#freedom with religious themes

[didasgomas]

First "In Mortality" chapter ever!! LET'S GOOOO

Gift for @missr3n3

[compassionmattersmost]

Bob Marley: A Christian Mystic in the Rastafarian Tradition

When we think of Christian mystics, names like St. John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, and Thomas Merton often come to mind. These individuals, through their writings and lives, embodied a deep and profound connection with the divine, often expressed through personal, mystical experiences of God. However, the notion of Christian mysticism is broader than traditional Catholic or Protestant…

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

Despite Elenas whole roses & dresses style and the overwhelming amount of stuff in Celia n co thats inspired by revolutionary girl utena, ironically thats one of the few thing not inspired by rgu. Roses are just fucking cool and so is Elena<3 She was actually much more of a girl-prince, if a very jaded one, when she was a kid, and her leaving & dressing more feminine & covering up is freedom to her.

[here-is-kia]

I haven’t been writing for a while, I feel terrible about it. Since now I have always used my laptop and used Grammarly before uploading here. Right now it is 5:43 am, in the middle of Ramadan, school is closed because of it. I need to study, I know, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It takes too much of my time, and my efforts fucking always goes unnoticed. Expected, I know. My laptop is fucking broken and useless now, I can barely use it. Day by day I am losing my sanity because of it. I have no will whatsoever. I begged to die yesterday, crying and shivering. Pathetic. Couldn’t even stop. I wish my parents would see me as a human instead of a puppet who should just focus on their studies. They want the good for me, but what’s the point if every single word they make me want to crawl out of my skin? Staying with them for over three minutes is painful. I want to be myself. To be free. I can understand and see my mother’s thoughts, I can feel them. Like a hand is holding a vein between my heart and neck. It’s not fair. How my father treats my younger sister, how my mother is different to her. Few days ago, well actually two days ago- Me and my sister cried in each other’s arms complaining about life. She is fucking 9. Nine. She says life is too hard, how she thought pain is fictional. She saw a childhood video of mine, and it shocked her how different i had become. Trauma can change you, some people have it harder, you may not remember and intellectualise your past. My mother has a lot of opinions, and I know the existence of it. Just because she ‘loves’ me doesn’t mean I feel loved by her, she oversees my screams, and tears. I am genuinely disgusted by her. If I were a mother, I vow I wouldn’t be like her. She thinks she is the best in the whole world, she ‘thinks’ she lets us do whatever we want. She simply doesn’t ‘parent’ us. She never will. And my father is… ugh. Saying anything about him brings tears to my eyes, it fact there are tears in my eyes right now. He cares, but I did wish if he just left me fucking Alone. I want my own life. I fucking hate my parents. I am being ungrateful and don’t fucking care anymore. They simply don’t fucking understand how fucking hard it is to get these grades. How can ALL of your three kids be suicidal? One is 9, another is fucking 7 and tried to kill hi self with a knife. I don’t even know if they are blind or are just ignoring everything. Mother likes to hide from father. I hate her. I hate it when I tell her my grades and she doesn’t tell father, father thought I hide my grades from him. I didn’t correct him. It hurts. I have my ambitions and all, please just give me a fucking break. From all your fucking expectations and opinions. I hate my mother. I tell her I love her every now and then, I am simply lying. I joke around and shit, but I can’t stand it anymore. I am a Muslim, a mighty believer too. I can’t run away when I get older, no matter how much I want to. Maybe I can, hopefully. Though death seems more easy, still begging your God to take away your life but still let you go to heaven is like begging your teacher to let you leave the exam hall and still let you pass. When will I be free? When? Never? I want freedom, I hate my mother’s thoughts and opinions, I can fucking feel them. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin. She thinks she is the best mother there is, yet all she does she buy endlessly for her little dolls and argue how I have tons of clothes. She hates me, I am too ugly for her. I know. I hope she— no I don’t even want her to know about the pain she had caused us. She is too stubborn and would cry like a child. It’s sadly really, to be trapped your whole life. I can never be alone, I hate them. I hate taking the blame always. It’s not like my father is the capable man he thinks he is. I want to die.

Actually you know what? I don’t want to be away from a family, I want to spend time with a family, I want to joke around with a family(I mean I am already a laughing subject no matter how amazing my grades and weight are.) I just can’t stand this one. I am far too disgusted by them. Far, far too disgusted. In Ramadan, your Naf is still with you, maybe this is who I actually am. A pathetic emotional child. A worthless being. What benefit would my parents get from my successful future, that I do not know. I think they want me to succeed so they can feel like they accomplished something. I can never be my own person. I hate them. Even if parents have their own problems, their children still shouldn’t all be fucking in love with death.

Here, death is not a fear but a privilege. The children envies people who experience death. They want to physically(my sister said to me that day) harm themselves for attention. Please, you are fucking busy but you are a parent. They aren’t parenting, they are slacking off, giving us the basic human needs then taking a break. I was never enough, will never be. I am worthless, and if my fucking mother says ‘Oh Sweetie no! Who told you that!?’ In her honeyed voice, I will kill her. I probably won’t— but it will still be my breaking point js—

Freedom, heaven, today I saw a comment on a reel on Instagram, saying the prophet said life is a prison to the believers and paradise to the non-believers. It is kind of like a sign, of course life is not a paradise to everyone. I am doubting the authenticity of the translation. The last sentence doesn’t sound correct, it certainly is not from the Quran. It says ‘prison’ not hell, so I don’t think the is actually ‘paradise’. I did like how it said ‘prison’ though, a sign hopefully. It just gives you that shed of hope every delusional teenager with trauma likes to cling into.

-6:39 including time taken for tags :P

[jackiiiiiii]

unfriendly reminder that ADF is currently funding the defunding of public schools and actively attacking separation of church and state (tw anti-LGBT stuff)

Apparently punishing people who sexually assault pregnant youth and LGBT youth "threatens freedom of speech" and perpetrators shouldn't "be punished for speaking freely" because apparently it should be ok to scream fag in a middle school because free speech. they also claim it attacks "real" women's rights, even though their definition of "real" women are women with functioning uteruses, which means they could get pregnant.. which is who is being protected by this change.. almost as if they're secretly against women having human rights...

They also hate the Johnson Amendment because it makes it illegal for tax exempt organizations to promote politicians, and are claiming it infringes on religious freedom because Christianity is actually about Ron DeSantis, not Jesus and God you silly goose!

They also hate public schooling, and that's shown BY THE 1000+ CASES THEY HAVE AGAINST PUBLIC SCHOOLS IN THE LAST FEW YEARS.

They advocate for voucher schools, which according to the NEA "There is ZERO statistical significance that voucher programs improve overall student success". Many voucher schools are promoting the fact they are racially segregated, have no LGBTQIA students, have conversion therapy available, or have no special need students, because the left are snowflakes but extreme far-right people will have a temper tantrum like a 3 year old if they see a wheelchair accessible parking spot. These voucher schools take money that would be sent to public schools, because these voucher schools are still publicly funded, which prevents public schools from getting adequate funding.

The ADF is also behind Amy Coney Barret and Mike Johnson and fund their political campaign and give them "gifts" aka bribes. They also fund Promise to America's Parents Coalition, who fund No Left Turn, Parents Defending Education, and Moms for Liberty. Moms of Liberty and the ADF are currently on SPLC's watchlist due to their extremist and hateful nature.

The main reason that the ADF wants to get rid of separation of church and state is due to the fact it prevents them from advertising to kids in public schools, and because they are pushing very hard for the denial of good and services to LGBTQIA people to the point LGBTQIA people die because they are literally denied everything, and they also advocate for the nonconsensual sterilization of trans women and men who could have had children, which is sorta illegal in the U.S. They also claim groups like ACLU and HRC are "attacking religious freedoms". They also want to claim the "seven mountains", which is the term for family, religion, education, media, arts & entertainment, business, and government. They want complete control over every aspect of Americans lives because it will maximize the amount of religious people and that will maximize the green in their pocket and the power in their hands.

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[ornithicwen]

𝜗𝜚 intentions ‧₊˚ ⊹

꩜ pair ; sunday x male reader

✧ tags ; smut, angels, slightly religious(?) theme, soft domtop reader, subbottom sunday, overstimulation, creampie, dacryphilia, corruption kink, mirror sex

Feathered wings behind his ears and a halo behind his head, colored in white and gold, complemented his fair skin. Before you stood a vision of ethereal beauty, radiating tranquility from his serene expression and graceful posture. Yet, despite the divine light that enveloped him, the chains binding him were obvious.

He was a stunning bird with clipped wings, unable to soar through the sky he longed for. Confined in a thorn-adorned golden cage, the delicate bars contrasted with his beauty, trapping him with a distant dream. You yearned to be the one to unlock his cage, helping him experience the true meaning of freedom— paradise.

You had pure intentions— to simply free a bird. With your keen perception and ability to see through the illusions that shroud reality, it was hard to overlook. After all, you were an angel, a high-ranking one at that, destined to protect and nurture these beings. However, shouldn’t a divinity be as pure as the others?

Why do you seek to confine him within the cover of your wings?

…

He was not pure either, so why should it matter if those pure thoughts turned impure the moment he fell from his stage? Why should it matter if he seeks refuge in the confines of the Astral Express or in your room? Why should it matter if he is on your sheets, bent over the bed with your cock slamming in and out of him?

Gray wings were formed from your back, their muted tones contrasting sharply with Sunday’s pristine white ear wings. Perhaps this is your punishment, and you wondered if these striking wings, once symbols of beauty and divinity, would soon succumb to decay, their delicate plumes drifting away like whispers in the wind. You wondered if the act of giving in to pleasure, entwined in the arms of another, would corrupt every inch of your essence to the point of no return. You also wondered what force could have pulled you away from the divine serenity of the heavens, plunging you instead into the murky depths of desire and temptation, as your larger hands tightly held the other man’s wrists behind his back.

His skin was a flawless canvas, fair and smooth. Pink hues highlighted his cheeks, contrasting starkly with the glistening tears that flowed like tiny rivers down his face. His mouth wide open as a series of moans and whimpers escaped his lips like a harmony that stirs your deepest passion, all while you fucked him through submission and corruption. As if you weren’t divine to begin with.

So pretty. You thought. From his silvery soft gray hair and his teary golden irises down to his glistening body, covered in both his and your cum, a warm hue of red across his skin, and the notable bite marks imprinted on his skin. These marks, heavy on their meaning, painted his skin as a symbol of ownership.

He was yours. In and out.

You have finally locked him in your cage.

“Beautiful,” you murmured, your fingers which held his waist tightly moved upward to his chin, and grabbed it firmly. You tilted his face up, forcing his gaze to the mirror that reflected both your images, ensuring he could see how thoroughly ruined, tainted, and fucked up he’s become.

He whimpered in response and your hips brutally snapped once again, causing him to let out a loud moan and orgasm harder than the previous as your cock hit his prostrate one last time before halting, your cock swallowed deep into his once virgin walls. Then, you came hard, spurting your seeds into his hole until it could no longer keep them inside, forming a circle as it spilled with your cock still inside. As soon as you two came down from your high, you shoved your fingers into Sunday’s mouth, forcing him to choke on it while your other hand moved down to hold his already hard, leaking cock.

“One more time,” you said, a smile forming your lips as your gaze met his hazy ones in the mirror, face thoroughly fucked out as tears stained his pink cheeks and droll escaped his lips. “Please,” you continued with a whiny tone, and that alone was enough to earn you a nod despite the fingers that choked him, even though he had been overstimulated for quite a while now.

“Thank you,” you said before pulling your fingers out and grabbing his hips with both hands, once again fucking him into a pit of lust, with no regard for your divine identity nor punishment.

It’s fine. You thought.

Heaven is with me. You thought.

“Heaven is under me,” and you whispered. Now you wonder— can the saint save the tainted?

Can he save you?

Even though he was never a saint to begin with.

[noxtivagus]

i love love ffxiv sm fr (to the edge)

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: What Era Is Your Beauty From?

☯︎ “A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. I am not suggesting any of these descriptions are cannon to your ancestral history, these are just how my intuition perceived, and then presented your beauty’s energy.

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

🂽 Pile One 🂽 (the devil, 2oC rev., ace of cups rev., 4oW, 3oC, king of swords, the tower, the world)

❖ Pile one, I feel like I’m watching the Game of Thrones out of context. Just flashes of people from around the Medieval 1400s living their day-to-day; singing, dancing, eating together, and then… not.

❖ The imagery I got when I asked what era your beauty came from, was very longing in nature. There was a lot of joy and celebration but it felt like I was watching the film through teary eyes and a heavy heart.

❖ The “movie” flashed between a thriving culture sharing tales of triumph and having happy, drunk sing-song moments together; and then those same people under a war-torn regime of a very cruel but powerful man. I sense themes of religious persecution, nationwide government-forced famine, and general desecration of the once-peaceful way of life. The population was going through collective mourning.

❖ People lamented over their unfulfillable desire to reconnect with their homeland and all of their loved ones. With the World card at the end of the spread and the Empress at the bottom of the deck, I get the clear image that your beauty is the physical embodiment of a large collective’s longing for the sanctity of their community. You invoke that feeling people get when they remember a bitter-sweet memory that hums fervor in their chest and gives them the fire they need to push forward.

❖ Your beauty comes from an era where the genuine smile and cheer of a pretty girl sparked a nation’s hope for reformation. You are the last remaining connection to long-lost celebration and the heart of a forgotten city.

How Do You Paint The Divine Image of Hope?

🂽 Pile Two 🂽 (7oC rev., 4oP rev., full moon, leo, sacral chakra)

❖ WHOOOAAaaaaa Ammberrr is the collluuhhhhh of ya enneergyyy!! WHOoaaA, shades of gaawwllddd displayyy naturraalllyyyyyy…..

❖ Just know I was HOLLERING that. This is my hippie pile. My people. Yea that’s right, I’m talking the late 1960s - early 1970s.

❖ Your beauty arose at a time when society desperately needed color (specifically seeing some of you wearing a lot of bright colors or eye-catching jewelry or hairstyles). The world was bleak and the war’s aftermath on the overall mental and emotional welfare of the general public pushed people to radical ideals and birthed a revolution centered around liberation, pleasure, and community.

❖ Your beauty is all sunshine and rainbows. Psychedelics and organic food. The best music in human history (feel free to argue with me, but know that it is going straight out the other ear, mama) and week-long outdoor festivals full of peace, love, and vulnerability with total strangers.

❖ Your beauty brushes people with the chilling winds of shameless pleasure. The taste of unadulterated personal freedom that is almost a societal taboo. Your beauty is so purely liberating.

❖ Lmao, I imagine a guitar riff going off everytime you walk into a room.

❖ You are the physical embodiment of eccentric love and vivacious rebellion.

Play That Funky Music

🂽 Pile Three 🂽 (The lovers rev., the High Priestess rev., Ace of Swords., 4oC. 7)

❖ Revolution is a running theme for all of the piles. This collective’s beauty awakens people.

❖ I’m seeing a brilliant man going mad at the lack of creative intelligence around him and pushing for societal rebirth. A complete cultural shift from the Dark Ages (pile one), to modernity. This is my Renaissance pile.

❖ You embody the mystical fusion of art, religion, architecture, and science. You are all the world’s intrinsic beauty rolled up into one figure. You are the art that attracts painters, inventors, and philosophers alike.

❖ You have the beauty of an all-around muse. You invoke the spirit of creative passion. It is like people see you and get a stroke of inspiration. Something that kicks them in the ass and tells them to go outside and create.

❖ This pile is very romantic. A classical beauty, like red roses and bottle poems. The universal innate desire to dream big.

❖ Shoutout to my Aquarians, 11th housers, and Shatabhisha natives.

The Medieval-Modern Muse

🂽 Pile Four 🂽 (king of pentacles, 2oP, 5oP rev., 9oP)

❖ OKAY PLOTWIST?? I don’t know what era this pile’s beauty is from because it’s set in the future.

❖ It’s funny how the last piles were all set in periods of revolution (putting in the WORK) and your pile, the final pile, is set in a better world full of financial stability, the end of inequality, economic fairness, and universal abundance (the fruits of the labor).

❖ Dude, I was trying to read the message at first and was just scratching my head. I was like, “When has anywhere, literally ever been this good???” Then I saw the ace of wands reversed at the bottom of the deck and saw impending change and it clicked.

❖ I also saw some star semblance, and see that your beauty is a reminder to mankind that the “impossible” is already set in motion. The hell we have created will crumble.

❖ You are a physical embodiment of society’s future triumph. You radiate wealth and fairness. My Venusians, especially Libra. You also look regal, something about you makes people want to stand taller.

❖ You got the pride card, I see that you give people the feeling of victory. You are living proof of future triumph in a better world where greed and sorrow are eradicated.

❖ You are the harbinger of the next era.

Introducing The First Titanium Man On The Moon!

[spookyserenades]

Sanctity Masterlist

Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader

Genre/Themes; Vampire!AU, yandere!AU, horror, themes of the supernatural and mythology, historical topics, vampiric powers, religious themes, violence, romance

Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, toxic behavior including stalking, torture, and manipulation, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

The world revolves around powerful, deadly creatures, their every whim catered to– vampires. Humans with rare blood types are kept in large Sanctuaries around the world, where they can be hand-picked by vampires and their covens to become live-in blood banks. Y/N, who had been trapped in a Sanctuary for ten years thanks to her ultra-rare blood type, is acutely aware of just how vicious vampires are. Though she wishes for freedom she once had when she was fifteen, if it came at the cost of being at the mercy of terrifying beings, she would remain within the halls of the Sanctuary forever.

  Covens as large as seven individual vampires are exceedingly hard to come by, especially an all-male coven. Brought together by their skewed views of reality, twisted minds, strong powers and connections, and blood-soaked pasts, seven vampires move to a new city in search of their perfect human to feed from. Though the town of Newport, Rhode Island, is sleepy, it holds a secret past, one that’s perfect to set the stage for a complicated, dark future. With a particular taste for the rarest types of blood, the coven discovers an acolyte with irresistible pull in a nearby Sanctuary– and they can’t wait to see what she can endure.

TO JOIN THE TAGLIST PLEASE CLICK HERE!

Ko-fi 💜

MAIN STORY;

Find Sanctity on Ao3 and Wattpad, too!

Chapter One posted 10.3.24; 22.8k words

Chapter Two posted 1.20.25; 20.3k words

CHAPTER TEASERS;

Teasers for Chapter One

Teaser for Chapter Two

DRABBLES;

coming soon! requests via ask box

EXTRAS;

Sanctity Playlist

Moodboards - Seokjin . Yoongi . Hoseok . Namjoon . Jimin . Taehyung . Jeongguk

My Pinterest

Rough character profiles

Tour of the setting

PREQUELS;

Marauder  Hoseok, coming soon!

Chiaroscuro Yoongi, coming soon!

Gilded Taehyung, coming soon!

Devotion Jimin, coming soon!

Taeja  Seokjin, coming soon!

Scarface Jeongguk,coming soon!

Hwando  Namjoon, coming soon!

[dreamdazedworld]

love at first sight.

Synopsis: Yandere! Anaxa worships you (yippie..?)

Note(s): Hey! It’s me, the one and only author of this one shot- Daze! It’s been a while, huh? Long story short, school entrance exams were approaching and I had to take a break for a certain period of time, but exams are over and I passed so I’m back from the dead!!! Anyways, I might post the Yingxing one shot that’s rotting in my drafts for ages once I’m done rewriting it, but first, I need to get rid of this Anaxa brain rot so eat up dearies!! Also, this may not be as good as my other works, but forgive me for that one! I think my writing skills got a bit rusty…. Though, I did give it my all! I hope that you all would like it! (Reblogs are very appreciated!)

Warning(s): Yandere, religious themes (not really), kidnapping, written before 3.0

Anaxa believes in no god, everyone knows that- and yet, he found himself captivated by you, his God, his everything.

Perhaps it was fate that pulled him to you- no, it had to be fate. His breathing hitched at the sound of your voice, delicate and angelic, just as he imagined. Ethereal, divine, perfect- your beauty was that of a divine being, he mused. After all, how could you be mortal when you were this heavenly, mesmerizing?

Anaxa believes in no god, except for you, and only you.

He thought that he’d be satisfied with watching you from afar and occasionally taking pictures to engrave your beauty in his memories, he really did. But the more he watched, the desire to steal you away from prying eyes grew stronger, and eventually devoured him whole from the inside. So please, forgive him for locking you up in his house. Forgive him for being so foolish and so greedy for your attention, forgive him for clipping your freedom away, please.

He doesn’t mind if you scream at him. Having your attention on him is more than enough, and even when you’re angry, you look so divine. He won’t mind if you cry, either- he’ll pull you into his embrace and gently kiss the tears away, even if he’s the one who made you cry in the first place. Punch him, use him, kill him, he doesn’t mind- as long as it means that you’ll be there by his side.

But when you start returning his actions back, Anaxa is ecstatic, though he doesn’t really show it on his face. It could be something very subtle- for example, the way your grip tightens whenever he embraces you in your vulnerable moments, or the way you start speaking more towards him, even if it was just a ‘good morning’, or a ‘good night’. It doesn’t matter how big or small it is, really, as long as there are signs that you’re starting to warm up to him, he’ll notice. And if it means that he’ll be able to see you smile, then he’s willing to wait, no matter how long it takes.

[therandompagesblog]

SKZ Mate Chapter 17

Warnings: Read at your own will, trauma, bondage, abuse, assault, obsession, stockholm syndrome, brainwashing, paraphilic infantilism, loss of freedom, loss of will, religious abuse, ritual abuse, sacrilege, grey sexual assault (reader doesn't confirm), odaxelagnia, soul binding, uncomfortable themes, judgements, angst, ateez are evil (not in real life), humiliation, sexual humiliation, murder, violence, self harm, manipulation, implied non concent

Living with someone for 6 years you learn so much. You learn what makes them tick. You learn what angers them. You know there likes and dislikes. What you don't expect is for your world to come crashing down and everything you love to sicken you. Every idea of them to change. It felt wrong to say the people who cared and loved you were monsters. It was wrong to even think they were anything different and that was the hardest pill for Y/N to swallow. She knew for years the real truths but she loved that about them. She loved their flaws. She loved them, but there was nothing she could do now. Y/N had to learn to love again and learn a whole new meaning of love, but right now her heart couldn't take anymore. She was tired, hurt and heartbroken to the point Hyunjin had to drag her by the scruff of her neck back to their home. She didn't fight him, instead, she fell limp in his mouth like a dead wolf while Jeongin trotted behind them. Jeongin tried to keep his thoughts quiet, not wanting to impose his views or thoughts. "Hyunjin. Jeongin. Is Y/N alright? Please say she's alright. I tried to phone Chan but his phone is switched off." Minho ran out of the house when he saw the two wolves carrying a limp grey wolf to the door. The grey wolf looked lifeless, dead even.

Y/N could hear it in Minho's voice that he was distraught, but she didn't have the energy to lift her head up. She heard Minho walk towards her when Hyunjin let out a threatening growl, causing the beta to gasp. "Hyunjin I'm not going to hurt her. I want to see her." Minho almost pleaded but Hyunjin snarled at him. The elder beta was trying his best to reach the omega but the alphas were too standoffish. Jeongin too was not prepared to let another beta near her as he covered the omega. "Jeongin." Minho whimpered as he looked at the young alpha who he grew up with. It shocked the wolf, he never expected such aggression from the young alpha. Minho didn't know what to do, he felt lost as an elder. None of the wolves were listening to him. Seungmin and Changbin had practically outcasted Felix for causing their omega to leave. They thought that Y/N wanted to return to Hongjoong, but what they didn't realise was that she wanted to stop Hongjoong. They didn't understand. None of the beta's did and it was upsetting them. They couldn't settle knowing something was wrong with their omega. They needed their alphas to communicate, they needed to know to fix this. In the end, Minho gave up and retreated back inside to see a broken Felix curled up on the sofa, tears streaming down his face as he shook. "Felix why don't you go upstairs and rest." Minho offered. "I can't. Changbin broke my nest. He said it was all my fault. He said I'm a terrible beta. He said I should have been born an omega." Felix's shuddered as he heard a bang coming from his room.

Minho decided he couldn't take it anymore and stormed up to Felix's room to stop the Beta's when an angry Chan called them all downstairs. The four betas stood in front of Chan quietly as they faced him. "Now, I don't know what has happened, but right now my omega is my priority. What I need from you is to sort yourselves out. Until I know how she is, none of you are walking away from this. You are my pack. My wolves. My family, so do not fight. She is our family so stop this nonsense." Chan's voice was low as he spoke to them. "I-I'm sorry." Felix sniffed out. Chan gave a nod of recognition before heading outside to phase into his wolf form. Chan's silver wolf headed straight to his omega, sniffing all over her, checking for wounds. "Y/N? Baby, are you alright?" Chan nudged her with his snout, whining. Y/N flashed a load of images in her mind of what happened but Chan didn't understand so Hyunjin explained how she wanted to protect them. How she felt she could reason with Hongjoong and why her feelings were acceptable. As much as Chan didn't like seeing it, he needed to understand everything. He needed to truly understand who Hongjoong was and what he was capable of in order to protect his pack. To protect Y/N and Hyunjin. "They. They hurt her Chan. They hurt our omega. They did things." Jeongin tried to explain but ended up sharing a load of images causing Y/N to whine in pain. "I still don't understand. Someone explain to me what is going on." Chan growled as he licked her face affectionately. "Chan we need to get her to phase. Y/N never phases. She never phased with Hongjoong. She's going to be exhausted." Hyunjin explained with a huff causing the head alpha to snap his head up at the black wolf "How do you know she never phased, huh? You can read minds not her whole life story." Chan's voice was hoarse as he noticed the way Hyunjin crouched over her. He noticed it in the car as he was pulling up, the way Hyunjin was checking over her, nuzzling affectionately. Hyunjin looked as if he was familiar with her and Chan knew there was something Hyunjin wasn't telling him. Hyunjins silence told him all that he needed to know. "I stole you from Hongjoong. My omega. My soulmate lived with Hongjoong. Don't you think that's odd? You're still full of secrets Hyunjin. I thought we were past that." Chan asked darkly as he pulled the limp omega towards him with his paw, dominating his authority, and showing him the power he has. "She is yours. She is Jeongins but she is also mine." Hyunjin answered. Both wolves not realising a confused Jeongin was watching the scene unfold. He had no idea what was about to happen. "I could take her away from you. I could remove you." Chan asked causing the young alpha to gasp. He didn't expect Chan to banish Hyunjin, surely there was an explanation. "You could remove me and strip me of my titles, but then you'll never know how me and her are bound," Hyunjin stated, his wolf standing taller, preparing to challenge if he had to. "I never lied to you. I just hid my knowledge of he-" "I can still hear you, you know," Y/N grumbled causing the wolves to freeze.

Jeongin whined and crawled under his head alpha to reach the omega to nuzzle. The young alpha was feeling heavily confused and wanted her to rest. Chan huffed as he felt the small alpha crawl under him like a child. Chan smacked the back of his head at his childlike behaviour causing the younger alpha to huff. Jeongin nuzzled Y/N affectionately to remind her he still was there. "Let's phase back. I'll tell you what I know about Hongjoong." Y/N answered groggily. "We can do it tomorrow when Jisung is better." Jeongin offered. "Better? What did you do?" Y/N asked. Fear clouded her mind. "Jisung went into a rut. After feeling you around him." Chan answered, glaring at the thought of Jisung accidentally 'falling into her', until a thought popped into his head, Hyunjin would have claimed already. "Don't be so disappointed. I always looked after my pretty omega." Hyunjin taunted causing Chan to growl in a threatening manner but Y/N put a stop to it when she managed to phase back on her own, frightening Jeongin with her nakedness along the way.

Once the two hot-headed alphas put aside their feud temporarily, Y/N was ready to tell her story. It wasn't a nice story but they were all prepared for it and knew they had to listen to understand her, and quite possibly what they might be up against. "Alright. What was the last thing I said?" Y/N asked nervously. She knew it was best to start at the beginning but Y/N couldn't quite remember what point she had left on. "You told us your childhood, up until the point you were handed over to Ateez," Jeongin explained as he shuffled on the cushion, trying his best to get comfortable as he knew what was coming. "Ah. Alright. The head alpha of my pack, Jackson, my father. He handed me over to Hongjoon. Now Hongjoong's pack was a well-known respected alpha in our area and our alpha often worked closely with them along with other packs, but Jackson chose Hongjoong. Why? Because he knew Hongjoong worked with dark aura and knew a possible witch who meddled with dark magic. Of course, you knew the rumours as much as we did. Hongjoong had lots of rumours about him. What I didn't know at the time but learned later was that Hongjoong helped Jackson create an Apex. It may have been the reason both the mother and the apex died, but that's a different story or conspiracy.

Hongjoong, let's say, was very different at the beginning. When I met Hongjoong I was worried, but I was worried about being around any alpha. He knew that. He obviously knew the rumours but he wanted to prove them wrong at the beginning. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were the first two I met at the beginning. They were sweet. Very kind, actually. Hongjoong wanted to court me at the beginning. He took me on dates, and bought my flowers the usual things a head alpha would do when there courting. Seonghwa sometimes came with him, but he was a little bit more reserved. Sometimes he would ask invasive questions about my pack, my politics, my virtue, but I never questioned it. Fast forward two years I moved in with them, now bare in mind I had no idea what Hongjoong's expectations were.

Now, the first half was fine. Hongjoong was very sweet. He waited a long time before ever claiming me, 6 months actually. Hongjoong always had me involved with everything. If he went to work in the office I came with him. If he was at his computer I sat with him. When there were times he was busy I spent time with the other wolves like Seonghwa, San, Wooyoung. I never really did the things I was trained for as an omega, it was rather the opposite, but I never questioned it. They liked to mollycoddle me, I thought it was cute at the beginning.

Seonghwa. Seonghwa would do things for me, just general things like cooking for me, getting things for me, and babying me, to the point it got restrictive. I didn't notice of course. The way he would pet my hair, tell me I never needed to worry. They all did that to an extent. Sometimes if I got things wrong they would humiliate me in front of the others. Sometimes they laughed at me. Do you know how they humiliated me? They would strip me down naked for days, sometimes they didn't care if another wolf from another pack saw. They would even fuck me in front of each other and make remarks about me. It got worse to the point I stopped doing things completely. Hongjoong said I didn't need to do things just accept I was being loved, but that meant doing nothing. It meant being carried around by Seonghwa and Hongjoong all the time, to the point they bathed me, clothed me, and fed me. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't object. If I did Hongjoong would take me down into the basement where he punished the other wolves for disobedience. Some punishments were isolation. Sitting in the dark, listening to a beta being tortured. Sometimes he would cuff me with bolt cuffs. Sometimes he would cuff me with werewolf traps and ask me to rip my hands out. Sometimes he would try to drown me, poison me, inject me with wolfsbane. That was his way of saying I disappointed him." Y/N stopped and looked at the paled wolves. None of them had spoken. They were stunned into silence. Jisung and Jeongin looked close to being sick. Changbin and Felix were on the verge of tears. The others either held a frown on their face or were completely blank. "Still with me, yeah?" Y/N spoke nervously, waiting for a sign of approval to continue to speak.

"So. To the next part. The ritual. Hongjoong obviously wanted an apex there is no doubt about it. He had been trying to perfect the art of consummation. He practised on lone omegas. Took them in, had sex with them, and presented them to the dark ancestors. When it didn't work he killed them. He had to make sure it was one hundred per cent possible before putting me through it, even if it meant I died. During that night he half drugged me, but not enough to put me to sleep, but enough to keep me with it. Hongjoong was crafting with witches using necromancy to provide an apex. As I didn't have heats because of stress Hongjoong had to force one so my body would accept it. That night I found paperwork's, books of different rituals all over his desk. He was going to lay me in front of a coven of witches and fuck me with my throat slit with another alpha. A strong alpha. The problem was we lost our strongest alpha at the time because I set him free. So on the night before, I took a metal pole and whacked it around the back of his head and left. Alright, it took me longer to get out because Wooyoung heard the commotion but Yeosang managed to get me across the clearing line and told me to keep heading north. The end."

The wolves stared blankly at her, taking in every word she said. They all had questions, lots of them. Some they didn't want answered. None of them could believe what they had heard. They felt sick. "Question?" Seungmin asked as he looked between his omega and Hyunjin, "who was the wolf you set free?" "I don't remember. Seonghwa had brainwashed me into forgetting. The only thing I do remember is we were ambushed by two separate werewolf packs and one had an interest in that alpha. All I know is he was my favourite alpha and I set him free during the fight, but Seonghwa said I imagined it and that it was actually Wooyoung." Y/N answered causing Hyunjin to laugh. "It wasn't Wooyoung you set free. It was me."

Taglist for the iconic readers:

@galaxy4489 @mbioooo0000 @jisungs-iced-americano @maybeimmia @hwangrfrnd@wolfo2027 @kayleefriedchicken @leamueller920 @borahae-reads @jennibahng @cookiesandcreammy @leezanetheofficial @jutdwae-flower @danceonmyheyday @jc003 @hpnsfwaddict @linocz @itzreetal987 @skzdreamer13 @reallychaoticwoo @liv1sworld @upsidedownchaire @jutdwae-flower @danceonmyheyday @jc003 @hpnsfwaddict @skzdreamer13 @reallychaoticwoo @ihttinniee @kingdomofpentagon @pixie0627

[ccwpidsblog]

SAINTS AND SINNERS — iwtv

SUMMARY : Edmée Heart, the dutiful daughter of a pastor, lives a sheltered life bound by rules and expectations. But her quiet world begins to unravel when she catches the attention of Louis de Pointe du Lac and Lestat de Lioncourt, two enigmatic men with dark secrets. Drawn to Edmée’s innocence, Louis and Lestat vie for her affection, each offering her a taste of freedom and danger.

RATING : 18+

CONTENT WARNING: season one spoilers, not entirely accurate to the show but we’re all grown here it shouldn’t matter much, eventual polyamory, heavy religious themes, daddy issues, more to be added

CWPID NOTES 🏹: this is a great way to come back and show how much my writing has improved. redeeming myself from the trash fiction i was writing before. ON A03 N WILL ONLY BE UPDATED ON AO3 (if im not being lazy)

Edmée remembered the Sundays before Louis de Pointe du Lac avoided the sun, somehow, he’d managed to arrive at church after a long night of sin. He was always late, slipping through the heavy wooden doors just as her father’s booming voice began the first prayer. From her family’s high pew, she could see him moving down the aisle, the faint scent of booze and perfume lingering on his clothes—a sinful whisper of the previous night’s indulgences.

He’d take his usual seat beside his brother, his strong frame settling heavily into the creaking wood. His head would bow, his eyes would close, and for the rest of the service, he remained still. Unmoving, like a statue carved from marble. At first, Edmée thought he might be sleeping, but there was something too deliberate about the way he held himself, his hands clasped loosely on his lap, his expression unreadable.

She couldn’t stop watching him. From her elevated view, she memorized the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across his dark skin. He looked ethereal, caught between shadows and light, the kind of beauty that left her breathless and guilty all at once. She tried to focus on her father’s sermon, but her gaze always drifted back to Louis.

At the end of every service, as her father stood by the doors shaking hands and offering blessings, Louis would rise with a graceful ease. He’d move through the small crowd, a charming smile on his lips, and when he reached her father, he always made a point to praise the sermon. “Your words speak straight to the soul, Pastor Heart,” he’d say, his voice like velvet dipped in honey.

Then he’d turn to her mother, taking her hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. “A vision of grace, as always, Mrs. Heart,” he’d say, his words smooth and effortless.

But when his gaze finally reached Edmée, it changed. He wouldn’t kiss her hand, wouldn’t offer a compliment. Instead, he’d nod at her, a playful, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. That smile—the one that made her feel like the only girl in the world and completely invisible at the same time. If her skin had been any lighter, she knew she would’ve turned as red as the pew cushions beneath her.

In passing, he treated her the same. A quick nod, a flash of white teeth. But she noticed how he greeted the other women—the kisses, the murmured words that made them laugh and fan themselves, the lingering glances. With her, there was none of that.

Only a nod. A smile.

And it made her stomach twist with jealousy. The last time Edmée saw Louis was at Grace’s wedding. The church was packed, and the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmur of joyous chatter. Louis was everywhere that day—his laugh echoing above the music, his face alight with a rare kind of happiness that made him seem untouchable. He was glowing, his usual quiet intensity replaced by something brighter, freer. Edmée stood by the punch table, nervously clutching a glass, when he approached her. She didn’t see him coming; one moment she was alone, and the next he was there, his presence commanding and electric.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Maybe even more beautiful than the bride.”

Her breath caught, her cheeks burning.

“Don’t tell Grace,” he added with a wink, leaning in just enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne—a mix of cedar and something darker, richer. Edmée could only nod, her voice stolen by his closeness, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

Months.

Many months without seeing him.

The pew Louis shared with Paul and his family remained empty every Sunday, a silent memorial to all that had unraveled. No one dared to sit there now, not after everything. Not after Paul’s tragic passing, not after the whispers.

The whispers.

They followed Louis like a shadow, stretching long and dark through the town. The women at her mother’s so-called “Bible studies” spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices dripping with scandal and sanctimony. “Dancing with the devil,” they’d say, the words lingering in the air like smoke. Edmée would sit in the corner, quietly stitching or polishing silver, her ears pricking at every mention of his name. Her brothers were no better. On Thursday nights, they’d gather in the attic for their card games, their voices low and conspiratorial. Edmée wasn’t allowed to join, of course, but she’d found her own way around that rule. If she sat at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, her father wouldn’t scold her.

There, she could catch snippets of their conversations, each word painting a more vivid picture of the man she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“...seen him with him again...” “...spends his nights where no decent man would...” “...more dead than alive, if you ask me.”

The words made her chest tighten, her heart ache. She couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Louis de Pointe du Lac, the man who nodded at her with that secret smile, who complimented her at Grace’s wedding, couldn’t be what they said he was. Could he?

But her father’s rules were ironclad. She couldn’t ask, couldn’t go looking for answers. The world outside their home was a forbidden one, especially now. Edmée’s days were measured in prayers and chores, her nights spent reading scripture or mending clothes by candlelight. Her father had made it clear: the streets were no place for a proper young lady, especially after dark. The world out there was dangerous, filled with temptation and sin. But tonight, as she stood by the forbidden window, the temptation was unbearable.

The house was quiet, her family long asleep. The window, a heavy thing with rusted hinges, had always been forbidden. “Nothing good comes from looking where you shouldn’t,” her father had said countless times. But tonight, Edmée couldn’t help herself. She pressed her fingers to the cool glass, peering into the moonlit street below. At first, there was nothing. Just the empty streetlamps and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. But then, she saw him.

Louis

He was walking slowly down the cobblestone street, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his head slightly bowed. The gaslight caught his face, illuminating its sharp angles, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked different—thinner, wearier, as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed closer to the glass, watching him with the kind of hunger she didn’t dare name.

“Not tonight,” Louis said, his voice low but sharp. Another figure emerged from the shadows. He appeared with a startling grace, stepping into the lamplight as if conjured from the darkness itself. His hair gleamed like spun gold, his sharp, angular features both striking and unnerving.

There was a wildness about him, a dangerous energy that made Edmée’s heart race in an entirely different way.

“Louis,” Lestat’s voice purred, low and teasing, the sound carrying up to her window. “Out for another pensive stroll, are we? Tell me, do you plan to sulk your way through eternity, or is this just for tonight’s entertainment?”

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Lestat,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with frustration. “Oh, but you never are,” Lestat replied, stepping closer. “And yet, here I am, devoted as ever. You should be flattered, mon cher.”

From her perch, Edmée couldn’t look away. The two men stood in stark contrast—Louis, somber and grounded, and Lestat, all sharp smiles and restless energy. Their connection was undeniable, charged with something she didn’t quite understand but found utterly captivating.

Lestat reached out, brushing an invisible speck from Louis’s shoulder with a flourish. “And speaking of devotions,” he said, his tone turning sly, “you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on this street. Seems that you miss the little church mouse lately? What’s her name again? Edmée?”

She could see the shift in Louis as he seemingly snapped, finally turning to face Lestat. “Leave her out of this,”

Lestat’s grin widened. “Oh, mon ami, you wound me. I only meant to say she’s... enchanting, in her own way. So innocent, so untouched by the world.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering upward as though he might sense her watching.

Panicking, Edmée ducked away from the window, her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breath.

Had he seen her?

Had they seen her?

Who was he?

What was he to Louis?

As she sat there in the dark, the questions swirled in her mind, each one more troubling than the last. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt as though she had glimpsed something forbidden, something that would change everything if she let it.

[midnightsslut]

religion is one of the most prominent recurring themes on the album, and it has been present in some capacity for quite a few records now. taylor previously compared love to religion: her saving grace, her belief system, and a fated divine intervention (false god, cornelia street, and cruel summer are the best examples of this). ‘sacred new beginnings that became my religion’ and ‘we’d still worship this love even if it’s a false god’ are two of the defining statements about her philosophy on the lover album.

taylor doesn’t want to leave all of that behind on ttpd, at least not at the beginning. the first supernatural force she mentions is the spaceship on down bad, which she compares to a skylight of freedom in the epilogue. *something* has finally come to save her from her life of suffering. she doesn’t care if it’s a force of good at first; if anything, she’s just fine being taken away by aliens. she views this man as her destiny. it isn’t until guilty as sin? that taylor starts to ponder the moral implications of what she’s doing. is she guilty as sin for wanting to leave her previous religion and relationship behind? she comes to the conclusion that, even if she rolls the stone away and gets resurrected/redeemed, she cannot avoid the fallout. she is okay with the thought of having to wait, as long as both lovers vow to be together forever, just as she once did with someone else in false god. ‘I choose you and me religiously’ finishes the bridge of the song in a direct callback to cornelia street.

the next mention of religion has murkier imagery. she claims that she does not need the Lord’s help to save this man. she sees the halo that he has, and she can fix him herself. now that she feels free of her prior cage, she isn’t looking for divine intervention anymore. she wants control. she is their route to salvation.

when the relationship falls apart, she retreats back into the position of a believer rather than a divine figure. she compares him to a Holy Ghost who promised to save her and take her to heaven. instead, she is in hell in every sense of the word: she’s down bad and feels guilty for digging up the grave. he was a jehovah’s witness who promised that she could break free of the cage imposed by love without changing her religion altogether; she would’ve just had to switch denominations. she could still have a marriage and kids! she could still have a blue tortured poet! the man was different, but not the dreams they had together. the story of the first part of the album ends here. her faith has been broken, and she has only found any semblance of sanity by refusing to mention these belief systems altogether.

side b/the anthology blends the christian imagery of side a with goddesses, sorcerers, and prophecies. she bargains with these powers to let her have the future she wants (the prophecy). she doesn’t sound like someone believing in salvation. if anything, she feels cursed. she decides that the concept of divinely ordained timing will never work in certain relationships (‘the goddess of timing once found us beguiling / she said she was trying / peter, was she lying?’). this disdain extends onto her perception of other people’s faith (‘bet they never spared a prayer for my soul’). she does position herself as a prophet in cassandra, but even then, she admits that the role has hurt her. perhaps the pain in thank you aimee was meant to be, or perhaps she was just strong enough to build a legacy in spite of it, boulder by boulder. is she a martyr? does she want to be? or did she save herself?

the only real love song on this half of the album makes no mention of fate or any divine forces. it wasn’t meant to be. it’s not a supernatural invisible string or lightning in a bottle. she is just in love.

the album ends with the manuscript, which revisits an old story of a defining, formative heartbreak. as she sings ‘at last, she knew what the agony had been for’ while describing the legacy of her writing, she seems to revert to thinking about the purpose of trauma. the only exception is that, in this case, she is the one who found meaning in her pain by turning it into a manuscript. writing is her belief system now, and she proselytizes by telling her stories and thus giving up the manuscript.

ultimately, her belief in destiny has chewed her up and spat her out. she so desperately clung to her existing belief systems that she was fooled by a conman, which left her feeling cursed. religion is supposed to be with someone even in their darkest moments, but the album explains that taylor often felt abandoned. the only constant in her life was, well, herself. she’ll be okay, but her pen will be her saving grace.

[avelera]

(Meta) Fortiche's Use of Religious Imagery in Viktor's Arc Was Intended to Convey Sinister Undertones

So I'm gonna put my Art History TA hat on for a second and say I've seen a lot of the connections made between Viktor (Arcane) with the religious imagery referenced in his arc, which is inescapably present and intentional, and I feel like its worthy time for a reminder that Fortiche, the animation studio for Arcane, is based in France

So on the one hand, it would be impossible to develop as an artist in France and not have a ton of exposure to religious art and iconography, which is very obvious in just how much Renaissance art and Catholic iconography is referenced with Viktor. (Never mind how well it works as a visual language for the mysticism they imbued into the rise of the Machine Herald in general.)

There's a great thread about all the art referenced here:

But on the other, if I can just put my history nerd hat on as well for a second I'd also like to point out that there's also subtle (and not so subtle) sinister undertones to the religious iconography for Viktor, even before he does anything overtly evil. Like, even when he heals Huck back in 2.02, I think we're meant to feel at least a subtle sense of wrongness to the "triumph" of that scene and the swelling religious chorus.

I was reminded while watching those scenes that an element of the French Revolution (also referenced in the opening credits of Arcane with Jinx waving the flag, so I think it's fair game to consider in discussions of the meta themes of the show) that is sometimes overlooked in the US when we learn about the French Revolution is how much the rage at the aristocracy was also aimed at the Catholic priesthood, since those two institutions were deeply intertwined as oppressive forces against the French people.

Basically, I think if you consider a French studio referencing Catholic religious imagery in their show (used to depict Viktor's rise to mystic power which will in turn lead to his eventual disillusionment with humanity and him dooming the world if he isn't stopped) you're missing out on some delicious shades of nuance and subtle foreshadowing if you don't know that a French studio's use of Catholic imagery could, in itself, be intended to add a subtle sense of impending evil because Catholicism in that country has also historically represented a system that is oppressive towards individual freedoms.

Now of course France's relationship with Catholicism is complex and it isn't just a simple case of Catholic Imagery = Evil Stuff is Happening Here, but I would point out that if you watched an American show and a character was crowned king in the first act to a manically cheering crowd, it would absolutely be fair to wonder if the crowning of the king had sinister undertones, because of the US's history and how the country was established in part as an escape for monarchy. On a cultural level, we see kings as bad things in the US, and likewise in France, Catholicism as an institution and Catholic imagery have some very complex and often evil associations.

TL;DR If you don't consider that a French studio might have used Catholic imagery specifically as visual hint and foreshadowing that Viktor's arc was going to be about him turning evil, then you're missing out on some very fun and tasty meta associations in the Arcane show.

[john-laurens]

The South Carolina Historical Society puts on an annual winter lecture series, and the theme this year is "Untold Stories of the American Revolution." The first lecture of the series will be "Vicious and Immoral: Homosexuality, the American Revolution, and the Trials of Robert Newburgh" presented by John G. McCurdy on February 11, 2025. This lecture speaks right to my special interests, and I'm sure many of you would be interested in attending the lecture too. You can register for this lecture and other lectures in the series here (both in-person and livestream options available). Other lectures in the series include "The Tory's Wife: A Woman and Her Family in Revolutionary Carolina," "A Promised Land: Jewish Patriots, the American Revolution, and the Birth of Religious Freedom," and "Revolutionary Blacks: Discovering the Frank Brothers, Freeborn Men of Color, Soldiers of Independence." It's certainly a great lineup of topics and speakers this year!

Surprisingly, I had never heard of John McCurdy or his works prior to this lecture announcement. It appears that his lecture will be based on his recent book of the same name. I've just started reading the book myself and have been enjoying it so far. It is interesting and refreshing to see a discussion of queer history so specifically framed in the context of the American Revolution. John McCurdy previously talked about this book at the Museum of the American Revolution, and you can watch that presentation here. He has a few other publications, including a book titled Citizen Bachelors: Manhood and the Creation of the United States. I've picked this one up as well but haven't had the chance to read it yet. I'm certainly excited to have found some new books that discuss sexuality and gender in late 18th century America.