#have some religious trauma

[jacks347]

And on today's episode of "Jacks is bored out of their skull during church so she's making it everyone's problem" we have religious trauma >:3

Specifically for David.

There's a nagging voice in the back of my head that says David used to be a devout Catholic but isn't anymore. Because he defected after the accident, right?

Wrong. (Like I'd ever be that basic, do you know who you're talking to?)

Gabe encouraged David's connection to the church, it was one of the only things that still had remnants of his mother and Gabe didn't want him to lose that piece of her. So they went every week, participated in the activities, went to confession, all the good Catholic things. Active but not completely devoted members of the church. But after the accident, David ramped up his level of commitment. To his credit, the ladies of the church were one of the only pillars of support he had to lean on at the time, always checking on him and bringing him food and generally being sweet old Catholic women who wanted to take care of one of the younger members they've known since he was born.

David threw himself into the church and all it encompassed after his dad died, desperately seeking some sense of familiarity and stability. When everything was turning upside down, that was when you were supposed to turn to God to get you through it, right? He was supposed to help, to let you get through this, to let you be okay, why wasn't he okay yet.

Was God not listening? Was he ignoring him? Had David done something wrong to anger him? Was that why this had happened? He thought he'd followed all the rules, he thought he'd done everything right, why was he being punished if he was a good Catholic? Bad things weren't supposed to happen to good followers. Was it a test? If so, a test of what? How long was he supposed to suffer? He'd turned to the church when his mom died and even more so when his dad died, why was he still in pain? Why hadn't God made everything better yet? What more was he supposed to do?

Maybe he just wasn't worth it. Maybe God had decided he wasn't good enough to deserve his help. Maybe he hadn't tried hard enough, hadn't done what he was supposed, hadn't been the good Catholic he needed to be. Maybe it was all his fault. If he'd been a better disciple, a better son, a better man, none of this would've happened.

And it was that heavy guilt that David carried with him as he stepped into his father's shoes. Asher noticed, of course, but elected not to say anything. He figured that David already had a family around him, that he'd go to them for help with this kind of thing, not knowing he'd started skipping church and avoiding the community because everything weighed so heavy on him. How could he go back and face them when he wasn't even sure God was real anymore?

To this day he still wears a gold cross necklace that his dad gave him for his 18th birthday. He's never been back to the church, at least not officially. He's only gone back once, right before the wedding. Something about moving on to this major chapter in his life without the church felt...weird. Like something was missing. So one late evening he went in and went to confession, for the first time in almost six years.

He didn't say much to the preacher, didn't want to risk revealing his identity. But he just sat and talked. Talked about his dad, about how everything spiraled after his death, about how he struggled with his faith and still didn't know if he believed anymore. And he talked about Angel and the pack, how much he loved them and how happy he was to be marrying someone so perfect alongside his best friend, how he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life surrounded by friends and family and the people that really loved him. And that's when it hit him.

"Maybe this was what God was testing me for. Maybe everything I went through was the labor to earn this. Maybe it was all worth it in the end because now I'm here. Or maybe it was all me and my efforts. Maybe I made my own destiny. I guess I won't know until I meet Him myself. Or I don't. Either way I get my answer."

He never told Angel or the others about the confession, they wouldn't understand it. This was something for him, something he needed to finally end that chapter of his life. He didn't need religion anymore, he'd already found an angel.

[thepinkseat-askthemoonbunny]

So many people use that one (most likely mistranslated) Bible verse to condemn queerness that they forget this one:

Romans 13:10: Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.

[canisalbus]

Would Machete still be Catholic in modern!AU?

He was raised in a very traditional household, went through a fraught crisis of faith in his teens, became a disillusioned atheist and then eventually more or less made his peace with the whole thing and slid back a little bit to the secular/lapsed catholic territory.

[wolfythewitch]

Do you ever have that feeling where, despite your distance with your religion, there's still moments where sparks of what you were bought up with, return?

I'm from a religious family, but I'm not in touch with my own religion. Yet there's me calling in the name of the Lord before and after I eat. It's like this lingering piece that I never turn to look at but somehow slips into my ordinary life.

I don't really know you that much, or your religious status. But seeing your religious talks made me want to bring this up.

I don't even know if I make sense here- just- ignore this if you want to, I don't know.

Hmmm I think so. My whole thing with it is really complicated haha. I still go to church every Sunday, though I prefer doing volunteer work with the kids over listening to the sermon. I pray before I eat out of habit. I find myself quoting the bible more often than I open to read it (though this is changing because of all the times I look for references lol). There's a resentment that I get whenever it's brought up, especially around my family. I find myself immediately on guard the minute it becomes subject of conversation. Sometimes at night I'll pace around and just talk. I don't know if I'm talking to myself or to god or whoever but. I'll talk. I think I still believe in him. I definitely believe that there's something out there. I don't think the question is of belief as much as it is of care. Do I care enough to try?

I'll say this though. Whatever I'm doing right now has gotten me to think more about bible and religion than I have in the past few years. So. That's fun! Who knew trying to explore something your own way instead of the way forced onto you by your environment gives your room to feel everything out without any preexisting pressure?

[radiocrypt-id]

I got- I can't!

Imagine being 15, you've grown up your whole life with this one belief in this one God and you were told you were Chosen by Him, for Him. And you're 15. You believe so fully in the spirit of your religion, not necessarily the word, that you want to go to a non-religious school to try and help other kids maybe find your God because you genuinely believe that could be helpful to some of them, because it's all you know, and it's helped other strangers (human trafficking victims she helped in the black pit before) so why not other kids her age? You're 15 and all you can think about is helping others. And you start thinking about your religion, and reading books, and asking questions and you come to the conclusion that maybe your God and His Father aren't actually all that great. Maybe the church you're in has done some really bad things that you can't possibly make up for. Maybe that church is still doing bad things. And then you find out your family is actually in a cult for that God, not just part of the normal church, and you suddenly have to undo all the cult shit in your brain you were raised with, while that cult stuff you know about is actually useful to your friends, like having that knowledge is helpful for them! You're 15 and you stop going home. You have no real adult supervision or carer, just your other 15 year old friends.

Imagine you're 16, you're gay and figuring that out on top of navigating your first full romantic relationship and being the sole creator and cleric to a new God that you honestly find to be very two dimensional and empty. You're on a quest to find an evil being and stop them. You nearly die. Your friends nearly die. You're 16. You're 16 and feel something calling out to you, you know it's divine because you've felt that sort of pull before, but you've never felt one like this. You find memories and hints and pieces and you figure out that the evil being you have to stop, isn't evil, she's just hurting. She's hurt and She's a God. She's your God, and she's so happy to see you, and she has so many ideas, and so many hopes.

You're 17. You've spent your rest time (summer vacation) tearing across the world chasing down and defeating another evil thing that you and your friends accidentally released in the first place. Your God is with you, you have no time for Her. No time for anything but trying to survive and stay sane. You know She's disappointed in you, but you're one person -ONE PERSON- and you're 17. You missed your birthday. again. You've saved the world; again. You're so fucking tired -like always. You're Chosen, and alone, and have no idea what to do with your life, let alone your God. You aren't very good at school, but you go to every class. You're drowning as you try to rewrite your understanding of the world from what you grew up with, having no idea how to do anything without a book and godly hand to guide you. You only ever followed before, your new God is demanding you Lead. You don't know how. You're only 17. You see your horrible, abusive parents spitting abuse and racist rhetoric at your baby brother, who you haven't seen in two years, on the front steps to your school and for the first time ever you are filled with righteous fury. Your God answers your call, not knowing what you need but so eager to help, eager for your attention, she starts talking to you but you're busy -why can't she understand that you're fucking busy? trying to not die, trying to be safe, trying to keep your friends alive, trying to navigate a world that hates you, you're 17 and you're busy goddammit just wait!- and she snaps back at you and flees. The next time you see Her, maybe an hour later, She's got a creature with Her that nearly destroyed you and your friends last year sitting in her lap, so smug to see you again.

You're 17- no, 16- no, 15 years old and you're expected to build and carry the world on your shoulders, Chosen from birth, raised a lamb to follow a Shepard, not to be followed behind. You have no one and nothing and everyone expects everything and you can't back up, you can't pause because if you do someone dies and doesn't come back. You have to be a hero, a chosen, a saint. The steps behind you crumble to dust with each step you take forward and the new one is already cracking under your weight. There are only wrong choices. There's no hand reaching for you. God, you were taught, will save and guide you. God knows best. Why is your God looking to you, a mortal human, to be saved, raised and guided? You're a child.

You're just a child.

You just want to go home, wherever that is. You thought it was your God, but She's not exactly helping you out either, is She? She's just disappointed. Like everyone else. Like you.

You're 17. You think it would have been better to never do any of this. It would have been easier to stay, blind and naive. Sometimes you think you should have stayed in heaven. Sometimes you think about the God you killed by not being good enough for it. Sometimes you lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling and pretend you don't exist for awhile. Sometimes you work your body so hard you forget it's there and your mind shuts up and you exist without being you. Sometimes you wish you never asked any questions or read any books. You're 17, but sometimes you wish you were 15, with no idea yet.

You're 17. You wish you were good enough.

[chuuyadelune]

(BSD 113 SPOILERS) the fyodor jesus imagery is driving me insane, so here are a couple of things i noticed from this chapter (all translations from @/nineofscans).

1. fyodor’s position

so the first thing that was most obvious was fyodor’s positioning here. he may not be on a cross, but this is very intentional i would say! he is still in the position of christ on the cross.

2. fyodor’s outfit

i could be reaching, and this is less to do with jesus, but his outfit to me resembles a monk’s habit somewhat—perhaps signifying his position as a man of god.

3. stabbing with spears as the rooster crows

two things are standing out to me here:

first of all, stabbing fyodor with spears as a means of execution is interesting to me considering how jesus also was stabbed by a spears before being taken down from the cross after he gives up his life (following the “my god, my god, why have you forsaken me?” line—which was quoted in the last chapter!)

i cannot remember if jesus is also stabbed before then, but that is the one i remember the most.

the second thing that jumped out to me about this line was the part about the rooster crowing.

in the new testament, when jesus is betrayed by judas, he warns peter that before the cock crows, he (peter) will have betrayed him (jesus) three times.

what are the implications of that? i can’t really say, maybe it has something to do with why bram later gets stabbed with the holy cross sword and why he later works under fukuchi/fyodor. but it felt like an intentional nod to this part of the passion of christ.

4. bram as the devil

this is perhaps another reach, but i’m including it anyways.

before jesus re-enters jerusalem and the events of the passion of christ, he fasts for 40 days in the desert, where he is tempted from the devil (each of the gospels talks about this differently).

but anyway, this does say something. if bram is the devil, and considering all of fyodor’s positioning and religious imagery surrounding him—i feel the jesus references are very intentional. fyodor is deliberately positioned as— if not jesus, then definitely at least a disciple, or a messenger of god, almost supernatural in energy and appearance.

and with all the buddhist references to angels scattered throughout this arc—i think there’s a lot to be unveiled about fyodor yet. we definitely haven’t seen the last of him. but i’m excited to find this all out later!

[nmzuka]

"Holy be thy words, Dangling swords above the herds"

A piece inspired by Vulture by Bear Ghost

[sunnibits]

sigh.. I just really think that Arthur Lester should get crucified (<<voice of guy who got to see a beloved blorbo get crucified ONE TIME and has never been able to recreate that high)

[ribbittrobbit]

oh nothing im just thinking about how kristen moved to mordred manor with tracker and lives there but she hasnt been adopted by either sandralynn or jawbone but she does talk to jawbone and see him as some sort of… guiding figure.

kristen who once lived in a very close knit stereotypical religious family and then was some combo of cast out and walked away from it.

and yes a family can be your werewolf guidance counsellor, your friend who he adopted, his werewolf niece who is your girlfriend, and your other friend whose mom is dating your guidance counsellor. and also ragh and lydia barkrock and your friend’s ex-villain sister. but like does she lie awake at night and think about her brothers who she left money for? or her parents who she thought loved her until they suddenly didn’t?

what im trying to say is that families man. bio families and families of choice and loneliness and abandonment issues and emotional dependency (bec lets be real in the live show i was truly worried about kristen while tracker was gone on a level that is comparable to my worry over my irl friends) and filling those holes inside yourself because we are all just swiss cheese my man

[pastafossa]

Idk who needs to hear this but if something traumatic happened to you a while back and you've been doing well healing, and then have an incident that prompts an anxiety attack, that's ok. It doesn't diminish the progress you've made. It doesn't mean you've fucked up. It doesn't mean it'll never get better. It doesn't mean you're getting worse. It just means you've got some more healing to do.

[losver07]

I WROTE SOME WOLSTAR YAYYY (idea from this post)

tw: religious trauma, internalised homophobia & mild swearing

But What If

“Moony?”

He lays in the silence for a few seconds, part of him hoping he was heard, part of him wishing the darkness would swallow him whole.

“What is it?,” comes the answer, muffled by the sound of bedsheets ruffling with movement. Remus is now looking at him, face pale in the moonlight. He takes a deep breath.

“What if they're right?”

The werewolf furrows his brows, still half-asleep and confused. For a second, he thinks he might be talking about quidditch, or something related to one of their classes, but he doesn't find anything mildly coherent, so lets Sirius speak.

“Who?”

“The muggles,” he whispers back, letting his gaze wonder anywhere but the other boy's face. Right now, he can't bear to see Remus and talk to him at the same time without completely breaking down. And he doesn't want that. “What if there is someone up there? Not God, just... someone. Something.”

Remus, now aware of what's about to come, sits up on the bed and casts a silencing spell. He still whispers, however, when he asks:

“Does that scare you?”

Sirius closes his eyes, trying to distract himself, like one would from a bleeding wound.

“It shouldn't, shouldn't it?”

Remus forces himself not to give him a lecture, not to tell him about the church convincing its members trough fear and torture, about the inquisitions and persecutions. He figures Sirius already knows everything he needs to know. He's seen the books on his nightstand.

“It's okay to be worried,” he tries. Sirius doesn't buy it.

“Yeah,” he laughs, the volume of his voice rising along with his sarcasm, “especially if you've broken, like, every single fucking rule good people are supposed to follow.”

“But you love breaking rules,” Remus smiles, trying to ease the tension. “It's what you do, you can't be blamed for it.”

“But what if I can? What if these rules actually matter? What if I deserve to be punished?”

That's when Remus realises, he actually believes in what he says. He's not scared it might be true, he really thinks it is, that some day he will have to face everything he's ever done wrong, and deal with the consequences.

“You don't.”

The problem, he recognises, is that even though Sirius is an angel directly descended from heaven, in the mirror of his mind he sees a demon.

“No, you don't,” he insists. “If they are right, I will die and go to hell and you will go to heaven and I won't be able to see you again. They won't even have to torture me, I'll just be left alone on a corner thinking about you, and it will be enough to make me regret everything I've done, to everyone.”

He's crying now. They both are. Each one staring at a different point in the bed curtains, trying to make their breathing sound even.

“Padfoot...” Remus whispers. He wishes he could hug Sirius, but doesn't reach out. He can't.

“I don't want that, Moony,” the long-haired boy says, with a voice as thin as a thread.

“I know,” Remus answers. “It's okay. That's not going to happen, okay?”

He's not sure he believes it now. But he has to. He needs to.

“I'm sorry,” Sirius whispers, voice wet with tears.

“It's fine,” he keeps promising, and finally finds the courage to lay back down, next to Sirius, and pull him into a hug.

“I'm so sorry, Moony...” Remus hears as he buries his face in a sea of black curls, brushing against his cheek to remind him where he is, to make him forget about what could come after this. He is here, they both are. And that's enough for now.

“Me too,” he says. His shoulder is getting wet with the salty tears of a pair of sea-blue eyes, and he thanks whatever God is seeing them for it. He's grateful he can cry now, he can hug and he can worry and he can love. He's glad he's afraid of losing this, because otherwise he may not try as hard, feel it as much as he does now.

And that's good. That's the only good that matters.

“I love you,” Sirius sniffs, holding on to Remus as if he were about to lose him. And maybe he is. Maybe they'll lose each other, but for now they have the chance to fear together. And that's enough for now.

“I love you too.”

[pomieszanesny]

YES, House and Chase did have a wierd psycho-sexual relationship, thank you Foreman

[utilitycaster]

Wow your Orym tags really are an eye-opener. You are totally right and now I understand the bitterness about this character a little better. I've seen a lot of "...but C3 is supposed to be this and that" takes and I guess a lot of people think they are owed a certain storyline?

Yeah. People feeling as though they're owed a certain storyline is not new nor exclusive to Critical Role; it's been pretty common in fandom for years (see this excellent post that I still think about). But the particular blame being placed on Orym is a fun new twist on this theme.

I'm sure there's people who hate Orym for other reasons; shipping wank is another very common form of entitlement to a particular storyline. I must admit when it comes to Twitter I think some people just yell random lies out into the void to hear their own voice because there is no underlying logic to any of it. But I do think a large number of people who have been blaming Orym for everything for what is now the majority of the campaign are doing so because he has consistetly refused to entertain the idea that Ludinus makes any valid points from the start, and the narrative has pretty much only rewarded him for that.

A lot of people really thought that Campaign 3 "all bets are off" didn't mean like, messing with the narrative structure (they hate when that happens by the way. they acted like Downfall and the Solstice Split and the fact that this has been a very plot-driven campaign rather than one about character backstory are all fucking violations of the Geneva convention the way they carried on, and I say this as a person who can complain) but rather that Critical Role, a D&D-based fantasy, would shed those pesky two previous campaigns of canon (unless of course earlier canon helps them make a point. I truly cannot believe someone made like 5 alts and harassed me and all my mutuals for an entire evening over hypocrisy for...liking one ship more than another when these idiots exist) in order to become some kind of deeply pathetic "French Revolution Except Instead Of Kings It's Gods" historical re-enactment.

We're at the point where like, nothing has validated them and everything they've claimed the gods have done, Ludinus or the Weave Mind have done like, tenfold. As mentioned, the people who were like "oh my god STOP SAYING HUBRIS anyway obviously Bells Hells would NEVER see the gods as relatable" just watched Laudna and Imogen be like "wow, they're flawed and conflicted and a fucked up family just like us." I shit you not, I saw someone criticize FCG's relationship with the Changebringer because "he had to work for it" as if that's not like...how literally all relationships work if you're not an utter black hole of entitled self-absorption. The Kreviris Imperium wants to straight up colonize all of Exandria but they turn a blind eye. There's someone out there talking about putting Rashinna's head on a pike for being willing to endanger the poor Ruidusborn children that...Liliana (probably to some extent coerced by Ludinus to be fair) could have left alone to live out their lives on Exandria. People genuinely channel some anti-abortion "but What About The Disabled Children? Shouldn't Pregnant People Be Forced To Carry And Parent Them" style arguments at Alma's "hey, we have people delay birth for like half an hour so their children don't have The Psychic Migraine Disorder That Made Imogen Possibly Suicidal". The arguments have devolved into "well, canon isn't real" and "but the status quo" as if there aren't ALIENS FROM SPACE SPEAKING AT THE DRAGON VATICAN. How STUPID do you have to be to think that wouldn't change the entire world. Or, to get back to this ask, how desperate are you to maintain the illusion that you are going to get a wish-fulfillment campaign that never once existed? So yeah. They blame Orym because otherwise they have to blame literally the entire cast, and themselves.

[deservedgrace]

i appreciate the curiosity and desire to understand when people ask me what growing up religious/in a cult was like, how religion and religious trauma impacts me, why i'm so against christianity, but i kind of dread those questions now because it's so... impossible to explain it properly. i don't know how to explain to people that don't have that experience that it's everything and it's a million little things.

[lottiecrabie]

pray for my soul. part one – matty healy

you are a good girl: devout christian, studious student, dutiful daughter. resident atheist matty healy might be tempting you, but who can blame you when he looks like sin itself?

warnings: eventual 18+, kiss, religious imagery, blasphemy, (the author has never been to church and had to google some really weird shit to half-figure out how services go lol)

part one of five

2351 words

Sundays you spend on your knees. Hands tucked together, dainty cross falling gracefully between your collarbones, you recite the prayers diligently. The priest’s monotonous voice resonates against the vault, sloping across the arches. Beside you, your father mouths the words. 

You hear some sort of muffled laugh. Peeved, you open your eyes, turning just slightly to catch a peek of him. Matty Healy, black hair falling over his forehead, face drenched in the blue and red and green of the stained glass. He sits on the pew when everyone kneels, biting back a laugh. He looks utterly sinful; dark and half in shadow, spitting in the face of God. 

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips. You don’t know why he even bothers to show up if it’s just to cause a ruckus. 

As if he could hear your thoughts louder than the organ ringing through the room, Matty’s eyes snap to you. You stifle a jump; your stomach dipping in sheer surprise. His eyes are dark like him, piercing. He sees through you, underneath your flesh and blood, seeping through your bones. You don’t know what he sees. It unsettles you, how deeply he watches, how baring it feels on your covered skin. 

Your crossed hands clench, digging your poor heart ring in your skin. Muted pain spreads down your palm, but you barely feel it. You stare back at him, unwilling to let him win. 

The priest praises the Lord. Matty smirks. You shift your knees on the cushion. 

“Pay attention,” your mother hisses, reaching two fingers to your side and pinching in warning. You startle, turning back towards the pulpit dutifully. 

Somewhere behind you, another quiet laugh, much more taunting, much more pleased. It slitters under the pews, climbing up your straight spine. You tighten your hands into fist you wish you could use. There’s some unspoken anger living inside of you, something unfit for a good girl, a dutiful daughter, a pious person. You let it breathe with you because you cannot smother it; you’ve tried. 

Still, you exhale loudly, unclenching your hands, shaking your shoulders to relax them. You plaster a smile over your face. You recite the right words, echoing the pastor. 

When he calls for the eucharist, you stand up, following in line between your two parents. You feel a pair of eyes on your back, itching under your modest cardigan, tickling the ends of your hair. You try to ignore it, but you can’t stop yourself from throwing a look Matty’s way. He catches you, of course, smiling like he got you. You hurry to look away. 

In front of the preacher, you open your mouth. Gently, he places the sacramental bread on your tongue. You don’t let it dissolve; you bite, swallowing the body of Christ. Again, you open your mouth, taking a holy sip of wine. 

Turning around, you lick your red lips clean. You give yourself another self-indulgent glance towards Matty. He’s distracted by your mouth, it seems, but it snaps back to you. He smiles shamelessly. He’s stayed perfectly seated throughout the eucharist, of course. You scowl to yourself, although you can’t quite pinpoint why it bothers you so. 

“Don’t make that face,” your mother warns beside you. You smoothen your features, schooling a complacent smile again. You sit back on your pew while your mother mutters to your dad exasperatedly, “Such a pretty face. I don’t know why she frowns like this.” Still, you smile, staring straight ahead. 

It was a lovely sermon. Sundays leave you clean. 

—

Everyone gathers after the service in the Fellowship Hall. Although most people do it to gossip, there is a table of snacks against the wall. There’s watery coffee, but your parents don’t like when you drink it. You take a paper cup, pouring yourself some orange juice instead. You turn around to make sure your mother is busy chatting Mrs. Finley over some recent neighborhood drama and grab yourself a cookie. 

You scarf it down in two bites before anyone sees. 

“That looked like the single most delicious biscuit ever made.” 

Of course, one person had to have seen, and it had to be him. You look up, stopping yourself from cursing the higher above for his sick game. You flip to Matty with a crisp grin, something utterly stuck in your cheeks. “It was.” You don’t manage to make it sound cheery. Condescension drips on your tongue. 

Matty laughs through the bite. “Do you have something to tell me?” 

You clench your jaw. Refusing to give him an inch of ground, you grind through your teeth, “No.” 

“No?” He says, and he makes it even more condescending, practically pouting at you. “You sound a little upset.” 

“I’m not upset.” 

“Mmh. That’s not how you’re coming across.” 

You huff, impatient, crossing your arms. “I’ve said five words.” 

“Six.” Matty smiles cheekily. “More, now.” 

Enough, you can’t stop yourself from snapping. “You know what?” Rage twists in your belly, something uncontrollable, unreasonable, unexplainable. “I don’t know why you bother to come if you’re just going to be a—” 

“A what?” Matty asks, and he looks thrilled, something childishly gleeful in his taunting smile. 

“Nothing. Just— Nevermind.” Clutching your arms, you twist around, trampling away from him. 

He’s quick to follow, hot on your trail as you trudge out of the Fellowship Hall. “It seemed like you were about to curse.” 

“I wasn’t.” You hiss. He’s beside you now, shoulders knocking against yours. You scowl, walking faster. 

“No, I’m pretty sure you were. What was it gonna be? Dickhead? Asshole? Little shit?” 

“Can you shut up?” 

“Can I? Yes. Will I? Now, I think you can figure out the answer to that, smart girl.” 

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.” 

He prances beside you, careless, carefree. His hands dig into his jeans pockets. “It’s for my mom, if you must know.” You throw him a look, arching an eyebrow. “Why I come here. Personally, I couldn’t care less about church, seeing as I’m an atheist.” 

The word grinds your ears. You knew, in a broad, immaterial way, that he didn’t believe in God. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so brazenly is another thing. You’ve tried to be open, but there is something so off-putting, so wrong about the sheer idea of a faithless life. Where does he go? How does he trust the path he’s on? 

You stop in your tracks, staring at him. “Does it not scare you?” 

He snorts, as though that was a silly question, as though he wasn’t slapping away God’s merciful hand. “No.” 

“But you’re— you’re alone.” 

“Everyone is. You’ve just deluded yourself into thinking you weren’t.” 

You clutch your cross, furrowing your eyebrows. “That’s not true.” 

“Isn’t it worse, inventing some grander thing just to sleep at night? Speaking to the sky like there’s anyone listening?” 

“You’re being mean.” 

He clicks his tongue. “Maybe. It’s still the truth.” 

This whirlpool of anger, uncouth for a nice girl, a devout Christian. You clench your fists. “It’s not. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re speaking like you— like you understand any of this. But you’re never listening. Not to the sermons, or the prayers, or the voice of God.” 

“The voice of God?” He says, and it sounds derogatory coming from his mouth; small, ridiculous. You huff air from your nostrils. 

“Yes, Matty. He’s— He’s there, he’s with you, and you’re not listening.” 

“Well, tell him to give up. He’s wasting his time.” 

“Oh, my Gosh.” You roll your eyes, continuing to walk. Again, he follows you. “You’re not getting it. You’re miserable and you don’t even know why.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “I’m miserable?”

You stop, twisting to him. “Yes!” 

“That’s presumptuous.” 

“So is saying I’m deluding myself!” Your heart races. Your stomach knits together. “You— You just shit on everything I believe in because, why, you think you’re better than me? Smarter than me? Is that it? Because I’m not a cynic? Because I’m trying? Who are you to judge? You are not God, you’re not even his opposition. You’re just some guy laughing in church, being a fucking dickhead.” You yell, throwing your arms up, “And, yes, I can fucking swear!” 

You pant. Matty’s eyes darken, dipping to your lips. Whirlwind coiling in your belly, spreading its rapacious fingers through your limbs. You breathe harder, quicker. A curl streaks across his forehead, tickling his brow. His jaw clenches. He’s beautiful. You curse to yourself, tightening your fists into weapons you’ll never use. Your eyes flick to his mouth. 

Jeremiah, prophet of doom, circles you like prey. You fall into it face first, crashing your lips against sin itself. 

It’s a harsh kiss; it’s your first kiss. Two hands grasp his jaw, like you could shatter it, like you could own it. Matty does not even seem scared of the boundless possibilities existing between your fingers. He grins, cocky, satisfied. 

“Don’t say anything,” you warn, frustrated, because he would, because he was about to. 

To make sure of it, you open your mouth, coaxing your tongue in his. He welcomes it easily, a groan falling into your wanton lips. You lick it up greedily, then sneak a hand in the mess of his curls, tugging to trick new ones from him. He offers them willingly; you take and take. 

Euphoria hikes up your head. You’ve never been drunk, but this must be it. You let go of his hair, finding the warmth of his waist, the firmness. He’s so real against you, something tangible, something breakable. You sigh as he licks your lip. Your eyelids flutter, as does something lower. 

Matty’s hands find your back, digging in your red cardigan. He clutches, stretching the material, then lets go. Fingers climb up to the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your cross necklace. You push the realization away, his proximity to the clasp.

He could undo it if he pleased. He could undo you. 

He adventures his other fingers down, grabbing a handful of your ass, and it feels like he does. Need throbs in unspeakable places. You clench your thighs. You shouldn't let him undo you. You shouldn’t even give him the opportunity, dancing with fire, with the devil itself. You moan into his open mouth. 

Matty breaks away from you, breathing heavily. He stares in one eye, then the other, falling to your swollen lips, to your heaving chest, cross rising with it. His look darkens. “I understand why fools believe in angels.” 

You pant, “Shut up.” You drag him back to you, diving into your downfall. 

When you bite his lip, tugging it to hear the resounding groan slip from his swollen mouth, you bite into something sacred, something hidden. You shouldn’t have. Still, you lick his tongue, gripping the cotton of his shirt, the warm skin of his waist. He tastes like apples and cigarettes. 

His stomach is tense, rippling underneath your silk hands as you climb them higher and higher. You discover his skin, smoother than you’d have thought, stumbling on a few scars and drawing them over and over like your new prayer. He breathes quicker, harsher. Maybe he’s discovering new religions, too. 

Eve was just a girl. You don’t eat; you devour. 

There’s an endless pit inside of you. You store the aggregation of your stifled, festering sins: all the rage, all the envy, all the pride, all the lust. It grows, swallowing you whole. You want and want, desperate, greedy. 

You want to pop him like a balloon between two heavy hands. You want to be all the girls he’s seen before you. You want to be his best. You want him, hot and hard and alive and twirling a thumb around your peaked breast. 

Reverbs of pleasure. You let go of his lips just to moan in galactic shock, face scrunched. You taste the infinity on your tongue, the greatness of the universe; splinters of light. Why must you contain it inside your skin? Why must you smother it, kill it? You want him. You want him. 

“Are you gonna pray for my soul?” Matty whispers, low and hoarse, half-broken out of his throat. You moan again as he twists two fingers around your nipple. “Get on your knees?”

Clarity is a bucket of cold water. You come out of the deep end, gasping for air. Your eyes snap open. Matty is watching you with black eyes. You feel him against all parts of you; under your palms, on your breast, on your hip, still burning on your lips. 

You step away, letting go of him. He reaches a hand for you, trying to coax you back to him with a shrewd smirk. 

You want to spit the taste of him out of you. Want to scrub your skin where his touch still lingers. He’s marked you, you can feel it. You want to scrape yourself clean. (You want him.)

“You disgust me.” You say, even if your belly still swirls at the sight of him, even if you’re still dripping down your thighs, even if your lips are viciously red from a head-twisting kiss. 

Matty gives you a onceover purposefully, clearly considering all the reasons he doesn’t disgust you. “Yeah, darling. I felt that.” You blush, digging your nails in your palms in punishment. 

“Don’t talk to me again.” You say, even if you’re still out of breath. “You’re— You’re a bad influence.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “Me? You practically mauled me.” 

You frown, gasping in offense. “I didn’t—”

“I think my lip is bleeding.” Matty holds it, slurring his speech to prove his point. 

You snap, “Good.” You turn around, walking back to the Fellowship Hall without looking back. 

Your mother spots you, smiling as she beckons you over. She has her coat on, but she talks with Mr. Collins still. “There you are, honey.” She frowns, bringing a hand to your forehead. “You look a little flushed.” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “I’m not feeling very well.” 

“Oh, no. Are you sick?” 

You lick your lips. Apples and cigarettes. “Maybe.”

[sh1-n0bu]

so i forgot to say this but i finished the 2.2 penacony quest yesterday and just wanted to say my own thoughts and opinions regarding a certain chicken winged boy.

SPOILERS BELOW FOR 2.2

first, sunday is still manipulative and a control freak ofc. we can’t have a biblically accurate eldritch angel without some form of mental fuckery. BUT! the interesting part is, it came from gopher wood AKA his adoptive dad. it was taught to him

second, he is a victim. a victim who was groomed into following ena’s dreams and who was forced to make those dreams a reality. however that does NOT excuse the fact that he still committed some crimes and such etc etc. he is manipulative bc that is the only way he knows, that is what gopher wood taught him. the manipulated becomes the manipulator sort of scenario but from what i’ve read between the lines, he knows that. he understands that. he knows what he is doing won’t prevail and that it is inherently wrong and doesn’t sit correct with his own real character AKA dominicus. but will he ever break free from the cycle of manipulation? no. at least, from what we know so far

sunday is in too deep into this small cult for ena and their dreams, he won’t be able to break himself out even if he tried. he is pathetic. not in “owewh he pathetic wet cat🥺” type but in “oh he is pathetic🙁” type. he knows he is a victim, he knows that the path he follows will probably never become a reality but he is too scared to break the cycle. he is too afraid to step out of what has been taught to him thru his whole life. he wants to, but he can’t bc he is too used to the fake comfort of manipulation and what ena’s dreams promise him. at least his sister got herself out of this vicious cycle… at least robin is safe. and that makes him glad

third, i don’t like him. i love his character and his writing, don’t get me wrong. but u got me lost and triggered my encounter with a lunatic cultists with the confessional scene no joke that shit scared me that i had to log off of har for the rest of the day and manipulative characters aint my thing. but overall, love sunday and his writing. but i love dominicus more. that scared lonely boy who has no other choice but to follow the teachings of mr.gopher wood and ena and is told to blindly put his trust in them. as mitski’s lines in “last words of a shooting star” goes:

“… and while its dreams played music in the night

quietly, it was told to

believe…”