#i want him in ways that are offensive to Catholicism

[notaeldritchmoth]

More vittorino posting. Who’s suprised. I promise I draw other things. I’ve made so much ghost band art recently and maybe I’ll post it too

[romana-after-dark]

Room's on Fire: Pilot

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

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Summery: The Delta is a commune in the middle of nowhere established by Santiago's mother. Since Divine Mother's passing in a rebellion a decade ago, Santiago, known as The Pope, and his half-God brethren Francisco, Benjamin and William have ran the commune. Now it is time for them to take a collective bride to breed, to bring the savior into the world.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence.

This is not meant to be a statement about religion, Christianity, or Catholicism, this is simply my take on a cult. I am a religious person. I understand that some of this may be very offensive to religious people so if you don't like thing like AHS Asylum or Black Mass, maybe consider not reading.

"Come on home, girl, he said with a smile You don't have to love me yet, let's get high awhile But try to understand, try to understand Try, try, try to understand That I'm a magic man." ~Magic Man, Heart.

"God dammit Benjamin, what the hell is wrong with you!”

Will smacked Ben upside the head as Frankie chided him.

Ben tried to defend himself. “Hey! You guys act like you don’t sleep with ‘em too, why are you blaming me?”

“You’re fucking a new woman every goddamn week, you have no fucking class, we’re not even supposed to be sleeping with these women,-”

Santiago’s voice, strong and comanding, broke through the bickering. “Gentlemen, please, this is not becoming behavior for Gods.”

With their leader’s command, the other three settled down, Frankie’s eyes casting away. “Sorry, Pope.”

Pushing himself off from the wall he had been leaning against, Santiago walked toward the group. “That can’t be all the options. There’s no way Benny’s made his way through every of age virgin in our compound, we have over 5 thousand people here.”

The men thought through the women they knew, the various families at the massive compound who could accomplish their task. She couldn’t just be a virgin, that was the thing.

They needed their Madonna.

Before her death, Santiago’s mother informed their group that the prophecy would not be fulfilled through Santiago, that he was not the promised savior. Instead, he was destined to lead after her passing and that Santiago, Francisco, William and Benjamin were all demi-Gods. This was a step up for the Millers and Francisco, who had spend their youths in the privileged position of foster brothers to Santiago and living under The Divine Mother’s roof and direct guidance. To Santiago, however, this was a humiliating demotion.

His childhood was never one of whimsy, growing up told that he was a God, that he was the second coming, that he was the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned… All that changed in his pre-teens. Suddenly, his mother was less pleased with him. His divinity was constantly dangled above his head. When his 20’s came and he failed to be what his mother wanted, she stripped him of his full God-hood.

So why, pray tell, were him and his fellow leaders and brethren searching for a virgin? Since Santiago had failed, they needed to father a new child. A new savior. Divine Mother’s instructions were clear; they were all to wed and breed a virgin from their compound. She was to live in their home as their wife for them to use not only whenever they wanted, but whenever they could. A sacred duty to be fruitful and multiple. It didn’t matter whose child grew in her, as long as there was a child. The world would be saved, and Santiago would earn his mothers favor from the heavens.

So, she couldn’t just be anyone. She needed to be a virgin, pure and holy. She needed to be beautiful, strong, faithful to their ways, faithful to the Divine Mother, faithful to the Pope, William, Benjamin, and Francisco.

“What about Marcus’s kid?’ Will asked, breaking their silence, causing everyone to turn to him.

Frank frowned. “You think the daughter of a traitor is the best option for the Madonna?” The sarcasm was clear. He didn’t like this plan as it was. He didn’t want strangers in their home, breaching security, putting his brothers at risk.

“That might actually be the solution to the problem.” He waited until Pope gestured for him to go on, not immediately shutting it down.

“The rebellion was when she was 12, the interrogations found she had no knowledge of her father’s plans. Ever since, she has been isolated. Lydia says she has caused no problems in the women’s home, been obedient but has no friends, no connections.”

“So you think she’s intact?”

“Santi, I doubt she’d had her first kiss.”

Since the rebellion 10 years ago, Will has set up measures to identify problems before they become something like that, and that meant keeping tabs on people. Single women lived in a few group homes throughout the compound. Each home had prefects that reported to house mothers, and house mothers that reported to Will. Anyone that was of any concern, Will checked in on, that included daughters of rebels.

“And she danced at the fire?” Pope asked, arms still crossed but listening.

Will nodded. “She did. No signs of disloyalty.”

Muttering, Frankie asked Ben if he’d slept with her in recent years.

He shook his head. “Nope. Forgot she existed.”

Frankie watched as Pope thought things through, his mouth shifting.  Frankie asked, “How are the other viable women going to take it if the daughter of a traitor is chosen above them?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ben said, defensive of Pope. His loyalty to Santiago went above everything. “If she’s the right person, she’s chosen divinely.”

Santiago held up a hand, stopping another argument. “A redemption. She has the option to purify herself from the sins of her father through the pain of childbirth.”

“Biblical precedent…” Will murmured in agreement.

“And if she fails to produce a child, then we can say we were deceived-”

“Like Eve deceived Adam. Damn, Pope, I think it’s a winner.”

Santiago smiled at his fellow leader, clasping his hands together. “Alright, let’s go visit her, make sure she’s suitable.”

*

You were dead. It was over. Lydia had cleared all the other women out of the dormitory room and told you that the Pope and the other divine leaders would be coming to speak privately to you and you assumed that you had slipped up somehow and it was the end for you. You didn’t know what you possibly could have done. You never ever spoke badly about anyone, none the less your beloved leaders! You adored them all, worshipped them as they deserved, as you had Divine Mother…

Had they decided you were too much of a liability after what your father had done? How was that possible, it had been a decade… why now…

You gasp. Fransisco… he was clairvoyant… had he seen into your dream? Had he seen what you saw oh-so often, the dreams that forced you awake crying?

You prepared yourself to grovel, to beg for mercy, to plead that these dreams of fire were not what you wanted, that they tormented you. Would you forever be labeled a traitor for what your father had done? Hadn’t you proved your loyalty to The Delta?

The door opened and you dropped to your knees, silent until spoken too. You can hear Benjamin whisper a damn. The floor creaks in front of where you knelt, arms prostrated out and for a moment, everything stood still. Warm hands were on your chin, guiding you up to see him.

He was so much more stunning up close. You’d heard tales from other girls of the men, of the way they bedded them, how it was glorious, the most holy form of worship to allow them inside you… You had taken note that you had not been allowed that honor, you had accepted it as the punishment for the sins of your birth, you never thought you’d be worthy of close contact, but right now… Pope was touching your face, your chin tucked between his thumb and forefinger; his eyes were so close to yours, his plump lips keep a soft smile. “Do not be afraid, darling girl. If we are correct, you may outshine us all.”

*

“But it is, of course, your choice.”

Your choice…

This phrase was preceded by the reminder that if you said no, there would be no savior.

There was no choice.

“I am a servant to my lords.”

Santiago smiled at that. “Excellent. Now, let’s begin the inspection.”

The what?

“Oh… is it… I swear I am a virgin, I’ve never been touched-”

“I know.” Francisco said. Oh, right. Clairvoyant. “We need to make sure you’re… healthy.”

“Oh. Yes, of course then.”

Francisco undressed you, his calm demeanor and soothing touch eased you as he slowly stripped you of your clothing. He pulled the loose shirt over your body as you raised your hands, the pail bra underneath had a lot of coverage (everything was meant to be practical) but you still felt exposed.

“Just down to her underwear, Francisco.” Will instructed as he watched. Will was a healer, that was his gift.

Francisco pulled down your pants slowly, and you feel eyes scaling you.

“Strip her down fully, Frank.” Ben tells Francisco, and you jolt when you feel his hands on the bare skin on your hips.

Francisco sighs, but Will puts his foot down. “She doesn’t need to be naked, this is invasive enough as it is”

Ben gave a short laugh. “More invasive than fucking her.”

“BEN!” All three of them shouted, discomfort and fears coursing through your body.

“Pope, she’s shaking.” Francisco asserts with his hands on your shoulders and you watch Pope give Ben a look.

“You behave, your brother knows what he’s doing.” He turns to Will, jerking his head at you. “Handle it.”

Will approaches you, his hands on your face. He holds you different than Pope, more firm, more all-encompassing. Will’s hands were larger, and he placed them at the side of your head, like he was holding you together. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s like a medical examination, okay?”

You nod within his grasp. “Okay.”

He smiled at you. “Good girl. I’m going to touch you, just stand there and take it. Trust me.”

You did. You’d follow him anywhere if he spoke like that. His hands move down your neck, slowly over your shoulders and down your arms, sending a chill through your body. He squeezed your hands. “Doing so good princess. Gonna check your backside now, can you straighten up for me?” You square your shoulders as he walks around, towering over you. You lock eyes with Ben; he looks hungry, like he’s ready to pounce but smiling at you with his boyish charm you can’t help wonder what that pounce would feel like. Ben had slept with almost every girl in your dormitory, and you’d been privy to all kinds of colorful descriptions as you overheard girls talking. Not to you. Never to you.

Will rubbed his hands together and breathed on them to aid the warmth before placing his fingertips at the top-most part of your back. Slowly, he dragged 8 fingers down, applying pressure, sending a tingling down your spine as his fingers traced it. “Excellent posture, just need to check a few things.” His hands went back up, fingers bracing at your sides as his thumbs searched certain spots, rubbing over aching parts of you with pressure, but not pain.

“Got a few knots.” Will comment’s, and you turn slight back towards him, suddenly scared.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no. Nothing to worry about. Just means you’re stressed. It hurt there sometimes?”

He continued massaging you, your next words coming out with a moan. “Yeah.”

“I know it does, sweet girl. Don’t you worry, I’ll help you take care of that. You will be my wife, after all.”

The thought brings a small smile to your face. The smile falters when his hands wrap around your front, William’s body pressed up against your back. His hands are pressing into your stomach, making their way up until he cups your breast, a small groan escaping his mouth that had somehow found its way into your hair.

“She likes that.” You here Ben say, drawing your attention, his grin made you swell with pride. You’d spoken with him before; Benjamin knew all the women. Still, he never chose you to bed and you had thought you weren’t appealing but now, now you see it. Now, as Ben began to touch himself over his pants as he watched his brother examine your body, you realize you were meant for a higher purpose. You were being saved, protected, put on a pedestal for this moment, to be the mother of their child, to be their Madonna.

Will continued him ministrations, soft grunts as he ground his hips into your ass. You can se his eyes are locked in with Pope. Pope, is watching the scene with hooded eyes and parted lips. With a soft but powerful moan, Will stilled behind you, panting a soft kiss on your neck before his fingertips trails your panty line. “Now, for the vaginal exam.”

All the pleasure you felt stops, your body freezing up again. “B-but, you said I wouldn’t-”

William turned you around to face him. “I have to check out your privates, gotta make sure you’re safe. It’s just me, it’s just external, don’t worry. We’ll face away.” He knelt down.

You were acutely aware your ass was still out for the other men when you heard Ben groan when your underwear is pulled down, the distinct sound of him summoning Francisco, who had been quiet so far, and the unzipping of pants.

“Goddamn…” He says, notching your legs so they spread and lifting one foot so it is resting on his bent knee. He touched your sensitive skin. “Pope, you gotta see this… the girls wet.”

“But-” I wanted to protest that he had said it would only be him, but there was no point. Soon, you’d be married, and they be able to have you as much as they wanted.

“Holy shit, she’s dripping…” Pope marvels as the slick running down your thighs.

Will continues prodding at you, fingers running through your glistening folds. In the background was a sound you couldn’t quiet pinpoint, and something that sounded like kissing, but who would be kissing? There was only Ben and Francisco there. Will dips his finger slightly inside your hole, making you gasp.

“Careful.” Pope warned. “She needs to stay intact.”

“I know.” Will groans. “But she’s so fucking tight, Pope.”

A muffled but strong groan behind you, and Pope looks like he’s about to fall apart when he pulls away.

��William, Franisco, Ben. Go to Lydia, tell her the wedding will be at her next ovulation.”

The men reluctantly made their exit leaving Pope alone in the room with you. He pulled up your underwear and pants before helping you back into your shirt. “You are perfect.” He grabbed your face again, pinching your chin and guiding you to look up at him. “Pack only personal items. You’ll have new clothing, everything will be taken care of. From now on, as long as you are what we need you to be, whatever you need, you’ll have.”

He leans in and you open your mouth to him, beautifully alluring, gifting him your first kiss and the spark was ignited. He was everything now.

“My Madonna.”

WE'RE LIVE! So excited to do this, I was a little too excited, I didn't wait until january like i said lol. After this I'm gonna try and finish Blessed be the Fruit and Awakening before going forward which shouldnt be long

PLEEAASEEEE LMK YOU'RE THOTS AND THEORIES!!!!

Special thanks to my BELOVED @hon3yboy for encouraging me so fucking hard with this series!!! she is so wonderful and has written great work including WEREWOLF MARC SPECTOR!!!!

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[queerprayers]

hello, i've recently come across more accounts similar to yours and they have really helped me feel closer to God. so for starters i appreciate you and everything you have to say is very insightful. i am new to Christianity (looking into Catholicism) but i have struggled with my relationship with God for a few years as i am queer. Anyway, all of that is not entirely related to my question. as i wasn't raised religious, i have done some things that i am not proud of that i hope won't ruin God's love for me. for example, i have said stuff that could be considered "taking the Lord's name in vain" such as saying "oh my god", "jesus christ", etc. do you think that is actually taking his name in vain? truthfully, i have been trying to cut down regardless as i love God and mean no offense but it's hard as i have said words carelessly in the past. i apologize for the longer text!!

Welcome, beloved, I'm so glad you're here!

This is always such an interesting topic and I'm sure I won't do it justice, but I'll try to answer your question. The third commandment has been oversimplified for a lot of Christians, and I do think we should take it seriously—but when we caught up with people saying "omg" casually, we miss a lot.

"Taking the Lord's name in vain" can encompass quite a bit: cursing God, swearing on God falsely (in the sense of making promises you don't keep), treating sacred things with disrespect, using God for your own gain, using God to justify evil actions, claiming God's name for harmful theologies—really anything that profanes/using hollowly/for profit the name/essence/qualities of God. "Name" is more than language—it's a presence. So is the third commandment addressing casualness with religious language? I don't think that's what it's specifically interested in, and because the Ten Commandments functioned communally/legally more than personally I'm inclined to say it's concerned more with the promise type of swearing and temple rituals, but I do think the philosophies behind these large things can be brought down to the personal language level, especially for those of us who aren't ancient Israelites.

An old anecdote from my church is that for years they had a plain wooden cross in the sanctuary, but my childhood pastor had a crucifix put up. (This was before I was born, and I'm so thankful I got to grow up with a full, embodied cross rather than an empty one.) An old lady stopped in her tracks that morning, staring up above the altar, and said "Oh my god." The pastor said, "That's right, he is." Besides being used to poke fun at this lady (who had probably never encountered traditional art of the crucifixion in her rural Protestant life) and as a justification for having a crucifix (to more fully confront God), it was also used by my mother to explain why we weren't allowed to say "oh my god" unless the situation necessitated it.

This has made me rethink some of the things I say—and I think there are lines here that we all have to draw. Many exclamations/curses are religious in nature (like damn or hell), and should we only say those when we mean the full essence of the thing? My mother thinks so, and I've gone back and forth. I think what we say matters, and carelessness should never be our framework. I also know that I don't get offended when people say things like "oh my god"—and I've definitely said it before, in way less necessary situations than confronting him bleeding.

When we look at all the things the third commandment can encompass, exclamatory swearing is surely at the bottom of the list in terms of what matters interpersonally and religiously. The megachurch pastor who uses God to sell things and the abuser who uses religion as an excuse are much more relevant to me. This is about your attitude toward your faith, how you want your language to reflect that, and how seriously you take words that are really only translations of a human approximation of a theological truth.

A line I draw is "Jesus" vs. "God"—one is the personal name of my god, and one is more of a title. I don't swear using Jesus's name, but I've dropped an "oh my god." I'm also more likely to use religious exclamations in the face of things I genuinely care about—I'll say "oh my god" to something beautiful but am more likely to say "shit" when I drop something. Is this all arbitrary? Of course! But the language we treasure and the language we're less careful with always is.

I won't tell you where to draw your lines, but I will say the best way to approach any of it is to notice these things—which you definitely are! Whether or not we end up changing something, it's always good to be aware of what we say and how it could affect us. So ask those questions, think through it all. Don't let casualness make you forget the enormity of what we're talking about when we say "God," but also, turn to God with every emotion and in every situation. Don't bring religion into everything because you're being careless—do it because it's where you and the universe touch.

To answer another (and in my opinion more important) question you've asked, no, God's love for you isn't ruined. I don't care what you've said, what you haven't cared about, what you've done—God's love is incapable of being ruined. This would imply weakness or unfaithfulness, which our faith does not characterize God with. And Christianity is firm that it is never too late to repent—meaning, to turn around and dedicate yourself to not going back. (God's love reaches the unrepentant as well, of course—it is a matter of whether we can see it and move through it, not whether it's there.) Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand—as in, it's always been here, it's happening now within you and your communities, and it will arrive.

Whatever changes you make and journeys you begin, God's love goes with you—it's not something we work toward having, but something we work toward honoring. It is hard to change habits—it's hard to change anything, and your dedication to thinking about this new part of your life is admirable.

I want to say don't get caught up in the smallest possible meanings of the commandments as you continue into Christianity, but I love that you are and that's not really the advice I want to give. What I mean is more, don't let this be a barrier. Every tiny thing is part of our lives, which means they can trip us up, be things to obsess over, be things we focus on to avoid other things, be areas we become perfectionist when that energy could be used more usefully. I am contributing to harm in countless ways that don't include swearing, and to be an imperfect human in this world, you are too. I give you permission to not let this be the hill you die on. Christianity calls us to be willing to die on so many hills, y'know? The enormity of our dedication can be overwhelming, but we move forward knowing the love of God is on our side.

The sacred Name has only ever been put into human words in the form of Jesus, and meeting him in both the sacred and ordinary is how I honor the Word. As I navigate the countless ways I exist and affect and am in relationship with the world, I come back to that. That true holiness can never be profaned, so I must not act as if it can be. When I find myself acting as if God could be hollow, I know I must turn back. I may embody this idea differently than you and others—we cannot all pay attention to everything at once. But I honor your commitment to the small things, and I pray that you live confident in the knowledge that nothing you have done or will do can stop God from entering into communion with you.

<3 Johanna

[x0x0josephinex0x0]

take me to church | choi san

We’re back with another San work bc he’s hot and I love him. Genres: fluff, religious differences (but not like in an angst way, it’s really all fluff) Warnings: reader jokes about dying. Heavy discussion of religion, specifically Catholicism. Characters attend mass and confession. Brief sacrilege? Idk they kiss in a cathedral, so if you are Catholic and that’s offensive to you, probably don’t read this. San has unbelievable rizz (needs a warning) and is sometimes a bit suggestive.

“It took you long enough,” you tease, looking up from your book at the handsome young man holding two coffee cups and waiting for you to notice him. “You’ve been staring at me for a good long time.”

He grins at this. “Can I sit down?” he asks you, offering you one of the cups.

You take it and sip gingerly. “How did you know?” you ask him suspiciously.

“‘Apple cider with a shot of cinnamon and caramel syrup, warmed for one and a half minutes instead of two’,” he recites. “How long have we both been coming here?”

“Well, I’ve been coming here a month,” you tell him. “I don’t know how long it’s been for you.”

“It’s been a month for me as well,” he says. “The first time I saw you was my first time here.”

“Really?” you ask with an eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah, after that I just kind of decided it was my favorite,” he says, something wicked dancing in his eyes as he smiles at you. 

You shake your head with a scoff at the audacity of this man. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “They have good coffee too.” He leans back in his seat and takes a sip.

You size him up -- broad shoulders and a well-muscled chest under a white henley shirt and puffy jacket to protect against the wintery cold, square jaw, high cheekbones, those dangerous brown eyes, and black hair styled up and off his forehead in a swooping Clark Kent-esque style -- and the verdict is easy. Gorgeous. But for one thing, you’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing you feel that way. For another, you know his type. He has the air of the frat boys from college who threw ragers and took bets to see if they could get in your pants.

So you sip your drink again. “So, what’s your schtick? Tell me so we can stop wasting each other’s time.”

“Time spent enjoying yourself is never wasted,” he shoots back. “And I don’t have a schtick. I just want to get to know you better.” He seems unruffled by your aloofness, the hint of a smile still playing about his lips.

“There isn’t a lot to know,” you counter. 

“Everyone says that, but it’s never true,” he says. 

“How many other girls have you tried this approach on?” you ask him with narrowed eyes.

“Enough,” he allows with another smile. “Although this is the first time I’ve waited so long to make a move.”

“I’m flattered,” you deadpan. “Lost your nerve in your old age?”

“Maybe I learned the value of patience,” he says, undeterred. 

You weren’t expecting him to keep up with you for this long, so you simply look at him for a moment. “You got a name?” you finally ask, and his smile grows wider.

“Choi San,” he says. “You?”

“No,” you reply lightly.

For the first time, he looks taken aback. “No, like, you don’t have a name?”

“No like I’m not going to give it to you. Yet.” 

“Yet?” he complains. “Damn, you’re one tough cookie.”

“You have no idea,” you say. “Speaking of which, I have somewhere to be.”

“Let me join you,” he says immediately, standing as well. 

“Oh, as much fun as that would be, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” you tell him with a laugh, putting on your hat and coat and making for the exit of the coffee shop.

“Why not? Are you going to a doctor’s appointment or something?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply as you push open the door, shuddering against the cold air. “I have six months left to live.”

San’s eyes go wide before he realizes you’re messing with him. “You’re awful,” he chides, nearly running to keep up with your quick stride. 

“And you’re persistent,” you say over your shoulder. “Seriously, I’m not going anywhere fun. You should go back inside where it’s warm. You’ll catch a cold.”

“Are you worried about me?” he asks with a teasing smile.

“Extremely. You seem very unhinged.” But you’re laughing at the way he’s dodging the crowd of people on the sidewalk walking the opposite direction so that he can keep sight of you, and this seems to spur him on. Even as San apologizes to an elderly group of women for colliding with them, there’s a determination in his eyes that makes your heart beat quicker than is strictly necessary.

“Oh, I am,” San retorts. “I need someone to take care of me.”

“Call your mother.”

“I would, but she lives in Korea.”

“Call a friend. Do you have any of those?”

“I have plenty, but there’s a very specific cure for my ailment that none of them can provide.”

You stop in your tracks and he nearly runs into you. “What do you want from me?” you ask, half annoyed, half impressed at all the smooth-talking.

“Your name, first,” he says. “And then maybe a phone number. That’s all. I swear.”

You consider him, biting back the thought that he looks even handsomer than normal because of the cool air tinging his cheeks pink and the sunlight in his eyes. “Tell you what,” you say. “You make it through this, and we can talk.”

San’s eyes follow your finger to where you’re pointing -- at a towering cathedral ornately decorated with statues of staring saints. He looks at you with wide eyes. “You’re a church girl?”

“Decidedly so, yes,” you say. “You sit through one mass and I’ll give you my phone number.”

He still doesn’t seem to be worried about any of this. “If I do confession, can I have a date?” he asks hopefully.

“I think if you do make confession, we’ll be in there so long we won’t have time for a date,” you tell him with a roll of your eyes. “Now come on.”

He grins. “You already know me so well. Take me to church,” he says.

The other regulars in the congregation eye you and San with interest as San follows your lead, watching how you dip your fingers into the water at the entrance and then cross yourself. He tries, but ends up crossing himself the wrong way, and you have to stifle a giggle as the little old lady who sits up front gasps loudly. 

San looks at you in alarm. “What did I do wrong?” he asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “She just has a spiritual gift for seeing when someone is trying way too hard to get someone’s number.”

He shakes his head and follows you into a pew. “How long have you been Catholic?” he asks in a whisper.

“Officially, I’m not,” you say. “But I’ve been coming to mass for about a year, ever since my grandmother died. She used to come twice every week. It’s been…comforting. I feel closer to her this way.”

A light of understanding moves across his features. “I see,” he says. “That’s a good way to honor her.”

You are amazed at the sudden tears that threaten to spill over in your eyes. “And you? Are you religious at all?” you ask as a distraction.

“Not really,” he whispers. “I sang in a church choir once, but that’s about it.”

He notices how your eyes light up. “Do you sing, then?” you ask with interest.

“Yeah, a bit,” he admits. “Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”

You laugh quietly. “No, not at all. I just didn’t expect it.”

He shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

You roll your eyes again. “So do you believe in God?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in plenty,” he replies. “Fate…love at first sight…”

“I’m being serious,” you insist. “I don’t know if I can see myself with someone who doesn’t have some kind of guiding principle that gives them integrity. It doesn’t have to be religion, but you have to have some kind of moral compass.” 

He thinks for a moment. “Well, I guess I believe that we should treat others well,” he starts.

“Why?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away — and you appreciate that he actually does seem to take the genuine questions you’re asking seriously. After a minute he replies, “I guess because I’ve personally found the highest level of satisfaction in my life when I’m in harmony with those around me. And that’s something I can control. I can’t stop others from disliking me or not sharing my opinions, but I can always treat them well regardless of those things, and we can coexist.”

The priest begins the processional just after San finishes talking, and so you don’t get to tell him how impressed you are with that answer. But you find yourself glancing over at him during the service, giggling softly when he repeats back to the priest later than everyone else, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks when he catches you staring and shoots back a subtle wink. 

And then when mass is over, and he leans over to you and you can smell the spicy-sweet scent of his shampoo, you have to catch your breath. “So, what now?” he asks with that same suggestive glint in his eyes.

“Now I need to go to confession,” you say firmly, although you can’t help a grin.

“I’ll come too,” he says, but you tug him down before he can fully stand up. 

“Hold your horses,” you say, and although you’re nervous in a way that makes you feel like your skin is on fire, you fix him with a stare, your expression serious. 

You take a breath. “Seriously, why me? I’m sure there are other pretty girls you’ve seen before, but it’s a little extreme to go to all this trouble.”

His smile softens. “You’re worried about my intentions?” he asks lightly, sliding across the bench to sit as close to you as he can.

“Shouldn’t I be? I mean, you’re a stranger who followed me into church,” you joke quietly. And you’re surprised to realize as you say it that even though he’s been persistent, you never felt unsafe. Indeed, you have the feeling that if you had ever seriously told him to get lost, he probably would’ve listened to you.

San seems to watch all these thoughts passing through your head, and he pulls one of your hands into both of his own. “Give me a shot,” he says softly. “If we’re talking about belief, let me tell you something else I believe in. I believe that sometimes you can get a sense about someone before you really talk to them. And this is going to sound crazy, but if there was such a thing as past lives, I’d be certain I knew you long before I saw you in that coffee shop.”

You draw in a shaky breath, your heart soaring in elation at this confession in spite of yourself. He’s playing with your fingers, his eyes flickering in the dim light of the church. And he looks so adorably nervous at the admission he’s just made that you can’t help but nod after only a second’s consideration. “Okay, Choi San. I’ll give you my phone number. A deal is a deal, after all.”

He hands you his phone. “For the record, mass was pretty interesting too,” he tells you.

You scoff. “Like you were paying attention at all,” you say as you type in your number, which you’ve saved under the name “church girl” with a black heart emoji.

“I might have been a bit distracted,” he allows, “but I do also like learning about things like this.” He takes his phone back from you and laughs at the contact name. “Wow, when do I get to know your name? At our wedding?”

“Maybe after our third kid, I’ll consider it,” you say dryly, standing up and tucking your jacket over one arm. “Now, I have some sins to confess.”

He stands up with you. “I’m coming too,” he says.

“Don’t you have everything you need?” you ask him with a grin, gesturing at the phone still in his hand. 

“Almost,” he says. “But I’ve done a lot of sinning in my life. Maybe I’ll have a religious epiphany if I talk to someone about it.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you in an anthropology class right now? Like, this has gotta be homework or something at this point.”

He laughs. “No, I am genuinely interested to know what confession is like,” he assures you. The both of you make your way to the confessional. “What do I say?” he whispers as you get close. 

“You start with crossing yourself,” you say, and you guide his hand in the correct motions. “Then you say ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he repeats. “Then what?”

“List your sins,” you say. “But don’t say all of them. He doesn’t have all night.”

“Okay,” he says in amusement. “Anything else?”

“At the end say ‘I’m sorry for this and all my sins’.”

“What if I’m not sorry?” he asks.

“Then say it anyway,” you say with a shrug.

“Isn’t that lying, though? Which is also a sin?” 

You have to bite back another laugh at his question. “I think you’re taking this a bit too seriously,” you say. “Maybe only confess the sins you feel sorry for if it offends you to lie to a priest.”

He nods. “Fair enough. Can you confess sins you haven’t done yet?” he asks, feigning innocence, but you know exactly what he means.

You snort, swatting his arm. “Um, that’s called the sale of indulgences, and the church stopped doing that in the 1500s I’m pretty sure.”

He tsks in disappointment. “Oh, well. I guess it was worth a shot. Do you want to go first? I’m sure you’re going to take a lot less time.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I wouldn’t be so sure. There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, either.”

He shakes his head. “That was sexy,” he whispers after you as you move past him toward the confessional. 

You shush him. “Don’t say stuff like that in church. You’ll get struck by lightning.”

“That’s why I whispered it,” he says defensively.

“God can still hear you,” you say, giving him a little wave as you shut yourself in the booth.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you say, crossing yourself. “It’s been a week since my last confession.”

“Hey,” the priest says casually behind the grille. You recognize the voice of your favorite priest, Father Paul. 

“Hi, Father Paul,” you say.

“Doing missionary work, I see,” he says. 

“Huh?” you say. 

“The young man you brought with you today,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice. 

“Oh, that. Um, I didn’t bring him, he followed me,” you say. 

“He didn’t seem to bother you,” Father Paul observes. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much in church.”

You blush. “Are you gonna let me confess my sins, or what?”

“Fine,” says Father Paul, and you can hear the eye roll in his voice. “But next week you’d better have some more interesting sins for confession.”

“Father Paul!” you exclaim. “Isn't it a sin to encourage others in sinning?”

Father Paul gives a derisive laugh. “My child, I sit here in this booth for four hours twice a week and listen to people confess their problems with a spouse or disagreements with a neighbor. And now you come in here with a man who looks like that? Is it a greater sin to give in to the natural man, or to refuse to acknowledge a blessing when it comes?”

“This is a conversation I absolutely did not expect to have...ever, in any place, but definitely not here,” you say, your whole face redder than a tomato.

“Well, let me give you some revelation from beyond, then. If I were your grandmother, God rest her soul, I would tell you that seeing you alone for so long has been difficult for people who care about you. It may be time to let someone in.” He clears his throat. “Now, you may make your confession.”

Shaken, you do this quickly. Father Paul absolves you, and you clear out the booth. 

San is waiting right outside. “So, you’re forgiven,” he says, in the tone of someone observing the weather.

“Spic-and-span,” you say. “Your turn. You remember what to do?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, heading into the booth.

You head from the confessional into a tiny room where votive candles and a small statue of Mary Magdalene are kept, keeping the door open so that San will be able to see you after he leaves confession. You sit at the small bench, breathing deeply, trying to calm yourself. 

You aren’t used to being affected so much, but the man making what is certainly one of Father Paul’s more interesting confessions has upended everything normal in your life. You know what your grandmother would say -- “God likes to keep us on our toes.” “Well said, Granny,” you murmur to yourself, watching one of the flames flicker mesmerizingly in the otherwise dark room.

“Hey, Church Girl,” says a voice behind you. 

You jump and turn around. It’s San, standing there in the doorway watching you carefully. You stand, suddenly flustered. “Uh, hey. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, looking at you strangely. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you reply breathily. “Um, just thinking about my grandma.”

“Got it,” he says, empathy at the corners of his tone. He comes to stand beside you. “I’m sorry to have interrupted.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, really. So, you didn’t take very long in confession.”

“Nah, I don’t regret very many of my sins,” he says easily. “Father Paul seems cool, though.”

“He introduced himself?” you ask, surprised.

“Yep,” he says. “He talked about you.”

“Oh, did he?” you ask nervously. “What did he say?”

“He told me to take care of you,” he says simply.

“And what did you tell him?” you ask suspiciously.

He hesitates. “My sins,” he says finally. “Which turn out to be my failings as a romantic partner. I just told him all the ways I was worried I’d disappoint you.” He gives a soft laugh, and you look him up and down, fixating on his hands. 

They’re shaking.

Before you can think, before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab him by the front of his coat and pin him against the wall closest to the door. And then you tell him your name before pressing your lips to his.

He catches your face in his hands as you do, the pads of his fingers slightly rough but warm against your cheek and jaw and the back of your neck. His lips on yours are hungry but gentle, and his hands pull you back whenever you try to come up for air. You have to clutch at him to stay upright as the room starts spinning, and he moves his arms to your waist to support you as he kisses you again and again and again, until your lips feel bruised and you can hardly remember anything but the feel of his skin under your fingertips.

Finally, you break apart, gasping for breath. San’s chest heaves against your own, and he leans his forehead to yours. “What was that for?” he asks breathlessly.

“That was the trade-off,” you say with a laugh. “Phone number for mass, kiss for confession.”

“For real? What do I get if I go every week?” he asks eagerly.

“I guess we’ll see,” you say, brushing a stray strand of hair off his forehead.

“I like the sound of that,” he says, his arms tightening around your waist.

You lean against him, letting your head rest on his chest. “Me too.”

[cool-cowboy]

Summary:

In which Leon is the priest of your church, a very kind and noble man, who you, against the church’s (and your shitty husband’s) wishes have grown quite fond of, confession being one of the few times you get to relish the one on one attention. Little do you know, your godly priest has been having some not so godly thoughts about you as well.

I have literally no idea. Leon in a sweet caring kind of way, but kinda out of character, since he's a 1600's priest and speaks hopefully like one. A bit of a historical thing, the idea popped into my head and I did some research, and found out it used to be pretty common for married women to enjoy their confessions, often falling for the men on the other side of the wall.

Tags:

Alternate Universe - Medieval, Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Adultery, Confessional Sex, sex in the confession booth, Dominant Leon S. Kennedy, Dirty Talk, Clothed Sex, Priests, Priest Leon S. Kennedy, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Making Out, Semi-Public Sex, Eye Contact, Penis In Vagina Sex, Come Shot, Skirts

Blurb:

“You find me godly?”

“Perfectly… Though you are the cause of many other's sins, so perhaps you are sinful…”

Text:

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was Wednesday.” He’s staring at me, in his usual way, open and accepting, ready to hear all about my wrong-doings, one of them a cardinal sin, no less. I’m not sure what it is, why he has such a draw, roping me in and making me forget my teachings over and over, his looks and person much too sinful for such a godly man. “I was rude, I spoke unkind words to Stephan. I refused him… When, um, when he-”

“There is no judgment here, only forgiveness. There’s no need to be nervous.” I nod, not looking at him, embarrassed to be confessing yet another tiff with my husband, sure the father is tired of hearing about my disrespect. He reaches through the little door, something he’s not supposed to do, but often does, getting my attention or soothing me down after a particularly nasty sin is disclosed, something that only causes further sin, the feel of his kind hands always forcing some further than friendly thoughts into my mind, never fessed up in my confessions, which is probably my biggest offense to god to date. He makes me look at him, tilts my head up by my chin, stares at me in his quiet, sweet way, soft eyes always able to draw out my deepest secrets without much prompt. “Tell me.” He always seems more interested to hear about my transgressions toward my husband, for why I don’t know, but it’s better than the harsh judgement of my childhood priest, anyways, so I try not to dwell too much.

“He wanted to… Bed me. I refused… It’s my duty to bear children, but I- He isn’t… I hate him.” The truth, something I’ve been toeing the line of for a while, only confessing the passing sins rather than my most heinous one, but he’s known all along, doesn’t seem surprised at all when I meet his eyes, maybe a little amused, but I don’t believe that, he has no reason to be, only reason to assign me a hefty penance.

“I see… That is… Quite the confession. Don’t look so fearful, miss, you know I’m a believer in earning your keep, and it doesn’t seem Mr. Belman is trying his best to do so.” My throat’s dry, my swallow barely making it down, his eyes on my making me sweat, my skirts making me feel a little faint, claustrophobic in the small booth. “A bad man does not deserve a woman as godly as you, at least I don’t see him as fit.” He’s not meant to give his opinion, only fact, that or prompt me to better help me lay my secrets out to him, but he always tries to make me feel better, in a way, for the wrongs I’ve committed, well aware of my repentance, and my desire to do better.

“You find me godly?” I’m really not, most ladies who attend the mass are a whole lot more godly than me, almost perfect Catholics. He smiles, soft and kind, making me sin all over again, though I’m unsure what I can do to keep from sinning in this way, my thoughts not easily controlled, especially for him, a man no woman has ever had the pleasure of pleasing, a man who’s devoted his whole being to serving the lord, but still manages to be entirely enticing, his unattainableness adding a sinful edge to his allure.

“Perfectly… Though you are the cause of many other's sins, so perhaps you are sinful…” He’s amused, and I’m confused, not an idea what he means by that. I stare at him, not incredibly eager to get on with my confession, more than willing to let him keep talking as long as he likes. “You’re an object of many’s affections, miss, and envy as well…” He’s going against his oath, speaking of other’s sins outside their own confessions, giving me a shred of all that he knows, offering it up with a relaxed expression, watching me, assumedly waiting on me to continue telling him, but I’m not ready yet, need a little longer, a few more moments of his soft stare before I tell him, tear down the image he’s painted of me in his head, desecrate his idea of me.

“Father..? Who do you confess to?” He smiles, only a little, amused for some secret reason, his gaze a little hazy, his hands smoothing down the front of his robe, the sound of him clearing his throat a little loud in the small space.

“Myself, I suppose… Though there’s something I find more suitable to confess to you.” My brows draw down, unsure why he’d have anything to confess to me, if he’s able to repent and move on without any type of formal confession, but I wait patiently, not wanting to sin again by disrespecting the father. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just stares at me with his head tilted a little to one side, his gaze hazy, his smile barely pulling at one side of his lips, his face close to mine, just on the other side of the little confessional door, his breath warm on my skin. “Forgive me miss, for I have sinned.” He watches me, signing a cross over his chest, a little slow, the anticipation making me feel feverish, wet palms wiped on the front of my skirts while I wait, not bringing my eyes from him, wary to miss a second of his terribly enticing gaze. “I have committed the sin of lust. My craving for you is ungodly, and I have performed self-pleasing adultery to the mere thought of you too many times to count.” I have not a single clue what to say, just stay perfectly still, feeling sick at the pleased feeling burning my skin, flaming and not at all what I should feel in response to his reveal.

“Father, I-”

“I am sorry for this and all my sins.” He doesn’t seem sorry, more confused, staring at me in a way that makes me near fainting, all heat and intensity, trying to unravel his own desires. “You may continue.” I swallow, looking down at my hands, now much too afraid to tell him, to reciprocate his lust, unable to do anything about it, aware I’m bound to Stephan, and he is never to be wed.

“I told a lie.” It isn’t something I usually need to confess, I’m not even sure why I did it, needlessly covering up my actions to keep Stephan as far from figuring out my adulterous thoughts as possible, though he’d never suspect a tryst between the father and I. “I told Stephan I was going to the market on Wednesday, when I came to see you.” I let my eyes come up, flitting from my lap to his hands, clasped over his lap, up to his face, seeming a little pleased, adding to my unease, his feelings now out in the open, glad to be a subject of sin for me as well, I suppose. The others are being noisy, the church overly full today, the last session before Christmas, eager to be forgiven.

“Why did you lie?” I look back down, unwilling to look at him when I tell him, give him the satisfaction of reciprocated lustful feelings and actions.

“I didn’t want him to become suspicious.” He hums, ducking down a little to draw my eyes back up, looking at me pleasedly, not at all bashful in the way he should be, never the one to be shy, always so open, even now, after he’s told me about his self-pleasing to me.

“Suspicious?” He’s enjoying himself, too casual to be questioning me about what has become so glaringly obvious, backing me into a figurative corner and forcing it out of me, something he’s entirely too good at, receiving confession after confession and helping numerous work through their own minds.

“I have committed the sin of lust.” He’s looking at me, not that I can see, my eyes cast down at his hands, listening to the sounds of people mulling about outside, stretching out the quiet between us to steel myself for what I say next. “I’ve been having impure thoughts about you, father. Please forgive me.” He hums, one of his hands lifting up out of my view, this whole thing making me feel sick from guilt, adulterous behavior one of the few things I never thought would be something I’d have to speak to him about.

“Is that all?” I nod, finally looking at him, his eyes always on me, never showing me any less attention, offering up his services in maybe a little less selfless of a way than I used to suspect. “Then I assume it’s time to assign your penance…” He runs his hand down over his lap, his other in the space of the little window, gripped over the little ledge there, crossing over into my space, the hand on his lap drawing back up slowly, his eyes a little cloudy, dazed, almost. “I have to say… The lord will forgive you, no matter the sin, miss, you’re saved.” It seems almost like a suggestion, though maybe I’m just imagining it, hoping for something I really and truly shouldn’t, something the opposite of righteous, one of the most evil and depraved wants possible. “Perhaps… Indulgence is our solution.” He stares at me, unmoving, giving me the choice, offering something so enticing, so terrible in nature I’d be damned to accept, looking at me in such a bold way after uttering something so forward.

“Father… Are you suggesting..?” He’s touching me, running rough fingers over the side of my jaw, our faces close, closer now that he’s leaning toward the little window, all of him seeming larger, more masculine than I would usually find him, his comfort fading into a simmering nervousness as I wait on his reply.

“I’ve satisfied myself in your name countless times, miss, and not once has it settled the need, not even diminished it, only choked it down until I can’t keep it at bay any longer. I am a man of God, but with all my devotion you’re the one and only thing I’ve ever found myself helpless to resist.” My breathing’s gone uneven, his hands on my face and in his lap, stroking softly, both soothing me and indulging in his desire, a soldier of God, succumbing to the same earthly pleasures as me. “Our penance. Finding a way to dispel this need, holding ourselves accountable for time spent lost in the other, returning that time to our father, pleading his forgiveness for our frailties.” He’s leaning close, face nearly passing the frame of the window, eyes cast down at my lips, his parted and slick, all of him so very enticing, especially like this, so far gone he can’t even deny himself this, and neither can I, my lips flush with his the next second, sealing my fate, an adulterer and a sinner, depraved and dirty and lustful, all for him.

The kiss is nothing like what I’ve come to expect, separate from the necessary, rushed kisses of my husband, this kiss searing, sending a wave of heat over me, the passion of it making me faint, all the want I’ve been keeping quiet to myself passing between us, his hand slipping back and into my hair, keeping me close, our indiscretion between only us and God, a sin kept quiet, the act horrible, but so satisfying I have no reason to believe God would be against me indulging.

“Father…” We’re both breathing heavy, lost in the admittance and act of sin, his hair messier than I’ve ever seen it, his lips rosy and shiny with shared saliva. “The others are waiting…” He sighs, drawing me back in by his grip on my hair, speaking in his quiet, comforting way half an inch from my lips.

“And they will.” He gives me no time to offer a response, goes back to pressing warm, careful kisses to my lips, his pace a little faster, his breathing shaky as mine, the booth heating up from labored breaths, muggy and heavy with shared desire. “Lord… You’re… Truly breathtaking… A temptress… My own personal test…” He pulls back, letting go of me, standing himself up, face hidden behind the wood above the window, his waist a little below my eye level, his robes hanging heavy, a reminder of his promise to the lord, now broken. “I’ve failed our father… But I will not fail you… Sink to the floor, miss, show me your devotion to your penance.” I meet his command, slipping off the bench and onto my knees, a little unsure, not quite understanding why I’d be on the floor if he intends to take me. “I’ll tend to you shortly, miss, just- for now… I need a bit of preparation.” He shuffles his robes out of the way, exposing himself to me, his manhood larger than I thought possible, more than twice the size of my husband’s, and I wonder how it’ll fit, if it can. “Take me inside your mouth, miss. Close your perfect lips around me and let me feel what I've long awaited.” He’s holding onto himself, waiting for me to comply while running his hand up and down, his body revealed to me for the first time, unexpectedly muscular, legs and some of his midsection bare for my greedy eyes.

I close my lips over him, only the first inch, unsure what he wants me to do, his hand leaving its place to stroke across my jaw, back into my hair, gripping what slips between his fingers, his hand pulling me in, sliding himself inside my mouth, a small pleasured sound passing his lips sending an odd sensation through me, some sickly hot satisfaction. He’s leaning his free arm on the wood above me, his head downturned, his eyes hidden from my view by the wood of the booth, his mouth gaping in pleasure, his chest heaving beneath his robes, cross around his neck swinging as he moves against me, a reminder of our frailty, our unworthiness of God’s image.

“Ah- You’re… This feeling is… Lord forgive me… For I will sin again…” His teeth are gritted, his hand pulling me in a little closer, my throat tightening around him startling me, his pleasured noise deep and pleasant when I press my hands to his thighs to get a breath, sputtering embarrassingly, his hand smoothing my hair helping me calm back down. “Forgive me… I got carried away…” He’s ducked down to look at me, seeming perturbed, stroking at my hair, his cross drawing my eyes before I look back up at him, slipping my fingers up the underside of his manhood, watching him, his pleasured noise sending a searing shock down to my privates, my mouth closing back around him, moving on my own, humming when he allows it, just keeps his hand on the back of my head, guiding me, his head rested back on his forearm, my eyes on the lower half of his face, the portion I can see, his expression looking pained from the pleasure, teeth ground tight, jaw clenched with stress, my hand running over his exposed stomach making him flinch, his length twitching between my lips. “Wicked girl… You’re-hah- ruining me… Turned me into a damned-!” He pulls me back, my lips leaving him with an obscene amount of saliva, smeared over him and connecting him back to my lips, his hand slipping forward to tilt my head up toward him, his eyes back in my view, looking down at me, his thumb stroking the mess on my lips. "I won’t let this end until I’ve shown you all that a lover can be, miss. Surely this isn’t what you’ve sought after… I can offer you more… you need only relax and let me show you…” He wraps his fingers over my bicep, pulling me gently up until I stand before him, his hand pushing me gently back to seated on the little bench, his fingers finding my upper legs through layers of skirts, running slowly up, giving me an awful sense of yearning, the feeling pleasurably painful, sickening, his cross swinging at eye level while he's doubled over reminding me I should be ashamed to be satisfied in any way from something so heinous.

“Father, what’re you-” He drags me, fingers tight on my legs, pulling me until my hips rest on the six inches of wood separating my space and his, my upper body laid on the bench, propped on my elbows, only a couple inches lower than the window.

“You’ve bewitched me, truly… Made me insatiable… My lust for you is painful, forcing me to succumb to your allure time and time again… Now you’ll see what you’ve done to me, feel the craving- the need I have for you, firsthand…” He sinks to his knees, keeping his eyes on my face, my elbows digging into the wood a little uncomfortable, but the look in his eyes keeps me from breaking my gaze from his, watching him as he pushes up on my skirts, leaving them pooled at my waist, my undergarments unobscured, his hand making its way back down to grip to my ankle, his skin scalding hot against me, lifting until my leg is in line with his lips, his head turned to the side to press his lips to my inner ankle, his gaze on me as he trails his way up, leaving saliva along his path up the inside of my leg, the whole display more pleasurable than probably anything I’ve ever experienced. “I know how to please you… I’ll be sure to satisfy your ungodly desires… Leave you so perfectly complacent you’ll never let anyone else bed you…” He finishes his kissing, pausing with his lips pressed to my lower thigh, easing my foot down on the bench just behind him, my knee bent, his hand moving to my other ankle, easing it up to repeat the process, drawing it out, kissing unbearably slow, looking at me in a lustful, entirely sinful way.

“Father? It’s… There are people outside… Shouldn’t we… Hurry this along?” He smiles, eyes creasing in such a beautiful way, his hand guiding my foot to rest on his other side, his head between them, shoulders just below my knees.

“Impatient woman… Confess it.” He lets his hands slide up the outsides of my legs, fingers pausing on the waist of my undergarments, his eyes peering at me, intense and masculine, commanding in his calm, even-toned way. I’m having trouble keeping my breathing even, the anticipation of his promise hanging heavy, blanketing the cramped space, the people milling about outside the booth making me wary to be caught.

“I have committed the sin of impatience. I don’t want to wait, forgive me.” He smiles, pulling down, exposing me to him, pulling my legs back one after the other to rid me of the pesky clothing, his eyes cast down once he’s finished, his expression clouded and lustful, his chest heaving, eyes a little low as he takes me in, bare before him, willing and ready to commit a cardinal sin for him.

“You’re forgiven… Now I must confess…” He leans forward, hands sliding up the back of my thighs before gripping to my skin, both of us clammed up from the suffocating heat of the space, his warm breath against me making me shiver. “I have committed the sin of envy… Stephan is the luckiest man in history… To have a woman as phenomenal as you… I’m truly envious, in utter disbelief he has not a clue how incredibly beautiful you look when you enjoy yourself…” He presses a finger against me, startling me, all of this foreign, his thumb trailing up wetness that usually comes much later, once Stephan is nearly done, his slippery finger pressing a couple inches above my entrance making me flinch, the feeling shocking, pleasant in a tight, unexpected fashion. “Ah… Perfection… I wasn’t sure… But that monk really did figure out the secrets of women…” I have no idea what he’s speaking about, all I know is this pleasure is foreign, tight and nearly too much, his thumb rubbing softly up and down as he watches me, seeming pleased to confirm I can feel in this way. “I was told a woman can achieve the same type of euphoria as men… I hope I’m well-equipped enough to give you at least one climax… I’ll try my best, miss, in God’s name.” I’m trembling, the feeling building into something far more than what it began, a sickening tension, my muscles wound tight, teeth gnashed and head leaned back onto the wall, his thumb pulling away releasing the tension building, his look amused.

“What’s… Why..?” He laughs, fanning hot air against me, his lips pressing to the place his thumb just left, his smile widening when I gasp and squirm, bag hands on my thighs holding me still as he uses his tongue, letting out a soft pleasured noise at the flavor, or the action, I’m not entirely sure.

“Forgive me… I couldn’t go without a taste… My god… You’re the most divine thing I’ve ever laid eyes on… the most raw and formidable temptation I’ve ever had the pleasure of letting ruin me…” He’s rubbing me again, pressure more firm than before, sure of himself, the satisfying tension coming back quicker than before, my eyes on him, the sight of him with my wetness smeared over his skin drawing a pleasured noise from deep in my chest, my breathing more frantic than I can ever remember, my legs trembling lightly from his ministrations, his gaze holding mine, his skin a rosy pink, lips flushed red. “You are my ultimate desire… An itch that has been gnawing, working away at me… Tearing me away from the lord… luring me into a pleasant trap…” I’m barely registering his low words, drawled with his cheek pressed to my skin, the tight pleasure clouding my mind, blanketing me in the feeling. “You’re nearly there… So beautiful… Keep your eyes on me… Face what you’ve done… Given into lust… Taken me down your depraved path as well… Don’t fret, your sins are forgiven… So get on with it, show me how blasphemous you are… deriving pleasure from being bedded, let this be for your pleasure and that alone… There, that’s it, you’re doing so well, trembling so beautifully, making those sweet sounds for me…” The feeling peaks, my body convulsing, drawing in on itself, the pleasure hot and tight, all of me clenched tight, his fingers pausing, my eyes barely open to heed his order, looking into his eyes, his expression pleased and lax. “I could never receive enough of this… Watching you come undone before me, my actions giving you this much pleasure…” I feel droopy when I come down, slumped on the bench, legs lax and open around his head, his expression entirely pleased, glad. “Let me inside.” He pulls me, and I let him, stood up in front of him after a few seconds, waiting on him to sink inside, my skirts and his robes making it seem nearly impossible, but he doesn’t make any move to bury himself inside, only meets my lips in a searing kiss, his body flush against mine, pressing me into the wall of the booth, my body feeling overly hot, both of us sweating, his face shiny with perspiration and my mess he’s neglected to wipe away.

“Father… Please… I’ve already confessed my impatience.” He laughs, low and sinful, the softened pleasure coming back, my body ready for him, likely more ready than ever before. He pulls up on my skirts, though they’re getting in the way, bunched up to my waist when he gives me a look, pressing my hand overtop my lower abdomen to hold them up, his hand gripping his manhood, pressing toward my entrance, rubbing lightly at that pleasurable spot, my low pleased noise muffled in the chest of his robe, his cross pressed cold to my overheating cheek.

“I wouldn’t like to hurt you… express any discomfort, miss, I’ll move slowly…” He pushes, pressing slowly inside, the feeling a little like the sting of antiseptic, his length and girth well over what I’m used to, but not painful, the wetness he caused allowing him to slip inside without incident, pressing tight inside, the full feeling filling some carnal, animalistic desire. “I’ll spill it outside… I won’t desecrate you too harshly…” He pulls back, pressing back inside equally slow, his hand sliding down to clasp around the inner side of my knee, drawing it up to parallel with my hip, his eyes on mine as he moves, slow, passionate and careful in a perfectly unexplainable way, the pleasing feeling of his eyes on mine prompting me to let my head lean back onto the wood, gazing up at him in a way that is surely embarrassingly wanton, but he doesn’t mind, just tucks his chin, gazing down at the place we’re connected, brows drawing together as a low rumble rips through his chest. “Is this… Are you in-hah- pain?” I shake my head, holding up my skirts a little higher, my other hand trapped between my chest and his stomach, gripped tight to his robes. “Confess… Bare your sins to the-ah lord-!” He speeds up his movement, the sound of skin hitting skin tearing pleased noises out of the both of us, his grip going a little tighter on my knee, his eyes holding mine captive, staring at me in an obscene fashion, pained and pleasured and anguished and adoring all at once.

“I-ah- I’m committing the-hah- the sin of-! Adultery-! I-hnn- I couldn’t resist the- the father… Please-ah- please forgive-! Me-!” Speaking isn’t all that easy, his manhood hitting the deepest parts of me, only a little painful, mostly pleasing, his thumb moving back to that spot making me keen, my face pressed to his chest until it passes, his movement gaining a steady, quick rhythm, his thumb moving in time with his hips, his breathing labored and shaky.

“Forgive us-Nnh- for we have sinned… Miss-ah-! I will now-hah- close the-Hnn-!” He ducks his head down, face pressed to the crook of my neck, his body shaking against me, mine against him, all of us ruined, torn apart from the need burning inside, a desire satiated only by action. “God the- the father of mercies-hah- Through-Nnh-! The death and resurrection of his son-ah- son-! As recon-hah-ciled by the-hnn- the uh-Nnh-!” He’s losing himself, and his teachings, mind too full of lust to recall his closing prayer, his hips pressing to mine in an almost animalistic fashion, rutting with the force of a needy dog, his head pulled back to look at me, his expression sinfully beautiful, all of him wet with sweat, red, his eyes low, held open by his need to see himself ruin me, make me into something just as terribly and fully depraved as him. “You really are-hah- the perfect temptation-nnh- In a world full of sinners we’re-ngh- only two of millions… If this costs me my spot in heaven so- so be it, this is my own-Nnh-! personal heaven, buried inside and gazing into your eyes-!…” He’s panting, and so am I, both of us near the inevitable high, shaking and releasing low noises into the space between us, our gazes locked, the eye contact offering a passion and sickening tension, spurring me closer, his thumb moving with harsh pressure, sending me near insanity, his quick thrusts driving me up the wall, his low words rushed and raspy, groaned out and whiny, nearly sounding pleading, his expression gone fearful, distraught at his own pleasure. “The world to- himself and sent the- the-nnh-!” He leans his head back, eyes closing and a loud groan ripping out of him, the sight drawing a decidedly needy noise out of me, my eyes trailing down to his cross, just in front of my face, bouncing agonist his chest, condemning me, my transgression seen and judged by God. “Damnit-! Sent to us- for the-ah- forgiveness ‘f sins-! Through the minis-ah- may god give-nnh-! May god give us pardon- yes-ah- and peace-nnh- I-ah-ab-oh- absolve-!” He slows down, both of us coming down from the near climax, his eyes coming back to me, forehead pressed to mine, his hips working in more of and arc like motion, the feeling of him dragging inside tearing an overly wanton sound from me, his eyes watching me as he draws this out, keeps us both teetering, giving himself a moment to finish his broken prayer. “I absolve you of your-ah- sins, and myself of- of mine…” He takes a few more seconds, pressing inside slowly, keeping his eyes on mine, bright blue shadowed by his hair, messy and sweaty, before he speeds back up, sinking inside over and over again at a pace that seems inhuman, his body impossibly tight to mine, the feeling of nearness coming back, my release denied now back to ruin me, leave evidence of my sin. “In the-ah- name of the- the father-! And of-hah- the-nnh- son and the-! The-ah- holy-hnn-! Spirit!” I’m squeezing him, my body almost uncontrollable when I clench and shake from pleasure, head tilted back and my eyes on his as he pulls out, leaving me empty, his seed spilled over the front of my thigh, trails dripping and soaking my skin, his release enticingly sensual to watch, a raw kind of experience, my mind hazy and full of him, watching him until he’s done, my leg returned to standing, his hands gently smoothing my skirt over both our messes. “Amen.”

“Amen.”

[kael-writ]

Im kinda obsessed with what Adrian Clairmont's backstory could possibly be. He was a "wicked, wicked man" Before Christ, but he did make bishop. And he is extremely fanatical. So he had to have sinned just enough in a certain capacity that still allowed him to be ordained in the Catholic church. Assuming he didn't lie (seems improbable that he wouldn't confess all openly in the sacrament of Confession as a true believer does). It's unlikely that means he was a criminal, at least not convicted.

If he had been a soldier that would be a very interesting BG because it would give him the ability to have done things like kill people that in no other circumstances could he have done openly and been ordained, and also it dovetails into his work as a Hunter. It makes sense he would be so good at it with that BG. But Im not sure that fits with how he speaks of a military vs a faith organization.

Adrian is, ofc, also just a very manipulative vampire conversion therapist. He could mean any number of things. He isn't necessarily particularly honest at this point.

He is bound for Perdition and still serving The Lord, so there is probably a baseline of personal conviction against outright lying but some allowance of all sorts of sin to get the job done. He clearly is willing to lie based on some of his actions, it just seems like he would consider that a sin to be used only in necessity.

There is also the question of why he was ex-communicated, what specific vampire hunter action he took that was forbidden. Or if simply being a vampire hunter period was the offense. Even though that is historic to the church in this fiction. What activities has he done with Society of Leopold /Gladius Dei or whatever organizations that would get him excommunicated?

Why does he believe he has no way to escape hell? Ex-communication in contemporary Catholicism is not condemnation to hell, it's not even necessarily permanent. It does mean you can't take sacrament in the community. But in contemporary Catholicism, God will forgive any repentant sinner. Perhaps the implication is that he has chosen to be unrepentant of sin and continue in sin just to fight vampires.

And again, he is extremely fanatical. An unwavering true believer. A committed servant of the lord. To the point of, arguably, matrydom. Yet disobeying god and the church to sacrifice his own soul for the cause?

Just a fascinating character study. Compellingly performed, but also brilliantly created to begin with. I think the backstory being unknown is certainly not a weakness, but it does effectively make you wonder about it, and thirst for more.

(CW: child sexual abuse mention here: For good reason, the fiction of the show obviously doesn't talk about the "elephant in the room" about the most notoriously evil thing that Catholic priests have gotten away with recently (CSA) because that's extremely fuckin triggering, it's not something anyone wants to think about while enjoying a ttrpg, but it's nonetheless hard to ignore that this is the organization we're talking about, and placing that past beside them both producing and ex-communicating vampire hunters draws into question what it takes for a bishop to get ex-communicated and why.)

[creppersfunpalooza]

Nothing to Celebrate

(Rosé and Adonis writing drabble because i felt silly)

it’s not that bad because it’s before rosé’s whole transformation thing and all of the more serious stuff between them but uhmmm it still makes me want to tear at adonis soooo

CW/TW: Mentions of religion and religious themes (Catholicism), religious trauma, cult/shunning implications, invalidation, and a teensy bit of manipulation.

————————————————————————

“I just don’t get it.”

“Hm?” Roe looked up at Don, temporarily taking his attention off of the half-decorated tree.

“I mean, I don’t get why you’d wanna remind yourself of such horrible memories. It doesn’t exactly seem healthy, love.” He continued, scrunching his nose at the angel settled on the top. “And it’s not exactly… You know, real. What’s the point in celebrating it?”

Roe sighed and went back to wrapping the popcorn strings around the fir branches. “I don’t know. Call it silly if you want, but it’s comforting to me.” He hummed, still focused on the tree. “It’s about forgiveness and love. If someone was willing to die for my sins, then that means I was worth saving.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t happen. Sure, some guy claiming to be a prophet probably got himself executed, but it doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s just… I don’t know. It feels offensive.” He huffed, crossing his arms. “You want a god to love you, and I’m right here. Forgiveness and all. Look, I think it’s doing you more harm than good to put all this effort into something so pointless.” Don scowled.

He stared at Don incredulously. “Does this upset you that much? It’s not really a worship thing. It’s about what it means to me. It would be ridiculous for me to pray to a being I know doesn’t exist.” Roe murmured, setting down the garland and making his way over to Don, sitting next to him on the old couch. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings though. It wasn’t my intention.” He gently set his hand on Don’s shoulder, staring at him with a sweet expression. “I can take it down, if you want to. But I’d still like to celebrate some traditions with you. I understand if you don’t want to though.”

Don paused for a moment, but his scowl had long since faded. “I don’t know. I don’t want anything to do with the holiday. It’s stupid. I just wish you could see that.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure. I’m done speaking anyways.”

“It was the only time of year they’d ever pretend that I was a normal person. It was nice to belong.” Roe lowered his voice. “It made me feel less alone, even if it was only a temporary thing.”

Don stared at him blankly. “And you still feel alone? Even with me?”

Roe sighed and held his tongue. “No, of course not, my dear.”

[malhare-archive]

So lemme get this straight, BASICALLY: God created a dude who was the Best TM / his favorite / etc & but HE KNEW (☆) he was gonna "cause problems" eventually then complained & didn't do shit & asked the Now Better Brother to kick them? Now all the problems are blamed to Him & the Girl & dude who just wanted an apple from the Snake that "Knew better than to Not Complain Ever & My dad is the causer of problems"?

I wonder if predestination is involved coz if it was then.. I dunno [stares blanky into space] a lot to unpack lol

Also why did He "create" Jesus... and why did he indirectly killed him eventually- why does he create kids to just have as tools to use on us on his puppet game of life? Is it really worth it? Conditional fake love for another one? What's his deal?

Apologies if I said sth offensive I'm sayin' this to you cause [vaguely gestures]. So you are allowed to call me out 👍🏼This is just One of the "versions" I understand (?). I Could have explained it better as well- But the yuri post got me thinkin xD

You don't need to apologize at all! You honestly treat Christianity with more respect than it even deserves (/lh) and you definitely won't offend my ex-Catholic ass. Speaking of, I'm going to preface this by saying that I was raised Catholic so that's the pov through which I view the Bible, but not all sects of Christianity teach and view things the same way.

ANYWAY, right from the top - The Christian God is not a benevolent God. To Catholics, God is more of a force to be feared and obeyed than anything else. Many would disagree if you said this to their face, but the roots of institutional Catholicism are shame, guilt, and control. Sin is something that we innately desire to commit, but must have the fortitude to resist. Humans' lives on Earth are a trial, a test, a period to devote yourself to God and gain your entry into Heaven through resisting the temptation to sin.

That being said, Lucifer is the embodiment of what happens when you choose to sin and when you choose to defy God. There is no actual, textual reason for Lucifer's rebellion given in the Bible however I was taught that his greatest sins were jealousy (he is jealous of how God favors humans) and pride (he was arrogant and wanted to be on the same level as God/wanted to be independent of God). Lucifer and a host of angels loyal to him waged war on the other angels who were led by Archangel Michael, who cast them all down after defeating them.

Adam and Eve were ejected from the garden for the very same thing; They chose to directly disobey God by partaking of the forbidden fruit (fun fact, the Bible never says what fruit it is! No idea why everyone thinks it's an apple). Lucifer tempted them with the same thing that captivated him so much:

"And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as Gods, knowing good and evil." (Genesis 3:4)

Both these stories mirror the eternal struggle Catholics face: The desire to sin vs the self control to obey God.

God sending Jesus to Earth is essentially seen as his greatest gift and mercy to humanity. After Adam and Eve partook of the forbidden fruit humans became independent, self-centered, and greedy. Humanity as a whole was too thoroughly corrupted by sin to return to God and in Old Testament times sacrifices had to be given to atone for sins. So, Jesus was sent to teach the word of God and to bring people closer to God. He was sacrificed to take all of humanity's sins unto himself, absolving the human race of that darkness - "Jesus died for your sins" and all that. This is why he's called the "lamb of God", lambs being a very common sacrificial animal.

Tl;dr: Lucifer wanted to be independent so God permabanned him. God killed an aspect of himself to absolve humanity of the sin he programmed us to have in the first place 👍 if you don't do everything the clergy God tells you to, you go to Hell forever 👍👍

[herunswithscissors]

If the Yt Evangelicals are going to insist on defining what is Christian and choose who's in and who's or and who is going to hell, I say let them have the religion.

It's nothing but a cruel, accusing reformed dragon. That enslaved you to sin. (and perhaps found itself enslaved to sin as well? Eh, It makes good poetry.)

The same sin that was embedded in Noah's story that sin that came into your heart once you believed Noah's story was true. That came into your heart once you publicly declared your faith in it a few times to often for you to back it and keep your friends. A faith in the the historical accuracy of that story was important and that our first mistake with God defined humanity. That sin is a white leech. It is the Lilith who despised God's gift to her and abused him. The Dragon, That Old Adversary is bagging plea bargains for fun and perhaps to pad her stats by chaining is to sin and running to good to confess our crimes without the Adversary having to lift a finger. Sin in Yt Evangelicals isis like a self sustaining ever increasing harvest of guilty pleas for our clever Adversary. Because the Adversary knew that with sin in the camp of God, it would never cease with it's dragonish desires or dragonish ways. It will never stop being greedy for gold and power or being oblivious and cold to the plight of oppressed because it's supposed to be. It's never stopped wanting to consume you and all this world holds dear with thoughts of sin and happy thankful thoughts for your living father sparing your life over the most minor offenses. It never stopped wanting to blind you to the World and make you less concerned about this world and the things of God.

Anyway they can have Christianity. The Pope can have catholicism and Utah can run Mormonism. Out here in this world we are learning from Jesus to love our neighbor and ourselves and to look for win wins. Out here we actively have to reject the things of the World in order to live well in this good bit troubled little world.

Out here the cross shows us how to suffer righteously and humbly while trying to teach people how to love their neighbor, how to know and trust their God better, to reject the things of the World, and still keep ones dignity under suffering. Out here it teaches us how to consider organizing a grass roots movement that can spread over the globe quickly.

We can be the ghosts of Tom Joad. People of all or no faith who want to love their neighbor, look out for the small people oppressed by the World and bullies, to stand with the oppressed and stand up to oppressors whenever we reasonable can. The less you have to lose in family and responsibility to others, the more leeway you have in risk taking and stupid shit. But we all agree it's worth it to show love even if they lash back or are ungrateful, even if it means sharing in some of their suffering or giving our all (if we can do so responsibly).

We can call our new "religion" Civilization. We don't give a shit what you believe or who you are or were or how you live as long as you act Civilized while you are here. Civilized means loving your neighbor as yourself. Civilized means willing to endure satyagraha to love my neighbor and humbly listen to them tell me the way they need to be loved. Civilization means the strength, compassion, and humidity to be weak with each other and not be taken advantage of and to use our influence and gifts to help others when we can. Civilization means taking part in Civilization by finding your own Civilized way to live and to love.

And they shall know we are civilized by our love.

[whetstonefires]

i mean, the Irish did Make It in America, and by and large did it by stopping being Irish and becoming merely white.

there was a time that Irish was categorized as Ethnic in very much the same way that Latino is now. including the catholicism, the exaggerated belief in visible otherness from Normal, and the notion of being mired in poverty and steeped in criminality as a cultural trait.

one of the main ways we escaped was, we scraped the distinctive parts away to make ourselves unexceptionable.

(i have a neighbor, getting rather elderly now, surname of Sullivan, whose father only revealed when practically on his deathbed that he was fluent in Irish, because his father used to beat him when he caught him speaking it, and endangering his own prospects by risking an accent.)

there was a lot of motivation to assimilate provided for generations, as cited above, and bluntly the 'Anglo-Teutons' allowed the Irish to rank up in whiteness bit by bit in very large part to prevent them recognizing their common grievances and teaming up with the African-Americans, as these became a major urban demographic over the several decades following emancipation.

until by the late 20th century it almost didn't matter, having an Irish name.

and at this point i think it can be said to be basically irrelevant--i don't know of anybody putting forth the argument that Biden is a brainwashed papal stooge letting the Vatican run America. they did say that, quite openly, often, and with deep conviction, about Kennedy.

there's a very large degree to which the Irish-Americans as a population can be said to have collectively sold out. though ofc it's misleading to put it that way because the bargain wasn't offered openly enough to look like anything but individual survival. but then that's usually how it works.

assimilation isn't really a moral issue, at least not in terms of a group that caves to it having Failed somehow. (though framing it that way can be a good way to discourage it from happening if you're trying to social-engineer your own community ig.)

it is ugly and sad, and has few heroes, and involves a lot of crab-bucket behavior and hating people for being more assimilated than you and therefore privileged, or less assimilated than you and therefore embarrassing or Deserve It or whatever, and just it's generally a process characterized by abstract loss for the sake of concrete gain. because people want foremost to live and give their families security. (even when they're abusive dicks about it like grandpa sullivan.)

but like. lmao. the original asker being like 'so annoying the Irish-Americans relating to their heritage via invoking offensive stereotypes too attenuated to do them much practical harm.'

like yes that's actually annoying, i grant that.

but then anon just goes on like:

'when they put an offensive stereotype of the irish on a TV show in the 1970s it evoked in me the exact sensations of disgust it was designed to by English racists in the 18th and 19th centuries, which relates to this argument about modern irish-americans having no business claiming their heritage somehow because they both make me angry and disgusted.'

Loud Irish-Americans who have maybe one grandparent born in Ireland and no tangible link to anything Irish, including toxic Catholicism, are some of the most annoying people around. What's so great about excessive alcohol consumption being a hallmark of a diasporic national(ist) celebration? I say this as a person born in Eastern Europe with alcoholics in the family who deeply resents that stereotype about us. Only the Irish could afford to be proud of something so antisocial because they are very comfortably white and have been for a long time. It reminds me of that Columbo episode from the 1970s where he nails the singing, limerick-spewing American IRA terrorist because of a whiskey bottle left on the murder scene. That guy was extremely unlikeable and I liked seeing him go to jail.

--

[absynthe--minded]

Hi! Sorry to bother, but do you know where I can read more about Tolkien's opinion on queer relationships and queerness in general? I haven't read all of the letters, but in one of them he says some icky and misogynistic stuff about (het) relationships and I was kind of disappointed. (I don't mean this in a 'gotcha' kind of way, I'm just a queer person who's genuinely bothered by some of his views and wants to learn more)

I don’t think it’s any sort of a gotcha!

The short answer (there is more I have to say, but I’ll give you the important bit first) is that Tolkien never made any explicit and confirmed statements one way or the other about queerness. I’ve seen some people allude to things but I’ve never found anything concrete, and this fandom and this scholarly field are both homophobic enough that if there were anything he said against queer relationships we’d have all heard it by now. also, seriously, good job digging deeper into his views and interrogating them - he was far from perfect and honest, forthright engagement with his flaws is basically the only way we’ll move forward and tackle them.

the longer answer is that while he was both openly sexist (ranging from pretty bad misogyny to “uh, have you ever met a woman in your life?”) and openly racist (usually taking the form of “repeating any ethnic stereotypes he came across without any thought of their relationship to reality, and having no idea of what was or wasn’t offensive”) his feelings on queerness are harder to find. this isn’t that unusual - even people we’ve been able to confirm as queer or probably queer are in many cases silent about their relationship with their sexuality, and Tolkien was in a position where even if he himself was queer (which, by the way, is my opinion) he’d probably have no incentive to say so directly.

because this fandom and this scholarly discipline are so overwhelmingly cishet, queer scholarship of Tolkien is in its infancy, even to a point that means most people who are open to queer readings and queer interpretations will balk at trying to argue for the canonicity of queer relationships and queer subtext, there’s also not a lot of writing on this subject by biographers or other academics. however, there’s a fair bit of evidence that at least argues both that Tolkien was okay with IRL queer people and he was consciously engaging with queer themes in his works.

what we know is this:

he was friendly with W.H. Auden (gay), and a deep admirer of the works of Mary Renault (lesbian who wrote historical M/M fic focusing on the classics, sort of a midcentury Madeline Miller but more focused on historical accuracy). in fact he’s on the record as saying he loved Renault’s books (specifically The King Must Die and The Bull from the Sea, though possibly also The Charioteer and The Last of the Wine, both of which are explicitly gay fiction) and the fan letter she sent him was among his most prized correspondences

he was Catholic, but he purposefully wrote stories or developed narrative ideas that weren’t directly in compliance with Catholicism, and he did acknowledge that in one case (specifically the Gift of Men and the concept of euthanasia as a blessing) he was interested in exploring concepts as good stories rather than moral messages - this shows that his faith wouldn’t have necessarily bound him to only depict homosexuality badly

he wouldn’t have suffered socially for speaking out against queerness (other authors of his circle like C.S. Lewis were more vocal) but he didn’t, which indicates a choice not to

he was aware of and directly inspired by Homeric epics alongside Northern European sources, and this does include the Iliad

Quenya doesn’t have gendered pronouns, and we know that in at least one draft he changed gendered words like “husband” and “wife” to “spouse”. he also depicts elves and dwarves as having a high degree of androgyny, and elvish marriages are not explicitly required to be between a male elf and a female elf

his inclusion of vital and important relationships like Túrin and Beleg, Frodo and Sam, and Fingon and Maedhros alongside equally important het relationships indicates that he was interested in giving space to M/M that blurs or steps over the line between platonic het-approved friendship and queerness

there’s something to be said for how British midcentury queer literature depicts queer men as sad outcasts at war with their true nature who can’t ever be happy, and how Tolkien writes a lot of men in relationships with other men who are in that position except they’re miserable because of outside forces (the Ring, the Oath, Morgoth’s curse, their failings as people apart from relationships) and their deep connections with other men are the happiest and best part of who they are

this is, as you can see, both an area that really needs further study and an area that has just enough to suggest that he wasn’t a garden variety homophobe.

I hope that helps?

[farfromstrange]

Foreigner's God: Chapter 16

Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x OFC

Chapter Summary: It's the morning after - but is it really a 'morning after' if the events repeat themselves?

Warnings: Smut (anywhere but a bed), dry humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjob, orgasm control, clit slapping, degradation, choking, dom/sub dynamic, dom!Matt, p in v (unprotected), breeding kink, cum play, religion kink, blasphemy, slight angst at the beginning, mentions of grooming and an awkward conversation about sex

Word Count: 14.4k

A/n: I'm just digging my own grave here. How far in hell do you guys think I'll go when I die? Surely, there is a place reserved for especially horny fuckers like me (and you, if you're reading this. No offense, we're all the same here. There's no shame in this game period)

I literally just spat on catholicism (and all of Christianity, for that matter) in this one... If you don't like the use of religious imagery during sex, do not read on!

Read Chapter 16: Do I Wanna Know? here on AO3!

18+ MINORS DNI

Sex is amazing, rough sex even more so, as long as both parties enjoy it. What’s not amazing is the morning after. Sometimes it’s awkward, other times it involves tremendous guilt, and even if it doesn’t involve either thing, the soreness sucks. 

Eliza woke up to the sun tickling her skin and forcing her to awake. She turned around, looking at the alarm clock next to the bed. Matt was gone. Her hand met the air when she touched his side of the bed. The time showed 11:32 am. It was late, pretty late. 

She almost forgot what happened the night before. The sudden movement shot pain straight through her core. Her panties were suddenly too rough and the shirt brushed terribly over her breasts. Her neck was bruised, she could feel the way the skin pulled just underneath her fingers. But oh, did it feel victorious.

She took a careful glimpse at her hips. The hickeys were more than prominent, one on either side, and there were marks of the same proportions sucked into the insides of her thighs. She loved them. She loved every last mark he left on her because it reminded her of what happened. It wasn't supposed to feel good. She wasn't supposed to feel so happy, not with everything else going on. There was no time for this, technically. Practically though, she couldn't possibly go without having him inside of her again and again and again for an entire day. It felt like a virtual impossibility.

“Shit,” she cursed quietly. She could barely stand. Her legs were trembling. If Matt picked up on that, she would never hear the end of it. 

Eliza slid the bedroom door open. He must have closed it again after leaving to keep the sounds out. Plates were clattering in the kitchen. The coffee maker sizzled. Slow jazz music was playing. She crossed her arms, leaning against the door frame, watching Matt with his back turned as he poured the scrambled eggs into the pan. 

“Good morning,” he said.

She scoffed. Of course, he heard her. "Hey," she said. Her voice was still thick with sleep, a little raspy too. She couldn't see him, but he was smiling. "You always let your hook-ups wake up alone?"

He tensed up at the joke.

"Sorry." She realized how that had sounded. "I was just..." her hand trailed off along with her words.

She missed his touch. She wanted him to move from the kitchen and hug her, do anything but stand several feet away from her. The weather outside was warm, she knew it was, yet she was freezing, and not because she was lacking clothes.

“I wanted to let you sleep in," he clarified. "Despite what you keep telling yourself, you need sleep. And you know, you’re adorable when you sleep, so I did us both a favor.”

Finally, he turned to look at her. There was this glint in his eyes again, and he was smiling, competing with the sun streaming in through the tainted windows.

Eliza hugged her arms around herself. Damn it, he looked so beautiful. Her heart skipped a beat, and then another one and another until she felt like she couldn't breathe, and suddenly she was more than glad that Matt wasn't close to her. She would have pushed him away.

He took her silence and changed the topic. "Breakfast is almost done," he said.

She took a closer look at his get-up. He was dressed in his work suit, the grey one, minus the jacket and the tie. Both hung over one of the chairs at the dining table. He had combed his hair and the bruises on his face appeared fainter than the day before – did he steal her concealer or did he keep one for emergencies?

“I used yours.”

“You can read minds now?” she asked.

He chuckled. “No, but you tend to think pretty loudly.” When he finally turned fully around, he was smiling. It was a full one, the one she liked.

“If you say so.”

Matt carried the plates to the table. She caught glimpse of the croissants and the orange juice, amongst the other various breakfast choices he had laid out for them. He even cut up some fruit. 

“You went shopping,” she observed.

“Didn’t want to serve you beer and cereal, which were the only things I had left in my fridge. So I thought, what if I just bought some milk, but then again, who serves their guests cereal for breakfast? That would have been really sad. Anyway, that’s why I got some more stuff to, uh, choose from. Eggs, fruit, bread - you know, the good stuff. All without meat, I made sure of that.”

Eliza bit down on her thumb. If the heart were the same type of organ as the penis, she would have gotten an obvious boner by now. “And you did this all for me?”

“Sure,” he said. It was natural. Making her breakfast, doing all the things no one had ever done for her before. But it wasn’t supposed to be. “I noticed you don’t eat enough. Your blood sugar bottoms out, your heartbeat is either too fast or too slow, and your stomach grumbles a lot.” His silly chuckle somehow made her smile, too. “If you don’t want to do it for yourself, that’s fine, but then at least do it for me. I’m the one who has to listen to your body scream for sustenance. It’s irritating.”

“Duly noted,” she said.

“You need to know," he leaned on the back of his chair with the veins on his forearm popping out like he was intentionally trying to kill her, "I don't usually do breakfast.”

The conversation she had been dreading.

He chuckled, trying to hide the blush on his cheeks, the evidence of just how uncomfortable he felt. “Foggy likes to call me a manwhore and you know, maybe he's right. I don’t really keep count, that would be weird, but relationships and I… we’re not speaking terms. Pun intended.”

She nodded again.

“I thought it'd be only fair to tell you that most of my mornings after don't go like this. Not like I can't tell you already knew that by the way your heartbeat just picked up, and you’re listening to me, so I take that as a sign that you’re not about to smack the hell out of me, but yeah... I felt the need to say it out loud. Open communication, you know. Get it all out there.”

Admitting to having an active sex life shouldn’t have to feel so humiliating.

Her bare feet patted closer to him. “I figured that much,” she said. The thought of him with other women made her feel insecure all of a sudden.

"Okay.” Matt took another deep breath, pushing himself off the chair again. “What I'm trying to tell you is that you're not like everyone else. You're not some woman I picked up in a bar to have sex with just to get the edge off. No. I know you think that but it's not true. I wouldn’t do that to you, not ever. That’s not… I’m trying not to be like that anymore. Have been for a long time. I just get weak sometimes and I can’t help it, but I promise you, it’s been a long time. I haven’t had anyone over in a while. If I did, I would tell you.”

Eliza nodded. "Okay." She chose to believe him.

"I'd like to take care of you if you'll let me, just to prove to you that I meant everything that I said last night." He motioned to the table. "I care about you, and I don’t want this to ruin us. It’s the last thing I want, believe me. Please? Let me take care of you, Eliza.” She couldn't say no to his smile either.

He was surprised at her following actions. She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, planting her head right in his neck and the rest of her barely covered body right on his. He hugged her back. His arms wrapped all the way around her, holding her close to his chest. His heart skipped a beat. She couldn't feel it. He was more than glad she didn't share the same abilities.

Matt wasn't sure what he was doing. He had told her the truth without actually telling her and now he felt guilty. He felt guilty because he was still carrying the same, big secret he had taken her to bed with. He had sex with her. He made her breakfast. He was acting as if they were in a committed relationship and he didn't mind. In fact, he loved it, but Eliza was complex. He could hear the confusion in the way she moved. Her attraction seemed entirely physical.

She cared more than the general population, she was a good friend, an even better person, and a hero, but there was one thing she couldn't do: Love. Eliza wasn't sure how to fall in love or how to even stay in it. She hated herself. Truly, she was incapable of relationships that went beyond sex and since that seemed to be what Matt was starting to want, she found herself in the worst position possible.

What the hell are we supposed to do now?

She kissed him as if that would answer her question and solve the internal battle she had to fight with herself. It just momentarily eased the ache. Finally, he kissed back. She could lose herself in that feeling forever. It was much better than love or friendship. It was an easy feeling to sort. Physical attraction made sense.

"Thank you, Matt," she said. It seemed like the appropriate thing to say, and she meant it, every last syllable.

He pressed his forehead to hers. She sensed sadness in his eyes. The colors were dancing tango around his soul.

"Yeah, of course," he hummed back.

"No, seriously. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Die, probably."

"Yeah, probably."

"C'mon.” He squeezed her hips. "Let's eat breakfast.“

She lowered herself down on the hardwood chair. The second her ass hit the surface, she regretted ever considering sitting down. Her wince didn’t go unnoticed, but that was to be expected.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. She was lying. 

Matt sighed. He opened the fridge, retrieving the ice pack he kept there for the many nights he came home with a black eye. Either that or he used frozen beans. He walked around her and dropped it in her lap, gently pushing it against her aching core. She hissed. It was cold and the pressure sent shockwaves through her body. She was incredibly overstimulated. 

He rubbed her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Cue the catholic guilt. He traced over her neck, feeling the blood pooling underneath where his fingers used to be. His voice cracked, “Is it bad?" he asked. "Did I hurt you?” 

She caught his hand. “No, Matt, I’m okay. Just sore.” She shifted to readjust the ice pack. Her legs protested. “Like, very sore,” she said, and that made him chuckle. "Seriously, it's like a whole bench truck rolled over me, or I accidentally sat down on a beehive, and now everything's on fire."

He laughed at her bluntness. "Sitting on a beehive does not sound fun. Have you done it before?”

“Shut up!" she snorted. "I asked for it, remember? My body just isn’t used to this anymore. Having sex, I mean. It’s been a long time for me too, y’know. Very long.”

“Oh.”

“About a year and a half, to be exact, and it lasted for about five minutes instead of five rounds. So, this is all a bit confusing for me, too.”

His head snapped around. “What?!” he blinked, “Why didn’t you tell me?” The question came soft. "I would have been gentler." He brushed over the bruise on her throat again. It was fading by the second, but he couldn’t see that. His mind switched to the ice pack, then he remembered the many hickeys he couldn’t help but leave. She was completely covered in him. But at what cost?

“I shouldn’t have squeezed this hard,” she heard him mutter. “I should have been in better control of myself?”

“Are you kidding me?” She stared at him. “Why do you feel guilty for something I wanted and clearly enjoyed?”

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t look like someone jumped you.”

“That’s because I was jumped. By you.”

“Okay,” he chuckled drily, “but the choking…”

“Was something I asked for. Besides, I bruise like a fucking peach. You’re not special.”

His eyebrows shot up. It took him a moment to process.

“You heard me,” she said. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. You’re not that strong.”

A laugh bubbled out of him. “You really have no filter, do you?” he said.

“No.”

“God.” His chin tilted upwards. “You’re…”

“What?” She smirked.

“I don’t- you’re crazy.” He wanted to say something else entirely. “I should have asked you before,” he said. “I didn’t think… you made it sound like you do this more often.”

“I used to before Sokovia literally dropped out of the sky,” she told him. “The Avengers kind of went to shit after that. Didn’t have much time to think about sex between all the rules and the people dying around me.”

“Okay, fair point.”

“Hey,” Eliza said and reached for his hand on the table, squeezing it once she finally grabbed a hold of him. “You eased me into it. You didn’t just fuck me, you took your time and you talked to me and I-“ she struggled. She wasn’t sure how to say it without getting emotional. “I’m not used to this, not at all, and it scared me at first, how willing you are to listen to me, but I… I felt seen, for the first time. Do you- does that make sense to you? I’m not- okay, I have no idea how to talk about sex, so I’m just gonna stop now. This is embarrassing.”

Eliza hid behind the lid of her mug, eyes closed. The silence was agonizing. She didn’t want to look at him. There was always the possibility of being resented, and she wouldn’t survive that.

His soft voice and the spoken words made her heart flutter like a little butterfly. “It's not embarrassing," he said.

"It kind of is. I mean, I'm not nearly experienced enough. I don't know how to do this."

"If it makes you feel better, I haven't been in a situation like this before either." He smiled alongside his words. "Like I said, this isn't what I usually do."

"Manwhore," she said, "Yeah, got it."

He barked out a laugh. "Of course, that's the one thing you remember."

"I would have made that deduction myself, but you do this thing with your mouth..." she shook her head, "I don't know. You're pretty good for a manwhore."

"Ah, thank you."

"Not that the bar had been high. That thing was impossibly low. You could have been on your knees and still hit your head.”

His face turned serious, as did his tone. "I’m sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper. “So it's true then. No one has ever tried to understand what you like. They just took what they wanted, leaving you high and dry.”

"Pretty much," she said.

“Christ, I’m… how did you… why did you…” His frown showed his hard time understanding.

It wasn't all that complicated though. She picked men who chose to have sex for their own pleasure, men who didn't care about their partners, they just wanted to stick their dick somewhere and get off. There was no reason why.

There was no thrill in not enjoying sex, she realized that the second Matt kissed her the night before. He was supposed to be the standard to live by, not some guy off Tinder looking for a fuck-doll. But the number of people who were like Matt was limited to one. There could only be one of him, only one who did it quite like him, and that made her feel a little better.

"I just want to understand why you settled for less than what you deserve," he said, managing to piece his messy thoughts together.

“Don’t ask me," she answered. "After last night, I’m questioning a lot of things myself.”

“The things you like... it should be fun. You should be with someone willing to entertain your fantasies, as long as they don't cross a line, not someone who failed every possible anatomy lesson in high school."

“You wanna tell me that you knew all of that from the beginning?"

"Of course not," he chuckled softly, "but I experimented. I experimented and I learned what it could be like to share intimacy with other people. What it should be like. I had sex because I enjoyed it and I made sure that the other person was just as comfortable as me. It’s what should matter. Of course, you don’t know any of this right after your first time, you learn as you go.”

"My first time was in the dirty bathroom of a bar.” She wasn’t sure why she was telling him that. “I was nineteen, the guy was probably thirty-two.”

He blinked. “What?”

The math in his head triggered all sorts of alarms.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I was also high on Oxy at the time, so I wasn’t really there. Mentally, at least.“

Once she got to talking, it was hard to stop. The tension in his shoulders multiplied by the second. Her words hit parts of him that urged the animal out of hiding. The animal that didn’t want her to get hurt. The animal was ready to burn the world down to destroy everyone who had already hurt her and prevent any further damage. The animal that was so carnal, revenge came naturally and as second nature. He just wanted to destroy everyone she told him had hurt her in one way or another because she deserved the best and the people who used her deserved nothing but whatever punishment the devil had planned for them even long before their demise.

“Did he-“

“No. I wanted to. Or I thought I did. I know I said yes, but I didn't know what I was signing up for.”

“I don’t think it counts then. If you didn’t like it, you don’t have to say it was your first time. Virginity is a social construct anyway.”

“I second that, but what’s the point?”

“You could start over.”

“What’s done is done,” she stated.

“No,” he said sternly. “The guy groomed you. That wasn’t sex.”

“You’re right, he did. I’m not even gonna sugarcoat it. It’s bad. He was too old, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I was high. We both were. The consent on this one is a bit dubious but on both ends.“

“Okay.” He took a big breath. “You’re right,” it hurt him to cave. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’m just curious,” he leaned forward, “Why did you continue having sex with people you don’t enjoy it with instead of finding someone you like?”

She supposed the question was fair and accounted for.

"I watched porn.”

“What?”

“To prepare myself, I mean, but there is something inherently wrong about a lot of porn. It doesn't match up with reality at all. Most of it is staged. They fake orgasms, making the watcher believe it's that easy to cum. And everyone enjoys it. When you watch porn, everyone's moaning and they're having the time of their lives, no matter with what partner, so I thought that's what it's like. Fun. Sexy. Pleasing."

"And then the guy picked you up and it was nothing like what you prepared for."

“And I simply thought I was broken, so I accepted it.”

His nostrils flared. "God, this is- I'm sorry."

"No one told me it was going to hurt, that you had to be gentle the first time. I never had the talk because I didn't have parents, and Tony wouldn't bother, which I understand. I wouldn't have wanted him to. I didn't like having sex, I never had an orgasm before, and I was okay with that. It's sex. Everyone does it. Gets your mind off of things, even when you're not enjoying yourself. I don't know, I guess after that first time, I thought that's what sex is like. The guy offered, he showed me the only kind of affection I knew how to deal with and I was just so fucking broken, I couldn't help it. I needed to get rid of a pain that not even the drugs could make disappear, and I'm not even sure what kind of pain it was- is.” She scoffed into her coffee, watching as the liquid parted with her breathing. “I realize now that I might have oversexualized myself because all the men in my life ever did."

She expected a smart comeback, but instead, he took the hand that wasn't holding onto porcelain in both of his and kissed over her knuckles. "You're worth so much more than what they made you believe," he said.

"I keep thinking if someone had just told me, if I had known better, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did," she said. "I don't know. It's a stupid thought. I probably wouldn't have listened anyway."

"You can't put the blame on yourself," he said.

"But I chose to sleep with the wrong people."

"Still not your fault."

She smiled softly, almost sadly. "You put me on too high of a pedestal, Matt."

He shook his head, kissing her knuckles again. Part of him wanted to agree because he knew that. He knew he was thinking of her as some saint, but she wasn't. She was a person. No one is ever truly perfect. She had rough edges, she had issues and she wasn't relationship material. The things she did in the past would never go away. She was tainted. She wasn't the pure, innocent woman he liked to think her to be. But he didn't fall in love with her because he thought that. He fell in love with her because she wasn't perfect. She was far from that. She was neither a sinner nor a saint. She was Eliza. She was his person. He fell in love with her, all of her, not just the perfect picture his subconscious liked to paint. He fell in love with her for her, nothing else, nothing less, and nothing more. She was everything already. She was his world. She was everything he wanted and would ever need by his side. Losing her, he was sure, he wouldn't survive. And for Matt, that was one of the scariest yet exciting things to realize.

He blew over the wetness his lips left behind. She shuddered. The Matt Murdock effect was a dangerous game. "No," he whispered into her skin, hoping his voice would stay tattooed there, his words branded into her brain, "You're right where you need to be."

"And where is that?" she breathed.

"With me." Lovesick, a person would use to describe the look on his face. Trapped in a constant state of bliss.

"What does that mean? For us, I mean."

"I don't know. We'll figure it out." He had no doubts about that.

Eliza sighed. It didn't feel right. All of this was just too damn perfect. She hated perfect. She hated happiness. She hated couples who flaunted their relationships as if it wasn't the hardest thing to do. Most of all though, she hated love, because love is a fucking tricky bitch and she hated what it did to her.

She hated who she was becoming. She hated that she was doing this to him and he had no idea. He had no idea she was going to break his heart. It was the only thing she knew how to do. Whenever a perfect thing presented herself, something good, something stable, something that could possibly heal her broken soul and make her whole again, she felt the sudden urge to destroy it, and she would because that was all she knew how to do. Destroy the only good things in her life.

She was a menace. A wrecking ball. Her powers weren't the problem, and neither was the reality stone - she was.

Her voice was the last crack in the foundation. "I'm sorry." She was sorry for nothing in particular. She was sorry for everything.

He reacted differently from what she expected. He leaned over, grabbed her face, and kissed her. His eyes were glossed over and slightly red, and his lashes were already wet from the transference. "Listen," he called her name softly, "Promise me something?"

Eliza nodded.

"Whenever someone tries to take advantage of you, hurt you, or use you, fight back. And I don't mean physically because I know you're more than capable of that." He stopped to sniffle, trying to divert the tears. Those were tears stemming from a deep, sensitive part of him that constantly wanted to die whenever he was near her - he cared that much. "I mean, you need to fight back and talk about what you want. I need you to use your words to stand up for yourself, and if that's not enough, please, for the love of God, hit whoever tries to hurt you so hard, they will learn what it's like to be blind."

She wasn't sure how to deal with this whirlwind of emotions. He watched in horror as she broke down crying in front of him. Her hand dropped in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, and the sobs wrecking her body were painful to listen to. Every intake of breath was louder than the next one. If she kept this going, she would hyperventilate. Her heartbeat was already through the roof.

A hand found the back of her neck, moving her forward until she was safe in his arms. She tried to fight it, but Matt was stronger. He held her tightly against him, hoping she could hear his heart beating, hoping she could feel the comforting warmth and realize just how much she meant to him. He wanted that to be enough.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "Fuck! I don't deserve you. I don't."

He shook his head instantly. "Don't do that," he said. "Don't say that."

"I can't do this."

I can't love you.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Whatever this is, we can figure it out."

He was too good for her, to her.

"I promise you," he said, holding her a little further away, just enough to press their foreheads together and her hand against the left side of his chest, feeling the steady beating of his heart. "I have you," he said, "and I'm never letting you go. You're mine now and I'm yours. C'mon. You and me against the world, remember?"

"You and me?" she asked. The tears finally subsided, but the numb aching in her chest remained. She needed a remedy, something to reverse the poison her mind shot into her veins, tainting her perception of what she truly wanted.

"It's always gonna be you and me, sweetheart. Until the world ends."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, promise."

Her eyes flicked to his lips. He wet them. There was so much left to discuss, so many things left unsaid, but none of that mattered. She felt trapped in her mind, the place was terrifying, and she needed out. The only way to do so was right in front of her, handsome and bruised, an angel with broken wings.

She kissed him first. The force tilted the chair back, his foot being the only thing keeping them connected to the floor. Eliza threw her entire weight against him as if that somehow would make her melt into him and make her disappear, just for a minute.

Regaining composure, Matt kissed her back with just about the same amount of force. Messy fingers mapped out every last inch of skin he could find. The picture of her was burned into his brain. He knew he could have her simply by saying the word. She would jump at the slightest possibility to please him. And as much as he loved the thought of that, he couldn't follow through with it.

He forced her face away from his. “I think we should talk about this first," he said.

She was afraid of talking. Talking ruined too much. “Why talk when you could do something else?” she said. Words weren't meant for people like her.

He was weak. Pathetic, foolish, idiotic, and the list went on. She flicked the switch and the tables turned. He licked his lips. “I can’t,” but he wanted to. “I’ve got an appointment with the prison Fisk is being held in.” Though his thumb tweaked her nipple. The other hand moved up her side, touching where he left the hickeys. He could feel them underneath his calloused fingertips. The fabric of his dress shirt was so thin, he could feel her heat radiating through it. 

Eliza pouted. His dress pants did little to conceal his erection. Amazing what just a little kissing could do to a man that proud himself on having self-control.

“God, you drive me crazy, you know that?” 

She ground down on him, sucking his bottom lip between hers. The sound was obscene. “I know.”

He hummed. His fingers worked wonders to ease the knots in her back and upper thighs that were restricting her movements. She relaxed in his arms.

"I think you need a hot shower," he said. "Always helps with sore muscles."

“I'm not in the mood for a shower."

"Why not?“

“‘Cause that’s not what I’m in the mood for.” Her eyes darkened. She prayed for him to get the hint.

Matt kept massaging her thigh, but his hand started to move further up until he reached her ass cheeks, giving them a firm squeeze. At this point, he was fully hard in his pants, cock straining painfully against the thin fabric.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

The smack against her left cheek was gentle, yet enough to make her jolt forward. “Yeah,” he breathed into her mouth, engulfing her in a tight hug as he pressed their lips together in a sloppy battle of tongue and teeth.

“You’re enjoying yourself too,” he underlined his words with a swift squeeze of her ass, causing her to moan against his hot mouth.

“Hmm, seems like I am." She played with the collar of his shirt where his tie was supposed to sit. One of the buttons opened itself. "I guess I just really like your lap."

"You do look good in my lap," he said. "It's almost like you were made for me."

"What a shame then that you can't enjoy it. I have so many great ideas."

Matt moved her further up so she was resting right above his crotch. "Oh yeah," he breathed huskily. "What would that be, exactly?"

"Oh, it involves a lot of sex."

"Really? Tell me more.”

He breathed in sharply. Her arousal made him high. Her scent lay in the air, thick and choking him into unconsciousness.

"You'd fuck me," she said. "Right on this table, then the kitchen counter, against the wall, the couch-"

"Damn," he interrupted her. His cheeks were starting to hurt from all the smiling. "Do we ever get to the bed in your theory, or is it just random surfaces in the apartment?"

"That depends. How much time do you have?"

"None," he had to admit, sadly.

Eliza hissed. "Bummer, and I was just getting started."

"I know. I can smell you, sweetheart." His nose nudged at her neck.

"You can actually smell me?"

"Oh, yes."

"So you could tell every time I-“ she was panicking.

“Well, not on purpose!”

“Oh, my God.”

He grabbed her before she could slip off of him. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I was trying not to, but the more I tried, the worse it got.” He stroked his hands over her burning cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure. There is no reason for you to be. It’s sweet.”

“Me?” she asked, voice quivering.

“Yeah. You’re sweet, and you taste and smell the same. It’s not a bad thing. If anything, you should be proud of yourself. I just have to say something flirty or take my shirt off and-" he snapped, "Instantly, without touching you, your fucking scent fills my nose. It makes my dick so hard, sweetheart. You have no idea how painful that is."

“Jesus Christ, Matt!” Her head dropped into the crook of his neck, which made him laugh. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just so cute when you get flustered.”

“No,” she whined. “You could tell every time you turned me on and you just- you didn’t say anything.”

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“No!”

“Then why are we arguing?”

“‘Cause it’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me,” he said and bucked his hips so his hard cock bumped against the wet spot on her panties, “Does this feel like something you should be embarrassed about?”

She bit down on his shoulder. “God.”

“Hm? I don't think so.”

The friction of the two layers of fabric rubbed deliciously against her slick folds, the head of his cock pressing down on her clit ever so slightly, movements restricted by his pants and his boxers. They fell into a steady rhythm. He was as sensitive as ever, every move of her hips knocking the air out of his lungs and adding to the overwhelming pressure in his stomach. She started circling her hips and it hit his cock in all the right places, he threw back his head in absolute bliss, eyes shut and bottom lip bruised from the teeth grazing against it.

“You still embarrassed?” he asked.

“Shut up,” she shot back. Her hips faltered. He whimpered into her ear. “Oh-“ Her muscles twitched with the sudden wave of pleasure that shot straight to her core. The sound was heavenly. A sound so high coming out of a mouth that was usually so tough painted the most delicious picture, one she would never be able to get off her mind again.

His cock in the confines of his slacks was starting to hurt. He tried to angle her differently. The several layers of fabric sliding against the weeping head burned through his entire body, making his toes curl. It was the sweetest form of torture.

Eliza realized he was trying to gain more friction while at the same time, trying to free himself. "You need any help with that?” she asked.

"No, it's good," he said. He broke into a choked-up cry, her cunt leaving a wet trail on the grey of his suit. Her clit brushed against his cock and he could see the stars evading his vision clearly. Even with the world on fire, the darkness managed to explode.

She raked a hand through his hair. Sweaty strands stuck to his forehead. The single tear of pleasure tasted salty on her tongue, licking it up from where it trickled down his bearded chin. The hairs scratched at her tongue. His eyes fluttered shut. She was all over him, lips, hands, heartbeat to heartbeat - she was close enough for him to hear the wetness gush out of her hole, making the desperate back-and-forth of her hips even easier. Her arousal seeped through his pants, through his underwear, and onto his cock. It could have just been sweat mixed with her signature scent; he was too far gone to question the feeling.

His nails dug into her back. "What do you need?" she asked him, breathless and high.

He couldn't possibly form a coherent sentence.

"Do you need me to go faster?"

He nodded feverishly at the suggestion. She grinned against his jaw, picking up the speed of her hips, sliding her cunt harder and faster against his crotch and what she could feel of his sturdy thigh.

With another helpless whine, he demanded, "Kiss me."

She supposed he needed to suppress his moans, even though they were the only thing keeping her going. His voice alone was enough to make her wet, but the sounds erupting from his sound were the definition of pornographic.

In response, she sucked the golden cross in between her teeth and kissed him. He tasted the small piece of metal on his tongue. It was hot, laced with her signature scent and her spit. He kissed her through it, occasionally biting and licking with his tongue. The whole scene was so blasphemous, he should have felt guilty. He should have gone to confession then and there because this wasn’t right, far from it, but there wasn’t a bone in his body that cared. 

He growled when she stopped grinding and instead, started palming him through his slacks. “I should punish you for that,” he said. She squeezed her hand around his cock and he moaned, throwing his head back to taste her arousal in the air.

She bit her lip. “Oh, if God could see you now. What would he say then? If he could see what a slut you are for me.” 

His hips bucked into her touch.

“You see, you’re not the only one with a dirty mouth,” she said. Skillfully, she unbuckled his belt to free him, finally, and he hissed at the cold air touching the head of his cock. “God,” she growled, “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

His eyes rolled back. “Fuck.” 

“Everything about you is absolutely divine. And you're good, so good, Matthew." He could only whimper in response. "It's okay, baby. You can let yourself go. I'll help you."

He grabbed her wrist, encouraging her movements. With every movement, he felt the endless bliss inch a little closer. He bucked his hips in time to meet her hand. The other slipped between her spread thighs, rubbing circles on her swollen clit, playing with the wetness that had collected in her underwear, a mixture between her and him.

Eliza huffed. She took the hand touching her pussy and forced it around her neck. “That’s not what this is,” she said. “Surrender control.”

He gritted his teeth. Of course, he would say no. He once again attempted to move his hands anywhere other than where she forced them to be. It was useless.

"You're not used to this position, are you? You're not used to being the submissive one?"

"I’m letting you do this, sweetheart,” he bit back. She pinched him.

“You could always do this yourself,” her breath was hot against his neck when she kissed his pulse point. His heart skyrocketed. The way her finger kept rubbing over his cock was too much.

“Don’t you dare,” he said. 

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“If you would just let me get you off-“

“Aw, are you getting close? Do you not want to be the first to cum?"

“No.”

"That's a shame 'cause I'm not giving in."

"C'mon." He ignored her silent demand to keep his hands to himself, reaching into her panties this time, catching her clit. She stilled. If she allowed herself to enjoy his touch, she wouldn't win. She knew she would fall apart if he kept this up. He drew circles around the sensitive nub, eventually sliding down to collect the wetness at her entrance and rubbing it all over her cunt. Her pulse pounded hard and heavy underneath the sore skin. He could hear and feel it loud and clear.

While his thumb stayed, doing the job it was supposed to do, his middle finger dipped into her hole. She gasped. He wasn't playing fair. This was her moment and he was ruining it by taking control. The position made it a little harder to slide his fingers inside of her, but the man was flexible, especially with his hands. He had no trouble stuffing her with his fingers, his thumb still drawing symbols on her clit. Her thighs twitched. It was unfair how good he felt.

She sighed. "You really can't take when something is given to you, can you?"

"No," he smirked against her neck.

She desperately searched for support when he managed to slide a third finger in.

"Oh, God. Fucking Christ. Shit!"

"Language," he murmured. His lips were sure to leave a bruise on her collarbone.

"Oh, I hate you," she panted. The way his fingers expertly thrust into her had her hanging over the edge in seconds, held up only by a small string of self-control.

Matt kissed her neck. "Sure you do." He didn't seem bothered.

Until her fist tightened so incredibly hard around his cock, he almost came right then and there. "Stop fighting, Matthew," she said.

"You stop fighting." He curled one of his fingers to hit her G-spot.

Her eyebrows shut up. “You are such a brat, Matthew Murdock. This is honestly pathetic.”

She lost hold of his cock, surprised to see him stopping her completely. He kissed her, lips hot and wet, and he stuffed himself back into his dress pants, hard and leaking precum. She was this close to making him come apart. Instead, he chose to torture himself. She was trying to not take it personally.

Who would have figured that the Catholic guilt made Matt Murdock horny as fuck. 

He pulled his fingers out of her, leaving her empty and aching, and in one big swoop, he wiped the dining table clean. All the food and cutlery fell to the floor. Liquid spilled everywhere, hopefully not on the carpet. He lifted her off his lap with a single arm, sitting her down on the table.

He ripped his shirt open, the one she wore. Buttons joined the chaos on the floor. “I have ten minutes,” he growled into her neck. “I will make you cum in five and if you try to stop me or pull my head away, I'll make you wish that you'd never pushed me this far.” 

Eliza stared up at him. Well, shit. 

Instead of pulling the underwear down her legs, he pulled at the waistband. Her cunt was aching, she probably couldn’t take another orgasm, not for another day, so why was it that she found herself in this position again? 

She couldn’t help herself. She needed him like she needed air to breathe.

The fabric of her panties was pretty much torn to shreds by the time it landed on the floor. She gasped.

“I want to try something. Would you be okay with that?" He pushed her hair out of her face.

Eliza wanted to say no, but the offer seemed too exciting to decline. "Yeah," she breathed out.

"We need a safe word," he told her. "Green means go, yellow indicates that you’re nearing your limits, and red means-"

"Stop," she finished. "Yeah, got it."

He smirked. "Eager, are we?"

"Well, I'm certainly not gonna cum on my own."

"Okay. Listen, if this weren't so time sensitive, I would leave you here with only your fingers and then see how close you can get without my help." His head cocked at her sharp intake of breath. "So, I'd be careful if I were you. Unless you want to suffer for the rest of the day."

Her whine sufficed. "I'm sorry," she said. She sounded so small. She hated how he managed to make her go from confident to submissive in one go. He reached for the steering wheel and took over. It was frustrating but at the same time, it turned her on like nothing ever had before.

Matt kissed her. "Good girl," he said. He pushed her back with a flat hand on her stomach. "Now be even better and spread your legs for me, sweetheart."

She threw her head back against the wood of the table. His head buried deep in her cunt and while it hurt, she couldn’t help but moan. It felt good, his tongue flat against her folds as he spread them expertly once again to unsheath her clit. Still swollen from the night before, she was sure she was going to finish in less than five minutes. 

 “Oh, God!” She chanted his name like a prayer. In response to that, a single hand reached for the cross necklace and forced it between her teeth. She moaned. She wanted to gag at the taste, but she couldn’t. She could barely breathe. 

The crown of her head was the only thing connecting her to the table. The wood hit the wall behind them repeatedly, with every thrust of his tongue and the desperate attempt to bring her hips closer to his mouth. It made the floor shake, it seemed. Her hands tangled in his hair. He could hear the blood rushing in her thighs next to his ears. It was excruciating, it was painful. He needed more or he would surely die.

What was he doing to her? This couldn’t possibly be real. No one could be as good at eating pussy as he was. She was dreaming, had to be. 

His hands found her bare tits. His fingers were rough, his touch gentle. He squeezed the tender flesh. Her nipples perked up at the sudden attention. He tucked at them, expertly playing with them, and it added heavily to the painful pressure building in her lower stomach. She wanted to savor it longer, but she was stumbling on the edge, her muscles too sore to focus on anything other than the high she was chasing. 

Her hands found his, keeping him wrapped around her breasts. She encouraged him to squeeze harder. The flesh was incredibly soft underneath his touch. 

Matt sucked at her clit again. The suction was wet and obscene and it hurt so good, she choked out a warning. “Fuck, don’t stop,” she said. It was more of a breath than spoken words, but he heard her loud and clear. “Don’t stop!” 

Four minutes and thirty-two seconds. He counted the movements of the minute hand inside the clock on his kitchen wall. 

She cried loudly when he stopped. Her hips bucked, but the thought alone didn’t work. The pressure subsided. She was left aching, clit pulsating, and the air cold on her pussy. She wanted to pass away. The tears she fought were ones of frustration and pure pleasure. She hated him. It wasn’t fair. 

Matt pursed his lips and blew cold air against her clit. She whined. It was too much and not enough at the same time. Her leg twitched from where it was still seated over his shoulder. 

“I need you to hold it,” he said. The tone of his voice sounded firm as if something might happen if she disobeyed.

Eliza bit her lip. The blood was pooling in her mouth and around the cross necklace. “I can’t,” she choked out.

Squeezing the outside of her thighs added to the pain of the already-formed bruise. “Stop saying you can’t,” he said. 

“I really can’t. I need to-“

His large hand reached over her hip and between her legs. The slap wasn’t loud. He flicked her clit only enough to shock her. She clenched her legs around his neck. Her attempt to pull him in failed, instead he brought his palm back down on her sex. 

“Stop,” the demand was clear. “Don’t cum unless I tell you to."

And he dove right back in. His mouth attacked her clit with new vigor. He sucked and nibbled at the skin, tongue pumping into her. It was torture, him between her thighs, the sight of his hooded eyes searching for hers, knowing what he was doing. He moaned, that bastard, and his voice vibrated, adding to the pressure that was steadily growing again. She clenched her muscles, it was the only way to stop the inevitable from happening. Her fingers pulled at his hair so tightly, she could have sworn the next moan he let out was one of pain, not pleasure, but with Matt, the two often blurred the line.

As predicted, she tried to push his head away. It was too much, too painful and she knew if she didn’t, she was going to finish and it was going to hurt even more. The knot was so tight, the glass was about to break. She couldn’t make any noise, she was paralyzed.

He pulled her further into him, the response sounding more like a warning, “What did I say?” he growled. “What did I tell you about pulling my head away?”

She was crying. “I’m sorry, I just- Please, Matthew!”

“No,” he stated plainly. 

“Please!”

“You wanna be my good girl?” She nodded feverishly. “Then hold it.” 

His head disappeared between her thighs again. He kissed her folds. This one was gentler. He took his time. The rough surface of his tongue felt like sandpaper. 

“Fuck!” and she wasn’t sure if she said, Matty or Daddy. Her mind short-circuited. She was a woman out of control and he was holding the remote.

“A bit more,” he whispered to her clit, “You can do it.”

She could have said red and then the torture would have been over. He would have stopped and they could have gone about their day, but truth be told, she didn’t want to. She wanted him to stop yet keep going at the same time and it was fucked up because as much as she tried to ignore it, his dominance was turning her on, and she was more than ready to comply. She was more than ready to suffer through it. 

"You taste so good, fuck! I love it when you do as you're told."

“Oh, fuck you, Matthew!” 

Her eyes flew open. He stopped. 

“What did you just say?” he asked. His chin was glistening with her arousal, cheeks flushed, eyes hooded. “Repeat that back to me, sweetheart. What did you just say?”

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Matt. I was-"

"I said, repeat it back to me."

"I said fuck you, Matthew. But I didn't mean it, I swear."

Her sobs were pathetic.

"Something tells me you did," he hummed. "Do you want to get off or not?"

"Yes!" she cried out. "Fuck, yes. Please! I need to cum, ah!” His teeth dug into the inside of her thigh. She threw her head back. "I really want to cum. Please, Matthew. I'll be good! I'll be good, I promise."

He cooed, "How could I say no to that?"

She nodded feverishly. She hoped he would continue, allowing her some of the sweet relief she was chasing.

“Hey," he forced her to look at him with a harsh tug at her thighs, "If you keep talking to me like that, I won’t let you cum at all.” The statement left no space for discussion. "We clear?"

"Yes," she choked out. "I'm sorry." The last thing she wanted was to disappoint him.

He caught onto the tears and how some of them started to feel like more than just frustration seeping out of her pores. His gaze softened. "You okay?" he asked. His controlling facade dropped and the normal Matt started to peek his head around the corner.

Eliza lifted herself up to her elbows. Her head was dizzy. The ruined orgasm kept on building, even without him touching her, but the lack of pressure on her clit was frustrating and she wanted more. She needed more. She needed all he had to give and his sudden patience made her almost angry.

"What?"

"You okay?" he smiled up at her.

She nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. What- why are you-" She couldn't even speak properly anymore.

"What's your color?"

This wasn't part of the play.

She blinked again. It took a moment for her brain to piece the puzzle together. "Green," she told him.

Relief washed over him. "Thank you."

“Now, can you get back to what you’re doing or-“

He chuckled darkly. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re gonna wish you didn’t just say that.” And then the dominant Matt returned and she drove back to her bed in heaven. She wanted to stay there for all eternity, and he wouldn't mind building a home between her thighs either. It was his favorite place in the world already, and he had only gotten two tastes so far.

His tongue flattened against her folds. He thrust the tip in, nudging his nose against her clit. The pressure was sweet torture. And he decided to take his time. He explored her insides with his tongue while his hands kept feeling her up. He caught her nipples with his fingers, pinching them. It elicited a cry of pain from her, but it quickly turned to pleasure when he soothed over the ache by squeezing her tits. 

“Matt,” she as much as begged. “Can I..."

He shook his head. The movement felt absolutely genius on her sensitive skin. The inside of her thighs was red and her pussy was swollen from all the attention. She would surely find serious beard burn later. He was trying to avoid rubbing against her too much, but with her thighs clenching around his head and squishing his cheeks between them, he didn't have much of a choice but to let it happen. The fire was bittersweet.  

He moaned. He did that on purpose. “One more second.”

Every muscle in her body was tense. “I can’t take another second! Fuck!” 

“Ah-ah,” his nails dug into her hips, “Do as I say.”

“Please, Matt!”

He decided to have at least some mercy on her. “Fuck my face and I might just let you.” 

She bucked her hips into his mouth. He greeted her gladly with all he had to give. It was messy, she was chasing the high her body had been denied so many times before, and pathetically, it took her some time before her legs locked around his head. He was holding her so tight, she wasn’t sure why. Until he groaned, a broken scream, and finally, after what felt like an eternity. “Cum.” 

She bit into her forearm when she came. It was way too early for the neighbors to hear obscure moaning from next door. She was pretty convinced, also, that none of this was particularly helpful to her concussion. Her head came down so hard on the wooden table, the sound was deafening even to her ears. The rest of her body shut down, paralyzed in their spot, and Matt was trapped between her thighs. The second the orgasm crashed over her, the pain multiplied. Like a hot sword, it cut through her. But what started as painful slowly turned into pleasure – extreme pleasure. It was the kind of pleasure that makes you see the gates of heaven as your soul slowly descends from your being. 

Her fist hit the table. Her teeth drew blood on her arm. The orgasm went on forever, it seemed. Her body wouldn’t stop convulsing underneath him and greedy as he was, he made sure to completely suck her dry. He dragged it on for far too long, but she enjoyed it. She enjoyed the way he took care of her. 

The pain long forgotten, all she could feel was his mouth and the small groans he allowed himself to release as he cleaned her up. He sucked up every last drop she had to give

“Good girl,” he said. “Such a good girl.”

He peaked up at her, eyes blown wide with lust and his mouth glistening with her release. He was searching for her face and almost succeeded, but only almost. He failed her by millimeters. 

Maybe sex with Matt Murdock was exactly the remedy she needed. 

The gentle stroking of his hands along her sides brought her back to life. She breathed shakily, watching him rise to his feet and lean over her, brushing the hairs out of her face, sticky with sweat. 

He accidentally brushed against her nipples. She slapped his hand away. He took the hint, making sure to avoid her erogenous zones altogether as he kept kissing her skin to calm her down. 

She looked down to see the obvious wet patch in his pants. Oh.

OH.

“You see what you do to me?” he muttered. 

She thought him calling her sweetheart was a compliment enough, but damn it! Seeing the effect she had on him was the best fucking compliment anyone could have given her, ever.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“No, thank you.” He stroked her cheek. She watched as he dipped a finger between her legs to collect the wetness still leaking out of her, and he licked his luscious lips. "That was so good."

"Hm. I think you completely ruined my thighs."

His hand soothed over the reddened skin.

"Did you ever consider shaving?" she smirked at him. "Like you shave your chest, I mean."

"Foggy said that makes me look like a baby in a suit," he said.

"Boss baby."

"That's exactly what he called me!" He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. "Seriously now though, do you need me to shave? Does it hurt?"

She giggled. "No, I like your beard."

"Okay, good."

"And I think I would like it even more if you grew out your chest hair." The post-orgasm haze made her particularly talkative this time around.

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"But I can understand why you don't. It's probably uncomfortable with your hypersensitivity, right? I know I get annoyed by my body hair sometimes, so I prefer to shave, but not everyone does and that's okay. Shaved or not, doesn't matter. As long as you're comfortable."

"I actually just thought less hair would be more aesthetically pleasing."

"You're easy on the eyes, either way, Matt," she said. Her hand ran through his hair, down his face, through his stubble until she found his covered chest. She opened three more buttons, just enough to reveal the first half of his chest. The skin was smooth, moisturized, and shaven. He had freckles. They weren't just limited to his perfect nose. He had them everywhere, the top of his chest, his back. The little things she paid attention to were the most beautiful.

He smirked. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. Perhaps I will miss a day or two now that I know you like my body hair so much."

"I don't think I'd be able to survive." She sighed dramatically. "It'd be the death of me."

"That bad, huh?"

"The perfect wet dream. Don't make me think about it, you're making me horny again."

Matt pulled his dress pants up by the belt, laughing at the cute nonsense she was spilling. He pushed her foot away when she tried to pull him back into her. She whined.

“I have to go,” he said. 

“Can’t you stay for five more minutes?”

“Sweetheart, if we start this, it’s gonna take longer than five minutes, and I’ve already dragged this on for longer than I should have.” 

“I don’t care.”

“Fisk’s lawyer is gonna kill me.”

“Just tell them your driver was late or something. Please,” she reached for his small waist, “I need you.”

She had never begged for anything before in her life, especially not for this. 

He kissed her, sighing into her mouth. She kissed back harder, pushing her tongue against his. He didn’t have much of a choice. Not without a cold shower first. She made out with him painfully slow, hands caressing his sides, trying to get under his dress shirt. She made work of the buttons, trying not to ruin them, but she was this close to tearing the fabric apart. 

“I haven’t felt this free in years,” she breathed against him. “I haven’t felt like anybody found me beautiful for so long, I started to believe that I’m just not worth it.” She moved his hands back to her breasts. He kept them there, squeezing slightly. “And you’re right,” she stopped to moan, “I let the men in my life use me because I believe I don’t deserve better. I just… I’m desperate here, Matt. I’m desperate because I have nothing left to lose, and if I’m not close to you, I’m sure I will break apart. You make me forget about all of this. Please, Matthew.”

This was the first time in all of her existence that she was begging to be loved, just once, just one more time. She had never needed assurance more than at that moment. He was the only person she believed when he told her she was beautiful. He was the only person she could fall into and not care about how she looked or sounded. Matt judged people on a deeper level. He judged them by all the non-superficial things. He wasn’t objective. He could see a person’s soul, almost like she did, and so his judgment was often right. With him, she could breathe. That had never happened before. 

He cocked his head. If he took a cab instead of the bus, he still had some time to spare. And he couldn’t say no, not when she sounded so sweet. She was asking him to take care of her. It was new. Eliza hated to admit when she needed someone, which only proved how serious this had to be. 

Matt grabbed her chin rather firmly. “Hey,” he said. “You’re so beautiful, don't think any less of you.” 

“Show me,” her voice was barely above a whisper. “Show me how beautiful I am.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t leave me alone with my thoughts.” 

It broke him, and not in a sexual sense. He wasn’t quite sure if acting on her wishes was a bad idea; she agreed to it, but she seemed oddly emotional, even for her, and he didn’t want to take advantage of that. 

“I can’t take you with me,” he said. 

“But you can put your dick in me.”

His breath stuttered. “Sorry?”

“You heard me.” The grin on her face was cocky. “Unless you don’t want to.”

But he had already opened his belt buckle again. “I hate you so much,” the words turned to grunts.

He felt the pattern of the leather, then attempted to look at her. He couldn’t ask her that. They slept together once. Sure, she was kinky, extremely so, and he was so glad to finally have found someone who was more than ready to entertain what he liked, but this was something not made for the second time.

Still, he licked his lips and he wondered what it might be like to tie her hands behind her back while burying his cock to the hilt inside of her from behind, ass bouncing as he kept thrusting to fill her up with his cum, breeding her, marking her.  

And he was instantly hard again. 

She pulled him closer, but he stopped her before she could kiss him again. He hoisted her up in his arms, legs wrapped around him as he made his way into the kitchen, a higher surface than the table only a few steps away. The marble of the kitchen counter was cold against her bare backside once he set her down, and he easily slipped between her thighs, repositioning her so she was as close to the edge as possible without falling. 

Eliza tried to open the button and the zipper at the same time. "Oh, fuck me," she grumbled. His slacks, more expensive than anything else he had in his possession, had a mind of their own. They didn't seem to want this as much as she did and it was frustrating. if someone had told her before that she would get angry at a piece of clothing simply because she was desperate for some dick she probably would have laughed.

"Hey, don't ruin my pants," he said. The amusement was clear in his eyes.

"Don't tell me what to do," she bit back. Finally, the button budged and she managed to slide the zipper down. She shoved the last barrier between them below his ass, just enough to help his cock out of it. She didn't need much more.

His erection poked her stomach. She sighed, almost proud of herself for getting him this far. “Is this okay?” he asked between kisses. 

She nodded. “Yes.”

He hooked her leg around his waist. “Tell me, what do you need?”

“I need you, Matt.”

“And what do you need me to do?”

“Fuck me,” she said with an almost frustrated groan. “Just fuck me, please.”

Her desperation made him smile. “Breathe,” it was the only warning he gave before he thrust into her with one smooth move of his hips. 

She moaned loudly. He split her open, but unlike the night before, he didn’t care much about taking his time to enter her. Once he bottomed out though, he groaned into her neck and he stayed there. Arms on the counter, hands placed above each other behind her to cage her in, to hold her there, making more than sure she wouldn’t hurt herself. He gave her time to adjust. It was still a surprising stretch, though she was way more relaxed than the first time, which made it easier for him to bury himself to the hilt inside of her. She was so warm, her pussy hugging him so tight, he was convinced that if she moved, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. And Matt wasn’t prone to finishing too early. 

Eliza dug her nails into his shoulders. “Are you okay?” he asked her, and she bucked her hips forward, hoping it was answer enough. The dark locks he kept groomed but never fully shaved grazed against her clit. An arm reached around her waist. 

“Matt,” she begged. 

“You need a minute," he said.

"No, I'm fine."

"Trust me. Let me stay here a little longer. Just a minute."

She clenched down on him. 

“God, I love it when you do that.”

“What?” she teased, chasing after the bare skin of his torso, pressing her lips everywhere she could find. “This?” She clenched around him again.

He grunted. “Yeah, that.” He reached for her face from where her lips were sucking at his erect nipples.

She tilted her chin up to take his invitation to kiss her. He bunched her hair in his hands; it was wild and free and it was getting in the way of touching her completely. Nails scratched across his torso. Her hips bucked again, this time out of instinct.

“You need me to move?” he asked.

His breath shuddered. “Please.”

“How would you like me to move?”

“Oh, are you kidding me,” the last part of the sentence got swallowed by his mouth.

Matt brought his hips back, pulling out slightly, then thrust forward. He split her open agonizingly slow and she wasn’t having any of it. He chuckled against her throat, her neck thrown back in ecstasy because while his pace was annoying, it felt too good not to enjoy it while it lasted.

He didn’t expect her nails to dig into his ass, pulling him close and deeper into her pussy, and then she pulled at his cheeks until he had almost completely pulled out. He followed her movements with his senses intently, curious about her approach.

He cocked his head to the side. “What are you doing?” he wondered out loud.

“I need you to do something, Matt. Anything, just... don't just stand there,” she said, and she hid her face in his chest to hide the blush of embarrassment on her cheeks. “We’re either playing twenty questions or you’re fucking me. We can’t do both.”

“Alright, all you had to do was ask.” He captured her lips with his. “Smartass.”

“Yeah,” she kissed him back, “But you love it.”

He chuckled. "Are you sure?" It quickly turned into a giggle, which made her bite back a moan. He was cute and it wasn’t supposed to turn her on but it did. “Here,” he hummed, reaching for the thigh on his right to rest straight against her chest, but he didn’t throw her entire leg over his shoulder, he just angled the limb impossibly high, still supported by his broad chest and hands as he pushed into her.

“Oh, fuck!” She threw her head back.

“Yeah, where did that smart mouth of yours go now, huh?”

She groaned, pulling at his hair. Their lips met. It was hot, tongue and teeth clashing, and she took his breath away.

He started with slow, deep strokes. The squishy walls of her pussy had a vice grip on him. He didn’t have much of a choice but to comply with what her body told him. She wanted faster and deeper, but not harder. Not this time. She wanted him as close as humanly possible, kissing his lips, and playing with his tongue. She tasted her juices on him still, the faint scent of the cum on his pants sending her into a space where she felt like an addict all over again. 

“You feel so good.”

The blood rushed to her cheeks. Eliza moaned, feeling her muscles tighten around him. He sighed, this was perfection.

She arched her back and his hand found its way back to her throat. He didn’t choke her this time, he just made sure she didn’t injure herself. On the kitchen counter, that was a possibility he didn’t want to explore. 

Her fingers pulled at his already messed-up hair as he bit down on her shoulder, kissing along her collarbone and sucking a purple mark into her soft skin. She still tasted like him. He moaned, the palm of his hand moving between them to rest over her lower stomach. 

“You feel that?” he asked. He pushed down and she cried out, feeling his cock underneath her skin. 

Her foot dug into his ass. His hips snapped against hers. Skin slapped against skin, low moans, and heavy breaths caused the windows to fog with condensation. His dress shirt was soaked with sweat, and hair fell into his face, and she pushed them back behind his ears.

Matt grabbed a fistful of her hair to yank her back. “You think you can take another one?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” she choked out. 

“C’mon. I’ve got you.” He took one of the hands from around his neck and slid it between them. "I want you to touch yourself."

Her breath hitched. "What?"

"Use your hand. Touch yourself for me. You can do it."

"I don't know how..."

"Yes, you do." He helped to circle her fingers against her clit. His hand around her wrist eased after she found a rhythm that she enjoyed, and he pulled away to touch the rest of her. "There you go," he praised into her ear. “I can feel that you're getting close.”

Her head was spinning. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, she could only smell his skin, taste the sweat in the air and feel every last inch of his cock stretching her out in the most delicious of ways. Her fingers kept drawing circles on herself. It was almost enough to make her combust.

She whined, “I need more.”

He was biting at her earlobe then. “What do you need?” he cooed.

“More,” she said. Not getting the hint, he listened to the way her heart raced, analyzing the twitching of her muscles. She reached for the arm he kept around her, forcing his hand to her neck.

He hesitated, fingers only brushing the skin slightly. “You’re already bruised.”

“I don’t care,” her tone was firm.

Matt was fighting an internal battle. Of course, he wanted to, but he was scared. He didn’t want to hurt her. She wasn’t fragile. She was stronger than him, could heal faster than him, yet he couldn’t help but see her as fragile glass that could break at any moment, and he was scared of the day it might actually happen. He didn’t want it to be at his hand, though there was nothing he craved more than to feel her pulse jump beneath his fingers.

He let the Devil take over. His grip knocked the air out of her lungs in the most literal sense of the phrase. He squeezed tightly, cutting off her air supply for several seconds before releasing her neck. It was just what she needed. Her eyes rolled back into the back of her head and she was so close, she was whining and crying, but it felt too good, too real, and the lack of oxygen made her feel like she was on top of the world. It was like the perfect opioid high. She couldn’t feel a thing but him and the way her body struggled to keep up with the inhuman amount of pleasure that was unleashed on her. She didn’t need air when she had him. He could breathe for the both of them.

Her head rolled back, fingers stopping their movements on her clit. She enjoyed the feeling of his fingers around her throat. It was all she could focus on. She jolted when he pushed two fingers past her lips, allowing her to suck on them. They were gone way too fast, replacing her own on the sensitive skin between her legs, just above where his cock kept disappearing inside of her.

She was useless. Not a single thought to be uttered in her mind, no words, only obscene sounds that came strangled. She called him names and it was pathetic; it was so pathetic, she wanted to die, but at the same time, she had never wanted to live more. He owned her. He could have asked her all kinds of things and she would have done them, not even questioning his intentions. He had that kind of control over her mind and especially over her body. She was addicted now, there was no way of recovering from that.

“Look at me,” she heard him say. A soft command. She opened her eyes, exhausted, but she managed. “Good girl. Look me in the eyes, come on.” She blinked to meet the brown of his eyes. Heaven was only a footstep away.

“Can you cum for me?” he nuzzled his nose against hers. “Hm? Can you be good one last time?”

She nodded.

“Always so eager to please.” He chuckled, but he couldn’t hide the fact that this was affecting him as well. “Go on then. Make daddy proud.”

Her thighs locked around his hips. He just so caught her before she could split her head open on the counter. Her walls contracted around his cock. He held the back of her head, leaning over her, and the sweet sound of her moans into his ear was enough to send him over the finish line.

He came with a quiet shout of her name. The hot white of his cum coated her walls and she held him even tighter as he released everything he had to give inside of her, milking him for all he was worth. 

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Taking me so well. Fuck. Letting me fill you up. So good.”

“Fuck!” she felt him dripping out of her. 

He rode out his high with slow, hard thrusts until he had given all he was capable of, and her walls were completely filled with his spend.

There was a moment of silence between them, only their uneven breathing filling the air. Their heartbeats aligned until they managed to calm down, still pressed close to each other, hugging over the kitchen counter.

He lifted himself on his forearm, smiling lazily down at her. “Hi,” he said. 

She stroked his sweat-soaked brow. “Hi,” she replied. 

He pulled out of her with a small whine. Slowly, as if trying not to hurt her, he used the hand behind her head to help her sit up straight. Her legs were shaking. She tried hard not to show him, but as soon as he unhooked himself from her, he caught the way her thighs vibrated on the kitchen counter. She couldn’t even press them together. It made him incredibly proud of himself.

Matt dipped his finger into the line of cum trickling down the inside of her thigh. She watched curiously as he moved back up. His eyes were dark, darker than usual, and his pupils were blown wide at what he was about to do. 

Eliza choked on nothing when she felt him remove the necklace around her throat. The golden cross pressed into her thigh, covered in his released and partly her own. He traced it up her skin, leaving a sticky trail of cum behind. It pooled around the metal. 

“God, forgive me,” he said. 

He used two fingers to stuff the cross covered in his cum back inside of her, penetrating her already sensitive walls with his thick digits and the foreign object. She would never get it back, at least not for her to wear. 

She choked out a broken moan. Her thighs shut. His bicep got trapped between them, fingers still buried inside. She tried to keep him there. She was so full, so warm, she needed him to stay. Her head fell back in absolute bliss. 

Matt kept on slowly fucking his cum into her with the necklace and two thick fingers penetrating her, guiding the crucifix where it needed to be.

He pulled out to drag the tip over her clit. She sobbed. “Matt, this is not a good idea- Ah!” Her walls clenched around his finger. 

“Are you-“ he raised his eyebrows. “You’re so sensitive, fuck!” He began to thrust his fingers faster, the cross cold against her clit. He moved it in circles, in awe at how fast he had her on the edge again. Her pulse was racing. She was the only thing left on his mind. “I bet you’re gonna cum again for me, aren’t you?” he said almost mockingly. 

She nodded. “Fuck!” Her hips met the movements of his fingers. He wasn’t even completely inside of her, but the sight of the crucifix on her pussy and his fingers disappearing between the red walls of flesh, squelching with the wetness she released, was enough to build the inevitable orgasm.

He should have known this was going to happen. 

“I think you’ll need to repent for that,” he whispered into her ear. “I think you might need to pray a whole lot of Hail Marys for what you’re doing right now. I think you should confess.” He pushed the necklace harder on her clit, starting to move in circles. “Do you know how to do that, hm?”

She gasped against his plump lips. “Yes.”

“Then do it!”

“Oh,” – he curled his fingers – “Fuck me, Father, for I have-“

“No,” he stopped his movements. “That’s not how it goes. I hope to God himself you’re not asking him to fuck you for your sins.”

“Jesus-“

“No, not him either. You know,” he began to pull out, “If you’re gonna be blasphemous, at least moan my name.“

Panic spread in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Matthew,” she said. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Then confess.” He started moving his fingers again.

“Fuck! Forgive me Father for I have sinned…”

Matt smirked. “That’s it, that’s my girl. What do you have to ask forgiveness for, baby?” 

“For using the lord’s name in vain?”

“Yes. What else?”

“For… for not taking him seriously. Oh, fuck!” He brushed over her g-spot, “Right there.”

“That’s not what I’m waiting to hear,” he said, thumb joining the crucifix. “C’mon, say it. I know you want to.” 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” – this was turning her on so fucking much, she wanted to combust, but she knew better than to cum without his permission – “For tainting the lord’s name and putting shame on all of Christianity by fucking this… fuck! Stupid crucifix.”

“And do you like it?” He curled his fingers again to hit her sweet spot. She grabbed onto his shoulder. “Do you like having it on your clit, along with my fingers inside of you, curling up,“ he demonstrated, “just like that?” 

“Yes!”

“Say it. Say you love it.”

“I-“ her eyes rolled back. “Fuck, yes!”

He clicked his tongue. “Ah, not what I was asking.” 

She had her hand wrapped around his wrist, but he wouldn’t let her thrust against him. His body towered over her, locking her in place. 

“Say it, sweetheart, or I’m compelled to stop. Do you love being fucked like this? Do you love to use God for your pleasure like the dirty little whore you are?” 

“God, yes, I love it! I love it so much.”

“Dirty girl.” He leaned in to kiss her. 

She desperately sought some friction, lifting her hips. “What’s my sentence, father?”

Oh, that makes so much more sense now. Matt growled. He removed the cross from her clit and shoved it back inside of her, listening intently to the sound it made twisting against the walls of her pussy. His thumb returned to rubbing circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Cum,” was all he said. 

She gushed all around his fingers and the crucifix, leaking onto the kitchen counter. He buried his head in her neck as she leaned against him, releasing the filthiest sounds directly in his ear. 

Eliza whimpered when he didn’t stop pounding into her. He cut her off. “Shh. Just making sure you won’t forget me while I’m gone.” 

Matt made use of her slack jaw, shoving the necklace back between her lips. The taste was almost too much to bear. When he took it back out, it was dripping with her saliva, still slightly white from the cum she hadn’t been able to lick from the edges. 

He scoffed mockingly. “Would you look at that?”

“Oh,” she moaned, “We’re going to hell.”

“We all are.” He lowered his head to slip the necklace over. It left a wet patch from where it was now dangling around his throat, the pendant pressed to his chest with the slick. “Blasphemy has never smelled so fucking good.”

“Are you gonna tell your priest about this?” 

“No,” he chuckled. “This is only for me to remember and I will now, every time I pray.” 

Matt could smell her, he could taste her. Sweet, sweet torture he brought upon himself. By the time he finished getting dressed, Eliza had cleaned most of the mess they made. He followed her movements, sticky thighs, sweaty skin - she was perfect. The dress shirt was still dangling off her shoulders, torn apart, and the rest of her was completely bare to him. 

She caught him staring from the door frame. “What?” self-consciousness laced her voice. 

“Nothing,” he waved her off. Hands slipped underneath the dress shirt, grabbing her butt. “I was just thinking, maybe you should put on some clothes before Foggy comes over. Not that I can blame him for eye-fucking you, but it's not for him.”

“Not fond of sharing, are we?” she teased.

He chuckled. “Not really, no.” His hands released her butt, allowing her to find even footing again. “Especially not with Foggy.”

“Oh, anyone you would be comfortable with?"

"Well, there is this guy who wears Devil horns at night. He likes to enforce justice with his fists, puts bad guys behind bars. I heard he has a great butt, too.”

"Really?" she played along. "I don’t think I know a guy like that.”

“Oh, you don’t?”

“No.”

“He likes to wear red or something, I don’t know, I can’t see, but he’s been rumored to have put Wilson Fisk behind bars. He destroyed the Yakuza, did all of these super cool hero things… c’mon, you know him.”

“Hmm. Do you mean Daredevil?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"And you would share me with him?"

"Only him," he said.

"Hm,” – he caught her devilish grin with a frown – “so why is Foggy coming over again?” 

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you. I put him on Eliza duty.” 

She reached around him, over the waistband of his fresh slacks, and then smack! 

“Hey!” Matt glared. 

Eliza only sighed in relief. “I always wanted to do that.” 

“You know, I thought you were gonna fix my tie.” He bit back the smirk threatening to form. “Since you pride yourself on being so good all the time.”

She only squeezed his ass again. There were no words in the existence of the English language to explain what it felt like. It was even better than looking at it. He had the perfect ass. 

He broke out into laughter. “You done?” he asked.

“No.”

“You can feel my ass whenever you want, sweetheart. In fact, I encourage you to do so, but I really need to get going now.”

With one last smack, she released him. Her eyes narrowed down on his hip. “I’m coming back for you,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “You’re a lost cause.”

Grinning, she wrapped her arms around his neck to fix his tie, like he originally wanted her to. “So, what’s Eliza duty?” she questioned.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself in trouble. So I called him,” he said, placing his signature red glasses on his nose, “Uh, he’s gonna walk you through all the files we have on Fisk and you can help him get on the same page we are, so things will be easier from here on. Once he knows everything, I mean.” 

“Does he know what you’re planning to do now?” 

“Not exactly.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I was gonna pursue a lead, I just didn’t tell him where.”

“Oh, Matt.”

“Hey,” he said, “I’m gonna be fine.” 

She breathed in his scent. He must have showered. “Please, be careful,” she said. 

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “See you later, bug.”

Bug. 

“What did you just call me?”

But the door shut without an answer, and she was left pondering the one question that should have been answered before they did what they inevitably ended up doing; what did all of this even mean?

[theparanormalperiodical]

What The Hell Is Satanism? The Backstory, The Beliefs, And The A-To-Z On Devil Worshippers

4 days ago, Nike decided to sue a small indie art collective based in New York.

This isn’t news. This isn’t the first time a profit-mongering fashion-giant has targeted businesses trying to make a name for themselves. And it won’t be the last.

But this time, there’s probably something else influencing the executives reclining on their plush leather seats: they said it was because MSCHF stamped on the Nike Swoosh. But we all know what the real problem was:

These kicks were soaked with Satanic imagery - oh, and a single drop of human blood.

"MSCHF and its unauthorised Satan Shoes are likely to cause confusion and dilution and create an erroneous association between MSCHF's products and Nike”

Translation: no, we don’t want to be associated with devil worshippers.

Satan and his followers have once again hit the press following Lil Nas X’s latest viral YouTube hit and release of his custom footwear. And he does the belief system - and the LGBTQA+ community - justice.

But Satanism goes much deeper than pole dancing your way to hell.

It goes deeper than the fears of your evangelical aunt, it goes deeper than the rumours of a sacrificial ritual that happened in the woods outside of town, and it goes deeper than QAnon conspiracy theories.

Today we explore what Satanism really is. And what it really isn’t.

*twerks towards hell*

What Is Satanism?

Satanism is a group of modern religions that are centred around Satan, an entity in Abrahamic religions (e.g. Christianity and Judaism) that rebelled against God, has power over Hell and demons, and seduces humans into sin. Satan features in a vast number of major religions: he started off in Zoroastrianism, then making his way to Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. But the modern followers of Satanism are inspired by the Christian fallen angel and ruler of hell.

A large proportion of Satanists follow atheistic Satanism - they don’t necessarily believe in an entity but follow a philosophy that focuses on individualism and satisfying the ego, or rebel specifically against the dominance of Christianity in Western society.

Although Satan is typically considered the embodiment of evil, most strands of Satanism are not. However, there are some groups that fit this mould like the Order of the Nine Angles: they’re neo-Nazis.

The actual worship of Satanism only began just over 50 years ago, in 1966. But the use of the term ‘Satanist’ stretches back centuries further. Calling someone a ‘Satanist’ (or something to that effect) was an insult reserved for those that disagreed with a Christian group’s beliefs.

A Not-very-brief-but-look-I-tried-ok History Of Satanism

Here’s the thing about Satanism: at one point in history, every religious group was deemed Satanist. 

You see, that’s how it all started.

Even the term ‘Satan’ originally meant ‘adversary’. It didn’t necessarily refer to a horned, evil ex-angel once scorned by the Almighty. It meant ‘other’; it was just an insult. It wasn’t created by groups of men draped in blood red robes preparing to slaughter a virgin to their ungodly master - Satanism was actually created by Christians.

The word ‘Satanism’ was first recorded in French and English literature back in the 16th century. Against the backdrop of the Reformation (when the Western Christian Church split off into Protestantism, Catholicism, and other more niche shards) rival religious groups would label each other with such terms frequently in various tracts and texts.

It was not to say that Protestants, for example, were actively worshipping Satan but were instead deviating from what Catholics thought was true Christianity. By ‘incorrectly’ serving God, they were supporting Satan’s claim to ruin the world with sin and evil.

*Disney villain laugh*

In the 19th century it broadened to encompass anyone that lived an immoral lifestyle and was thus serving Satan’s will. But in this same century it evolved yet again.

Yep, it’s time to introduce the actual Satanists: texts began to emerge that mention people that revered and worshipped Satan. It took a long 300 years for Satanists to reclaim their title. But the story doesn’t end here: this is a really important theme that runs like blood through the history of Satanism. Or, rather, the history of religious prejudice and persecution.

Throughout, well, all of human history, we have been swept up unto the belief that there is a dark, evil force lurking within our communities. The most recent example claims Joe Biden and his Democrat friends are Satan-worshipping baby-eating America-hating pedophiles. The fears of a discrete force that can hide at will fits the descriptors of the Judeo-Christian devil. And so, it had been applied to persecuted groups for centuries.

The Witch Trials and the Spanish Inquisition are the most famous examples of this. Satanism evolved in the Medieval era to scapegoat certain groups or to reinforce social norms by emphasising the apparently very real fight between good and evil.

Narratives of the French Revolution at the time were contorted with rumours of revolutionaries being part of a secret Satanic conspiracy. This revolution struck a blow to the power of the Catholic church, and some fingers pointed towards the dark lord of hell himself. Some even believed these revolutionaries had amassed supernatural powers to curse people and shape-shift into various creature ‘n’ critters like cats or fleas!

In the 20th century, another historical shift took place. And this time it (supposedly) happened from within the secret societies themselves: non-fiction authors and tabloids began to recount the allegations of people who once claimed to have been part of Satanic groups before converting to Christianity.

Doreen Irvine claimed she was given the ability to levitate amongst other witchy-powers. But Irvine’s claims sent shockwaves across the pond in the US. Much more horrific allegations were about to take centre stage. In the 1980s this would reach its climax with the Satanic Panic:

Also known as the Satanism Scare, the book Michelle Remembers (1980) detailed the alleged repressed memories of a psychiatrist’s patient which claimed they had been abused as a child for Satanic rituals. In these rituals, babies would be sacrificed and Satan would appear.

Reports of sexual child abuse for these rituals - known as Satanic Ritual Abuse - proliferated until the 1983 case made against the McMartin family. The McMartins owned a preschool in California and were allegedly sexually abusing the children in their care for ritualistic purposes. A lengthy trial ensued and the McMartins were eventually cleared of all charges.

But it was too late.

An evangelical anti-Satanism movement emerged claiming no children would lie about such claims and therefore all accused must be guilty. A conspiracy theory similar to those before emerged claiming SRA was rampant across the US, but it lost momentum by the turn of the 90s. Various investigations by the FBI and British government looked into SRA but found no evidence of Satanism or rituals in any cases of child abuse. Some lone cases of pedophiles did involve rituals, but these were isolated events that never involved Satanist groups.

The 7 Types Of Satanism

Satanism is an umbrella term to describe a vast array of religious groups. There’s a swirling sea of beliefs from the philosophical Satanists that don’t actually believe in Satan to the minority groups that are willing to sacrifice humans in the name of worshipping their god.

However, this ocean does share a common focus on individualism, self-perception, and non-conformity - traditional traits associated with the devil.

There are 3 forms of Satanism: reactive (attempts to invert Christianity and celebrates rebellion), rationalist (atheist and materialistic beliefs), and esoteric (actually worships Satan and draws upon religions like Paganism and western Esotericism).

The Church of Satan kick-started modern Satanism. Erected in 1966, Anton LaVey promoted an atheistic philosophy that focused on indulgence and an ‘eye for an eye’ ethical code that celebrated mankind as animals in an amoral world. Hate and aggression were not wrong but were advantageous for one’s survival. Yes, the seven deadly sins were actually beneficial for the individual.

The First Satanic Church was founded on Halloween night in 1999 by the daughter of Anton LaVey after his church was taken over by a new administration that Karla deemed against her father’s work.

The Satanic Temple is an atheist-activist group that stages political ‘pranks’ that rebel against the political and social dominance of Christianity. They aim to showcase religious hypocrisy in stunts such as performing a ‘Pink Mass’ over the grave of a Westboro Baptist Church goer (known for their explicit and offensive signs). They use Satan as a metaphor to rebel against a society that restricts personal autonomy and curiosity.

Luciferianism is a belief system that pivots around the characteristics associated with Lucifer. Followers believe Lucifer is the illuminated aspect of Satan, thus considering themselves Satanists. But some believe he is a more positive force than Satan. They follow the ancient myths of Egypt, Rome, and western Occultism. They consider him the true god - a destroyer but also a ‘light-bringer’ to the world.

The Temple of Set does not necessarily revere Satan by instead a being they call Set. Satan was the corrupted name of set, an entity that is the one true god. It gave humanity intellectual abilities to separate it from animals and they believe in a Setian philosophy with self-deification as the aim of all humanity.

The Order of the Nine Angles was inspired by ancient Pagan groups resident in Shropshire in the late 60s. But the founder of the group, Anton Long, is considered the pseudonym of neo-Nazi David Myatt. They encourage human sacrifice as a part of rituals and several members have joined the police and the military to do this without getting caught. The ONA is linked to several rapes, murders, cases of child abuse, and right-wing terrorism. They are also connected to several neo-nazi terror organisations.

The Joy Of Satan - contrary to its name - ain’t joyful. It’s an Occultist group that combines Satanism, Paganism, and UFO conspiracy theories. Just like the ONA, they’re Nazis. They believe Satan is one of many demonic deities which are powerful humanoid extraterrestrial beings which are equated with ancient gods. They believe Satan created humanity and brought us knowledge.

Reactivism isn’t a form of Satanism that is followed by an organised group but rather practiced on a personal, isolated level. It is considered an anti-social means of rebelling in a society dominated by Christianity. Most reactive Satanists are adolescents, mentally-disturbed, and have taken part in criminal activity associated with Satanic rituals they discovered through personal learning.

For example, in the 1970s two groups of teenagers in LA and Big Sur killed 3 people and ate parts of their corpses as a part of rituals devoted to Satan. Plotted murder and cannibalism are common traits of reactive Satanist crimes.

The A-To-Z Of Devil Worship

Baphomet

A deity that the Knights Templar allegedly worshipped. It is associated with the Sabbatic Goat which represents the equilibrium of opposites (half-man and half-goat, male and female, good and evil).

Black Mass

It is traditionally known as a requiem mass (funeral mass) in the Roman Catholic church from which the celebrants wear black clothes. However, it has been appropriated by Satanic cults. It often involves a naked woman as an altar and is the site of various Satanic magical rituals.

Cutter vs Wilkinson

A Supreme Court case which claimed federal funds cannot deny prisoners accommodations that are needed to engage in religious practices. Five residents of an Ohio prison including a member of a white supremacist Christian church, a Wiccan, and a Satanist filed the suit, claiming the officials failed to accommodate their ‘nonmainstream’ religions.

Devil

The personification of evil which shows up in many different religions. It is Satan in Abrahamic texts.

Demon

A supernatural entity often associated with evil. The original Greek word - daimon - did not have negative connotations.

Demonology

The study of demons.

Demonolatry

The worship of demons.

Goats

Satanism is always associated with goats. But why? There are several reasons: Baphomet is half-man, half-goat; the ‘infernal goat’ is depicted in many witches’ sabbats; Pagan traditions involved horned gods Christian forces deemed devilish; and the tarot card depicting the devil is a goat. In 1966, the church of Satan adopted baphomet as the sigil.

Lucifer

The name of mythological and religious figures associated with Venus. It is associated in the Christian tradition with Satan as he supposedly fell from heaven. Often called ‘the morning star’ or described as ‘light bringing’.  

Stanislaw Przybyszewski

The first guy to promote a Satanic philosophy.

What do you think?

Let me know in a comment below! And while you’re there, make sure you like and reblog this article.

Want to read an article on the paranormal every Saturday? And a real ghost story everyday/whenever I’m bothered? Hit follow!

[corvidae-quills]

Veering slightly off track to zero in on your tag “also it feels like God needs the devil?” bc I think (maybe, idk) a lot of your issues may be stemming from here. I’m not sure if you mean that God needs the devil in the sense that He needs an Evil to fight to prove He’s Good? Or that God and the devil are somehow equal opposites, Manichaean/Gnostic style?

Bc the thing is in the first case, if God created evil in order to somehow prove He’s good, then you’d be right there would be MAJOR moral issues there, and in the second case then you’d be right in that He couldn’t be omnipotent. Neither of these is actually what the Church teaches though so I’m gonna veer off again into a (very brief) Who/What Exactly is God? tangent (if you’ve heard any of this before then sorry, plz don’t take offense, but I also went to Catholic school for 9 1/2 years and never learned literally any of this so I’m guessing you might not’ve either)

I’m mainly gonna use St. Thomas Aquinas’s argument from causation here which boils down to: Everything that exists is caused by something else. My cup is made from clay which is made from minerals which is made from (some weird geologic/tectonic/etc process I’m not a geologist bear with me) which only exist because the planet Earth exists, which was made out of elements, which were forged in the stars, which were made out of gases, which were made out of... something. But the point is: nothing that exists actually causes itself to be, but everything is caused by something. So eventually you reach a point where it’s necessary for something to be its own Cause, or else nothing would have existed in the first place. Which is where we run into God, the First Cause/Uncreated Is/the Great I AM.

(I’ve seen arguments where people say maybe our universe was caused by one that came before it, but that just kicks the ball down the road because now that universe had to come from somewhere)

So basically (from one angle) that’s what God is, Being itself. Every molecule and electron that exists is contingent on God and held in being by Him (omnipresence/omnipotence/omniscience all naturally flow from this.) The devil, meanwhile, is just a created being, and saying he is to God like an ant is to me would be basically meaningless, the gap is WAY WAY UNIMAGINABLY bigger. But the devil, like every rational being (including us humans) has free will, which in order to be completely free MUST include the ability to turn away from God. We’re not free if we don’t have the option to Say No.

So looping back around to evil - Catholicism teaches that there’s the Perfect will of God (God Himself directly wills a thing to happen or not) and the Permissive will of God (God permits things to happen through the free choices made by His creatures, and those choices can be evil.) The Problem of Evil isn’t really a Problem at all, since the possibility of evil is a necessary aspect of a truly free will - once again, if you can’t say no then you are not free.

But since God is Goodness itself, every choice that is a ‘no,’ which is moving away, is necessarily evil. When the devil rejected God, he chose evil. Love is good, so he doesn’t have any of it, he doesn’t want anything good for humanity or for you, he hates all of us and the only thing he wants for us is to be miserable forever. If the devil can be said to rule in hell, then it’s only in the sense that he’s the first and biggest prisoner.

(I read another post about this once that put it better than I did but I can’t for the life of me remember enough of it to find it so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. The general point is the devil is NOT a cool rebel he’s actually a self-absorbed loser incel. Who hates you.)

And on the topic of hell: Basically, if someone wants something else more than they want God, then He won’t force them to give that thing up, because love that isn’t freely given isn’t love, and if you would force a person into staying with you then you wouldn’t really love them. (I was actually watching a video on the topic of hell - it’s like an hour + thirty minutes long so I understand if you don’t want to watch it - and the priest being interviewed sort of outlines this point by saying that the father in the parable of the prodigal son is not being unloving by failing to chain his son up so he can’t go ruin his life.)

Anyway this got long and might be slightly incoherent and possibly not helpful at all but! I hope it helps!

Thinking about how it was never made clear to me in Catholic school exactly WHY Jesus died for our sins. I just remembered that I was literally never clear on who the dying helped??

I've heard theories as an adult, but basically what I'm saying is pointless martyrdom seems a little pointless, and also with enough propaganda the big logical gaps in a belief system get really hard to see. Especially if questioning anything is blasphemy.

I would have gotten in so much trouble for insisting the teacher explain how Jesus helped us by being tortured to death by Romans even when God could have prevented it! God sent his only Son, they would have said! Be grateful, they'd say! Be guilty! Stop asking why he did that!!!

[itonje]

people of color in arthurian legend masterpost

hi! some people said it would be cool if i did this, and this is something i find interesting so. yeah! are you interested in king arthur and the knights of the round table? do you like to read about characters of color, especially in older lit? well, i hope this can be a good resource for people to get into stuff like that, especially poc/ethnic minorities who might feel uncomfortable or lonely getting into older media like arthuriana. this post is friendly to both those who prefer medieval lit and those who prefer modern stuff!

disclaimers: i am not a medievalist nor a race theorist! very much not so. i am just a 17 year old asian creature on the internet who wants to have an easy-to-reference post, if i’m not comprehensive enough please inform me. i’m going to stay closely to the matter of britain, as well, not all medieval european literature as a. this is what i’m more familiar with and b. there’s so much content and information and context to go along with it that it would really be impossible to put it all into one tumblr post. (however there’s always going to be overlap!) also, please do not treat me or any other person of color/ethnic minority as a singular all-knowing authority on anything! we’re all trying to have fun here and being made into an information machine on things, especially what is and isn’t offensive isn’t fun. with that out of the way, let’s get into it! (under cut for length!) 

part i: some historical context (tw for racism and antisemitism discussion)

fair warning, i’m going to start off with some discussions of more heavier history before we talk about more fun stuff. while pre colonial racism was far more different than how it is today, there still...was racism. and it’s important to understand the social mien around nonwhite people in europe at the time these works were written. 

to understand how marginalized ethnicities were written in medieval european literature, you have to understand the fact that religion, specifically catholicism, was a very important part of medieval european life. already, catholicism has violent tenets (ie, conversion as an inherent part of the church, as well as many antisemitic theologies and beliefs), but this violence worsened when an event known as the crusades happened.

the crusades were a series of religious wars started by the catholic church to ‘reclaim’ the holy land from islamic rule and to aid the byzantine empire. while i won’t go into the full history of the crusades, (some basic info here and here and here) its important to understand that they had strengthened the european view of the ’pagan’ (ie: not european christian) world as an ‘other’, a threat to christiandom that needed to be conquered and converted, for the spiritual benefit of both the convertee and the converter. these ideas of ethnoreligious superiority and conversion would permeate into the literature of the time written by european christians. 

even today, the crusades are very much associated with white supremacy and modern islamophobic sentiment, with words such as ‘deus vult’ as a dogwhistle, and worship of and willingness to emulate the violence the crusaders used against the inhabitants of the holy land in tradcath spaces, so this isn’t stuff that’s all dead and in the past. crusader propaganda and the ignorance on the violence of the catholic church and the crusaders on muslim and jewish populations (as well as nonwhite christians ofc) is very harmful. arthuriana itself has a lot of links to white supremacy too-thanks to @/to-many-towered-camelot for this informative post. none of this stuff exists in a bubble. 

here’s a book on catholic antisemitism, here’s a book on orientalism, here’s a book about racism in history that touches on the crusades. (to any catholic, i highly reccommend you read the first.)

with that out of the way, we can talk about the various not european groups that typically show up in arthurian literature and some historical background irt to that. the terms ‘moor’ and ‘saracen’ will typically pop up. both terms are exonyms and are very, very broad, eventually used as both a general term for muslims and as a general term for african and (western + central) asian people. they’re very vague, but when you encounter them the typical understanding you’re supposed to take away is ‘(western asian/african) foreigner’ and typically muslim/not christian as well. t

generally, african and asian lands will typically be referred to as pagan or ‘eastern/foreign’ lands, with little regard for understanding the actual religions of that area. they will also typically refer to saracens as pagans although islam is not a pagan religion. this is just a bit of a disclaimer. the term saracen itself is considered to be rather offensive-thank you to @/lesbianlanval for sending me a paper on this subject. 

while i typically refer to the content on this post as having to pertain to african and asian people (ie, not european) european jewish arthurian traditions are included on this post too. but, i know more about poc and they’ll feature more prominently in this post because of that, lol. 

part ii: so, are there any medieval texts involving characters of color?

i’m glad you asked! of course there are! to be clear, european medieval authors were very much aware that people of color and african + asian nations existed, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. even the vita merlini mentions sri lanka and a set of islands that might (?) be the philippines!! for the sake of brevity though, on this list i’m not going to list every single one of these small and frequent references, so i’m just going to focus on texts that primarily (or notably) feature characters of color. 

first of all, it’s important to know was the influence of cultures of color and marginalized ethnicities that helped shape arthurian legend. the cultural exchange between europe and the islamic world during the crusades, as well as the long history of arab presence in southern europe, led to the influence of arabic love poetry and concepts of love on european literature, helping to form what we consider the archetypal romance. there are also arthurian traditions in hebrew, and yiddish too, adding new cultural ideas and introducing new story elements to their literature-all of these are just as crucial to the matter of britain as any other traditions!

when it comes to nonwhite presence in the works themselves, many knights of color in arthurian legend tend to be characters that, after defeated by a knight of arthur’s court join the court themselves. though some are side characters, there are others with their own romances and stories devoted to them! many of them are portrayed as capable + good as, if not better than their counterparts. (this, however, usually only comes through conversion to christianity if the knight is not christian...yeah.) though groups of color as a general monolith created by european christians tended to be orientalized in literature (see: mystical and strange ~eastern~ lands), many individual knights were written to be seen by their medieval audience as positive heroes. i’m going to try to stick to mostly individual character portrayals such as these. 

with that all said though, these characters can still be taken as offensive (i would consider most to be) in their writing, so take everything with a grain of salt here. i will also include links to as many english translations of texts as i can, as well as note which ones i think are beginner friendly to those on the fence about medieval literature!

he shows up in too many texts so let’s make this into two bullet notes and start with one of, if not the most ubiquitous knight of color of the round table (at least in medieval lit),-palamedes! palamedes/palomides is a ‘’saracen knight’’ who (typically) hails from babylon or palestine and shows up in a good amount of texts. his first appearance is in the prose tristan, and he plays a major role there as a knight who fights with tristan for the hand of iseult-while he uh. loses, him and tristan later become companions + friends with a rivalry, and palamedes later goes off to hunt the questing beast, a re-occurring trend in his story. 

palamedes even got his own romance named after him (which was very popular!) and details the adventures of the fathers of the knights of the round table, pre arthur, as well as later parts of the story detailing the adventures of their sons. it was included in rustichello da pisa’s compilation of arthurian romances, which i unfortunately have not seen floating around online (or...anywhere), so i can’t attest to the quality of it or anything. he appears in le morte darthur as well, slaying the questing beast but only after his conversion to christianity (...yeah.) in the texts in which he appears, palamedes is considered to be one of the top knights of the round table, alongside tristan and lancelot, fully living up to chivalric and courtly ideals and then some. i love him dearly and i’ve read the prose tristan five times just for him. (also the prose tristan in general is good, please give it a try, especially if you’re a romance fan.)

speaking of le morte d’arthur, an egyptian knight named priamus shows up in the lucius v arthur episode on lucius’ side first, later joining arthur’s after some interactions with gawaine. palamedes has brothers here as well-safir and segwarides. safir was relatively popular, and shows up in many medieval texts, mostly alongside his older brother. i wouldn’t recommend reading le morte of all things for the characters of color though-if you really want to see what it’s all about, just skip to the parts they’re mentioned with ctrl + f, haha. 

the romance of moriaen is a 12th century dutch romance from the lancelot compilation, named for its main character morien. morien, who is a black moor, is the son of sir aglovale, the brother of perceval. whilst gawaine and lancelot are searching for said perceval, they encounter morien, who is in turn searching for aglovale as he had abandoned morien’s mother way back when. i wholeheartedly recommend this text for people who might feel uncomfy with medieval lit. though the translation i’ve linked can be a bit tricky, the story is short, sweet, and easy to follow, and morien and his relationships (esp with gariet, gawaine’s brother) are all wonderful. 

king artus (original hebrew text here) is a northern italian jewish arthurian text written in hebrew- it retells a bit of the typical conception of arthur story, as well as some parts from the death of arthur as well. i really can’t recommend this text enough-it’s quite short, with an easy-to-read english translation, going over episodes that are pretty familiar to any average reader while adding a lot of fun details and it’s VERY interesting to me from a cultural standpoint. i find the way how they adapt the holy grail (one of the most archetypal christian motifs ever) in particular pretty amazing. this is also a very beginner friendly text! 

wolfram von eschenbach’s parzival (link to volume 1 and volume 2-this translation rhymes!) is a medieval high german romance from the early 13th century, based off de troyes’ le conte du graal while greatly expanding on the original story. it concerns parzival and his quest for the grail (with a rather unique take on it-he fails at first!), and also takes like one million detours to talk about gawaine as all arthurian lit does. the prominent character of color here is a noble mixed race knight called feirefiz, parzival’s half brother by his father, who after dueling with parzival, and figures out their familial connection, joins him on his grail quest. he eventually converts to christianity (..yeah.) to see the grail and all ends happily for him. however, this text is notable to me as it contains two named women of color-belacane, feirefiz’s black african mother, and secundilla, feirefiz’s indian wife. though unfortunately, both are pretty screwed over by the text and their respective husbands. though parzival is maybe my favorite medieval text i’ve read so far i don’t necessarily know if i’d recommend this one, because it is long, and can be confusing at times. however, i do think that when it comes to the portrayal of people of color, while quite poor by today’s standards, von eschenbach was trying his best?-of course, in reason for. a 13th century medival german christian but he treats them with respect and all these characters are actually characters. if you’re really interested in grail stories (and are aware of the more uncomfortably christian aspects of the grail story), and you like gawaine and perceval, i’d say go for it. 

in the turk and sir gawain, an english poem from the early 16th century, gawaine and the titular turkish man play a game of tennis ball. i’m shitting you not. this text is pretty short, funnily absurd, and with most of the hallmarks of a typical quest (various challenges culminating in some castle being freed), so it’s an easier read. it’s unclear to me, but at the end of the story the turkish man turns into sir gromer, a noble knight, who may or may not be white which uh. consider my ‘....yeah’ typical at this point, but i don’t personally read it that way for my own sanity. also he throws the sultan (??) of the isle of man (????) into a cauldron for not being a christian so when it comes to respectful representation of poc this one doesn’t make it, but it does make this list. 

the revenge of ragisel, or at least the version i’ve read (the eng translation of the dutch version from the lancelot compilation), die wrake van ragisel, starts off being about the mysterious murder of a knight, but eventually, as most stories do, becomes a varying series of adventures about gawaine and co. one of gawaine’s friends (see: a knight who he combated with for a hot sec and then became friends and allies with, as you do) is a black knight named maurus! he’s not really an mc, but he features prominently and he’s pretty entertaining, as all the characters in this are. i also recommend this highly, i was laughing the whole time reading it! it’s not too long and pretty wild, you’ll have a good romp. this is a good starter text for anyone in general!

i’ve not read the roman van walewein, which, as it says on the tin, is a 12th century dutch romance concerning some deeds of gawaine (if only gawaine was a canon poc, i wouldn’t need to make this list because he’s so popular...). i’m putting it on the list for in this, gawaine goes to the far eastern land of endi (india) and romances a princess named ysabele. i can’t speak to ysabele’s character or the respectfulness of her kingdom or representation, but i know she’s a major character and her story ends pretty well, so that’s encouraging. women of color, especially fleshed out woc, are pretty rare in arthurian lit. i’ve also heard the story itself is pretty wild, and includes a fox, which sounds pretty exciting to me!

now the next two things i’m going to mention aren’t really? texts that feature characters of color or jewish characters, but are rather more notable for being translations of existing texts into certain languages. wigalois is a german 13th century romances featuring the titular character (the son of, you guessed it, gawaine!) and his deeds. the second, jaufre, is the only arthurian romance written in occitan, and is a quite long work about the adventures of the knight jaufre, based on the knight griflet. what’s notable about these two works is that wigalois has a yiddish translation, and jaufre has a tagalog translation. wigalois’ yiddish translation in particular changed the original german text into something more fitting of the arthurian romance format as well as adding elements to make it more appealing for a jewish audience. the tagalog translation of jaufre on the other hand was not medieval, only coming about in 1900, but the philippines has had a long history of romantic tradition and verse writing, so i’m curious to see if it too adds or changes elements when it comes to the arthurian story, but i can’t find a lot on the tagalog version of jaufre unfortunately-i hope i can eventually!

this list of texts is also non-exhaustive! i’m just listing a couple of notoriety, and some to start with. 

part iii: papers and academic analysis

so here’s just a dump of various papers i’ve read and collected on topics such as these-this is an inexhaustive and non-comprehensive list! if you have any papers you think are good and would like to be added here, shoot me an ask. i’ll try to include a link when i can, but if it’s unavailable to you just message me. * starred are the ones i really think people, especially white people, should at least try to read. 

Swank, Kris. ‘Black in Camelot: Race and Ethnicity in Arthurian Legend’ *

Harrill, Claire. ‘Saracens and racial Otherness in Middle English * Romance’

Keita, Maghan. ‘Saracens and Black Knights’ 

Hoffman, Donald L. ‘Assimilating Saracens: The Aliens in Malory's ‘Morte Darthur’

Goodrich, Peter H. ‘Saracens and Islamic Alterity in Malory's ‘Le Morte Darthur’

Schultz, Annie. ‘Forbidden Love: The Arabic Influence on the Courtly Love Poetry of Medieval Europe’ *

Hardman, Philipa. ‘Dear Enemies: the Motif of the Converted Saracen and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’

Knowles, Annie. ‘Encounters of the Arabian Kind: Cultural Exchange and Identity the Tristans of Medieval France, England, and Spain’ *

Hermes, Nizar F. ‘King Arthur in the Lands of the Saracens’ *

Ayed, Wajih. ‘Somatic Figurations of the Saracen in Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte Darthur’

Herde, Christopher M. ‘A new fantasy of crusade: Sarras in the vulgate cycle.’ *

Rovang, Paul R. ‘Hebraizing Arthurian Romance: The Originality of ‘Melech Artus.’’

Rajabzdeh, Shokoofeh. ‘The Depoliticized Saracen and Muslim erasure’ *

Holbrook, Sue Ellen. ‘To the Well: Malory's Sir Palomides on Ideals of Chivalric Reputation, Male Friendship, Romantic Love, Religious Conversion—and Loyalty.’ *

Lumbley, Coral. ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth and Race’ *

Oehme, Annegret. ‘Adapting Arthur. The Transformations and Adaptations of Wirnt von Grafenberg’s Wigalois’ *

Hendrix, Erik. ‘An Unlikely Hero: The Romance of Moriaen and Racial Discursivity in the Middle Ages’ *

Darrup, Cathy C. ‘Gender, Skin Color, and the Power of Place in the Medieval Dutch Romance of Moriaen’ *

Armstrong, Dorsey. ‘Postcolonial Palomides: Malory's Saracen Knight and the Unmaking of Arthurian Community’ (note this is the only one i can’t access in its entirety)

part iv: supplemental material

here’s some other stuff i find useful to getting to know knights of color in arthurian legend, especially if papers/academic stuff/medieval literature is daunting! i’d really recommend you go through all of these if you can’t go through anything else-most are quick reads. 

a magazine article on knights of color here, and this article about the yiddish translation of wigalois. 

this video about characters of color in arthurian legend!

the performance of the translation of arabic in Libro del Caballero Zifar, and how it pertains to the matter of britain 

a post by yours truly about women of color in parzival

this info sheet about palamedes, and this info sheet about ysabele-thanks to @/pendraegon and @/reynier for letting me use these!

this page on palamedes as well

this post with various resources on race and ethnicity in arthuriana-another thank you to @/reynier! 

part v: how about modern day stories and adaptations?

there’s a lot of em out there! i’m not as familiar with modern stuff, but i will try to recommend medias i know where characters of color (including racebends!) are prominent. since i haven’t read/watched all (or truly most) of these, i can’t really speak on the quality of the representation though, so that’s your warning. 

first of all, when it comes to the victorian arthurian revival, i know that william morris really liked palamedes! (don’t we all.) he features frequently in morris’ arthurian poetry, (in this beautiful book, he primarily features in ‘sir galahad, a christmas mystery’ and ‘king arthur’s tomb’. he has his own poem by morris here.)

and some other poems about palamedes, which i’d all recommend. 

for movies, i know a knight in camelot (1998) stars whoopi goldberg as an original character, the green knight (2021) will star dev patel as gawaine. 

some shows include camelot high, bbc merlin, disney’s once upon a time, and netflix’s cursed, all featuring both original characters of color and people of color cast as known arthurian figures. 

for any music people, in ‘high noon over camelot’, an album by the mechanisms, mordred is played by ashes o’reilley, who in turn is performed by frank voss, and arthur is played by marius von raum who is perfomed by kofi young. 

i’ve also heard the pendragon and the squire’s tales have palamedes as a relevant character if you’re looking for novels, as well as legendborn and the forgotten knight: a chinese warrior in king arthur’s court starring original protagonists of color! 

part vi: going on from here

so, you’ve read some medieval lit, read some papers, watched some shows, and done all that. what now? well, there’s still so much out there! 

if you have fanfiction, analysis, metaposts, fun content etc etc about arthurian poc, feel free to plug your content on this post! i’d be happy to boost it. 

in general, if you’re a person of color or a jewish person and you’re into arthurian legend, feel free to promote your blog on this post as well! i would love to know more people active on arthurian tumblr who are nonwhite. 

this is really just me asking for extra content, especially content made by poc, but that’s okay! arthurian legend is a living, breathing set of canons and i would love love love to see more fresh diversity within them right alongside the older stuff. 

a very gracious thank you to the tumblr users whom i linked posts to on here, and thanks to y’all for saying you want to see this! i hope this post helped people learn some new things! 

[ragingbookdragon]

Faith Is Believing What You Cannot See

Hal Jordan x AI!Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.4K Warnings: Angst

Author's Note: I had this idea late last night, but the conversation of religion between Hal and his father. If he followed in Martin's footsteps and became a pilot, did that mean that Hal followed in religion too, or did he just believe in a creator? In other words, reader helps Hal contemplate divine creation while mourning Martin Jordan. Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

He popped the beer tab and set the can down beside him before popping his own beer can, taking a sip from it. His eyes were directed upwards, gazing at the massive expanse of stars above him. He tried to remember some of the constellations that Ganthet had mentioned but nothing came to him. Here on Oa, it was so different from Earth. He could see planets and moons, stars he’d only dreamed about on his home planet.

And yet, all he could think about was Martin. Twenty-six years to the day that Hal Jordan had witnessed his father’s last day, his last flight. Twenty-six years ago, Hal Jordan watched the greatest man he ever knew die in a hail of flame and black smoke. Twenty-six years since Hal Jordan defined his life on a single moment. To be the most fearless man alive. The bravest.

Sighing heavily, he dropped his head between his cocked-up knees, resting his elbows atop his jeaned kneecaps. He missed his dad. He missed his family. He missed being a kid and skipping out on school to eat lunch with his dad after watching Martin fly all morning. He missed when life wasn’t so difficult. He missed—

“Lantern Hal?” He jerked up at the sound of the robotic tone. “Are you alright?”

Glancing behind him, he saw (Y/N) standing there, her hands clasped lowly behind her back, big glowing eyes observant; Hal could see the way the iris’ rotated with each flash-thought. “…Yeah, I’m fine, (Y/N).”

She walked over. “Your tone designates hesitation. Is there something bothering you?”

“No,” Hal murmured. “I’m just sitting out here and drinking.”

Her head cocked down. “There are two alcoholic drinks open. Are you consuming them both?”

He chuckled. “One’s for my dad.”

“Is he coming soon?” she craned her neck, and he watched the wires dance beneath her blueish flesh. “I can locate him if it is to your—”

“He’s not here, (Y/N).” Hal interrupted. “He’s dead.”

She blinked, gazing at him curiously. “If he is dead, why are you sharing a drink?”

“It’s a human tradition. When someone dies, you share a beer with them in remembrance.”

“Oh…so you are engaging in ritualistic practice?” she blinked again. “Should I leave?”

He didn’t exactly want to be surrounded by people, but at the same time, Hal didn’t want to be alone. “You can stay.”

(Y/N) took a seat beside him, sitting as properly as a humanoid robot could. “I am unfamiliar with the emotion of grief. May I ask you questions pertaining to the subject?”

“Uh, I guess.” Hal said, taking a sip of his beer.

“What does loss feel like?”

He paused, swirling the liquid between his cheeks before he swallowed and murmured, “It’s kinda like a wound that never really heals, it just scabs over and from time to time something comes along and rips it off and you feel the pain all over again. Just like it was the first time.”

“I cannot feel pain,” she acknowledged. “But your words have meaning. It would be similar to my processing units breaking down repeatedly without repair.”

Hal’s lips pulled in a satisfaction. “That sounds about right.”

(Y/N) looked at him. “When did your father die?”

He met her gaze. “When I was ten. He died in a plane crash…I witnessed it.”

“You were a child.” She noted. “Is this why you were driven to join the Armed Forces where you were able to fly aircraft?”

Hal nodded. “I lost dad when I was young and I…I never really remembered a lot about him.” he shrugged. “Flying was the way I could connect with him.”

“What was your father like?”

He chuckled. “A lady-killer who was damn good pilot and an even better husband and father.” Hal paused. “He was also Catholic.” A fond smile crossed his lips. “Never missed Mass.”

“Catholicism is a branch of Christianity.” (Y/N) said. “Do you share the same concept of religion?”

He tipped his head side to side. “I’m not really sure. Dad was Catholic. Mom was Jewish.”

“So, you are Jewish then?”

“N—no, not exactly, (Y/N).”

Her head cocked to the side. “Forgive me, I am confused. It makes sense to follow a religion of one parent. Which do you follow?”

Hal’s mouth opened, then it closed, and he finally reasoned, “It’s not so much following religion as it is believing in God to me.”

“…So, the denomination is not what is important to you, but merely the belief of a divine creator?”

“Yeah. That’s it.” He sighed. “I’ve attended religious ceremonies and prayers on both sides but every time I come back to religion, it’s more of where I stand with God then it does what denomination.”

(Y/N) nodded. “I see. That makes sense.”

He looked over. “It does?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe?”

“No.”

That was a foolish question to ask a robot, he thought. “Sorry, I should’ve seen that coming.”

“How so?”

Hal shrugged. “I mean…you’re an AI. You’re not a human like me. No offense.”

“None has been taken.” (Y/N) smiled. “You are correct though. But my belief does not come from rejection of religion, but from education in the sciences.” She met his gaze. “I am an AI. I was created for a purpose and that purpose was to protect Oa. I discover and categorize life through science and observation, not through a personal doctrine of faith. Faith is not something I can comprehend.”

“Why’s that?”

“Faith is believing in what you cannot see. Though I have control over the evolution of my core programing, I cannot take action through faith. I cannot believe in what I cannot see nor process. Belief with no evidence is not factual. It is not quantifiable.”

Hal gazed at her for a few moments. “I guess that’s a fair way to look at it.”

“Do you have faith?” she questioned, and he nodded.

“I do. In myself. In my friends.” He nudged her in the hard side of her body. “In you.”

“I believe what you are describing is trust.”

“They’re synonymous,” he laughed, then looked to the sky. “I believe that my dad is around me a lot.”

“But he is dead.”

“He is. But his spirit is still here. I feel it.” Hal’s face was firm as was his voice. “I know my dad’s with me every time I fly.”

“And you take this on faith?” (Y/N) asked.

“I do.”

She observed him. “Was your father a faithful man? Did he believe in his faith?”

“I’d like to say he was and that he did.” He frowned slightly. “I miss him a lot.”

(Y/N) hummed, though it more so sounded like she was releasing warm air through the vents in her side. “Then I shall intrude on your memorial no longer.” She stood. “Thank you for allowing me to speak with you. I have processed much during this conversation that shall allow for further core reprogramming.”

Hal smiled. “Anytime, (Y/N).”

He didn’t look back as she walked off, though she suddenly stopped and turned. “Lantern Hal?”

“Yeah?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“First Thessalonians, chapter four, verses thirteen and fourteen. ‘And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died.’”

(Y/N) tipped her head down. “If your father was faithful as you have said…you will see him again one day.”

Hal blinked in shock, a rush of emotion spinning like a whirlwind in his chest. “You’ve read scripture?”

“I have. Access to the human web has allowed for knowledge of many religious texts. I am favorable of the main human religious texts. They allow for educating conversations of moral integrity and action.”

“But you don’t believe in any of them?”

“I do not.” (Y/N) smiled kindly at him. “You grieve your father in addition to believing in a divine creator, and this verse seemed applicable to the circumstance in which you find yourself.” She nodded. “I hope it has eased your grief, Lantern Hal.”

He gave her a wobbly smile. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Have a good evening.”

She disappeared down the other side of the hill and Hal turned back to the stars, reaching up a hand to wipe at his eyes. They twinkled above him, and for the first time in a long while, Hal prayed for his father. He prayed for his family. He prayed for himself. And if there was a divine creator out there, from whatever religion, he hoped it heard him.