#it's the taking the biblical imagery and making it about sex for me

[lux-astrorum]

🪄

Passion, pleasure, pain

It all feels the same

Hotter than the sun, no need to save me

Got me on my knees so come and pray with me

Flooding like a rain

Feel like forty days

[Tiffany Young / "Born Again"]

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

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There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[cherubispunk]

NEPHILIM: THE FALLEN - Jackson-era!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: fallen or damned? who's to tell when it's joel miller?

a note from Lucy: DONT HATE ME I KNOW ITS BEEN A LONG TIME!! Not entirely happy with this but it's been sitting in my docs for months now and i had to get it out there to give me some peace of mind so please be aware it may well be riddle with grammatical mistakes and typos galore. as always like, comment and reblog to save a sinners sanity!

playlist | moodboard + poem

wc: 2755

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DARK CONTENT! Jackson era!post outbreak!Joel, no use of y/n, reader is referred to as ‘Bambi’, verbally constipated Joel Miller, brief gore descriptions, heavy religious imagery and references to the bible, biblical lore, yearning, idiots in love, angst angst angst!!!!!!, bombastic age gap!!! yahhhhh! (reader is in her 20’s/ Joel is in his late 50’s), smut, oral sex (m! receiving), rough oral sex, possessive!joel, dom!joel/sub!reader dynamic, you know the drill with my writing, there’s probably some form of cannibalism as a metaphor, or brutal violence as a metaphor, religious imagery as a metaphor, etc. (aka, fancy word vomit) - Lucy crying over a bloody google doc :)

series masterlist | m.list

Ephesians 2:3 Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest.

The sky was bruised. It was like God– or whatever resided up there– knew. The grey clouds, and the garish yellow of the setting sun, and the deep blue that ebbed into purple…they all knew. Your heart ached too. Bruised. It seemed to crack a little more each day. What started as nothing more than a hairline fracture had split into a gaping, weeping slice. Why? Because Joel was always quiet. For such a large man he had a ghostly habit of creeping into a room without notice. Creeping into your heart too through your hollow ribs. You could feel him behind you now though. His breath thick on the nape of your neck and it cooled the thin sheen of sweat on your skin. Soothed your burning flesh while saving it from the inferno. The tension became bearable. These little spaces of empty matter between all else. That slight awkwardness about his usual stoic yet confident demeanour…it was endearing now.

You were easing into the silence, content with watching the bruise darken from purple to midnight blue. The sky would turn on its bright little stars, and the moon would slice through sapphire as the early evening aged. The sun was going to rest now, the greying moon taking its post to watch over the town. You should follow the sun’s direction. Close your eyes so as to not have to witness his all too soon departure.

His fingers, so gentle, so strong, gently traced the curve and divot of your hip under the covers. It was strange to think just moments prior they had been inside you. Making you feel boneless in bed.

“Bambi?” He asked, tentative and uncharacteristically uncertain. He loathed it; the change in him.

“Mhm?” You hummed lazily, your hands tucked under the pillow to keep them warm, knees curled up to your chest. But no answer nor following question came. You knew what it was. He was cramming something back down his throat before he had the chance to say it for fear of being out of line. One day it shall choke him blue. He was strung so tightly. Tension in his shoulders that made them rise uncomfortably. And you noticed this when you turned to face him. Neither of you spoke for a moment, as if you were fooling yourself into believing he might continue. Your heart cracked a little more when he turned to face the wall,

“Never mind. It’s nothin’.” He had no reason to be weary of you. However in the past few weeks, coming up to a month, there was subtle, almost imperceptible unease that lingered. And festered. Palpable. Tangible. You could feel it when you reached out to touch his skin. So warm and gorgeous. Golden like ichor in this setting sunlight. You dared to press your lips to the wing of a shoulder blade, skin mangled with scar tissue where you liked to imagine wings once resided, and felt him flinch under your featherlight kiss. “Don’t, Bambi.”

“Joel-“

“I said: No.” His voice was firm, and didn’t give much leeway for convincing. “It’s not somethin’ you know how to fix.” But you were stubborn now. You’d found your feet. You stood your ground more, imitated behaviour. Before he could turn away again you reached to right him, set him flat on his back upon the mattress and splay your hand over his soft stomach under the covers. His throat tightened when your hand ventured timidly south. Then his breath tangled in his throat when it wrapped loosely around his half hard cock. Gently stroking it until it stood to attention in your palm. “Let me help…the way I know how.” You whispered into his ear, running your tongue under his earlobe to bring it between your teeth. Voice like honey, so sweet, and smooth, and slow pouring enough to get stuck in. Jesus Fucking Christ, he hated himself for even entertaining the idea of letting you do this for him. For being the one to help you find your feet. For being the man who tarnished innocence. It seemed all he did these days was ruin what little good there was left in the world. He’d taken an entire inkpot to a pristine sheet of paper, splattered black all over it without a care in the world until now. He felt like the space between you was stygian and reeked of his own sin. It simmered and spat and writhed and any moment now I would boil over the second you came to terms with the fact you were too good for him.

His nostrils flared with the thought but with a twist of your wrist he melted. Because at the base of it all, the very depth of his humanity, he was a selfish, selfish man. You watched a swallow pass down the thick column of his throat and rested your head on his shoulder while your hand dragged up his thick, full shaft, thumb smearing a bead of precome over the delicate flushed skin of its head. Joel watched the ceiling and wallowed in pathetic self pity as you kissed your way down his navel, lips moving in a mumbling of words he couldn't quite hear. He let out a breathy moan when you wrapped your lips around the tip, pressing your tongue flat to the underside to let the taste seep onto your tongue. He then closed his eyes trying to imagine anyone other than you between his legs. Another mouth. Another tongue. Someone else's voice.

It was no use because it seemed your eyes, the shade, the shape, were printed to the back of his lids. He gave up. He was too old to try to partake in sisyphean tasks.

Joel sat up and you moved between his legs as he threw the covers off to watch you. His back to the headboard, your warm mouth inviting him deeper, he hesitated to press a hand to the crown of your head, but when you pulled off to lick a flat tongued strip from base to tip, he found himself taking a fist of your hair and righting you over the head completely, pushing down so he slipped into your mouth. Muscle memory had the twitch of a smirk forming at the corner of his lips. The sight of you was enough to have his hips begging to buck, chasing the back of your throat, attempting to find that reaction again.

What you couldn't take of him you wrapped loosely in one hand and the other cupped his balls, adding the slightest pressure that had a dirty cuss passing his chapped lips. Deep inhales billowed in his nose, nostrils flared slightly as he dragged your open, salivating mouth up and down on his length. What he would never understand is how much you hungered for this every time. There was a pain in wanting him like no other, and a reward this great sowed the seed of pleading. You didn’t mind yearning for him because, to you, being hungry was quite a satisfying feeling. It feels nice to want something. To yearn. To have a purpose. You imagined he felt quite the same with the way he could hardly keep his hands from your cunt or your mouth when you passed his front door’s threshold.

“Look at me, Bambi.” He grunted, and your eyes fluttered slightly before the hue of them locked on his through your tear clumped lashes. “I’d like this mouth a whole lot more if it didn’t say such pretty things to me.” He almost lamented, and you felt a tug at your heartstrings. “Makin’ a man hope again.”

Joel sighed, eyes closing for the briefest second. His large hand was still pushing your head with the gentlest of force back down, then his fingers gripped at your hair, dragging you again so the warm, silken touch of your lips and tongue made the fire in his belly start to burn. It was aching, and deep rooted, and had a slow simmer to it. One he begged to hurry along. Joel wanted nothing more than his release so he could set you free again. Set the bird free of its cage. So he threw caution to the wind, and soon you felt the tip of his thick cock reach the back of your mouth again, your throat constricting. “Why won’t you hate me, huh Bambi? What did I do to deserve this?” He asked. If you knew no better you’d have thought his tone implied he hated it. His teeth gritted, words seethed between them. He spat it out in a way that made him seem unworthy of your attention— or the very taste of the thought disgusted him and made his stomach pull up in a wretch. Joel bit down so violently on nothing he swore his molars might turn to dust and clag in spit with the way he was salivating over the sight of you; Puffy lips, bloodshot watering eyes, messy hair. Bent over him and sucking on his cock like it was your only goddamned purpose in life.

You wanted to reply, splutter out the words, but he silenced you. The tip of his cock brushing the back of your throat, and causing your stomach to recoil, tensing as you gagged. Retching slightly as he grimaced at the sound. “You know I can’t love y–” he stopped mid sentence as the ache bloomed into a deep burn. You were oh so grateful because it meant you wouldn’t have to hear what you yearned not to. What you buried deep beneath your stomach and above your diaphragm— that slow, blooming ache. The feeling would never see the light of day. You’d rather die than come to terms with the fact that Joel would not be yours. He belonged to the world. The mass of nature that befell you. That which kept you human and incompetent. He was large, untamable, and oh so delectable in all ways other than matters of love. Joel Miller could not love you.

“Fuck- gonna come, Bambi.” He choked out, head falling back. You looked up at the sight of him through your lashes, lips parted, his brows creased gently in the space between them. Just as you yearned for him to love you, you yearned to be destroyed by him. Coated in him, broken down to pieces by him. Joel Miller could quite literally break you in half, then half again, and again— to the point where nothing was discernible— and you'd get on your knees to thank him for it all. Maybe loving him and being destroyed by him were two in the same?

In the months you’d known him you’d grown to learn that this was as close to a purpose as you’d get. The world robbed you of one, so you searched for it. Selfish enough to keep digging to find one. Only it had no purpose. It has a pattern now, and patterns trick and deceive people into believing in divine intervention. Joel was your divine right. Your purpose. That was what you believed. What you thought about each night. What you thought about now as you took his cock down to the base, the head of him brushing the back of your throat and folds soaked– drenched in the essence of your own arousal. All of which was emphasised by the ache you felt between your thighs that ebbed a little deeper with wanting. A ghost of the pleasure you felt when he was inside you. You entertained it with two fingers slipping between your thighs, teasing your clit. “God— Bambi…” He groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as he let go. Hot ropes of his release flooding your mouth with their heady, salty taste.

You pulled off his shaft, now wet and slick in your own saliva, swallowing a mouthful of his release. His eyes never left you, honing in on the ripple of your delicate throat as you swallowed his come down. Joel couldn't help but hook a thumb into your mouth to unhinge your jaw— to see if anything was left. Nothing was. There never was. Like him, you were too selfish to leave anything.

He should have known better. You never disappoint. “Bambi, you’re too damn good for me.” he panted, skin sweat slick and flushed.

“I promise I'm not.” you whispered to the skin of his lips before he wrapped a large, steadying hand around your arm and pulled you up to his chest. His face met yours and when you looked into those hickory eyes you could have melted on the spot; For the hue of them was nothing like you'd ever seen before, and could command nations to their knees. And if not nations then it could certainly do so to you. “I’m just as damaged as you.`’

The words had his gut in knots because they were akin to holding up a mirror to his visage. And holding his head in place. Holding it still so he was forced to look himself in the eyes and reflect. Reflecting on the monster he’d become. The monster he would always be.

“I’m not asking you to love me, Joel.” You spoke, your voice quiet, slight and timid. Uncertain of his reaction. The way your eyes met his was proof of that. Wide like a foal, wide enough to register the unjust curl of a lip. “ I’m just asking you to stay…”

The words had been burning the tip of your tongue red raw. Each night as he lay beside you, the same questions— words made up of nothing but consonants that had a profound effect on you– would hardly let you rest in his arms. They tortured you instead; Mocked you. It was the equivalent of hanging. You could feel the ghost of a noose around your neck. It might as well have been His hands. It was as rough as them after all.

What is wrong with you? What is so repulsive about you that warrants his departure? Was it the curve of your hips– their dips? Or even the bump on your nose– how dare it not have the perfect influxing curve! The slant of your eyes? The jagged stretch marks on the inside of your thighs! Not only had they the nerve to exist in their silver, shining mockery, posing as a diamond, but they had the fucking nerve to sit where others could see. Fuck them entirely and their very existance. Were those very thighs plump enough? Too plump? Why was there no gap between? Was there too much of a sag to your breasts? The colour of your nipples– why did they have to be that colour? Were the lines on your forehead marring your skin? What on you– about you– detested him? Because if you knew you'd cut it off. You'd change it. You take a knife to your nose and cut it off even if it was just to spite your own face. Now, laying here with him, you wish to be anyone but yourself. Yourself was the woman that disgusted you. It would always be the woman that disgusted you if he didn’t fall in love.

“That's jus’ the thing, Bambi.” He sighed, his mouth moving in a slow hushed mumble. His wind chapped, weathered lips grazed the shell of your ear, “I already do.” Followed by silence, and then: “An’ I ain’t no good at it, I’m afraid.”

That was the problem. Joel thought it had to be a life lived in an entirety of carolling laughter for you. A warm, joyous time. The kind of peace the world seldom granted anyone anymore. Not bound to him by the twine of his selfish nature. In the wrong man’s bed. If the world had told him anything before it was that he deserved to be alone. First Sarah. Then Tess. Ellie too. It was only a matter of time before you left too. He had no clue that what you wanted was just to be held. To be kept. He didn’t have to carve out a hole in himself to accommodate you. Nor give an arm or a limb. He just had to stay. Exactly where he was now. Exactly as he is. But selfish men believe in selfish things. And Joel Miller was a selfish man.

Maybe he wasn't. Humans are, after all, selfish creatures. If we are innately selfish does that make us selfish, or just human. Regardless– Joel was selfish. Yes. But more importantly: He was the damned, the scrutinised, the beggar. All of the above.

Joel Miller was, and forever will be, the fallen.

[whateveriwant]

Dreaming of Angels

Summary: Bucky finds himself dreaming about his girl. His gift from heaven. His angel.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: ~3.9k

Warnings: violence (blood, guns, death), SMUT 18+ (vaginal sex), biiiig ANGST (like, astronomical levels of angst)

Prompt: "Just Like Heaven" - The Cure

A/N: Hello! So, I have to warn you: this is a sad one, folks. Tbh this got much deeper than I expected (wow that sounds pretentious), but that’s life, I guess. Let me just say that I know some of Bucky’s actions may be OOC, but I did it for the angst, alright? So don’t @ me, lol. Also, given the title of the song and this fic, I went pretty heavy-handed with the religious theme. As this is written from Bucky’s POV, I wanted to portray how he interprets the world/his views on religion – not necessarily the reader's. But if my use of biblical imagery makes you feel uncomfortable/unrepresented, then I want to sincerely apologize. It was truly not my intention to exclude anyone in writing this fic, no matter the religious associations I made. With all that being said, this was written for @nellblazer​ 's 80’s Challenge! Congrats on your 6k followers, Nell! To any and everyone who reads this, I hope you enjoy!

Bucky reclines in his beach chair, letting the sun warm his skin. For once, it's a lazy day. Apparently, supervillains take days off, too. Thus, a gathering of Shield agents and Avengers decided to visit the Stark-donated private beach for their welcomed day of respite.

While most of the beach-goers are out in the water – playing chicken fight, Marco Polo, and other silly games – Bucky is content to stay lounging where it’s warm and dry. He watches Sam get knocked off of Steve’s shoulders by a well-timed push from Wanda, chuckling as he resurfaces to splutter out a mouthful of water.

Bucky continues to watch his team’s antics when he notices a figure approaching his flank. He turns his head, seeing the new Shield agent walking up to him.

Well… “new” is a bit of a misleading title. She’s been an agent for several months at this point – definitely long enough for Bucky to have bred a healthy infatuation with her – but she’s still technically the newest addition to the organization.

She stands before him, her head eclipsing the sun – her own personal halo formed from the obscured rays. It’s beautiful. Ethereal. Angelic.

“Why are you all the way over here?” She asks, bright eyes looking at him curiously. “You’re so far away from everyone.”

Bucky blinks a few times, ridding himself of his dazed expression. He shrugs casually, “Just didn’t feel like getting in the water today.”

But it’s more than that. He’s used to being alone. It’s familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

“I hear ya,” she laughs, giving him a beaming smile. “I might go dip my toes, but I’m not trying to get my hair wet, you know?”

Bucky grins, nodding to show his understanding.

“Mind if I sit here?” She points to the vacant chair beside him.

“Not at all. Please,” he extends his arm, giving her the go ahead.

She smiles again before sitting down, letting out a low sigh as her eyes slowly drift closed. Bucky watches her for a few minutes, admiring the glow she emits – how the sun kisses and reflects off her skin. His eyes travel over the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the dip of her clavicle.

Does she know how beautiful she is? How breathtaking?

She sits up suddenly, snapping Bucky from his drifting thoughts.

“I think I’m gonna go walk along the shoreline. Want to join?” She turns to him, a slight quirk to her brow.

“Nah, I’m fine,” he shakes his head.

“You’re sure?”

He gives her a half-hearted nod and shrug, choosing to stay by his lonesome like usual.

“Or... I can stay and keep you company, if you’d like.”

He shakes his head again, more fervently this time. “No, please, don’t stay on my behalf.” 

He doesn’t want her to stay out of a sense of obligation. Or worse: pity.

“You go on ahead. I’m okay by myself," he tries giving her an encouraging look.

“Well… alright,” she smiles, but there’s a sadness hidden behind her eyes. “But feel free to join me.” She stands, making a start towards the water’s edge.

Bucky watches her pad down the beach, walking towards the horizon. A trail of delicate footprints follow after her – left behind in the sand, waiting to be swept away with the tide. 

Does she see the way I look at her? Does she know how much I've fallen for her?

No, probably not. She’s too good for me; too pure. What would she want with this broken soul anyway?

He doesn’t verbalize his thoughts, but he projects them outwards – letting them be swallowed up by the waves. Breathed in by the cosmos. Known only by God.

~*~

Suddenly, the image shifts. 

She’s walking away from him again. But this time, it's into a bunker. It’s just the two of them here; Sam and Wanda cover the sky, Steve and a few Shield agents are tunneling through an underground entrance, and the rest are on the other side of the fortification.

Bucky’s never had a mission partner before. And honestly? He’s never really wanted one. He prefers to fly solo. It’s just quicker that way. Easier. Better.

At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself.

Because, if he’s going to actually be truthful, he was beyond relieved when he found out she’d be his partner for this mission. They’re walking into this practically blind – what little intel they have doing next to nothing in warning them of the potential dangers that await.

It’s not that she’s incapable of defending herself, nor is it that other agents would do an inadequate job of watching her back. Rather, Bucky’s just more assured that he’s the one who’ll be looking out for her today – that he’ll be safeguarding her.

They enter through the thick, concrete archway, quickly descending to the subterranean levels of the facility. Following the desolate hallways, they come up empty handed. No intel. No enemies. Nothing.

At a fork in the hall, she turns to Bucky, being all business.

“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” she nods towards the respective corridors.

“Why don’t we just stick together?” He asks, puzzled by her suggestion.

On any other mission with any other partner, Bucky would’ve happily split up. But given the circumstances of this mission and this agent he’s paired with, Bucky is hesitant to separate the partnership.

“We’ll cover more ground in less time,” she states matter-of-factly. “Really, Sergeant Barnes, as a military man, I thought you’d be all about efficiency,” she smirks.

“I’m more concerned with safety, actually,” his voice is completely devoid of humor.

That being said, she does have a point. If they take separate paths, they’ll cut their time in half – meaning the sooner they’ll get back to the safe confines of the jet outside. While they haven’t encountered anything yet – or more specifically, anyone – that doesn’t mean the rest of the bunker is threat-free. 

But despite the ‘what-ifs’ that could await them, Bucky relents to her suggestion – wanting to expedite the mission and get out as soon as possible.

“But keep your comms on and have that at the ready,” he adds with unwavering conviction, indicating the firearm in her hands.

“You got it, Sarge,” she says seriously.

They trek down their separate corridors. All the while, Bucky has her talk through the comms – telling him everything she sees and finds. Again, it’s a whole lot of nothing.

As they descend further and further into the earth, their comm link starts crackling – struggling to penetrate the yards of concrete between them. Bucky stops in his tracks, tapping at his earpiece.

"You there?" He asks her, getting silence in return. He says her name, trying to catch her attention. "Agent? Report back."

Again, he's met with zero response from her end. Then suddenly, her voice breaks through the silence – sounding garbled and choppy.

"Sergeant… surroun… half a doz… Help!"

Even if it weren't for the sentence fragments he hears, the panic in her voice has Bucky flying down the hallway at a break-neck speed.

I knew we shouldn't have separated. I knew something would go wrong if I wasn't there to protect her.

Worry runs rampant through his thoughts as he winds through the maze of corridors, frantically trying to locate her. 

As he nears another passage, Bucky hears shouting coming from the end of the hallway. Turning the corner, he stumbles upon a gruesome scene.

Five bodies litter the floor – crimson pools lying beneath each hole-riddled corpse. At least she put her gun to good use, a proud tone paints his thoughts.

Bucky turns one more corner, unfortunately finding the sixth and final foe still alive and well. What's worse, the man has Bucky's partner pinned to the wall – choking the life out of her.

Bucky doesn't hesitate; he raises his rifle and sends a bullet through the man's temple. The man immediately slumps to the ground – Bucky's partner similarly falling down now that she's no longer being held up by her throat.

Bucky races over, kicking the man’s body out of the way as he goes to kneel before her. Blood covers her face. Though most of it belongs to the corpse on the floor beside them, the sight still sickens Bucky – defiling her usual purity.

One of her hands holds her chest to collect her breath while the other holds her thigh to stanch a gunshot wound. Bucky unzips his tactical vest to rip off a piece of his undershirt – quickly applying a makeshift tourniquet around her leg.

“We need to get you to the jet,” he says resolutely. “Can you stand?”

She nods, still struggling to breathe. Bucky helps her to her feet and, as soon as she’s standing, she tosses her arms around his neck. At first, he thinks she’s just lost her balance. But then she tightens her hold on him, pulling him into a suffocating hug.

Bucky is stunned for a second. Then, tentatively, he reciprocates – firmly wrapping his arms around her waist. He holds her for a few moments in complete silence – every thought banished from his mind other than the feeling of her body against his.

He eyes an outline on the wall behind her: a splatter of blood in the shape of a downward facing crescent moon – her head accounting for the negative space in the pattern. It’s a terrifying image. A crown of blood. A red halo.

A few sobs shake her frame and Bucky shushes her, rubbing a comforting hand over her back.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he whispers. He stares at the impression on the wall a while longer before finally shutting his eyes, turning his head to press his lips to her hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you, Angel.”

~*~

The image shifts once more.

She’s in his arms again. But this time, she’s in his bed. She lies beneath him, bared in all her glory. Her hair is splayed out around her head, creating a halo of locks.

“Do that thing with your hips,” she bites her lip, giving him a faux innocent look. “The thing that makes me scream.”

“You mean this?” He grinds against her, his length rubbing her bundle of nerves.

“YES!” She cries out. “THAT!”

He chuckles, continuing to grind his pelvis against hers. He doesn’t enter her yet – just simply rocks to and fro over her sensitive bud.

Her brows knit together, absorbed in the feeling he stirs in her belly. “Keep that up and you can make me wifey tomorrow,” she pants.

Bucky suddenly halts his hips, drawing a pathetic whine from her mouth. “What did you say?” He asks, bewilderment coloring his voice.

“We can go to the courthouse first thing in the morning for all I care,” she says breathlessly, trying to appease him. “Just keep moving,” she wriggles in an attempt to find that much-desired friction again.

He grabs her hips, forcing her to keep still. Cocking a brow, he gives her a confused look. “I’ve never asked you to marry me.”

She shrugs, “I know.”

“Then why did you say that?” He’s not angry, just perplexed.

Sighing, she pushes him onto his haunches, sitting up with him.

“Because... I know you want to ask me,” she says carefully, gauging his reaction. “And yet, you’re stopping yourself,” she frowns.

Bucky is stunned. She’s right. Totally, completely, one hundred percent right. He’s wanted to ask her for a while, but he’s never followed through. He doesn’t know how many times he’s caught himself browsing rings before stopping, refusing to humor the possibility of a marriage with her.

Matrimony is considered holy for a reason. It’s meant for those pure of heart and soul; people like her. Not for the damaged and broken; people like him. 

Thus, he can’t bring himself to subject her to that – to tether her to him when there’s so many others who are right for her. Better. Worthy.

She places a palm against his cheek, gently cradling his face. He leans into her hand, savoring the warmth her touch radiates.

“I love you, Bucky Barnes, more than anything in this world, and I don’t want to be with anyone else but you. So, if you’ll have me…,” she drops her hand from his face, grabbing his hand and weaving their fingers together. It’s a silent vow of unity. Commitment. Forever.

“...I’m all in.”

Bucky's speechless, his mind filled with disbelieving thoughts. This must be a dream. This seems too good to be true. This can't be real.

And yet, it is.

She wants him. This girl, this gift from God, this angel sent from heaven… wants him. Bucky's never felt more blessed in his life.

He rears forward, pulling her into a passionate kiss. She giggles against his mouth as he lays her back down, settling between her thighs. He lines up and slides into her with ease, feeling the way her warm walls hug him. 

Being with her like this is Earth-shattering. It steals his breath every time, lest his lecherous words desecrate such a wonderful, sacred act. 

This is bliss. Peace. Paradise.

~~~~~

Bucky wakes with a start, a whisper of her name falling from his lips. The bedsheets are twisted around his legs, trapping him in their cotton embrace. One of his hands is outstretched, grasping at the space beside him in bed. Cold. Empty. Alone. 

It’s been a while since he’s dreamed about her.

But no, they’re not just dreams. Memories. Things he’d actually experienced once upon a time – what feels like a lifetime ago. Really though, it’s not nearly been that long.

He grabs the pillow beside him, burying his face in the silk. It doesn’t smell like her. It hasn’t in a long time. A choked sob leaves his throat and Bucky’s quick to wipe away his tears – not wanting them to stain the pillowcase; it’d just be one more thing of hers he’d ruin.

He tosses and turns, willing himself to fall back asleep. This time, hopefully, without her beautiful visage filling his dreams. He’s not sure he could handle any more tonight.

~~~~~

Several more nights pass and each one has Bucky dreaming about her again and again – getting progressively more difficult as the nights roll on. It’s torture finding such sweet solace in his dreams only to wake back up to his bleak reality.

Of all the terrible things that have happened to Bucky, this is the cruelest joke God’s ever played on him. Bucky should’ve known there was a catch to meeting an angel. To loving one and being loved in return. To calling her his. 

In truth, Bucky always knew she was never his. She always belonged to Him. She was just on loan – just another one of His creations that had a 'return by' date. And that date has come and gone.

Bucky can’t keep doing this night after night. Seeing her face, hearing her voice, feeling her skin, but knowing it’s just a dream – knowing he’ll wake up alone once more – is the most painful thing he’s ever experienced. He’s tried enduring it for her sake – really tried with all his might – but he can’t do it anymore. He’s not strong enough.

Bucky never thought it would come to this – that he’d ever willingly subject himself to the decision he’s chosen. Not after what Hydra put him through for so many years. 

It took a lot on his part to convince the rest of the team, but he was able to make them see that this is the only thing that can mend his broken heart. Splintered soul. Fractured mind. 

Call him a coward, but it was easier being alone when he didn’t have anything else to compare it to. It wasn't quite living – that Bucky is certain of – but it was better than the mere surviving he does now.

His fingers graze the picture frame in his hand. He’s collected all of the other images of her, but this is the last one – his favorite one. Thus, he wants to enjoy one last look at it. 

She stands in a field of coral- and blush-colored peonies, a golden sun setting behind her. She smiles brightly at the camera. Glowing. Beaming. Radiant. Bucky traces the angle of her jaw, the curve of her lip, the line of her neck – all the places he used to do on her warm flesh. That feeling's now replaced by the cold glass in the frame.

“I love you,” he whispers, tears pricking his eyes. And if God is merciful... “Maybe I’ll see you again some day.”

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against the glass. As the tears obscure his vision, he wipes them away – needing his final look at her to be through clear eyes.

“Goodbye, Angel.”

He sets the frame face down before exiting the room, heading to where Wanda waits for him.

~~~~~

Bucky paces back and forth in his room. He’s restless, but he’s not sure why. He feels like this day is important – that there’s something he should be doing – but he can’t remember what exactly. For all he knows, it’s just another mid-Spring day.

As he continues his tread, he hears a noise coming from the hall. Peeking into the corridor, he sees the remainder of the team not currently on a mission walking by. They’re dressed well – in their “Sunday best” as Bucky’s mother would’ve said – and Steve’s even holding a bouquet of some kind of pink flowers.

“...gonna visit her like we do every year,” Bucky hears Steve say. “He’d want us to, even if he doesn’t remember.”

Bucky steps into the hallway, curiosity piqued. “Who are you visiting?” He asks the group, stopping them in their tracks. “And why are you dressed like that? It’s like you’re going to church.”

They’re all silent for a moment, exchanging unreadable looks with one another. Finally, Steve speaks up. “Uh… we’re visiting my mom, Sarah. It’s the anniversary of her passing so I wanted to leave her these,” he gently waves around the flowers.

“And we thought we’d come along for, um, moral support,” Wanda adds, gesturing to her and Sam.

Oh. So that’s why Bucky felt like today held some importance. He’d apparently forgotten the date of Sarah Rogers’ passing.

“Do you mind if I come along?” Mrs. Rogers was an important woman to Bucky – almost like a second mother to him – and he wants to pay his respects.

The group exchanges another round of looks before eventually conceding, nodding for Bucky to join them. He quickly changes into more formal attire before heading out with the others.

The trip to the cemetery is relatively quick. However, along the way, the congregation makes a stop at a local florist’s – picking up a couple of additional bouquets.

“For Winnifred,” Steve offers one to Bucky.

“Right. Thanks,” Bucky accepts the white roses, realizing he should pay his own mother a visit since he’ll already be there. And while he finds it strange, Bucky doesn’t question why two bunches of flowers were purchased from the shop; he figures it’s none of his business.

The group arrives at the cemetery and traipses along the cobblestone path. Everywhere they turn, they’re surrounded by a maze of headstones. A sea of epitaphs. A monument of loss. 

They stop first at Sarah Rogers’ grave. Steve hands Wanda the bouquet of pink flowers before placing the roses atop the headstone. He tilts his head downwards, saying a few words of grace, before standing in silence.

Bucky closes his eyes, internally reflecting on his own words for Mrs. Rogers. After a few moments, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s give him some time to himself,” Sam whispers.

Bucky opens his eyes, spotting Wanda rubbing a consoling hand over Steve’s back. Bucky looks over to Sam, nodding in agreement.

Bucky and Sam make their way over to Winnifred Barnes’ plot several rows away from where Steve and Wanda remain. Bucky sets the roses down before repeating his motions from earlier: closing his eyes and internally voicing his words.

After several minutes, Steve and Wanda rejoin their side – the pink flowers having disappeared from Wanda’s hand. Steve whispers something to Sam to which he nods.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Sam says, taking off towards the direction of the entrance.

Bucky watches after him, seeing him stop before another headstone.

“Would you like me to say a few words?” Steve asks, drawing Bucky’s attention back to Winnifred’s grave.

“Please,” Bucky gestures for Steve to go ahead.

As Steve begins talking, Bucky looks back over to Sam. He sees him press a kiss to his fingers before placing them against the headstone. Sam wipes at his cheeks, regaining his composure, before returning to the group.

Once Steve has finished his speech, the group heads to leave – having no other plots to visit. As they’re walking towards the entrance, Bucky dawdles at the back of the group. When he gets a chance, he separates from the others. He's curious to see who Sam paid a visit to and thus wants to investigate.

Bucky walks over a row or two, easily finding the plot he had seen Sam standing before. It’s a beautiful headstone: impressively large, rectangular-cut, white marble; someone must’ve really cherished this person to choose such an elegant monument for them. 

He notices the fresh, pink bouquet set atop the marble. It’s oddly similar to the one Wanda had been holding earlier, though, Bucky can’t imagine it is the same bunch. Why would Wanda have left it here?

Bucky doesn’t recognize the name engraved in the marble. While the woman shares his surname, so do many other thousands of people in New York. Besides, the hyphen in her name tells Bucky this woman is most likely not a blood relative of his – “Barnes” having been the surname she adopted from her partner in life.

He looks over the inscription on the headstone. There are no specific dates mentioned, just simply the years of her birth and death – the latter being only a few years ago. She was still a young woman – still had a long life ahead of her. He wonders what could’ve brought about an early demise for someone with so much life left to live.

Bucky reads over the rest of the engraved elegy. The last words impart a final goodbye from the woman’s loved ones.

A beloved daughter, friend, and wife. Rest in Paradise, “Angel”.

Bucky doesn’t know who this woman is, but whoever she was, she must have been deeply loved by those she left behind. And judging by the reaction Sam had while standing by her plot, she must have really been something special.

As with the other two graves he visited, Bucky thinks a few words of grace. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know her; it’s simply the respectful thing to do.

“It was nice to meet you…,” Bucky looks again at the plaque – the last word seemingly a term of endearment for her. “...Angel,” he addresses her.

The nickname rings with familiarity as it rolls off his tongue, but Bucky can’t place why. He lets his fingers lightly graze the marble as he passes it, walking back to join his team. After a day full of mourning, they all need a bit of a breather.

Once they arrive home, Bucky slinks to his room, shutting out the rest of the world with his door. He lays down in bed, closing his eyes as the sheets tenderly embrace him.

When it’s my time, will there be someone to leave me flowers? Would anyone ever want to?

Bucky doesn’t know the answers to these questions – completely unsure about what his future holds. For now, he’s resigned to continue living his life as he always has. 

Comfortable. Peaceful. Alone.

__________

A/N: I’m sorry, but I did tell you it was sad. Also, I hope I didn’t ruin this song for anyone. It’s actually quite upbeat and not at all depressing like this fic lol. Anyways, I’d love to know what you thought! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

[ichigo-daifuku]

Biblical Sense

Obey Me! Fanfiction [Read on AO3]

Angel!Lucifer/Succubus

Frustrated with the state of affairs surrounding his father's rule in the Celestial Realm, Lucifer the Archangel descends to the human world with a purpose: to commit a transgression against the Most High and soil his virtuous hands.

There, he meets a succubus who leads him to engage in a different kind of corruption altogether, one defiling the virtue of chastity.

Explicit | Pre-Canon, Introspection, Mentions of Canon-Typical Violence, One Night Stand, Oral Sex, Loss of Virginity, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Blasphemy

Contains references to Lucifer's Devilgram Story, The Glory Days. 

Word Count: 7k

To know someone in the biblical sense is to have sexual relations with them.

In the beginning, the Morning Star descended from the Celestial Realm.

Engulfed by the brightest of the lights, he came down from the night sky like a shooting star. A thud resounded from his feet the moment they landed on the human world’s soil. He folded his wings, their brilliance fading as he switched from his armor of light to his casual clothing and assumed his human-like form. Alone in a garden, the darkness brought by the current time in this realm made him blink a few times, his eyes adjusting to this change for a moment while the chirping of crickets filled his ears.

Lucifer the Archangel stepped out from the shadows, fallen leaves crumbling under his feet with every step. Rumors had brought him to this place—rumors angels weren’t supposed to hear yet he was privy to due to his status. A wishing fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard, a little demon in its zenith wearing a hat and holding a pot that trickled the water down to its base. Surrounded by trimmed hedges, the scent of red and white roses hung in the air in the most intoxicating way possible that he could imagine the taste of rosewater on his tongue. Though calm and composed on the outside, the normalcy of this wicked place took him by surprise. He expected something more… sinister.

Beyond the maze of the courtyard, a mansion that could only be described as lavish stood. Its exterior’s grandeur was all he needed to see to know that whoever was residing in it was far from impoverished, but he supposed that would be the case for this was a territory of demons, the creatures of indulgence. He made his way closer to the mansion, noting no sign of anyone except for the lights illuminating the windows. His hands balled into fists, he stood in front of the tall doors, unable to bring himself to swing it open and be done with his purpose in a minute. However, his dilemma was short-lived as the lock clicked, the door creaking as it opened.

A woman revealed herself from beyond the wood, her stature barely reaching his shoulders. Long tresses cascaded over her back, the straps of the cotton white nightdress she wore hidden by the locks of hair falling on her shoulders, the hem reaching the middle of her thighs. Barefoot, she cradled two objects with her hand and separated them when she had let go of the knob.

“Apple?” Unfazed by his sudden appearance, she offered the fruit inside her outstretched palm to him, taking a bite of the half-eaten apple on her other hand.

It was unlike any regular apple he had seen before; a considerable portion on top of it purple while the bottom looked a regular green. Suspicious, he narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you think I should be the one asking you that question?”

Lucifer shot her a glare to which she responded with a sly smile curving up her lips. 

“A premium item found exclusively in the Devildom, Princess’s Poison Apple. Despite its name, it’s safe to eat,” she took another bite, the crisp sound an evidence of its freshness, and swallowed before adding, “and delicious.”

She loosened her fingers on the apple and shifted her wrist sideways, the movement leading his attention to shift from her face to the movement of her hand. On reflex, he reached out his palms and set them together to catch the fruit, the gravity of his actions dawning on him the second the deed was done. Pleased with the turn of events, she chuckled and raised her own apple as if she was saying a toast for their meeting and chewed on another bite.

It wasn’t Lucifer’s first time to encounter food from the Devildom, and it wouldn’t be his first time to partake in it. He brought the fruit closer to his face and inhaled. No strange scent emanated from it. He parted his lips and took a bite, the sourness of the apple and an unexpected sweetness blended perfectly with it satisfying his palate.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” she asked and spun around without waiting for his answer. “Come inside.”

Her nonchalance and her every action so far irked Lucifer, but he couldn’t complain when they worked in his favor for he would never admit to this strange apple being delicious. He bit into the apple once again and stepped inside the house, sealing the door shut behind him.

With quiet footsteps, she led him up the staircase and into a series of corridors. Portraits of females, both in demon and human-like forms adorned the walls, a variety of depictions of horned women performing illicit acts with mortal men alternating with them. He shook his head and sighed, finding these poor excuses of art tasteless.

“Ever been to the Devildom?” she asked out of the blue, neither looking back nor slowing down her steps.

“That’s none of your business.”

In truth, Lucifer had been to her world. Darkness prevailed in the Devildom, and he could still recall the way mud went flying everywhere and soiling his armor when his feet touched its ground. Up to this day, it was one of the worst experiences he has ever had, and he made sure that this fact was known to his hosts. Still, he had no reason to share the experience with this stranger.

“I’ve never been to the Celestial Realm myself,” she told him.

“For a good reason.”

“What was that?”

“Demons such as yourself have no place in the Celestial Realm.”

“I see. So, you really are an angel.” She faced him but continued walking backward, the spring in her steps an indication of her liking the confirmation of her suspicions.

He had just spit out an insult directed to her and her kind, so why and how was she, at the very least, unoffended? “How did you know?”

“I can feel it, the purity radiating off you.” She halted in front of one of the rooms, turning from him and opening the door. “It’s impossible to ignore and so… enticing.”

It was the same for him. An aura of evil radiated from her presence, masked by the fragrance of roses. He was unsure where it emanated, from her body or from the garden outside, but he recognized the sweet scent of it all too well: temptation.

She ushered him inside a drawing-room that matched the lavishness of the house’s exterior. A candelabra chandelier illuminated the space together with the lamps on the walls, the fire in the hearth contributing to the light and providing warmth to the space. The giant mirror hung menacingly by the bookshelf caught his attention at once. On the corner of the room, a sleek grand piano rested, an untouched chess game across it. An intricate table with matching plush seats served as the room’s centerpiece.

“Welcome. Feel free to sit wherever you like,” she said and exited the room, leaving him to observe the place for himself.

Out of curiosity, he wandered around, passing by the mirror and getting a glimpse of his reflection. He looked quite weary, he thought, but nevertheless, alert and ready for anything. Casting those thoughts aside, he strode to the bookshelf and scanned the spines for their titles, judging the residents of this house through them.

Before he knew it, she returned with a tray of refreshments and arranged them on the table. Swirls of steam flowed from the matching pair of teacups as she poured the fresh brew inside them. Beside each cup, a slice of sponge cake waited while other baked goods were also in the middle of the table, ready to be eaten.

“What is that?” Lucifer marched over to her direction and asked, his tone both cautious and accusatory.

“You might have already heard of it, but it’s called black tea.” She paid no heed to his unfriendly behavior and continued, “Teatime wouldn’t be complete without pastries, don’t you think so?”

He set his half-eaten apple on the tray and sat down. “There better be no strange ingredient in this, demon.”

An amused laugh bubbled from her lips. “I promise you, there isn’t.”

After serving the refreshments, she took her cup and saucer with her hands and sat across him, blowing the steam for a second before taking a sip. It was only when she had begun indulging in her slice of cake that Lucifer sipped his own tea, assured that he would not drop dead if he were to partake in whatever she had served him. He couldn’t help it; her hospitality left him unsettled. The brew was flavorful, yet he held back compliments and set the cup down. The lightness of the sponge cake would be the perfect pair for it, and he picked up his fork to take a portion but was halted midway by her query.

“You’re not going to say grace?”

“No,” Lucifer threw back irritatedly. It didn’t cross his mind to say grace at all, and the small victory on his part satisfied him.

“Interesting,” she commented and indulged on a forkful of sponge cake, dabbing the corner of her lips with a napkin.

Lucifer disliked how she was treating him like a spectacle. He was no creature for a demon’s amusement, and he had an urge to let her know of this fact, seeing how unguarded she was acting around him and how pleasant she was treating him. With complete sang-froid, this demon was underestimating him, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. He sized up his opponent and weighed in his options.

She picked up her teacup and leaned back in her seat, still as relaxed as ever. “Why are you here?”

“And if I told you I am not here for anything?”

“You wouldn’t have found this place if you weren’t. This mansion is a succubi’s den,” she stated and sipped her tea. “And in the human world, too.”

“A succubi’s den?” The rumors proved to be true; this was a place established by demons, but the fact that it was by the succubi was an unknown tidbit to him. He refused to imagine why the succubi needed a place like this in the human world, but with one of their kind sitting in front of him, images of these female demons—including her—preying on unsuspecting mortals made their way into his mind so vividly that he had begun to wonder if the incubi had established something similar.

“Yes. Every being that comes and goes from this place is here for life’s carnal pleasures.” She crossed her legs, giving him a glimpse of the skin on her upper thighs, which he couldn’t decide if she intended to do or not. “So, tell me, angel, what is it that you are here for?”

Angel. She spoke the word in a way that it was almost like an affectionate pet name. He hated it. The implication of her statement sparked wrath within him. “You have no right to speak to me that way, vile succubus.”

To his surprise and further vexation, she didn’t even flinch at his tone or insult. “Do you want to leave?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He would not. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had accomplished his goal. Once he had set his eyes on something, he would consider it done, and this wasn’t an exception.

“Alright. Let’s enjoy our tea?”

For a while, nobody spoke. The clink of the ceramic as she set her teacup down accentuated the pin-drop silence. He started eating his food in an attempt to collect himself and think rationally, as he always did. She let him be, filling his cup once she noticed it was empty and doing the same to her own.

As she placed the teapot down, Lucifer found himself saying, “To begin a rebellion.”

“Hm?”

“You asked what I am here for,” he replied, “that is my answer.”

He clenched his hands, the forlorn faces of his younger brothers etched inside his mind, the memory of the tears streaming down his sister’s face so crystal clear to him. So much has happened, and though his siblings were a messy bunch at times, they didn’t deserve this. It was the last straw. It was time to put an end to their suffering.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Shameless creature. Why don’t you stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“True.” She chuckled and placed her elbows on the table, folding her fingers together and setting her chin on top of them. “An angel is going to sin. How lovely.”

There it was again, her fascination with him that bothered Lucifer so much. It made him want to expose her true colors—her nature as a demon—and push her buttons to make her lose her cool.

“Aren’t you concerned for your well-being?” he challenged, giving her a hint of his intentions.

“That depends. Are you here to kill me or are you here to sleep with me?”

“You seem to be rather calm about the first prospect.”

“I’m not going down without a fight if that’s what you mean.”

“I’d be disappointed if you would.”

She stretched her arms and stood. Wordlessly, she made her way to the piano and picked up a ribbon he hadn’t noticed earlier from above it. Her fingers deft, she stepped in front of the mirror on the wall and gathered her hair. The delicate skin on the nape of her neck as she encircled her locks with the bow and tied it piqued his interest, and she met his eyes through her reflection, unsurprised that he was already staring. “Battle me, then.”

Lucifer had been scrutinizing her every movement, noting gracefulness up to the smallest of things. The challenge she issued took him out of the trance-like state he was having, and he internally chided himself for letting his mind wander.

“How very foolish of you to propose such a thing,” Lucifer replied. But also very bold, he didn’t say. He gestured over the laid out chessboard on the corner of the room. “Very well. Be my opponent in a game of chess.”

“A game of chess? That’s strange, but sure. If I win—”

“You don’t get to make the rules, succubus,” he said with a glare. “If you defeat me, I’ll spare you and leave, but if I win, I’ll choose what I’ll do with you.”

“I didn’t know that angels had it in them to be so unfair.” She turned around, pleasantly surprised. “But since everything about you is so irresistible, I agree to your terms.”

Irresistible. She wasn’t the first demon he had the chance to encounter, but everything she said threw him off. The sight of the hair behind her back bouncing as she strolled to the chessboard attracted his attention, but this wasn’t the time to dwell on his initial impression of her. He followed suit, aiming for the dark crystal pieces he had always favored over the light and clear variations. It seemed she was in agreement with this as she immediately went behind the clear pieces and sat down.

“Ladies first,” he urged.

“My, what a gentleman you are.”

Foolish demon. He was giving her a handicap, yet all she was thinking of was how much of a gentleman he was? She was careless. The two of them sat closer now as compared to when they had their refreshments. Lucifer’s eyes darted from her to the chessboard she examined, clearing his throat the moment he found himself distracted once again. Her dainty fingers moved a pawn forward to another square, and the game officially began. Strange as she was, it didn’t take long for her to ask him questions.

“Is it true that it’s eternally daytime in the Celestial Realm?” she queried once it was her next turn.

“What do you think?” he fired back absentmindedly, deciding on which piece to move. He broke into a pleased smile as he made the first capture and eliminated her pawn, placing it on his side.

“There it is,” she pointed out.

His eyes flickered from the chessboard to her. “What?”

“Your smile. It’s radiant.” She smiled in return and chuckled. “You seemed tense. It’s fine. There’s no one for you to impress here. It’s just me.”

“You know nothing.”

“You’re right about that, I don’t. Are all angels this stoic?”

“Is that an insult?”

“Only if you consider it one,” she quipped. “Well? Are they?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Good to know.”

If there was anything he learned from his loss in another chess game with a certain demon, it would be underestimating his opponent. She might look all innocent and conventionally attractive, but she was still a demon; a cunning creature of the dark who existed to bring disorder and chaos, wreak havoc among the three worlds, and exploit the weaknesses of her enemies. He just knew she was setting a trap somewhere and fooling him, but to his frustration, all she did was continue firing one question after another.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have several brothers and a sister.”

“I see.”

Her lips curved into a frown as she calculated her next move. Up until that moment, she had been nothing but all smiles, but the seriousness in her demeanor caught his interest further. She moved a rook in silence. Every time she asked him something, he assumed she would share about herself, yet she never did. How odd.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Hm?” She raised her gaze at him, pausing her competitive train of thought. “You could say my fellow succubi are my sisters, in a way?”

He nodded, considering the thought. In his long existence, his one and only sister has caused him so much trouble, but she was the dearest and most precious angel of all, the one he and his brothers adored and doted on. All that aside, he could only imagine how life would be like with a lot of sisters. At the furrow that made its way into his brows, she began laughing. For an evil creature, the peal of her genuine laughter was similar to carefully crafted notes in a musical piece, and Lucifer found it hard to believe that he was able to make such a comparison.

She proved to be a worthy opponent, he would give her that, but not good enough to beat him. Despite her assumption that she has a chance of winning, he captured all of her pieces with only a few to spare on his own. 

“Checkmate,” Lucifer stated proudly, ending the match.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she stood and sauntered to the tall window, gazing over the courtyard. Lucifer concluded that she must have known the moment he stepped foot on the succubi’s property. His train of thought was cut short as the breeze billowed her hair and the skirt of her nightdress, the curtains in rhythm with them, hiding and revealing her from his sight in flashes. The moonbeam illuminated her form in the most unearthly way, and his throat bobbed as he took in the sight to behold. At that moment, she was far from the horrific creature that he assumed she would be, but the certainty that she was a demon—a succubus—stood out, for she possessed a beauty so sinful that he had no doubt only a being meant for seduction could be so alluring. Like he was being summoned by a siren, he stood and followed her, the air highlighting the fragrance of roses which, right now, in all the senses he possessed, felt holier than incense.

“Do it,” she dared as she lifted her head to look his way, the fire in her eyes telling him that she truly wasn’t going down without a fight.

This night was the turning point in Lucifer’s life. In the clash against his father, his siblings needed not to stain their holiness nor stand beside him; he was prepared to do this on his own. Still, he had a hunch that they would follow him for all of them had always counted and trusted his decisions, but if that were to happen, as their eldest brother, he needed to be the one to take the brunt of everything, especially this initial step. Determined, Lucifer would soil his hands in an act of disobedience to his father. His holiness was one of the main ideals that tied Lucifer to him, and Lucifer would sever it and burn the image his father expected of his son, tainting his purity and showing his father that he was no longer his child. His father, all-knowing and all-powerful, would know at once when Lucifer would appear before him that Lucifer disobeyed. As his father organized the appropriate chastisement meant for him, Lucifer would face him without regret and declare, I will no longer follow you.

Lucifer would scale the heavens, and above the stars of his father, he would set up his throne. He would ascend above the tops of the clouds. In the process, he would leave no stone unturned. Always true to his convictions, he vowed to reach his end goal, and this was a leap in the path he was walking on.

To soil his hands with another’s blood or to defile the virtue of chastity; she had asked him earlier which one he was here for, and though he evaded the question, she was able to tell which was the answer in the end. In truth, he had only had the former in mind. The sin he aimed to commit was murder. A demon would be dispensable, he had decided, and it wouldn’t matter if there were one or a hundred demons in this mansion; he came prepared to destroy all of them with his bare hands, and if he were to be severely outnumbered, he was equipped with the dagger hidden in his coat. It turned out, she was alone. This succubus would be no match against him, a high-ranking angel, one of those who wielded the most power in the Celestial Realm.

But in the game of seduction the two of them played the second their gazes connected, the wide eyes that had stared back at him with intrigue when the door opened held him captive. He was the one who was no match for her.

Lucifer has had enough denying it; he coveted her. She would be his ruin.

He took her by the wrist and pulled her against him, unable to discern what sort of unholy spirit was taking over his body but meaning every word as he whispered, “Sin with me.”

“What?” she exclaimed, bewildered. She was expecting him to strike and fulfill his original purpose, not coax her into giving in to her lecherous desires. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You refuse me?” he clarified disbelievingly. This succubus, a creature who lived and breathed concupiscence, was rejecting him, Lucifer the Archangel, and his proposition. “You dare refuse me?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, angel. This is difficult for me, maybe even more than it is to you.” She glared and shook her wrist from his grasp, staggering backward to put space between them. “This wasn’t what you were here for. You were here for your bloodlust, not your lust.”

He supposed it was correct; she was drawn to his light while he was enticed by her darkness. It was true yet ironic that an angel and a demon would be each other’s temptation, but here they were, the very manifestation of the iniquitous idea. 

His resistance thrown out the window, Lucifer stepped closer and pulled her in again, trapping her body with his by the window. He slowly dipped his head, his heated gaze connecting with hers in a silent challenge while hers searched for an ounce of hesitation in his choice, her resolve faltering when she found none. The tips of their noses brushed, and her eyes fluttered closed, his own doing the same at the first caress of their lips. She kissed him back, pliant and eager when his tongue slid to the seam of her lips and met her own, satisfying each other’s curiosity but awakening another hunger altogether.

She pulled away, close enough that their lips barely touched but still shared each other’s warmth. “You’re actually serious about it?”

“I want you,” Lucifer stated as he traced her collarbone with his fingertips, cradling her shoulder with his other hand.

“I…” She averted her gaze. “I want you, too. Of course, I do.”

“I know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he stated, the blush on her cheeks telling him as much. “Where’s your room?”

“Right across this—”

That was all he needed to know. He wasted no time and took her hand in his, leading her to her bedroom. Once inside, he removed his gloves and coat and hung them on a chair, his vest following suit. As he loosened his tie and pulled it off, he chuckled at the feeling of her gaze boring into his back and pointed out, “You’re looking at me so wantonly.”

“I think I’ve been doing that for quite a while now…”

He turned around and strode closer to her, giving her a challenging stare. “Show me what’s been running inside that mind of yours, then.”

She reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, taking all the time in the world and savoring the slow pace of revealing his skin. With hesitant fingertips, she brushed over the contours of his abdomen, moving upward to splay her hands over his torso before taking his shirt by the collars and discarding it. She kept quiet and continued to take in his appearance up close. Warm palms reached to cradle his cheeks and slowly moved to touch the hair on the sides of his forehead, coming back to trace his jawline. Her touch was gentle, and her was voice full of reverence as she said, “Everything about you is so radiant.”

A strange feeling washed over him and caused his skin to flush, and he sought her lips again before she had the chance to notice. He carded his fingers through her soft locks and caressed the nape of her neck, his palm sliding over the small of her back to draw her closer. She broke the kiss and pressed her lips on his shoulder, moving down to his chest and his abdomen, worshipping his form. With a glance at him, she sank to her knees, and Lucifer has never seen a more beautiful sight. From below, her hands worked to remove his footwear and undo his trousers, baring his body completely. At first, Lucifer thought that she undressed him for her eyes to have something to feast on, but all he found in her wide-eyed gaze was awe, as though she was a firm believer of a deity and was looking at one. He liked that; it stroked his ego and made him feel powerful.

It gave him a sense of pride.

“Open your mouth,” Lucifer commanded.

She swallowed but responded by doing as he asked which satisfied him, immediately knowing what he wanted. Her lips parted, she took the tip of his hard cock in her mouth and ran her tongue across it. Slowly, she slid his length further, all the while holding his stare, and her head bobbed forward and backward as she sucked him with zeal and innate talent that suggested her nature as a sexual being. He closed his eyes and marveled at the sensation in his groin, her hand that grasped his base running up and down in rhythm to the ministrations provided by her lips and tongue. How could something so sinful feel so heavenly? It was too good in the way only forbidden things could be, he was unsure if he could get enough of this feeling.

Caught in the haze of sensual pleasure, his eyes fluttered open and found her doing something which… displeased him. Lucifer cradled the back of her head with his palm and urged her to take him further, testing her limits. “Are you touching yourself? Who told you that you could do that?”

A strangled noise of surprise and confusion rumbled from her throat, making him release the groan he had been trying his best to hold back. She retracted the hand that was nestled between her thighs and placed it on the floor to steady herself instead. Satisfied, he released her and wiped her wet lips with his thumb, urging a response.

“I wanted to,” she answered haughtily, panting, “that’s why I did it.”

“Come to me, evil one.”

Her legs wobbly, she stumbled as she stood and braced herself with her hands on his shoulders. Lucifer let out a sigh of disapproval but proceeded to take her by the waist and hook her legs around his hips, carrying her to the bed. He undid the ribbon in her hair, leaving it to splay over the sheets like a grand halo, and between the two of them, it was difficult to differentiate who was the angel and the demon. The hem of her nightdress hiked up by the sudden motion, he leaned back, and his gaze traveled downward and was welcomed by the sight of her sex, dripping for him through the fabric of her underwear. After a curious swipe of his finger over the cloth, he said, “All you needed to do was ask, and I would have done it for you.”

She whined, shifting her hips in search of friction, her voice so pleasant in his ears that he yearned to do more to hear it again.

Did she add a dose or two of aphrodisiac in the black tea she served him? In the Princess’s Poison Apple she liked so much? Lucifer couldn’t recall, but he was positive she didn’t. He could find no explanation why he was being like this, his whole body blazing with arousal for this woman. “Or better yet…”

He tugged her underwear and slid it over her legs and feet, discarding it to the side. The longing to see the entirety of her led his fingers to trace her legs and slip the nightdress over her head. He was no stranger to the sight of a woman’s body, but it was the first time he stared at one with open desire. She was a true creature of sin. The idea that he would be a notch on her bedpost ruffled his feathers. It shouldn’t matter. No, it didn’t matter. It didn’t bother him at the slightest. A casual affair was all they were to each other, nothing more and nothing less. Unable to deny his yearning to acquaint his skin with this stranger’s own, he parted her legs. She obliged with a moan, her fingers shivering with anticipation as she encircled his shaft and stroked him before guiding him to her entrance. He slid inside her, groaning, but as he went on further, the tightness and the exquisite clench of her walls around him led him to an unbelievable conclusion. “You… You’re a virgin?”

“Don’t say it like that.” She turned her head away, covering her flushed face with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. “It’s not as if I’m completely innocent. I’m a demon, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Then, why?” he asked, unsheathing himself from her and leaning back, confused.

She pulled away from him and sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her naked body, vulnerable at her confession. “You could say that tonight is my initiation. My fellow succubi brought me to this world to lure a mortal man, seduce him, and become a full-fledged succubus.

“It’s all garbage to me. If I fail, I would be deemed unworthy and become labeled as a regular demon, and if worse comes to worst, I could die at the hands of my kind, but then again, I could have done so with yours tonight, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m still not going down without a fight.”

As these customs were unknown to him, the possibility of her strange sense of purity being intact was something that never crossed his mind. From the burning need in her gaze to the passion in her touches to the ardor in her kisses… This succubus was a temptress through and through, and yet...

She equated his quiet moment of contemplation with disgust. “We’ve accomplished your purpose tonight, haven’t we? If that’s all, you can leave.”

“No,” he growled, the audacity of her dismissal offensive to him. Lucifer grabbed her by her hips and returned her to where she was before—where she rightfully belonged tonight. Despite her assumption, he found it quite the opposite. To be the first one to bring this creature to the highest of the highs for the first time in her existence, he felt gratification and triumph. He pinned her wrists over the mattress and hovered over her, regarding her with both want and need, intent on finishing what he started thoroughly. “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

“But you… I… I see.” Her eyes flickered from his grasp on her to his carnal gaze, understanding. “Do you enjoy that? Do you like being in control?”

“Yes. Very much so,” he admitted.

She nodded, and as if she was repenting for her behavior, he felt her surrender and submission as her whole body went lax underneath him, giving him permission to do as he desired. Lucifer rewarded her with a kiss, an absolution she was more than happy to receive, her body quivering with anticipation for more.

And so, Lucifer knew her.

He parted her legs, aligned himself against her slick entrance, and once again eased his length inside. She shut her eyes, her eyebrows furrowing and moans falling past her lips with every inch of him she graciously received. Once he had fully buried himself inside her, his body tensed as he kept himself from unsheathing himself and thrusting into her again and again with wild abandon. 

Breathless, she opened her eyes and wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to continue. “You don’t need to be so gentle. I’m not one to break so easily. I can handle you.”

At the reassurance, he found no doubt in her capability to do so, and for that he was glad. He was done holding back. “You asked for it.”

Guided by his primal instincts, he slammed inside her relentlessly, the grasp he had on her wrist tightening as his every thrust grew in intensity. It was a connection of two troubled souls: an angel and a devil in an act of consummation outside the sanctity of marriage. As he sank into her and her hips met his every movement, they crossed the line between the sacred and the profane. It was as if both of them were each other’s tools. Tonight, he was saving her by ruining her, and she was ruining him as a catalyst for his rebellion. But at the same time, no event in his existence has ever felt so intimate. A decision made with his free will, this was the night he welcomed the dark side he didn’t know he had, or perhaps, he has always had but laid dormant inside him—too enamored by his light to show up, but now shining in its own in the company of darkness.

At the frenetic pace of the meeting of their bodies, her hands clenched into fists, and she trembled underneath him and climaxed. No painting hung on the hallways did this moment justice: the sweat on her forehead, her reddened cheeks, her swollen lips—everything about her screamed unadulterated lust. Every detail dissolved into white light as he chased his own peak. His eyes shut, his jaw slackened, and his cock pulsated inside her with his release, leading him to loosen her wrists from the restraints of his palms.

As she took him in her embrace, found his lips with her own, and shifted their positions for another bout of their illicit liaison, she freed him from the noose surrounding his neck that was his halo. He should be feeling the darkness of the pit, yet he has never felt so high, the pure bliss that any promised land could never compare to taking over his whole being.

Lucifer had sinned.

And he saw that it was good.

Lucifer strode through the mansion’s courtyard, navigating through the zigzag of the maze as if it was second nature to him. The fragrance of roses stronger than ever, he sped past the fountain with the little demon, the water giving off a beautiful sparkle as the night slowly met the day. Soon, he was at the spot he landed on a few hours ago. As he was about to change into his natural form, a voice halted him and made him turn around.

“Wait!” the succubus called.

She emerged from the exit of the maze and ran toward him, barefoot, wearing that white nightdress again and smiling when she found him waiting for her.

Why wasn’t she wearing any sandals? Did she traverse in the maze with those bare feet of hers? Lucifer didn’t care, but through the confusion, he asked instead, “What are you doing here? Why did you follow me?”

“Here. These are for you.” She waltzed over to him and took his gloved hand in hers, securing the handle of the picnic basket she held in it. “More Princess’s Poison Apples and black tea leaves.” 

“I didn’t ask for these.” He attempted to hand the picnic basket back to her, but she shook her head and stepped out of his reach. 

“You liked them, I think, especially the apple,” she told him. “Who knows when you’ll get another chance to have a taste of this Devildom fruit? You’re welcome.”

He frowned, wondering if she was teasing him for trying to hide that fact. The picnic basket remained in his hand. If there was anything he learned in the few hours that he had known her, it was that she was not one to back down so easily, no matter what the circumstances were, including this one.

She roused him from his reverie by saying, “If you are already this beautiful in your human form, then I can only imagine how beautiful you truly are in your natural form.”

He masked his startled reaction with a sigh. Her assumption reminded Lucifer that she was unaware he was heaven’s most prized. To her, he was an angel who was about to stir trouble, and that was all she knew. He couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten that fact, but he still managed to admonish, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Not if I’m being honest.”

“Vile succubus.”

“That’s me, angel.” She laughed and cleared her throat before continuing, “It’s none of my business, I know, but whatever you’re planning, it’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

He kept quiet, refusing to dignify her question with an answer.

She nodded, neither prying nor asking more. “It’s okay. I wish you the very best of luck.”

“I need no luck to succeed in it.”

“Maybe not.” She ambled closer to him and stood on her tiptoes, pressing a gentle kiss on his lips. “Take care. You know where to find me.”

How dare she brush her lips against his on her own accord, those lips he had so thoroughly kissed? How dare she suggest that the night they shared would have a repeat one day? How dare she suggest that he should seek her for another tryst? Though these questions plagued his mind as he gazed at her retreating form, a part of him knew deep down that she was someone he wouldn’t forget. The night he shared with her was a memory that would be branded inside his mind to last until the end of time.

It was the moment he had shifted his life into a new path with the defiance of his father’s insufferable orders and expectations. His transgressions—his blasphemous behavior—were serious matters his father would never let slide, and his fellow angels, the righteous and holy, would condemn his failure against morality. However, things had changed. All of those he had once loved about himself and now hated and strived to get away from no longer rooted his feet to the authority of someone else. He was no disciple who merely followed, and he would say no more prayers and sing no more praises. He existed no longer for his father’s purpose, but for his own. The sheer power of individualism spurred his ambition for he was now the master of his own fate and nobody else. He would no longer be invisible under his father’s shadow for he would assert his own greatness and take pride in his own merits.

“Be not afraid.”

“Why would I be afraid of you?”

Lucifer laughed, assumed his natural form, and spun around, the shining aura emanating from his wings faltering for a second before retaining their brilliance. He turned his head and took one last peek at her awed and stunned expression from above his topmost wings before he lifted his feet off the ground, leaving a beam of light in his wake as he went farther. Against the morning air, he flew high and soared in his own wings, the fragrance of freedom as fresh as the morning dew on the roses and leaves.

As the light slowly faded, she managed to collect herself and waved at him from below, wondering when their paths would cross again, if they ever would. When she saw him no more, she turned to leave, but something swirled down from the sky and caught her attention.

With a smile, she opened her palm and waited for the white feather to land on it.

Dawn had broken completely when the Morning Star ascended to the Celestial Realm. Standing in front of the gates of heaven, a revelation struck Lucifer and led him to stop and stare at the picnic basket in his hand.

He did not even know her name.

Special thanks to @photoproses​ for brainstorming with me and for being the first reader of this story.

And thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read this! 💙

Obey Me! Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[calmlftv]

demon!ash au - a synopsis

w/n: a BIG thank you to @califl0wer for originally inspiring this AU, to @spicycal for letting me bounce ideas off of her, and to @irwinkitten​ for giving me live reactions 🥺but here is it, the synopsis! i’m posting this before anything else simply because i’ll be using a lot of different terms, and since i’m a sl*t for details, i like being able to use those terms consistently and i don’t want any readers getting confused by them/their importance. i’ll be putting this before anything i write in the warnings as well, but this series is going to be graphic; i love writing really intense shit like this, so i will be writing some details that may make certain readers uncomfortable. as this is a synopsis, i will keep things very general, but the beginning is already written and starts off pretty intense! 

this is a demon!ashton irwin x fem!fallen angel!reader au!

overall series rating: 18+, for intense situations, possibly future smut, strong language, graphic imagery

taglist: @spicycal @castaway-cashton​ @irwinkitten​ @n-ctarinenga​ @thesubtweeter​ @ashisonthefloor​ @ashtonsos​

The World - A General Definition of Terms & Setting

* Time setting: Summer/Fall of 2020; minus COVID-19 ever happening.

* Mortals live on the Surface. It is called this because it’s the only plane of existence where every single creature can exist; from the fae to the demons to the cryptids, they all exist on this single temporal plane together. 

* Demons are from the Underworld. This is located very close to the center of the Earth, and is covered in the various colors of fire: red, orange, blue, and white (on occasion). 

* Angels & the Fallen are from the Heavens. This is about as close to the biblical description of heaven: golden streets, singing angels, and all. It has been added that angels do get halos and wings, bc I’m a cliche hoe. 

* The Fallen are a community of rogue Angels that reside on the Surface. They made the decision to fall out of the Heavens and crash land on Earth, and their wings are maimed and shredded during their fall so they can’t fly back up, usually they are “operated” on and shortened to small nubs. You are a member of the Fallen, having decided the Angel lifestyle was too cookie cutter for you. 

* The Inbetween is the land of punishment for Angels. No one knows what it’s like, but it’s an Angel’s worst nightmare; when an Angel returns from the Inbetween, they tend to not talk about it and fall in line.

* Every demon has a mark, which indicates how they die. Wherever the mark is located is where the death injury occurred. The way they died is the only mortal memory that demons have. 

The Underworld - A Guide to Royalty & Demons

* An individual who is sentenced to the Underworld must endure a form of torture for eternity. The torture depends on their mortal lives and the sins they committed. 

* Souls can become a demon after fulfilling a majority of their torture. No one knows what “majority” means, so a soul may never become a demon or become one after 10 years. There’s different variations of demons, but for the purposes of this universe, I’ll be mostly focusing on “normal” demons, with honorable mentions of other types throughout.

* Demons only get one appearance; they do not physically age. Their hair and nails will grow like a human’s, and they can trim or cut that as they wish.

* There is one King of the Underworld; he has his High Court, which also serves as his Inner Circle. They are the people he trusts the most, and they rule the Underworld together, with the King having ultimate power. Ashton is King in this universe, and the other 5sos boys are his High Court/Inner Circle. 

* The King and his High Court are the most powerful demons in existence. They’re the only ones who have certain powers, and the King is the only one able to sense when magical/heavenly/demonic creatures are nearby. They all hold the ability to communicate telepathically, and that’s how they communicate while in crowded spaces/surrounded by open ears.

The Heavens - A Guide to Angels & Fallen

* Angels are the very same angelic beings as described in the bible, but much less terrifying; one face, one set of wings, halos that glow beautifully, the whole nine yards. Their lives are very structured, and they live by a set schedule. Deviating from that schedule earns Angels a punishment.

* Angels can travel between the Heavens and the Surface with ease. Usually they only come down for emergency reasons, but Angels are aware of what goes on on the Surface.

* Fallen are able to hide their nubby wings easily; most of them opt to disguise them as scars, but they cannot completely remove their wings; it’s their punishment for leaving their Angel lifestyle, to live with the pain. Usually Fallen are not in pain when their wings are disguised. Removing the wings entirely can and will result in death, and no one knows what happens when a Fallen dies. 

* Fallen are able to change their appearance in minor ways on the Surface. Maybe a cuter nose, a different hair color, or putting tattoos on their skin. Major changes (like a sex change, body shape) will take a bit of help from other Fallen, who can lend some of their power for that. They do not physically age.

* All Fallen dispose of their halos usually. They’re not needed anymore, although some opt to keep them as a decoration for their homes. 

* You live in a community of Fallen that have bought out an apartment complex. You do not have to pay rent, but you get a job anyway so you can afford to live among mortals a bit easier. 

w/n 2.0: hopefully this helps paint the image of this world in your head! if y’all have any questions, ideas, hate mail, pls send it to my inbox! “in the beginning” is coming soon! have a lovely Sunday 😊❤️

[roadtohell]

@mynamesdrstuff​ thank you ur brain is so big, i had like 10 moments of revelation while writing this

A Labour of Love- or, How to Write a Song That Makes Me Want to Lie Facedown On The Floor

Four decades separates the respective rises of singer-songwriters Hozier and Bruce Springsteen, nearly as large as the gap between the worlds in which their public images reside. According to popular myth, the former is the tall, near-ethereal Bog Man, half in this life and half in the next, who rose from a fae-inhabited woodland after 1000 years of slumber to find he was able only to mourn his lost love through song; the other is the Boss, a hardy yet compassionate working-class hero permanently streaked with the blood and sweat of a marathon shift, toiling endlessly alongside the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, earth-quaking, booty-shaking, Viagra-taking*, love-making, legendary E Street Band. The domains of fen and factory may appear to be irreconcilable, but in reality the musicians have many things in common:

Broadly speaking, they both create wildly variable mixes of folk and rock, often with particularly strong Irish and African-American influences.

Their lyrics are poetic and commonly reflect on social issues with a progressive voice.

Songs about romantic relationships typically portray them as complex and difficult but remain respectful, sometimes near worshipful, of women.

Their characters yearn, long, pine and crave more often than not.

They both really like to use religious imagery.

They enjoy and return notable amounts of wlw love.

Representative of many of these are Hozier’s “Work Song” and Springsteen’s “Maria’s Bed”, two songs with close thematic parallels. Each is ostensibly told from the perspective of an exhausted labourer who dreams of returning to his lover. In a twist, however, “Work Song” is a melancholic love story, while the upbeat “Maria’s Bed” is a subtle tale of death; the opposing moods are complex reflections of these underlying narratives. These songs have Hozier and Springsteen skilfully intertwine the concepts of love, death, freedom and spirituality, creating two deeply moving portrayals of desire** that never fail to eviscerate the listener after 10pm.

Though the songs differ in overall lyrical structure, the similarities in narrative are evident from the first few lines:

Boys, workin' on empty / Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? / I just think about my baby / I'm so full of love I could barely eat

Been on a barbed wire highway forty days and nights / I ain’t complaining, it’s my job and it suits me right / I got a sweet soul fever rushing round my head / I’m gonna sleep tonight in Maria’s bed

The audience can gather that each character works in a harsh environment where they are exposed to the elements. Their work is likely in manual labour, but the details are skimmed over because the narrators don’t particularly want to think about the details. Pushed to their limits, each instead copes by preoccupying himself with thoughts of his lover, though it makes him literally lovesick.

I’d never want once from the cherry tree / ‘Cause my baby’s sweet as can be / She gives me toothaches just from kissing me

She gives me candy-stick kisses ‘neath a wolf-dog moon / A sweet breath and she’ll take you, mister, to the upper room

The worker recalls his lover’s kisses as being vibrantly sweet, sweeter than nature. So, too, is her company- in contrast to the grim situation he is currently in, she is something to be savoured. Sugar cravings, an innate biological compulsion, come to mind; his hankering for her is likewise deep-seated and out of his control.

The reason for such devotion, the narrator reveals, is that she saved his life at a time when he had already resigned himself to death. He believes he was undeserving of such a deed; Hozier describes “three days on a drunken sin… she never asked me once about the wrong I did,” while Springsteen’s character recounts being “burned by angels, sold wings of lead / then I fell in the roses and sweet salvation of Maria’s bed”. In other words, his state of ruin was at least partially self-made, and her care seemed completely inexplicable. He eagerly returns her love, perhaps feeling that it’s the least he owes- but he still doesn’t quite understand where it came from.

True to both songwriters’ styles, these lines are direct allusions to the idea of redemption in Christianity: God sheltering a faithful person from the literally hellish consequences of their wrongdoing, through no merit of their own. However, the worker is notably dismissive of traditional doctrine:

My babe would never fret none / About what my hands and my body done / If the Lord don’t forgive me / I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me

I’ve been out in the desert, yeah, doing my time / Searching through the dust for fool’s gold, looking for a sign / Holy man says “hold on, brother, there’s a light up ahead” / Ain’t nothing like the light that shines on me in Maria’s bed

His faith rests not in God but on his lover; she is his religion now. Her act of grace already gave him a new, better life- he doesn’t need biblical promises when her love is tantamount to anything heaven might offer. This implication conveys a staggering depth of feeling, particularly to a religiously raised listener. Spirituality is, at its core, emotional; combined with the values and customs of religion, it is a force that can exert incredible influence over a person. The worker doesn’t reject spirituality itself- it’s an intrinsic part of him- but he has put all that power in the hands of the one he adores. It may make him vulnerable to her (that’s love!), but he is certain that she will give him the strength he needs.

Theological redemption also has close ties with death, as its benefits aren’t meant to be reaped on earth. Instead, the love, glory and freedom that are promised are relegated to the afterlife. Historically, the presumed ecstasy of achieving this gave death a sexual connotation; after all, if a lover could take the spiritual place of God, then perhaps sex could take the role of death as a gateway to paradise, far away from a life of pain. Work Song embraces this analogy, explicitly linking spiritual fulfilment to the pleasure of sexual intimacy:

When I was kissing on my baby / And she put her love down, soft and sweet / In the low lamplight, I was free / Heaven and hell were words to me

The equally suggestive Maria’s Bed allows the audience to draw similar conclusions, but it accomplishes this using a far less serious method: regular mentions of the titular bed, wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Yet this light-hearted sauciness is something of a misdirection. It’s easy to gloss over the song’s references to water, but they are strong hints that support an alternative reading: Maria is not a woman, but a river***. The story, from this perspective, then becomes much more sombre- the worker is a dying or suicidal man who wishes to have his body laid at the bottom of a river that provided for him in life, and whose real desire is for the peace he hopes to find there in death.

Got on my dead man’s suit and smiling skull ring / Lucky graveyard boots and a song to sing / I keep my heart in my work, my troubles in my head / And I keep my soul in Maria’s bed

This darker interpretation arguably makes more sense than the face-value love story, as it resolves some figures of speech that otherwise seem out of place. Even so, the more obvious reading is no less meaningful****; in fact, the coexistence of these narratives is what makes Maria’s Bed an almost perfect thematic inverse to Work Song.

When my time comes around / Lay me gently in the cold dark earth / No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her

Hozier uses the finality of death to illustrate the strength of a man’s desire for love- his narrator embraces his own passing as he is certain not even the most permanent of barriers can keep him from his lover. Springsteen, through the personification of the river, uses the language of romance to demonstrate how fervently a man might desire death- his narrator embraces his demise because it offers a reprieve from life, just like a lover would.

All that said, no amount of lyrical analysis will reveal the clearest point of contrast the songs have: their music.

Work Song primarily draws from blues and folk music, both of which have roots in historical work songs used to coordinate physical tasks as well as boost morale. Reflecting this musical heritage, instrumentation is fairly simple, with the steady rhythm of claps and piano chords punctuating hard. It is slow and heartfelt, almost mournful; though there’s no mention of time frame, the audience has the sense that the worker still has a long way to go before he can return to his lover.  This notion comes largely from the song’s circular structure. By ending with the same music it opened with, its story is also implied to finish at its beginning: with the men hard at work in the “burning heat”, and no true relief in sight. This is furthered by having little development over the course of the song- though iterations of the chorus are more intense than the verses, the arrangements underlying both sections barely change. The worker, it seems, is never quite far enough from his reality of hard labour, and never close enough to home.

On the other hand, Maria’s Bed is relentlessly optimistic, driven by a strong forward momentum. Where most modern songs have their choruses as their most powerful feature, here the wordless refrain (“hey hey, la la la li li li li”) acts more like a transition between verses, keeping the story moving. The jaunty fiddles that fade out are quite different to the introductory guitar and organ, suggesting the worker’s situation has developed for the better. In addition, the orchestration builds continually, only briefly pulling back before the music culminates in an extended musical outro. Many of the instruments work in counterpoint, each additional layer contributing to an air of an unrestrained joy that is further spurred on by Springsteen’s high hums and whoops. The linear musical direction and overall impression of good cowboy fun results in the feeling that, unlike the singer of Work Song, the narrator is already on his way to his heart’s desire- though, in light of the lyrics, what this actually means is somewhat ambiguous. Are those final echoes him moving out of earshot… or his ghost ascending to the “upper room” of heaven?

We may not know for sure how either of these stories end, but we can feel the aching hope for something better. This longing is an emotional line that runs all the way through both Springsteen and Hozier’s work, though it never seems to get old. Combined with explorations of love, faith, life, death- that’s why we return to their music again and again; they are experts at playing on old motifs and universal themes in new and creative ways, their crafted melodies and narratives touching wild and industrial hearts alike.

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* I am legally obligated to include all these adjectives.

** Maria’s Bed seems to be sadly obscure even among fans; the one and only online forum discussion I have seen about the song refers to it as “not that deep”. Having written this whole essay- if Springsteen himself said that to me, I’d laugh in his face.

*** A random internet comment I can’t find anymore backs me up on this. It even specified that it was about the Santa Maria River in California, as quoted “from Bruce”. Obviously an infallible source 😊

**** It’s important that “[drinking] the cool clear waters” can totally be the description of oral sex you thought it was.

[iobjectfa20]

Lippi’s Madonna and Child

Filippo Lippi (1406-1469)

Madonna and Child with Two Angels, 1460-1465 ca.

Tempera on wood

95x62 cm

The Uffizi Galleries

-----------------------------

Why I chose this piece

When thinking about what piece to choose, I was stuck for a few days. I felt that I did not have any objects in mind that were ‘strong enough” in their objection. Most of the art that I have studied has been within the European realm and, therefore, Eurocentric. I was not sure if a European piece would be as appropriate or powerful as a painting or sculpture from a culture that had been colonized by Europeans. However, as I thought about it more, I concluded that dismantling harmful ideas and stereotypes produced by Eurocentrism within Europe is just as crucial as dismantling them in previously colonized cultures. 

I feel a deep connection to the Renaissance and Italian culture in my academic studies because of my undergraduate degree in Italian. I knew I wanted to carry what I learned during the last four years into my graduate work, and this project seemed like the perfect opportunity. There were lots of different artists and paintings that I could have chosen. There is Artemisia Gentileschi, a woman artist who rivals Caravaggio in skill and style. Or Elisabetta Sirani, another woman artist from the Renaissance who opened a painting academy for women. Their works contrast the Eurocentric norms of the time, by their status as women artists and the subjects of their art. 

I chose Filippo Lippi’s piece for a few different reasons. The first is that it is my favorite painting from the Renaissance. The first time I heard the story behind the painting’s history, I was enthralled. Like the painting’s physical beauty, I thought the story was beautiful and liberating. My thoughts changed later upon hearing another version of the painting’s history, but for the most part, I still find myself caught up in the emotion of the original sentiment I studied. The second reason I chose this painting is its role in cementing some but contesting other Greco-Roman norms, many of which persist today. The Renaissance’s goal to reclaim ancient Greek and Roman culture and harmful Christian ideals created a dangerous and oppressive situation for women in the Renaissance. Since many cultures worldwide have been shaped by these same Eurocentric cultural aspects, I think the painting’s objection to women’s status at its time of creation makes it all the more powerful. Its power transcends time and is still important today.

This painting is by no means a perfect representation of Filippo Lippi or his character, as I describe in more detail below. However, I think it shows objection to religious and social ideas we abide by today, especially in Christian culture, that were seemingly cemented in the Renaissance. I also think it is an excellent piece to explore Eurocentric historicism, which I discuss below. I enjoyed revisiting my favorite Renaissance work of art, and it turned out to be the perfect piece for me in completing this project. 

Reframing the object

Lippi’s Madonna and Child with Two Angels has been a symbol of resistance in my eyes since I first learned about it in my undergraduate Renaissance art history class. While the Renaissance was about breaking the rules, new rules regulated the breaking of those old rules. The push away from traditional religious iconography and imagery in the Renaissance did not mean that religious painting and sculpture commissions stopped--quite the opposite, actually. Biblical scenes and characters' secularization led to a boom in inspiration and production, with hundreds of annunciation, crucifixion, and “Madonna and child” scenes portrayed in the Renaissance style. These scenes were often inserted into a Tuscan landscape, depicting characters according to Italian beauty standards at the time. 

Upon first glance, this painting may appear to be another standard “Madonna and child” from the early Renaissance. Mary, dressed in blue and seated in the foreground, adheres to the ideals of Renaissance beauty. With blond hair, a high forehead, and brown eyes, she depicts the ideal woman from this period. Her skin is also a pale cream, another ideal physical aspect of Italian society and art during the Renaissance. After the first glance, though, it becomes clear that Mary’s face is not the generic face of any particular Italian woman walking down the street. Her face is uncannily similar to the face of Lucrezia Buti, Lippi’s wife. 

The act of using his wife as a model for the mother of God may not have been scandalous in and of itself. However, Lippi, an ordained priest, and Buti, a nun, had an affair that resulted in children out of wedlock. Historically, the narrative has been that Lippi kidnapped Buti during a public Catholic procession, taking her to his home in Prato, where their affair ensued. It is unclear whether the kidnapping was a front because Buti could not leave her convent, or if it was an actual kidnapping, meaning she was held against her will and raped multiple times. Most of what we know about Lippi and Buti comes from Giorgio Vasari’s The Lives of the Artists, a collection of biographies published in 1550 written about the best artists of the Renaissance. Vasari was known to exaggerate and alter stories for his dramatic literary gain. He was also a raging sexist, excluding numerous successful and famous women artists from his work. How much of Lippi and Buti’s story is true is up for debate. 

Lippi and Buti’s statuses in the Catholic church made their affair extremely scandalous, even by Renaissance standards. Themes of carnality and sexual liberation were increasingly common in art and literature, but purity, modesty, and virginity remained crucial aspects of religious life. Lippi and Buti’s children, who were born out of wedlock, were proof of their Catholic faith's betrayal. As punishment, they should have been exiled from Florence at the very least. The Medici family, who ruled Florence and the surrounding villages, allowed Lippi and Buti to remain in the city and live as a typical family so long as Lippi completed painting commissions at the family’s request. With their significant political influence and artistic patronage, the Medici family acquired a special dispensation for Lippi and Buti to marry. It is unclear whether they ever did, which would have only added to the shame of their domestic and religious situation. 

It is impossible to ignore the possibility that Buti may have been a victim of sexual assault in this story. If it is true, Lippi’s work cannot be separated from his status as a rapist. However, given that there is no clear evidence that he is or is not, the more common narrative that he kidnapped Buti because she could not leave the convent and that they truly loved each other has persisted. This being the standard narrative speaks volumes to the ways history is written to protect and favor men.

Using Buti as his model for Mary, Lippi smashes the expectation that women should be modest and pure. His wife, a disgraced nun and mother of bastard children, is the face of the mother of God. Lippi objected to harmful and sexist gender roles in doing this. Mary has long since been the “ideal” feminine model for women living within the Christian sphere. Her veneration, which partially stems from her virginity, has been used to keep women sexually repressed and stuck in submissive social and domestic roles. 

Patriarchy and its harmful consequences cannot be separated from Eurocentrism. In reframing Lippi’s Madonna and Child with Two Angels, I would like to apply Dipesh Chakrabarty’s theory regarding Eurocentrism and historicism. If we look at this painting and the traditional narrative of Mary, Christianity, and women’s roles, it goes against Eurocentric historicism. A woman like Buti would be considered a whore to most people during the Renaissance, even though she is possibly a survivor of sexual assault. 

Religion, sex, and patriarchy do not exist in a vacuum. Nor are they determined by history. We make decisions every day (conscious and unconscious) that uphold the harmful effects of negative sex representation in patriarchal religious settings, much like those in the Renaissance did. This was not because people did not “know any better.” Scholarship and rhetoric surrounding women’s rights and freedom were relatively well-circulated during the Renaissance. Books like Christine de Pizan’s The Book of the City of Ladies set forth numerous arguments for women's liberation and their various essential roles in society. Like today, people chose to use tradition and “history” to continue reinforcing harmful stereotypes, expectations, and ideals for women. 

Lippi and Buti’s story is complicated. We will never know what truly unfolded nearly 600 years ago, mainly because the male-centered narrative has persisted in their case. However, Lippi’s painting does object to religious standards of the time. With his painting, a woman can be held with the highest regard, regardless of her sexual past. It goes against the Eurocentric patriarchal tradition and breaks away from the European historicism that claims women’s treatment was shaped solely upon the cultural norms of the past that peristed in the Renaissance. This piece is one of the most famous works from the Renaissance, and it is still widely celebrated today. Its place in art academia makes it a piece of persisting resistance that can serve as inspiration to break away from gender norms in religion and society today, as Lippi and Buti did so many years ago.

--Darian Rahnis

[slytherpuff9]

Things I Cannot And Will Not Believe Anymore

1.People are inherently evil.

2.People deserve the apocalypse/hell.

3. Women are responsible for the sexual impulses of men/can control the sexual impulses of men.

4. Men deserve authority over women.

5. Doubt is the devil using my spiritual gifts against me.

6.I owe sex to my husband/other forms of submission or obedience to my husband.

7. LGBTQIA+ are confused/evil/led astray -- their orientation/identification is wrong or invalid and forcing them to change/deny this about themselves will be good for them.

8. Women should not be in positions of leadership/roles that are considered to be traditionally masculine. Certainly not over men.

9. Jesus is the only absolution you need for sins that hurt other people.

10. Self-worth is pride/arrogance/vanity.

11. Religious values should dictate secular laws/civil rights.

12. Intimacy (psychological OR physical) that I share with men I love before I meet/marry my husband cheats my husband out of elements of my sexuality/liberties upon my body to which he is entitled.

13. Mental illness is merely a soul crying out for God and professional help is a scam to steal your money and lead you away from God.

14. People in unfortunate situations must have done something to deserve it/bring it upon themselves.

15. Women who have abortions want to kill their babies/hate children/are cruel and callous and loose/would choose murder over living with consequences of their presumed promiscuous lifestyle/believe abortion is the only form of birth control.

16. Men cannot and should not be expected to control their sexual impulses toward others on their own. (see #3)

17. Evidence supporting scientific/medical/psychological advancements that clash with a literal interpretation of the biblical account should be ignored, boycotted, banned, and impeded or even outlawed.

18. Sexual confidence (real or perceived) cheapens one’s worth as a person or invalidates one’s spirituality.

19. Teens cannot be trusted with an actual education in safe sex. In fact, I should deliberately mislead my daughter about birth control until FOUR MONTHS BEFORE HER WEDDING. There’s no way that could backfire spectacularly, cause damage to her health, her marriage, or even my ambitions to have grandchildren one day. (NOT ON YOUR LIFE, NOT FOR MANY, MANY YEARS!!!)

20. People who are not “with” me -- who believe what I do without question -- are “against” me -- militantly attacking me personally. The people “out there” are out to get me. They want to tear down my faith and send me and my children to hell.

21. Teens and unmarried women cannot be trusted with freely available contraception. If we make contraception available, they will do ALL the sex! O.O *gasp! horror! clutches pearls!*

22. It is okay and an expression of Christ-like love to demand that other people forsake their lifestyle, religion, and worldview, but feel personally persecuted and threatened when they question mine.

23. Teens cannot be trusted.

24. Women cannot be trusted.

25. Men cannot be trusted.

26. Doubt is selfish/dangerous/a slippery slope and means I’m not really sincere in my faith, or my faith is weak, or can grieve the Holy Spirit and take away my faith completely.

27. The Bible can and should be used to enforce anti-immigration policy. (see #11)

28. The Bible can and should be used to shame/denigrate victims of police brutality.

29. Unfortunate accidents/hardships that happen to me or my family can and should be seen as signs that God is punishing or testing me.

30. Disobedience -- even psychological disobedience (i.e. skepticism) -- casts into question or completely invalidates my morality.

31. It is okay to rail against affordable healthcare, actively impede it in the polls, then slander health organizations like Planned Parenthood and shame those who accept their help ... all without providing a viable alternative but claiming that the church can do it better.

32. “You just need to have faith”, “It’s a mystery”, “That’s a good/hard question, I’ll get back to you” (but he never DID), or “That’s the Old Testament Law, Jesus freed us from that” (when so many other O.T. laws are quoted and used to define sin, just sayin’ ...) are ACCEPTABLE and SATISFACTORY answers to questions about the 100% literal, true, God-breathed verses explicitly prescribing stoning or marrying rape survivors to their rapists ...

10/10 FELT SO SAFE AS A TEENAGE AND YOUNG ADULT CHRISTIAN WOMAN!

33. People who reject the evangelical message are just butt-hurt, pouty, selfish, petulant liberals who don’t want to face hard truths.

34. People who believe differently or celebrate different religious holidays in winter should be forced to use my seasonal religious greeting and failure to do so indicates a vitriolic antagonism to everything I stand for. But it is unreasonable to expect me to extend the same consideration to them.

35. It is okay to deny/limit/discourage my child’s access to the level of education required to succeed in the world we live in (even with the caveat that it clashes with my beliefs/worldview and I believe it to be false) because I do not trust my child to discern my interpretation of the Bible in the face of a single chapter in their no doubt riveting 10th grade biology textbook. I’m sure they’ll just breeze through that in college.

36. Children are also not to be trusted with intellectual/psychological/spiritual autonomy.

37. Not a single word of this book could possibly have been mistranslated, misinterpreted, metaphorical, made obsolete with time, or simply penned by a woefully misguided human being. (see #32)

38. If I open my mind enough to really understand the person I am trying to reach, my brain will fall out.

39. To seriously question these things is to deny my faith/attack that of others.

40. It is okay to train a child to be a soldier in my culture war.

41. It’s okay -- virtuous and caring, even -- to tell someone who is struggling or grieving that this life is meant to be a trial and their lot will improve drastically after they die.

42. There was a point in human history when water covered Everest by 22 feet of water, and scientists are actively hiding the geological evidence because they are in league with Satan and want me to go to hell.

43. Obedience = protection. “If you just follow God’s plan, nothing bad will ever happen to you.” The Bible is Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth and if you just do what it says, you’ll live a long and successful and fulfilling life.

44. Bad things happen to good people because omniscient God has reason to question/test their devotion. They are just being petulant or are deluded about their secret sin/doubt/disobedience, and if they search themslves and the Bible, they will see that God is well within His rights to hurt their families/hurt them/cause this hardship. (see #1,2,5,10,14,18,20,26,29,30)

45. It is okay -- advisable, even -- to tell someone who is struggling that they are being prideful/sinful/selfish, and they need to “die to self”. That can in no way be interpreted as a message of “just get over yourself or die already.”

46. In fact, just the whole ANY death imagery should be considered kind and appropriate dialogue with a human being who might be thinking of suicide. They should just know that isn’t what I mean at this turbulent point in their life. I have no responsibility to consider any other interpretation of my words or the biblical jargon/verses I use. I have no responsibility to examine what those words/jargon/verses really even say.

47. A survivor of abuse or assault has a civic duty to come forward to keep me and my daughters/children safe, but I have NO civic duty to believe/accept their account if:

a. I know the perpetrator.

b. They know the perpetrator.

c. They wear clothes I disapprove of.

d. It’s been a certain period of time.

e. They behave in a way that I disapprove of.

f. They are “sex-crazed/rebellious” teenagers or unmarried young adults.

g. The perpetrator is a public figure I approve of.

h. They “allowed” themselves to be alone with the perpetrator/somehow “put themselves” in this situation.

i. They continued a relationship with the perpetrator.

j. They are married/related to the perpetrator.

k. I am THE authority on what is abuse/assault, and believe their account does not qualify.

48. Not only do I NOT have a civic duty to believe/accept the accounts of abuse/assault survivors, I have the right to slander them publicly when I don’t. To shame them. To question the veracity of their account in the same breath that I demand why they didn’t jump at the chance to defend the women I actually care about in the wake of their trauma. They are the problem here.

49. It is impossible to have a fulfilling spiritual experience/personal contentment in life if I do not believe all of the things on this list.

50. It is certainly impossible to have a fulfilling spiritual experience/relationship with compassionate and unconditionally loving Christ if I do not believe all of the things on this list.

51. I have a spiritual and civic duty to force society worldwide to conform to my specific beliefs. (see #11)

52. It is okay to tell an underage girl that her clothing is distracting grown men in the congregation, but NOT tell the grown men in the congregation presumably raising these complaints that their “distracting” sexual thoughts are predatory and constitute pedophilia, or even incest in some cases. Similarly, it is okay to tell these girls that their clothing is distracting boys their age, but NOT tell these boys that their “distracting” sexual thoughts are predatory and sexually objectifying their sisters in Christ. It is okay to put the onus of males’ sexual sin/distraction on underage girls who presumably have better things to do (like stress about their skirt and posture and bra straps) than listen to the sermon the men are blissfully enjoying.That isn’t at all distracting or distressing to the underage girls, who need the message ... less?

Will add more as they occur to me. If you feel personally attacked by any of these things I no longer believe, please know that was not my intention, but perhaps you ought to bring that to God and find out why it is so offensive to you that I do not believe it. I was taught all of these “values” in a church by wonderful people who know not what their doctrine really says to the children they are raising and the people they are trying to reach.

[lizacstuff]

They fed us well with Max/Liz and then ripped it away. What did you think of their first time?

That entire sequence blew me away. I really could not have asked for more. Prior to the ep I wasn’t expecting we’d get a love scene, but then when they resolved Noah in the first half and I thought maybe, but was worried when Max was acting manic and out-of-control in the cave because I didn’t want him to not be himself for such a pivotal moment with Liz. However, by the time he got to her, he was still euphoric, but totally himself and in control so it worked for me. He was so damn happy. Happy Max is a cutie pie. It’s a nice change after a full season of intense, angsty, angry Max.  

The Savior walking out of the desert was some pretty blatant biblical imagery, and the entire reunion scene was breathtaking. Once again the New Mexico landscape was put to good use. After being separated all episode it was so cathartic to see them running flat out to get to each other. It was cinematic as hell. Well done by the director. I wonder how many takes it took to get the timing right, because on screen it was perfect, he stops and she launches herself at him, and then the way he’s holding her in the air… someone hold me because it’s so dang majestic that I can’t take it.

As for the love scene itself? DAY-UM. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. The setting was insanely romantic, so much so that I didn’t care to ask when they had the time to light candles and start the fire in the fireplace (perhaps Max can do that with his new control over energy) I loved how it started in the living room, and they showed the passion building as they moved around the room tearing each other’s clothes off.

One great thing is that the show invested enough time on the scene, and the director did am amazing job of making it very intimate with the angles and by staying in tight on them. There’s a theme with romantic Max/Liz scenes and that is the sun. We see them in silhouette, the sun flaring between when they first connect psychically in the pilot and then when they finally kiss in episode 9, and now again in this scene. They managed to time their love making so that the sun was streaming right through the windows and giving them that sun-kissed look. I love it. The sun shines on them when they’re happy and when something is blossoming between them.

 However, the best part was the pure emotion. The scene was so many things, passionate, hot, sexy, sweet, tender… but throughout their feelings were on full display. Someone could watch this scene, not having seen a second of the show, and they’d be able to tell that these two people love each other intensely.  I also really loved the little details of her kissing him on the forehead and him kissing the back of her hand. Both moments take place in the middle of a very heated, passionate interlude, but were almost chaste and definitely full of affection.

The scene was the definition of ‘making love’ vs ‘having sex.’

It’s poetic that Liz can’t say “I Love You” so instead she has Max mark her so he can feel what she’s feeling.  At that moment we don’t fully understand why she can’t say the words, but she wants to make sure he knows. He doesn’t even get it at first, thinking maybe she wants an echo of his feelings, judging by how giddy he was later, I’m guessing he got the message. Then that psychic connection is what lets her know something is very wrong with him. I speculate it will also play a role it how he is eventually saved, I think her having that mark is going to be important.

The scene after breaks my heart on rewatch, it’s so playful and shows this amazing glimpse of what their relationship could be all the time, but then the tone shifts and never shifts back. When she is cradling his head against her middle… we should have known he was a goner!  In hindsight it becomes clear that Liz talking about her fresh grief over Rosa is what drives Max to the extreme lengths of impulsively bringing Rosa back and everything hurts. 

All in all, everyone involved did a stellar job, I couldn’t be happier with it.  

[quinnfabrayapologist]

where's the essay. don't hide it in the drafts.

 Okay SO for anyone just now joining us the source of this essay was that someone had gotten upset that both Hozier’s Take me to Church and Taylor Swift’s False God have sort of… horny undertones expressed through religious imagery, and I have a theory as to why these undertones are used, not just in these two songs, but in general. Also aware that people might not want to read this so doing a read more for the essay itself

Now, I’m going to preface this with some information about me: my mother is Catholic, my father is Jewish, when I was younger I went to both Church and Synagogue until I was 8 years old and had my First Holy Communion. I had my Communion as I went to a Catholic primary school (age 5-11) and went to a Catholic high school (age 11-16), too and to this day am a practising Catholic, so this entire “essay” will be very much Catholic focused, which I think works considering that the songs in question were written by (to my knowledge) Christian artists, or artists raised around the Christian faith.

Religion and sex are intrinsically linked, and that’s not sex’s fault. That is something religion did centuries ago. Sex and religion are metaphors for each other and it’s not about insulting either act, it’s about religion tying sex to the very concept of sin creating this religion fuelled repression from a young age in people and as they get older cementing constant association between the very concept of belief and sex. It’s in the bible, it’s an act of creation that was God given, and yet Eve’s punishment for the original sin was childbirth, another act inherently tied to sex.

Time and again sex is mentioned in the bible, and it’s reiterated and reinforced that we as a species have no need for sex (many of the important people from the New Testament were virgins and Mary herself was a Virgin Mother) meaning that anyone participating in the act of sex is viewed, at least by biblical standards, as a glutton for having something they don’t need, and while it’s true that sex isn’t as vital to life as, say, breathing, sex then becomes viewed as a luxury of sorts. The bible states, in both Old and New Testaments, that if a person has sex they are no longer worthy of God’s people. Corinthians calls sex a sin against one’s own body.

The Church teaches the idea of abstinence, chastity and waiting until marriage. They present it as a form of “self control”, like before learning these things we’re no better than a dog humping furniture, when the reality is that they are preaching a very specific kind of self repression in which everything a “good Christian” does is held up to the ideals of innocence and virginity. Anyone who grows within this faith is subjected to the preaching of waiting until marriage and maintaining purity, to such an extent that the two things - sex and religion - become incredibly closely associated on not just a mental but also physical and spiritual level.

Basically, if you were raised in a religion that preaches abstinence, you can’t then separate sex and religion, even if you no longer follow that religion there will always be at least a part of you that makes that link. Through that religion’s own teachings, the two things become unanimous and therefore everything religious comes with horny undertones and everything horny comes with religious undertones.

Honestly I have a much longer essay about this that brings in the two songs mentioned in the first post but it’s currently 1:52am so if anyone wants to know about how this concept applies to songs specifically then please let me know and I’ll write it in the morning but honestly this manifests itself in so many ways and so many places that there’s about a dozen songs I can name off the top of my head that associate religion and sex so intrinsically all because of the teachings they get from their holy texts and sermons and basically religion fucked itself.

[marywardvvell]

This is my second most Cursed feeling theory but the release of all the episode titles gave me more evidence so I feel like it’s time to make a post about Why I Think Zelda Spellman is Pregnant. (Sorry Spellwood shippers, I’m sure you’ll love this theory but I don’t care for Blackwood)

Please consider several facts:

caos tends to borrow religious imagery, especially biblical imagery. We see this in the Midwinter Special when Diana and Sabrina’s “motherhood test” seems to be straight out of 1 Kings when King Solomon tells two women both claiming to be the mother of the same child that they can split the baby and each take half and when Zelda says “Am I my sister’s keeper?” in Dreams in a Witch House this references Cain and Able, just to name a few examples.

I don’t remember exactly what episode this happens in but when Zelda drops a spoon, Hilda remarks, “Drop a spoon, baby coming soon,” which startles Zelda but she quickly dismisses. Now, this could be referencing Lady Blackwood’s pregnancy, but we already know that she’s pregnant and it’s generally an odd scene. Why is Zelda startled? It doesn’t seem to have any impact on anything in part one

Okay so where am I going with this? Yesterday the titles of all the episodes of part two were announced and chapter nineteen is called “The Mandrake”. A mandrake is the root of a plant that often resembles a person and is associated with superstitions and magic rituals. But in my brief skim of Wikipedia, I noticed this section about it’s biblical references. 

In Genesis 30:14, Reuben, the eldest son of Jacob and Leah, finds mandrake in a field. Rachel, Jacob's infertile second wife and Leah's sister, is desirous of the דודאים [dûdâ'îm —literally meaning "love plant"] and barters with Leah for them. The trade offered by Rachel is for Leah to spend that night in Jacob's bed in exchange for Leah's דודאים. Leah gives away the plant to her barren sister, but soon after this (Genesis 30:14–22), Leah, who had previously had four sons but had been infertile for a long while, became pregnant once more and in time gave birth to two more sons, Issachar and Zebulun, and a daughter, Dinah. Only years after this episode of her asking for the mandrakes did Rachel manage to become pregnant.

Now, Wikipedia also mentions that mandrakes are used in witchcraft, and upon further research it looks like it’s used as a catalyst to empower spells or rituals, to ward against evil eye, for prosperity, for protection or for “passionate sex wishes”. (Disclaimer, I know very very little about actual witchcraft and am getting all my info from the internet)

None of these witchcraft related uses really point to anything we currently know about the part two plot, especially the later episodes. But combining it’s biblical references, caos’s penchant for taking from that, and the whole spoon dropped scene, it feels like it’s very likely for Zelda to be pregnant and that pregnancy to be revealed on or around chapter nineteen, The Mandrake.

[posted on 3/30/19]

[madammuffins]

Character Creation

Character Creation Tag Game, tagged by the lovely @vhum s I’ll be focusing on are Abidan and Zee from Red Flags ( a work in progress that I’ve been neglecting in my slump but can be found on WattPad HERE)

1) What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering (name, appearance, backstory, etc.?)

Abidan: Nothing special at first. I just wanted this absolutely broken person. I think at the root of all people, the one thing everyone shares is their brokenness. We all have trauma and we all think our trauma is awful. But we aren’t awful. That’s the core idea of Abidan.

Zee: For a while, when things were going really, really bad in my life I just was like “WHat?! Am I cursed? Do I have some demon that’s just fucking things up for me?!” And... well, tah-dah! Years and mental stability later, Zee’s born.

2) Did you design them with any other characters/OCs from their universe in mind?

Abidan and Zee were both built completely with one another in mind. Their character concepts are as tightly interwoven as their abusive relationship and codependency is.

3) How did you choose their name?

I have a fetish for biblical names. I love things that aren’t common and are unique.  Also I really loved that old PS video game where you were Jen, an alien half breed that could morph into all these different forms and you have your little goblin friend who turned out to be, like, and angel trapped as a gargoyle. It was called Primal, the game. Anyway. Zee is actually short for Zephaniah which means God has hidden.

4) In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts?

Zee: Zee is the “dark” half of the world. A necessary evil. A natural darkness, let’s say. She lives in the split dimension from the human world that all fae/magical creatures fled to when the industrial age reached it’s peak.

Abidan: Abidan is somehow purely human and yet the embodiment of good in the human dimension (realm, whatever). Somehow magic in it’s purest form has manifested itself and taken root as his soul causing him to attract all sorts of creatures naturally mischievous.

5) Is there any significance behind their hair colour?

Zee: Yes. I’m just tired of the age old bad/evil = dark/black. I think it’s sort of poetic that she’s kind of ethereal in appearance.

Abidan: Again I’m going more for irony in making him mixed raced. Plus I love the contrast between the two.

6) Is there any significance behind their eye colour?

Zee:

Sort of. Again the imagery, I feel like her appearance is to lure people in and trap them.

Abidan: Aside from genetics not really. His eyes are a hazel just because I like the idea that he has these brilliant greenish brown eyes against darker skin but... y’know. That’s just me.

7) Is there any significance behind their height?

Zee: Currently Zee is about 5′8″, tall for the average woman - but she’s also a “demon” who can be literally anything - a ball of light, a dragon, a mass of limbs, a nightmare. She just prefers feminine shapes and decided on a human form for a particular case. She likes being taller because she enjoys the attention and the power.

Abidan: He’s 6′.5″ Kinda tall, but not super tall. His limbs are thin and don’t quite fit his body. Long and gangling. Awkward. That is absolutely on purpose.

8) What (if anything) do you relate to within their character/story?

This story is kind of the outlet for all my abusive situations I guess. I mean, not outright. But it’s kinda therapeutic in a way and maybe that’s why I’m struggling with actually writing it - because it’s so stuck in me. Because it hurts. These things hurt to write about, to try and describe and translate into words - the fear, the comfort of the repetition. The expectation, being able to play a moment and know the outcome will be violence. It’s hard to... idk.

9) Are they based off of you, in some way?

Zee: Zee is complex in she is the abuse that I endured from my family and my lovers as well as the woman that I wish I had been and am striving to become. She’s in no way healthy, and she certainly is more one thing than the others.

Abidan: He is me, or how I feel like I was viewed and treated. This thing - this pathetic, awkward, ugly creature that had something people would just eat at and eat at and eat at until there was almost nothing left and yet somehow I still had more to give. This unending fount of love and support and... naivety and codependency. Abidan is everything I hated about myself and everything I try to preserve and everything I admire in other people.

10) Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

Zee: Yes. Zee don’t give a fuck. She’s just there to complete her mission - get her deal done. Sex is just sex, she doesn’t feel anything for humans or other demons. It’s not in her job description.

Abidan: I struggled a lot with Abidan. A huge part of me wanted to make him a gay man, then I wanted to do a lesbian couple, and then I struggled even more with the idea of not being able to correctly portray that and being demonized for it. So I stuck with the traditional male/female romance between the main characters, however it’s a gay romance that sparks the beginning of Zee’s spiraling abusive behavior.

11) What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: Writing, drawing, edits, etc.)?

All of it. Like, I know these characters. I know them intimately. i write them in my head daily. But actually forming their story is... difficult and I don’t know if it’s a mental hangup or if it’s emotional... so I’m not going to push myself.

12) How far past the canon events that take place in their world have you extended their story, if at all?

Their story is almost completely finished in my head. It’s just not written.

13) If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

Zee: (1) She is not ‘evil’, she is a creature of her world. Her behavior is normal and expected. “What is chaos for the fly is normal for the spider.” is very much a quote that defines the difference between their worlds, humans just happen to be the flies. (2) She is NOT healthy, she is NOT ‘good’. She is not ‘right’.

Abidan: (1) Everything that can go wrong will go wrong for him (2) Everything is his fault always all the time and he just wants someone to love him

14) What is something about your OC that can make you laugh?

Zee: She is always vexxed about the fact that she can’t be a shadow.

Abidan: The most mundane things turn into disasters and it’s so great.

15) What is something about your OC can make you cry?

Zee: She will never experience a good relationship. She wants one, some part of her craves it. She’ll never have it. Never.

Abidan: He’ll always love Zee. Always. He’ll hate her for the rest of his life but it will always be his fault and he’ll always blame himself and he’ll spend every moment over analyzing and replaying every detail thinking and rethinking... because if he had just done something, anything, different then maybe they would still be-

16) Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story?

Not yet. I mean, all the dark tones are difficult but I don’t regret them.

17) What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC?

Zee: She’s got these amazing moments where she’s so good and decent and it make you wonder... “Why?”

Abidan: Fuck this kid is an honest to God romantic.

18) What is your favourite fact about your OC?

Zee: I’ll never get over the fact that she was a dragon for a few hundred years.

Abidan: He’s such a fucking marshmallow. Just a soft, sweet guy

Tagging: @storyteller-kaelo @cececatina @lizziewriting @inkspilledqueen @clingingtowords @minny-king @inexorableblob @moraleewright @pens-swords-stuff @coffeeflavoredcookies

[halfbittenmoon]

Prediction #4 - Ben Solo and Rey are (and always have been) End Game

From the beginning, TFA, JJ likens Kylo to a handsome prince in the director’s commentary, and later refers to Rey as Cinderella descending the stairs to find the saber. A prince and a princess. Rey and Ren. (I talk about this here.) This is called a bridal carry and it is their first meeting.

You can catch Predictions #2 & #3 for some of my references here if you want:   https://southernbeastsnorthernbound.tumblr.com/post/182278658793/prediction-2-rey-is-still-a-kenobi    https://southernbeastsnorthernbound.tumblr.com/post/182326914733/3-gray

Anyway, Ben and Rey. Their relationship, whatever form it takes, is the point of this Trilogy.

First it was Anakin and Obi-Wan, and Anakin and Padme, then it was Luke and Darth Vader, and now it is Rey and Ben. What do the previous conflicts have in common? There’s a relationship between these characters, mostly familial, as there will be in the next episode. Their drama is not over, in fact, it has just begun.

Rey and Ren are yin and yang. 

Push and pull. Light and dark. 

If you ever wondered why they made a point of Rey’s “going straight to the dark” despite her being a literal ray of goodness in TLJ, it is to mirror Ben’s “pull to the light” in TFA. They both posses an inherent pull to each other’s side, and this will enable them to find a middle ground-- together. Gray. It’s called foreshadowing.

My best guess is that, like in the force bond scenes of TLJ, their relationship will feel romantic in nature if not said outright. This is important because it is my belief that the deciding factor that pulls the sides together is that *deep breath* children will be involved. Not symbolic ones. Real, squealing infants. I originally thought all the sexual imagery of TLJ was to symbolize the “rebirth” of the Resistance. But I now believe that to be a red herring of sorts. It is all pointing to “Creation.”

^”The Creation of Adam” in the Sistine Chapel, the most famous, historical illustration of biblical creation we have. Original Creation. Divine Creation.

Anakin, the bringer of war and imbalance, was born of immaculate conception. Like Mary and Jesus.

To come full circle, the bringer of peace and balance, should be born of immaculate conception as well.

How? Well, Ben IS Anakin’s grandson. And genes often skip a generation, including the probability of twins.

I think that’s why ^this^ moment is filmed the way it is: incredibly important, the way the two main characters treat this shared experience like it’s something life-changing and sacred,

the way it feels like a sex scene despite it being a fucking handshake. It is why Rey ships herself to what seems like certain death. It is why Kylo kills the only person he’s ever had a real connection with. It is why Kylo makes his own kind of “proposal” to rule the galaxy with her. He is playing house. They are about to have a Force-made family, and their is an instinctual part of them that already knows it.

His speech is even comically similar to the one his grandfather made to the grandmother-to-be.

It is why the scene following the “consummation” of the #fingertouch is Kylo’s commitment to killing his master, a father figure, to take his place as head of a metaphorical house. A marriage of violence before Snoke with the Guards as witnesses,

a honeymoon of working as a unit for the first time (facing the Praetorian guards) notice the very specific choreography (these stunts are rigorously planned) of Rey’s groin/hip grab, giving all kinds of sexual connotations (not to mention the above gif w/ Rey kneeling, just look at the entirety of that scene again which nears a rape scene “Give me everything” w/ Rey on her back)

followed by a battle scene that includes all the phallic and vaginal imagery of Crait, a womb-like mine being torn open, the red, blood-like gashes of the sand and salt thats spills out, leading out to a fiery dawn, and Luke the original immaculate son’s son.

Not to mention, they equally, two halves of the same whole, split Anakin’s lightsaber.  Like this--

The first step of making a baby: a zygote splits. In the film, literally everything parallels them splitting the saber together. (We should make that an innuendo, “hey baby wanna split the ol’ saber?”) Holdo goes to hyperspace, Finn and Rose are about to be separated from their heads, and everything pauses and goes silent as EVERYTHING splits in half at once.

Rey and Kylo Ren will have kids, possibly twins.

Another theme returning. The twin suns of Tatooine. The twins of Luke and Leia. The duality of the Force. Luke even sees two suns again as he dies, a smile: the future.

I originally was like WHY IS LUKE SMILING AT THE SUN AND WHY DID NO ONE ON THE VFX TEAM RETOUCH THAT SPOT OUT OF THE FIRST SUN.

And then,

I’m reaching. Anyway.

How would Rey get pregnant? I’m by no means some romantic that thinks “Reylo” could ever happen in a traditional sense. But well. It ends as it began. With immaculate conception. The force made it possible before. And it will do it again. The force WANTS balance. And it wanted Kylo and Rey to find each other for this purpose. It is why the Force Bond continues at the end of TLJ despite Snoke being dead. For this “Peace and Purpose.” For this joining of “great dark and great light.” Divine conception communicated via film in the most universally understood image of it.

^ Notice anything familiar? ^ #fingertouch

Artists makes these references on purpose. See “allusion.”

And Rey doesn’t walk away from her choice to briefly side with Ben unscathed, remember? She gets stabbed, and the cinematographer makes a point to frame the drama of it carefully. 

We see it. 

Ben sees it.

It fuels him to fight harder.

As it does her. (You can already see what it will look like here. The wound is a very specific shape on her arm)

And then later it looks like this in her skin. And is shown this way even in the poster on my wall. 

It’s a depiction of two damn hands.

Her body has been changed by this experience on this surface level, symbolizing the two hands touching, to hint that perhaps she is leaving with a bigger change within that we cannot yet see.

For anyone fighting the concept of a romantic/sexual/familial relationship, albeit an unconventional one, between Rey and Ren, here are some proverbial nails for your proverbial coffins.

-The fact that (confirmed in concept art) this reflection originally revealed a half and half face of Kylo and Rey.

More important, if this was a possibility, as it stands, two shadows become one when she asks to see “her parents.”

Two parents, become one, to create this would-be Rey/Ren half and half that Rey later admits was her looking for “answers.” She thinks these are non-answers about her past, her being a nobody. What if this reveal was instead the future? A lot to unpack as, in its final form in TLJ, it is just Rey looking at her own reflection. But the context is there when we see what could’ve been and almost was.  

-The incredible inclusion of Ben SWOLO and Rey blushing like a school girl, muttering about cowls, as she gazes at her sworn enemy.

-These looks and Rey making lover-like pleas in an elevator

-When Kylo went from this snide predator

-to this consent-craving cinnamon roll.

-When Kylo, from the beginning, tried to attach himself to Rey’s future.

Hey Ben, your Disney is showing.

-When Rey, like a protector, faces Luke when she suspects he tried to murder Ben Solo and doomed the goodness in him to be snuffed out, creating Kylo Ren

-Just the entirety of this painful exchange: 

And Rey’s sincere want to believe in Ben Solo’s goodness.

This nothing short of THIRSTY expression that follows their victory. (Watch this scene again seeing Kylo’s expression as desire and honestly its a little frightening, Rey kinda looks at him knowingly for a hot sec then turns and scurries away about saving the fleet)

He even stands up and dramatically tosses the staff aside, as if setting up that end-of-action-movie-warrior-couple-runs-into-each-others-arms moment

I could do a whole essay on the neat ways the storytellers try to match these two up with subtle and not-so-subtle threads, so I’ll stop here.

Anyway, this is another reason I think Rey is a Kenobi. If Disney were to make her a “nobody” destined to birth Skywalker babies like nothing more than a reproductive vessel, it would be an insult to the heroine she is. At least if she’s a Kenobi, she has her own line to continue and protect. Also, let’s tie up them old themes of the Kenobi/Skywalker legacy and heal those wounds with a baby or two.

In the end, the Star Wars Saga has always been about FAMILY. With Han and Luke dead and Carrie Fischer unable to return to the narrative in a meaningful way, there is no “family” left to follow the drama of, to close the loop. Not unless we continue one with the characters that already exist and whom we’re already attached to. Enter Rey and Ben and some rugrats. 

Don’t mind us, it’s just two mothers, 

with the zygote sword and her hand practically resting on her belly saying “We have everything we need.” The last line of the movie. Bye.

(don’t get me started on what this damn awkward (seemingly purposeful since they hold so long and its such a flat choice) shot composition looks like)

Daisy and Carrie make up that triangle shape of Christ, because between them, in Rey’s womb, is an immaculate bun in the oven. I’m done.

Stick around if you wanna hear more about Kylo Ren in prediction #5-- “What happens to Ben Solo in Episode IX″

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

What’s in a title

*arrives 15 hours late with Starbucks*

Interestingly, the titles of 14x01 and 14x02 (in case you’ve missed it - Stranger In A Strange Land and Gods And Monsters) have similar routes: they’re quotes used as titles for other pieces of media and also titles of unrelated songs. Supernatural has a history of using song titles as episode titles, so it would be quick to pick the songs as the inspiration for these episode titles, but... not so fast. I am not saying that the “correct” source of the titles is the source that has something to do with queerness, but I do believe that Supernatural makes a strength out of polysemy (as irritating as it can get sometimes), so let me just drop these few pieces of information here. You draw your own conclusions.

“Stranger in a strange land” is a song by Iron Maiden and its lyrics seem to be obviously relevant to Dean’s situation as we’ve left him at the end of 13x23. Just check out the lyrics (under the cut at the end of this post, for your convenience) and you’ll see it.

But originally, the expression is a Biblical quote: it’s from Exodus 2:22, spoken by Moses during his time away from Egypt.

The quote has been used as the title of Robert A. Heinlein’s 1961 science fiction novel Stranger In A Strange Land. It’s a book about sexuality and spirituality/religion (the author called it “a Cabellesque satire on religion and sex”), and apparently there is Heaven and angels/archangels. Coincidentally, the main character of the book is called Michael/Mike.

This article by Cathy Lowne offers a quick summary and a brush of the themes. Also: as you can expect, the book is problematic, but it is also very interesting to read this article about the “queerness” (not really as in LGBT+ but as in the idea of the social construction of sexuality) of the book. It was written during the 50s (coincidentally, it seems that it took 13 years for the author to complete the book, a fit choice for the title of the first episode of the show’s 14th season...). I’ve also gathered that in the book Martians do not have a sex binary (male/female), and there’s the culture the main character grows in before learning about the culture on Earth.

More about themes (sexuality but also Mike as a Christ figure and the corruption of institutions) here, and an article about the book as a Messiah story and the theme of faith in it here.

“Gods And Monsters” is a song by Lana Del Rey, whose lyrics are also relevant from our point of view. It literally starts with “In the land of gods and monsters I was an angel living in the garden of evil” and ends with “innocence lost” so you can see a bit of relevance if you squint. (Lyrics also under the cut.)

But of course there’s more to the expression, and it’s where it gets queer. (Is Bobo Berens writing the episode, btw?) The expression (“To a new world of gods and monsters!”) is used in the 1935 movie The Bride Of Frankenstein, directed by James Whale. Apparently one of Guillermo Del Toro’s favorite movies, it is, unsurprisingly, a movie rich in religious imagery, sexual undertones, homosexual subtext - you can read a review here. The review also mentions the movie titled Gods And Monsters, a fictionalized biographical movie about the director of The Bride Of Frankenstein, James Whale.

Gods And Monsters is a 1998 movie starring Ian McKellen, one of the first movies (the first Hollywood movie?) to star an openly gay actor in the role of a gay character, in fact, a gay man in Hollywood in an age where pretty much no one was out in Hollywood. The movie features the last days of the life of Whale, now retired, old and suicidal as he faces depression and illness. Let me offer you these few articles that I made the great effort of finding on the first page of results on google (I’m sorry but my reserve of spoons is limited). The movie is the story of a man at the end of his life, and deals with loneliness, connections, memories, retirement, death. See for yourself if these themes ring any bell.

Now, the lyrics of the songs under the cut.

Stranger in a Strange Land - Iron Maiden

Was many years ago that I left home and came this way I was a young man, full of hope and dreams But now it seems to me that all is lost and nothing gained Sometimes things ain't what they seem No brave new world, no brave new world No brave new world, no brave new world

Night and day I scan horizon, sea and sky My spirit wanders endlessly Until the day will dawn and friends from home discover why Hear me calling, rescue me Set me free, set me free Lost in this place, and leave no trace

Stranger in a strange land Land of ice and snow Trapped inside this prison Lost and far from home

One hundred years have gone and men again they came that way To find the answer to the mystery They found his body lying where it fell all that day Preserved in time for all to see No brave new world, no brave new world Lost in this place, and leave no trace

What became of the man that started All are gone and their souls departed Left me here in this place So all alone

What became of the man that started All are gone and their souls departed Left me here in this place So all alone

Gods & Monsters - Lana Del Rey

In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel. Living in the garden of evil, Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed. Shining like a fiery beacon, You got that medicine I need Fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly. Put your hands on my waist, do it softly. Me and God we don’t get along, so now I sing.

No one’s gonna take my soul away, Living like Jim Morrison. Headed towards a fucked up holiday. Motel, sprees, sprees, and I’m singing, Fuck yeah give it to me, this is��� heaven, what I truly want It's innocence lost. Innocence lost.

In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel, lookin' to get fucked hard. Like a groupie incognito posing as a real singer, Life imitates art You got that medicine I need Dope, shoot it up straight to the heart please I don't really wanna know what's good for me God's dead, I said 'baby that's alright with me'.

No one’s gonna take my soul away, Living like Jim Morrison. Headed towards a fucked up holiday. Motel, sprees, sprees, and I’m singing, Fuck yeah give it to me, this is heaven, what I truly want It's innocence lost. Innocence lost.

When you talk it's like a movie and you're making me crazy, 'Cause life imitates art. If I get a little prettier, can I be your baby? You tell me life isn't that hard.

No one’s gonna take my soul away, I'm living like Jim Morrison. Headed towards a fucked up holiday. Motel, sprees, sprees, and I’m singing, Fuck yeah, give it to me, this is heaven, what I truly want. It's innocence lost. Innocence lost.

[rivahadi]

Noah Film Analysis Paper- Comparing two Different Plots of the Same Biblical Story

Both Evan Almighty (2006) and Noah (2014) depict the biblical story of a man called to build an ark. However, the plot of Noah is more violent and filled with brutality while Evan Almighty is more humorous and light-hearted resulting in slightly different themes and messages between the two movies. Noah is based on a violent story. In the Biblical account it says, “Every living thing on the face of the earth was wiped out.” (The New Oxford Annotated Version, Genesis 7:23). What can be understood is that the world that was then, the world of Noah, was incredibly corrupt. Genesis 6:6 tells us that “the Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled.” The depraved actions of mankind grieved God in His most holy heart. God responded to man’s sin in a holy and righteous manner, but also in a way that salvaged mankind. “So the lord said, ‘I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.’ But Noah found favor in the eyes of the lord” (Genesis 6:7–8). Yes, all people on earth died except the eight people who were found righteous in the eyes of God: Noah, Noah’s wife, and Noah’s three sons and their wives.

In the movie Noah, every frame, every angle, every shift speaks to the able hands of director, Darren Aronofsky. Darren Aronofsky uses multiple close up shots with dramatic music playing in the background to emphasize the importance of Noah. He also uses lighting to show how the movie is a dark and gloomy version of the Biblical tale. As a young boy, Noah witnesses his father, Lamech, killed by a young Tubal-cain, this results in a lot of hate built up inside Noah against Tubal-cain and will lead to violence later in the movie. Noah is tortured by his visions, not always at peace with the mission God sends his way. The film portrayed the visions beautifully. He used very strong imagery, which is elegantly and almost poetically edited. The director uses fade- ins and fade- outs to show his visions, for example in the scene when Noah saw the heavy rains, there was a fade-in used from above to below to show how the water had risen several feet. In this movie Noah is filled with catastrophe. Noah builds an ark for his family and all the animals on the earth, the skies rain down from the heavens; drowning nearly everything, and humans are nearly feral as they battle each other for survival (Alleva). The director uses low angle shots to show the destruction of houses, cars and everything on land during the flood scene. The director also uses multiple bird’s eye view shots showing the flood and how everything is slowly being covered by the water. This shot makes the viewer feel godlike and I think that was the intent of the director as the flood is sent down by God. As the rain starts pouring the Watchers fight off Tubal-cain and his mob of followers, sacrificing themselves and ascending to heaven, their reward for protecting Noah. As the flood drowns the remaining humans, an injured Tubal-cain climbs onto the ark, he is later killed when he tries to kill Noah. There's plenty of brutality and gore: mountains of dead bodies are shown, sometimes using close up shots, humans beat each other to death, sometimes with rocks, spears and knives. There is one part where the "evil" people tear apart an animal with their bare hands and eat it. It happens so fast that there are animal parts flying and blood splattering.There's plenty of bloody fighting and death - not to mention the mass drowning - but it's all purposeful rather than gratuitous. Although, each death is sad and people suffer a great deal. At the beginning, middle and end of the movie, Darren Aronofsky uses establishing shots to show us what the setting looked like before, during and after the flood. I don't mind violence in films when the consequences are realistically portrayed, and that's mostly true in this movie.

Wickedness in general, man’s inhumanity to man and impiety against God are all themes in the film, along with environmental themes. The environmental theme is depicted from the very beginning of the movie. Noah’s first words in the film are to his son Ham, correcting him for picking a tiny flower because it’s pretty. Noah explains that all living things have a purpose, and men should take only what they need and can use (Aronofsky). Noah, played by an authoritative Russell Crowe, is the hero, but that doesn’t make him saintly, he is portrayed as harsh, ruthless but in the end merciful. We see the theme of mercy during the end scenes of the film when Noah spares the two twin baby girls. Instead of killing them with his knife he kisses their foreheads and in that moment he talks about how his heart was filled only with love. He could not possibly bring himself to kill them and this was a very important choice he made in the movie (Aronofsky).

Evan Almighty is a humorous movie aimed to appeal to the whole family. There's no violence, drinking, or sex, and virtually no bad language. The plot revolves around Evan talking directly to God and then obeying his commands (Shadyac).The director of this film,Tom Shadyac, uses a number of shots taken from Noah's vantage point making the viewers feel like they’re part of the conversation with god. In the movie Noah, Noah never talked directly to God. The laughs, from Evan Almighty, are what you'd expect: lots of species and feces jokes, an overlong montage of Evan hurting himself while building the ark, and endless digs at Evan's appearance, which goes from clean-cut to grizzly man to white-bearded prophet in just a few scenes ( “Evan Almighty”). The main theme in the movie was family. Even though Evan’s family didn’t know exactly what was going on with him, they stuck by him and loved him. His family stood by his side even when everyone thought he was completely insane, they even helped him build the ark. His kids were just happy to finally be spending time with him. Another difference between Evan Almighty and Noah is the source of the floodwaters. Evan Almighty uses the breaching of a nearby dam as the source for the powerful local flood, whereas in the movie Noah, it starts raining and water starts sprouting out of the ground. The cause of the floodwater from the dam results in Evan Almighty having quite a different message. It shows that when you cut corners, don’t obey laws and aren’t honest there are repercussions, which makes sense as this film is intended for a younger audience and can teach them morals through this biblical story.

Evan Almighty’s themes are about people ‘believing in each other’ and ‘standing by one another’. In Noah the devastating global flood was sent to punish mankind for their willful rebellion against their creator, the world was filled with terrible wickedness and violence.

The plot differences in Evan Almighty and Noah result in different themes such as: family, mercy, and environmental themes, which translate into different overall messages. They both showcase some good work on characters, visuals, camera angles and lighting, making it a movie which stands out among other movies with similar themes. I would rate Evan Almighty a 7/10 and would recommend it to younger kids as it  displays the biblical story in a comedic way and has a good family friendly message. I would rate Noah an 8/10 as it made the biblical story come to life more accurately. I recommend this movie to slightly older people as it has a considerable amount of violence, brutality and a morally complex core.

Writing this film analysis paper was something I found quite difficult. It’s something I’ve never done before and so it took me quite a while to write and make it something I was proud of. Whenever I watch movies, I never think about all the things that go into making the movie excellent. Doing this paper helped me notice all the details that go into making just one scene of a movie. The different camera shots and angles, the lighting, the music and the set are some examples of things that I’ve never focused on before but from now on I definitely will. My writing process included taking multiple breaks in between, re-watching scenes from both movies on youtube, going through the basic film terms so I knew what I was writing made sense, and a considerable amount of time spent just staring at my computer screen. Through this whole writing process, I do feel more confident with citations and I feel like I have learned a lot more than I thought I would going into this. Yes, I did find it challenging but at the end of the day finishing it gave me a sense of accomplishment.