge and saying "wait, this doesn't add up." other times, the false clues intentionally trick you by subverting those real world expectations.

the trick is in the consequences. regardless of what the narrator says, their actions should still have logical consequences. there should be things going on that the POV character doesn't know about. the character will be forced to learn and adapt their narrative because of these shifting circumstances. you can catch them in a lie. the inconsistencies themselves tell a story.

...

i'm gonna stop myself there because this post is long and i oughtta be sleeping. just. this is a distinction worth making. is it really bad worldbuilding, or is it simply not the genre you're craving today? learn the difference for your own sake. you'll have an easier time realizing if a story is something you'll find enjoyable to read, regardless of its actual quality.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I’m not dead I promise. Nor am I done with x reader stuff. Finally, Mello gets his day in the limelight. Good for him.

Scarring

“That translation is wrong.”

“Thank you.” You did not look up from your notebook. “You know, it sure would suck if I went a minute without knowing that I’m bad at this.”

He took a sip from his milkshake, his weight leaned against the counter. “Get better, then.” He pointed at the page you were on, gesturing to the words. “The girl isn’t greedy; she doesn’t get to have a masculine adjective.”

You groaned, resting your head in your hands. “Jesus fucking— that’s the only noun in the sentence!”

Another sip. “If there isn’t another noun,” he explained slowly, not bothering to hide his condescension, “you assume there’s an invisible ‘vir’ there.”

“Why is it invisible? For whose benefit?”

“The author’s, mainly.”

You rubbed your eyes, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is bullshit,” you decided. “This whole thing is moronic.”

“Serves you right for learning a dead language.”

“Eat my dick.”

He snickered. “I’ll get right on it.” He looked around the diner for the fifth time, a frown settling on his face. “He’s late.”

You took a sip from your drink. “Serves you right for being a stalker.”

“It’s called espionage.”

“A rose by any other name smells just as stalkery.” You smirked. “Serves you right for agreeing to it in the first place— what if he doesn’t show up? What’s your plan then, genius?”

“Shut up.” He leaned his cheek against his hand. “He’ll be here.”

“Sure, sure.” You closed your notebook. “I give up. Three hours of torture is enough, I think.”

He stirred his milkshake, pulling the straw out of the cup and stabbing the bottom of it. “You won’t get a degree if you flunk out.”

“I don’t need Latin to graduate.” You took another sip from your drink. “I don’t need Latin as a general— how come you don’t know how to cook soup but you know Latin?”

He considered the question. “I wanted to prove that I could learn it.” Another stab.

You sneered. “Then I suppose your rival knows some Latin too, then.”

Another glare.

“If you want me to stop knowing what you’re going to say, stop being so predictable.” You tried to will away your simper with little success. “You can’t blame me for having basic pattern recognition.”

He looked back at his milkshake, took another sip. “I was better at it than him,” he grumbled. “He was always shit at languages.”

You giggled. “I’m sure he was.” Your gaze fell upon the clock behind the counter, your expression souring. “We’ve been here for an hour,” you pointed out. “How long—“

“His arrival time has a two hour margin.” He picked up the glass, scraping the excess shake off the sides. “If Holiday-- his horse-- won, he’s going to be here an hour before closing time. If Holiday didn’t win, he’ll be here thirty minutes before closing because he’ll spend more time at the bar. If he gets into an argument at home— which happens once every week or so, especially on Saturdays because they’re supposed to be their date night— he’ll come here first for dinner before leaving to get drinks and will go to a fast food place instead.” He took another sip. “The diner closes in an hour, so if he doesn’t show up in another thirty minutes, we can leave.”

You stared at him, blinking slowly. “I see.” You ran your finger along the edge of your notebook. “And let’s say this guy— who, for the record, you know too much about— doesn’t conform to the schedule that you assigned him; what’s the next step?”

There was something more in his glare this time, a familiar edge. “What if the Moon crashes into Earth before he gets here? What if the floor opens up and we all die?” His eyes darkened, and you were reminded, much to your subconscious’ dismay, who it was that you were dating. “I didn't give up my childhood for nothing,” he said, conviction dripping like tar out of every pore. “I know what I’m doing. He’ll be here.”

You opened your mouth to answer, thought better of it. You focused on your glass.

He blinked, eyes widening as his face softened. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” He laced his fingers together, twiddling his thumbs. “I have— this isn’t—“

“Don’t stress it.” You smiled weakly. “It’s late; we’re tired. I know you— well, that you aren’t going to do anything stupid.”

He nodded curtly. “Good. I’m glad.” He reached over, taking your hand and running his thumbs over your knuckles. His hands were shaking. “I’m stressed out is all; there’s a lot riding on this.”

“I know, baby.” You ran your free hand through his hair, bringing it to rest against his cheek. “You’re right; it’ll work out.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “I won’t make you regret what you’ve done for me,” he promised. “This will be good for the both of us.”

You brought his hands to your lips, kissing each. “You don’t need to keep telling me; I know you will.”

“Good.” He glanced at the counter, letting his hands fall to his lap. “I’m glad.”

“Good,” you agreed. “I'm glad you’re glad.”

He grinned. “I’m glad you’re glad I’m—“

The door made a jingle as someone entered the diner. The look on your boyfriend’s face told you who it was.

You were smart enough not to look behind you.

He grabbed his glass, turning his back to the man. “What’d I say?” He looked over at you, pride shining in his eyes. “Good day for Holiday.”

You looked down at your closed notebook, pretending to study it. “I suppose you were right.” You glanced in his direction. “What time can I expect to have you home?”

He considered it. “One at the latest,” he decided. “If I can’t make it home before then, I’ll call you.”

You nodded, slipping your book in your bag. “One it is.” You stood up. “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

He shifted the glass, trying to catch the man’s reflection. “He’s too shifty to risk it.” He glanced up at you. “But I’ll kiss you when I get home.”

Waiting was the worst part of dating Mathew.

The second worst thing was the fact that he wouldn’t tell you his real name (he had offered Mello as a substitute— which the two of you agreed was an objectively silly name— but he claimed Mathew was as close as he could give you, what with the times being what they were). The third was that he got himself into bad situations all the time, but the very worst were these agonizing waits between seeing him after the working day was over and Good Samaritan laws practically stopped being in effect. It could have been worse, you supposed— he could be late and stupid enough to get hurt— but it did not make the wait any less unbearably long. He always came back, and you knew he always would, but it was impossible not to assume the worst at twelve-fifty. Fifty-six, now.

‘This show sucks.’ You turned the television off, letting your eyes fall closed.

A knock at the door.

You shot up from your doze. Quickly, quietly, you slid off the couch onto your knees, groping under it before your hand found a cool, heavy piece of metal. Taking the bat in your hand, you approached the door. Stealing yourself, you glanced through the peephole.

Him.

You exhaled, unlocking the door. He was doubled over, breathing labored, glistening with sweat. You pulled him inside, relocking up as he tried unsuccessfully to compose himself. His eyes were trained on the bat. “You should let me buy you a piece,” he panted. “That’s… fuck… that’s not going to be helpful if…” He swallowed, laughing in exhaustion. You could see now that he had dried blood stuck to the side of his face. “If someone comes here, a bat’s not gonna help. I could’ve shot you through the door.”

You reached out, tilting his head up towards you to get a better look. They were ugly scratches; pale skin outlined angry red and pink flesh. You tried not to ask. “You need to disinfect these,” you mumbled. “You’ll get scars.”

He waved your hand away, standing up straight. “I’ll be fine,” he assured you. “The guy just scratched me is all.”

“Disgusting stuff is under fingernails.” You took his hand, leading him towards your bathroom. “You’ll thank me later.”

Grumbling, he let you drag him along, let you sit him down, let you bring harsh antiseptic to the gashes despite his protest. He watched you, mostly, fiddling with his fingernails while you fussed over him.

Finally, he spoke. “You haven’t asked me yet.”

You crumpled up his bandage’s wrapper. “Asked you what?”

“What I did.” He kept his eyes trained on you like it was an effort. “If I did it.”

You shrugged. “Not my business.” You tossed them out. “Are you complaining that I’m making myself a bad witness?”

“I guess.” He swallowed. “I’m in, I think. If they hold up their end of it.”

You leaned against your sink, facing him. “Do you get paid this time?”

“I should.”

You nodded absently. “Are you okay?”

Finally, he looked away. “Well enough. I—“ He paused, amending his statement. The cool light of the bathroom— you meant to get those changed— casted dark green shadows across his face. “Well, I thought I would be doing different horrible things, but I knew I’d– I mean to say, I’ve about come to terms with my going to hell if there is one, so.” He smiled shakily. “It doesn’t matter much to me which circle, so I’m alright.”

You nodded again.

“I’m sorry for being late.” He looked down at his nails, forcing his hands onto his thighs. “I mean, I know I wasn’t late, but I should have let you know I was taking longer than expected to come home. My phone died, and I didn’t want to be dropped off close to here.”

“You’re alright. I appreciate it, really.” You gave him a once over. “But you’re not coming to bed without a shower. And I’m not washing whoever’s blood that is out.”

He looked down at his shirt, realizing— seemingly for the first time— that he was spattered with blood. “I look like I killed someone,” he noted.

You shrugged. “Nobody here’s going to call the cops on you for having blood on your clothes.”

“Disturbing, but convenient.” He rolled his eyes. “One more failure to add to the list for the justice system.”

“I don’t know if it’s that.” You crossed your ankles. “I mean, yeah, but I think it’s got more to do with people thinking that there shouldn’t be capital punishment for people guilty of the crime of being kinda weird.”

“Being put to death for being strange,” he mused. “How biblical.”

“It’s not that either,” you stressed. “It’s just that the Kira fanboys started leaking police records so it’s a bigger dick move than it usually is to call the cops for stuff.”

He leaned onto his elbows, letting his head fall forward. “Again,” he sighed, “how biblical.”

“Old Testament justice,” you conceded. “I wonder if Kira’s a Christian.”

“It’s not likely.” He looked up at you, dull blonde hair sticking to his face. “He’s Japanese; most Japanese people aren’t Christian.”

“I guess.” He had a lot of theories about Kira. They were usually accurate, but their quantity brought you pause on occasion. “That’s funny. So is it just faith in the police, then?”

“That’s more likely.”

“Someone should shoot him.”

“If you’ll tell me where to aim, I’m more than happy to.”

You looked down at your tile floor. “You'll have to wait in line.”

“I know.” A pause, then, “I wonder how much his body would go for.”

“Whose, Kira’s?”

“Yeah.”

You considered it. “I’m sure loads of people would want his head for one reason or another. He better hope he doesn’t end up in prison; you’d be able to buy him and his stuff piecemail.”

“Like a celebrity.”

“Like a pope.”

“Like a god.”

You hummed. “Enough people deify him already; all he needs is a church.”

“Wouldn’t that be funny?” You struggled to pinpoint his expression. It was almost sadistic. “What an accomplishment that would be, to be the first person in recorded history to kill a god.”

You let your head fall back. You really hated that light. “You sound like a serial killer.”

“I feel like one.”

“What’s your plan after you catch him?” You looked back down at your boyfriend. He was shivering. “Will the two of you just call a truce?”

He took a deep breath. “Probably not.” He traced one of the tiles with his foot. “If someone as powerful as Kira showed up again, we’d probably fight over who could catch them too. Then another person after that, and another after that. Rinse and repeat until one of us dies.”

“How miserable.”

“Naturally.”

You loved your boyfriend. You loved most things about him. His passion, his drive, his energy— you could see yourself starting a proper life with him. You shared your life with him, anyway, and a part of you believed that one day he would too.

But there was one thing about him you could not stand.

He was ambitious. Too ambitious.

It would get him hurt one day, and you hated that you knew that you would be around to see it.

[syn4k]

thinking thoughts on this thursday morning

[penisbrigade]

considering reading the bible for the first time since i was like 9 so i can write canon compliant jesus x judas fanfiction. when did my life become.........this? bringing back the religious hyperfixation, but with homosexual tragedy this time<333

[prokopetz]

One of my favourite recurring bits of terminology confusion is folks who've never played Dungeons & Dragons hearing that it has a class called a "monk", and, being aware that D&D's milieu is generically medieval, assuming they must be based on Catholic monks – particularly when you start explaining what the class actually does.

[yardsards]

so i think the real difference between catholicism and evangelical protestantism is that catholic guilt will leave you feeling like a monster for ever daring to be happy and protestant/evangelical guilt will leave you feeling like a monster for ever daring to be unhappy

[myryathedreamer]

I feel like the internet needs to hear about judas buns.

If you have even a passing knowledge of the New Testament, then you know Judas was the guy who betrayed Jesus Christ for 30 silver and then hanged himself.

So the Czechs asked "Can we make a dish around this?" and didn't wait for an answer.

This soft sweet pastry is traditionally made for Easter Thursday (google tells me it's called Maundy Thursday in English) and usually takes a form of various knots and spirals to symbolize a rope. Some take this metaphor a step further, as shown by my mother, who hands covered in flour asked me "Do you know how to tie a noose?"

When we speak of fucked up Czech traditions, we usually think of whipping girls with willow sticks in exchange for eggs. But I believe baking rope-like buns in "honor" of a guy who hanged himself should be up there as well.

[actual-changeling]

Bro just think about Michael and Joan of Arc in the good omens universe.

Michael was one of Joan’s (or Jehanne, as she was called in life) guides, and trained her in the ways of war and divine Justice from the time she was thirteen. Michael was sent to earth and watched this young peasant girl grow up, eventually leading the French towards victory over the English like she was always meant to.

But then, at the age of eighteen, she’s captured and imprisoned by the English, and Michael has to stand by because “it’s all a part of the great plan”. It doesn’t matter how much Jehanne prays or suffers at the hands of her captors, Michael can’t disobey orders.

Then, Jehanne dies. She dies in the worst way a human can die, being burnt alive. Michael can only watch in horror as the girl they raised and trained is burnt to ashes as a part of the Great Plan. She was only nineteen. There will be nothing left of her by the times the flames are put out.

When Gabriel announces how Aziraphale will die, Michael offers to deliver the holy water to hell, white knuckling the pitcher as they descend down the staircase and hear the distant screams of their protégée and surrogate daughter echoing through their mind.

I know absolutely NOTHING about anything bible or christianity related so this is a shot of delicious angst and knowledge all at once, thank you!

And ooooh Michael volunteering to deliver the holy water because even though they cannot openly admit it, even just seeing a large pillar of flames is a punch in the gut. They go through hell's corridors with their head held high and their eye's straight ahead, quietly praying that they won't walk past any hell fire on the way.

We don't know anything about where/if the humans are in heaven, but angels are probably not allowed to interact with them even now, and Michael wouldn't even if they could.

Jehanne is there, somewhere, and there is nothing Michael could say to her except an apology that means nothing in the face of her suffering.

Oh lord, my brain is currently speedrunning an AU in which Dagon and Michael are both send to earth when Michael is there to raise Jehanne, and it's not six thousand years of pining but still a good few centuries worth.

Michael dreams of licking flames and ashes, and Dagon dreams of burning wings and melting grace, and there is an intimacy in sharing nightmares that gives them an understanding of each other no one else will ever have.

[glownery]

wishing everyone who celebrates a happy easter and an even happier transgender day of visibility 🐣🪩🫶🪽