#like the property is still the church's

[dixiedingo]

Drunk me asking the questions sober me could not fathom

[thediktatortot]

.

[im2tired4usernames]

you’re in a cult?

Arguably, H I G H control evangelical Church the H O R R O R STORIES I COULD TELL YOU also quiverfull I do not believe in any of their teachings anymore and try not to allow it to control me anymore and I'm working on unlearning and re-educating myself, my friends and partner have helped a lot (as well as Tumblr tbh lol probs not the best thing) but it still effects me daily and I have not been able to completely cut ties yet because my family and most of my friends fully believe in it.

[teaboot]

I seriously hope you can job hop to something else cause you're not chaotic neutral man.

You're still a white Canadian whose actions and job help more the megacorps keep the status quo.

I really looked up to you but that's on me.

And yeah, I know security, cop shit and military pay good money but at the cost of my people? Fuck no.

Listen. I feel you. But there's a lot of cold, power-tripping bastards in this line of work and if I stick where I am then they don't get to have that.

I'm not a cop. I am not beholden to the justice system. Sometimes I get contracted out to people who say shit like "addicts should be put down, if you see any crackheads drag them out" and I nod and say "yes sir", and then I take their money and use it to buy those people coffee and a sandwich and tell 'em when free lunch days are at the church.

Boss sees me walking with someone and thinks I'm kicking them out, gives my boss great reviews. I'm having a great conversation with Connie, who used to by a stylist and wound up on the street after an accident that left her with chronic pain and a heroin addiction. Connie learns that there's a gap between two property lines nearby where technically nobody can call to have her removed.

There's a really sweet guy in town who's normally very nice, but sometimes flies into paranoid rage and yells slurs at people. Sometimes he forgets he's been banned from places and wanders in looking for a wife he hasn't had for nine years. Owner sends me to kick him out, and I ask "hey Mike, how are you?" And see where we are today.

One time there was a guy whose abusive ex kept following him to work, and I got to walk him to his car at the end of every day to make sure she couldn't get him alone.

Another person had a stalker who kept asking receptionists when she was gonna be there, when she was supposed to leave, if she was in today. I'd keep record of every time he came in, every time someone saw him, every time he violated his restraining order or damaged her things.

And when I wonder if I'm actually helping or not, or if I'm part of the greater problem, I remember that other people who work with me call homeless people wildlife and talk about how bad they wanna get an excuse to fight someone and I remember that I'm the one who knows where the blind spots on the cameras are, and thank God it's not him.

My position is fundamentally different from that of the military or law enforcement. I don't *need* to be buddy-buddy with most of these dickheads- I don't *need* to send people into the justice system.

I do single-person foot patrol. Nobody cares how I get the job done. They say, "Hey, faceless goon number three- make that bastard disappear" and I say "on it, boss" and give him tickets to disney world.

I once asked another guard if he knew that one of our regulars used to be an airplane technician. He said, "No, I don't talk to them". Blanket "Them". "Them" as in street people. "Them" as in addicts, or shoplifters, or ex-cons, or sex workers.

I asked why, and he told me, "it's easier if you don't think of them as people."

Anyhow, now I get calls to "watch that sketchy lady who just came in" and I say, "yes, sir" and leave her the fuck alone, 'cause that's Jolene, and people always think she's on drugs and aggressive but she's just deaf in one ear and slurs cause she has brain damage, you dickhead

so yeah, don't worry, I've spent a lot of time weighing the pros and cons of my vocation, and I still think I'd rather be in charge of my locations than someone like Darryl, who dreams of "cuffing a perp" and drives a car with Punisher decals on the hood

Also it's minimum wage but that's kinda tangential

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon, poverty & debt, gun violence, organized crime, death threats, arranged marriage

fem reader

Thinking about owing the mob…

Not you specifically, but your family – debt you weren’t aware of before you’re being cashed in to settle it.

You imagined several terrible things before the arrangement was explained to you. 

One of the sons needs a wife with a clean reputation. 

It’s a simple equation. You’re eligible, and he isn’t picky.

And though it leaves you in mourning for a life yet lived, it still comes with a sense of relief. It’s one of the better deals you could’ve gotten. At least you wouldn’t need to witness or partake in any crimes, nor act as a scapegoat for the likes either.

Besides… though you’ve yet to meet your fiancé, you’ve been explained that he only plans on treating you like a wife on and for the camera – that his tastes otherwise lie in the gentlemen’s lounge. 

All you ever have to do is smile. He isn’t interested in anything else.

That’s what you were told, and yet…

“It’s funny.” Your husband says after the wedding ceremony. 

You’re back at the mansion you’re meant to call home. The grounds are about twice the size of the block you come from. Marble, gold, and diamonds – it’s so outrageously excessive it’s shameless. 

“I was told your brothers run routes for us to make ends meet.” He continues, looking at you and the expression on your face as you stare up at the chandelier – it’s clear you’ve never seen anything like it. “Fuck, I mean, I can’t imagine risking my life and still end up needing to pick between food or rent at the end of the day.”

Your gaze falls down to him at that. 

Clad in lush wedding expense – white gown and silver tiara – you still stick out like a sore thumb. Something in the way it wears you and not the other way around. It’s obvious you’re uncomfortable with it all. It’s probably worth more than your family's ever owned.

He steps closer with a chuckle.

“Then, the poor suckers go and fuck up so bad they end up needing to sell their own sister.”

He spots your fists ball at your sides. But you keep your cool. Only a slight grimace curling your lips along a tiny furrow between your brows. It all smoothens into something else when he reaches out to grab your chin.

“What’s even more funny…” He tilts your face in his hand – jaded eyes assessing you like he’s found a coin on the ground. “You don’t look like street trash like I expected.”

Your frown returns, and you try pulling back – but he grabs your arm before you can.

Tsking, “Ah-ah – Remember,” His smile sharpens. “You’re property now. When I touch you, you let it happen.”

You weren’t that easily convinced. He bet you’ve had to fight off a lot of unwanted attention back where you come from. But he isn’t some back-alley thug. When he wants something, he expects it not only to be served on a silver platter but to be hand-fed to him with a silver spoon.

He pulls the gun out from behind him. Slotted in the band of his dress trousers, it had stayed hidden beneath the coverage of his suit jacket during the ceremony.

Your throat dries up, and any protests you had died of thirst along with it – eyes wide as you stare at the piece.

You can’t believe he’d carry that thing into a church with vows upon his lips – now pointing it at the very same wife he’d made those vows to. 

“Make me spend a single bullet, and your family will share the rest.” He taps the barrel’s mouth against the quiver of your lips. “I’d rather not it come to that. It’ll ruin the carpet…”  

You quiver, feeling weak with a shudder – your eyes slip closed with a shivering tear.

“Not to mention this…” He strokes the pitiful droplet off your cheek with the weapon while eyeing the way you quake with grinning eyes. “Pretty little body I’ve only just acquired.” 

BNHA – Dabi

JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji

BLLK – Reo

HxH – Illumi

[foldingfittedsheets]

So I went to Geek Girl Con this year and the best panel we attended was one where Librarians recommend your next spicy romance read and since they provided a list I figured I'd share the list because why the hell not? I don’t know how long they will leave the link up sorry All synopsis will be what I remembered from the panel without any research into the title so buckle up! I feel like it's pretty obvious which ones I was more interested in based on what I remember.

Triple Sec - Spice Level 2 Queer/Fiction

This is a poly plot wherein a cynical bartender gets swept up in a new romance with a lady in an open marriage and then sparks start between all three.

Band Sinister - Spice Level 4 Queer/Period

A period romance between two guys, the local playboy and our leading lad who meets the local playboy when his sister gets into an accident on the guy’s property. He finds a lovely community very different than the rake's reputation suggested and gets drawn into a romance against his better judgement.

Here We Go Again - Spice Level 2 Queer/Fiction

A wlw romance between two girls with a history who need to go on a roadtrip together and reconnect on the drive. Childhood friends I think?

Payback's a Witch - Spice Level 2 Queer/Fantasy

A wlw romance between Emmy and Talia (I'm cheating I've read this one before and liked it). Emmy left her hometown and magic behind after an embarrassing rejection from the most powerful magical family's scion. She comes back into town and finds her best friend and the stunning Talia have both now been wronged by the same guy. They convince Emmy to join a pact to get back at him together and Emmy and Talia grow closer through the power of revenge.

Act Your Age Eve Brown - Spice Level 2 Het/Fiction

A chaotic autistic female lead runs into a by the book boy after one of them gets hit by the others car and she ends up staying with him. They form a very sweet bond and the representation was lauded as being very precious.

Merry Inkmas - Spice Level 4 Het/Fiction

A cool alternative barista gets fired in front of her crush for giving a homeless man a free coffee and her crush hires her on the spot to work for him instead. They start up a relationship that he warns has an expiration date which suits her fine- or does it? Hijinks ensue.

D'Vaughn and Kris Plan a Wedding - Spice Level 4 Queer/Fiction

A wlw romance under false pretenses, they agree to get married for a reality TV show. There's an influencer and a shy one can’t remember who’s who, the shy one decided national television is a good way to come out to her family. As the competition continues real feelings start to rear their head between the two.

The Prospects - Spice Level 4 Queer/Fiction

Uhhhh baseball boys? The boys play baseball... mlm romance. Baseball.

Something Wild and Wonderful - Spice Level 3 Queer/Fiction

Two guys are both hiking a grueling trail from Mexico to Canada. After running into each other repeatedly they strike up a connection and eventually a relationship. One of the guys is still spiritual despite rejection from the church and it's healing for the other guy.

Prince and Assassin - Spice Level 4 Queer/Fantasy

An assassin is sent on a mission to take out a prince. While waiting for his orders to pull the dagger the two men grow closer and the assassin realizes he may not be able to kill off the prince as he learns more about him- but his sister's life is forfeit if he fails. Dramaaaaa

After Hours on Milagro Street - Spice Level 5 Het/Fiction

I cheated and had to refresh my memory as I fully forgot the plot. A bar is entrusted to new management in the form of a tattooed tough lady. A child of the family who's always run it takes issue with her management and sparks fly as they learn to compromise.

The Pairing - Spice Level Queer/Fiction

A couple breaks up before taking an amazing food tour across Europe and neither goes. With their tickets to the tour about to expire both decide to say screw it and go anyway, presuming that they couldn't possibly run into each other. They do. They they proceed to try to out slut each other while eating delicious food to prove how over each other they are. They aren't.

Hunt the Stars - Spice Level 3 Het/Sci fi

Human/alien pairing I think? As a bounty hunting crew takes a dangerous job and in the midst of peril find undeniable chemistry despite some fraught history between the two species.

A Holly Jolly Ever After - Spice Level 5 Het/Fiction

A previous child actor has found herself in a loveless marriage. She finally breaks free of her husband and takes a huge hit to her public image. She takes a job on a Hallmark style Christmas movie with another previous child star boyband. He has always had a crush on her and while paired as romantic leads on the film she admits to him she's never had an orgasm. We can see where this is going.

Morning Glory Milking Farm - Spice Level 5 Het/Fantasy

Stay with me. Minotaur. Milking. Farms. But it's not milk, guys. So a down on her luck girl takes a great paying job on a farm which I think is like phone sex? and makes a connection with one of the beefy boys get it. Genuinely tactful conversations around consent despite the goofy premise. Monster fuckers will enjoy.

Hate to Want You - Spice Level 5 Het/Fiction

Romeo and Juliet style warring families who hate each other because of grocery stores, I think. A boy and girl get together once a year and hate fuck each other about it but things get hard when she moves back into town for real and they keep bumping into each other.

Consort of Fire - Spice Level 5 Queer/Fantasy

A princess and knight go to take down a dragon but wind up falling for him instead? I feel like that's enough said. Poly dynamic and dragons, that's all it took for me to put in a hold.

Dating Dr. Dil - Spice Level 3 Het/Fiction

Fake dating a hot doctor to get her family off her back. 'Nough said.

Satisfaction Guaranteed - Spice Level 2 Queer/Fiction

A lady inherits a sex toy shop and drops her job to try to save it. The store manager doesn't think much of her and they both have to work together to get the shop back on its feet.

Role Playing - Spice Level 3 Het/Fiction

A forties lady joins a message board for gaming and strikes up a conversation with someone she assumes is a teenager. The guy thinks he's talking to a grandma. They meet and realize they're in the same age bracket and have a lot in common.

[throneofsapphics]

against the contract, chapter two

poly!Feysandriel x f!Reader

summary: If they were genuinely bad people, it would be so much easier to kill them. Signing a special contract to work with Azriel, Feyre, and Rhysand turns out nowhere near expected. You were a bit of fun that became their solace and escape, they were supposed to be an easy assignment that turned into your living nightmare

warnings: d/s dynamics, non sexual submission

word count: 2330

a/n: if anyone wants on the taglist please let me know! thank you so much for all the love on the first chapter & happy kinktober y'all!

<<< prev. chapter | series masterlist | next chapter >>>

You twirled in front of the mirror for what you promised yourself was the last time. It wasn’t giving the vibe you needed it to. Groaning, you ripped your dress over your head, tossing it into the corner of your room. Too puffy. Too frilly. They were expecting the you they saw that night at Francine’s club, not some prissy and polished version. 

If it wouldn’t get you arrested, you might’ve just shown up naked. It’s a shame you had to drive there, and you’d surely get pulled over with your luck. Cops, you wanted to avoid at all costs. 

Rummaging through your closet, something hiding in the back caught your eye. The fabric, a midnight black according to the tag you just ripped off, still smelt new. You shook out the couple of wrinkles that had settled in, and slipped it on. 

Barely managing to zipper in by yourself, you spun slowly, not twirling, you told yourself, in front of your mirror. Glancing at the clock, you decided it would have to be enough. As it stood, you were already running late. Grabbing a small handbag, you shoved your essentials and the contract inside of it and walked very quickly out the door. 

They were about a forty-five minute drive out of the city, into an area you knew was teeming and crawling with “fuck you” wealth. You’d done private parties out there before, always making great tips. At least to you, the wealthy had been generous. Maybe luck would strike again. Rapping your fingers against the wheel, you hummed the catchy tune showing up on your shuffled playlist but couldn’t remember the artist or song name for the life of you.  

Just approaching the property, you could see how well taken care of it was based on the beautiful, giant holly trees. They both cast shade over the path, and blocked off any view of the neighbors to the left. If there were neighbors close by. You caught glimpses of gardens and beautiful native greenery through the trees on your right. The driveway was paved the entire way through, two lanes, and at least a mile long. The price they were offering started to make sense. It was probably nothing to them. 

Finally pulling up to the house in your rather economical car, a splurge to you a few years ago, you felt decidedly like an underdog. Not that this was some sort of superhero story, but your vehicle certainly was out of place amongst the several high-end black SUV's visible. All identical, all with blacked out windows. You frowned, blacked out windows were for criminals and politicians. Who exactly had Francine sent you to meet? You reminded yourself of the freedoms the payout of this job could afford you, and of your promise to yourself that if looking at them made you want to throw up, you'd leave.

The driveway finished in a circle, an elegant manor greeting you. Vines grew directly in the white stone, snaking up the columns supporting the second story balconies. With a squint, you could see a chandelier through one of the bay windows on the front of the house. The french doors, obviously the front entrance, were filled with panes of beautiful stained glass, looking as if they’d been stolen from a church. It looked like one of the ones you and your mother used to drive by for fun, to gaze at and wonder about their lives. A pang of nostalgia and grief hit you, quickly overshadowed as you remembered you had a job to��do. 

Stepping out onto the smooth stones, you brushed your dress down and gently closed your car door behind you, clicking the key to lock it. The front doors opened before you began to ascend the stairs, a dark skinned woman greeting you with a small, albeit a bit distant, smile. It took conscious effort to keep your jaw slammed shut as she guided you inside the massive manor house. Still, you knew the whites of your eyes were showing. 

”Maybe you should be on your knees,” she murmured quietly as shoes clicked against the tile flooring in the distance. 

“Excuse me?” You matched her tone. 

She gave you a look that simultaneously said, ‘you heard me’ and ‘your funeral,’ and left you standing there. Alone. You understood you were to stay put, but gods you wanted to follow. Steeling yourself with a few breaths, you clasped your hands in front of you and waited. 

-

“I informed her, I imagine she’ll be standing,” Nuala murmured in his ear as they crossed paths. 

Rhys nodded. You hadn’t been informed of any rules of the like, so he hadn’t expected you to do it, but he wanted to throw something out there. For fun. Feyre was glaring at him, but he was sure she’d like the results. 

“Ready?” He asked Feyre and Azriel quietly. The former hummed angrily, the latter giving a short nod. Az was always the most nervous about adding anyone new to the household, regardless of how thorough his background checks were. It took ages for him to truly trust anyone and Rhys respected him for it. Feyre, on the other hand, tended to give away her trust too quickly, and paid for it later on. 

They rounded the corner and you stood there, hands clasped in front of you, a fire in your eyes as if you’d come to some decision during the span of the last minute you’d been left alone. 

”I wasn't informed there would be a test run.” There was a bite in your tone that thrilled and worried him at the same time. As fun as they were, they weren’t looking for a brat right now. 

”Is now inconvenient?” Stars danced in his eyes as he posed the challenge. 

”No.”

”Then on your knees.”

Like a puppet with its strings cut, you dropped, elegantly slowing yourself so the impact wouldn't be too harsh. Your hands found their way behind you, fingers interlaced, head bowed, the same portrait of submission he'd seen that night. His worries eased. Feyre let out a slow breath next to him, Azriel was stoic as always - almost always. 

Rhys took a step closer, Azriel followed and circled behind you, Feyre standing off to his right. Surrounded. He liked the idea of the three of them overwhelming you, some day. 

-

”Perfect,” you could've sworn you heard him say, but … that didn't seem likely. The three of them were like Gods and a Goddess. You were no comparison.

It went against all training but you peeked up through your lashes to look at him, to find him staring right back as if he was waiting for this. Fuck. You quickly averted your gaze and he chuckled.

Time passed, they retreated but you knew they were still in the room, watching.

Thoughts began to empty from your head, not quite throwing you into subspace but somewhere … floatier.

Somewhere free of your current worries and obligations, a reminder, despite the results of this 'test,' of why you loved this, of why you were a submissive.

”You pass,” the words came, then a hand. You didn't hesitate before taking it. 

Another hand, warm and firm, gripped your shoulder and held you upright while you got your legs back beneath you. You grimaced as pins and needles ran up and down your shins. 

”Let's get you some water,” a voice, low and cool like shadows, said, the speaker's mouth just inches away from your ear. His hand tucked itself appropriately into the crook of your elbow, guiding you back towards where they’d arrived from. You noticed a few golden rings on his fingers, blue gems set deep into them. They were gorgeous, and probably worth more than you were. Scars peppered his skin, but you knew better than to ask about another person's wounds. No matter how healed they were, a wrong question could open it right back up. 

“Okay,” you breathed, still trying to get your entire mind back in this world. Their presence, the sheer power they radiated, was intoxicating. You were almost ashamed you’d ever thought they might be ugly, and reminded yourself to thank Francine. The bat might faint when you do. You’d been blessed with the sight of the three most gorgeous people you’d ever had the pleasure of seeing. Maybe you were still a bit addled but they felt like a gift to your fucking eyes, and you were very glad mind reading was impossible - existing only in some of the fairy porn books you read - otherwise you would have three gorgeous people laughing at you, and that wouldn’t do. 

The man, who introduced himself as Azriel, led you silently into a rather formal dining room. He guided you into a seat at a black walnut table, pushing your chair in after you. There was an assortment of pastries and small fancy sandwiches waiting for you. 

Small talk was easy with them, comfortable even. As if they were pros at lulling people into states of security, false or real. 

“So,” Rhys leans back, tilting his chair on its back two legs. “How much of the contract did you show that nosy boss of yours?” 

“None,” you said and made sure to look him directly in the eyes, unsure if you felt offended by the implication you would share the information, or offended on Francine’s behalf. In all honesty it was probably the first. “It’s my business,” you added as clarification, uncertain if you really needed it but it felt right. 

He hummed and nodded, tapping the fingers of his left hand against the table, a silver ring glinting, catching the light from the chandelier. Your eyes tracked to the chair next to him, aware of Azriel on your left watching your every move, and you found Feyre watching you as well. 

She was elegant in a way you’d never seen before, exuding grace with each movement but ... you could see the callouses on her palms, the subtle but telling way her shoulders hunched forward slightly over her plate, like she was uncertain if someone might take her next meal from her. You knew because you’d trained the habit out of yourself. 

Sending a soft smile her way, you waited for their next question, not so patiently on the inside but you were well aware you appeared perfectly content on the outside. 

“I’m assuming you have questions about the contract,” Rhys finally said. 

“I do,” you tapped a finger against the table, frowning. “I have them written down, but it’s in my bag.” 

Azriel was out of his chair before you’d completely finished the sentence, and on his way to the door. You pivoted in your seat, watching him ... very inappropriately for a moment before you caught yourself. Somehow, barely, you managed to keep the flush from your cheeks at the others knowing smirks. 

Azriel was back within a minute with your bag, and you slipped the contract out of it, wondering if someone rifled through the contents while you were separated from it - not that they’d find anything interesting. 

“Right,” you flipped towards the section you’d highlighted a few days ago. 

The Submissive will conduct themself in a respectful manner at all times, unless otherwise requested

“What does ‘unless otherwise requested’ mean?” You asked and turned the paper around, sliding it across the table to Rhys, knowing Azriel had been looking over your shoulder. Plus, it was quite obvious who was in charge. He’d ordered you to your knees, after all. 

“There may be times we ask you to ... play a part,” he clarified, mouth curving up at one corner. Feyre’s lips pursed together, as if she was holding herself back from speaking. Maybe that section was her idea. 

“Does that work for you?” Azriel asked. 

You nodded, before catching yourself, turning to face him and replying, “yes.” 

An approving nod was your response. Even that tiny hint of approval from one of them sent a warm feeling through your chest. Gods, you could feel yourself becoming conditioned to them already, and you hadn’t even put ink on the paper. 

“Any other questions?” Feyre asked. 

You nodded, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth and flipping through the papers again. 

“I like it,” you heard Rhys, but focused on finding your section 

L.1 The Submissive will live with the Dominants for the duration of the contract.

“I would live here?” 

-

“We’d expect this to be a full time commitment, meaning you wouldn’t take on other obligations for the months you’d be with us,” his wife explained after he prodded her. Feyre was acting shyer than usual and it was endearing, as well as a tad worrying. He wanted her to feel comfortable around you, and safe, and if she couldn’t ... well he’d pay out the contract and let you go. As pretty as you were, Rhys would put his wife first. 

“That makes sense,” you said slowly, nodding as you thought it over. 

“Any other questions?” You asked a few more. It pleased him that you were taking this seriously, rather than just a money grab. Majority of the people they found saw the sum and were quick to say yes to everything else. He needed to be able to trust someone to actually speak up. 

“That’s everything I have,” you finally said. 

“Then let's sign,” Rhys pulled a pen from his pocket, and Azriel produced two fresh copies of the contract. You had no idea the danger you were throwing yourself into. He wouldn’t ruin you, but you certainly wouldn’t be the same after this. Rhys had a feeling none of them would be.

Later that night, Rhys lounged in an elegant high backed chair, not unlike a throne, with Feyre perched on one leg while Azriel knelt at his feet, and let the whiskey wet his lips and tongue before dripping down his throat. He imagined someone else kneeling next to Azriel. You. 

-

series taglist: @rowaelinsdaughter @bookishbroadwaybish @lilah-asteria @nestaismommy @yeonalie @daycourtofficial @emidpsandia @thelov3lybookworm @justasillylittlegoofyguy @aactuaaltraash @hannzoaks @angelbunny222 @littlest-w01f @pandabiiissh @rosecobollway @glittervame @tele86 @randomgurl2326 @bookwormysblog @sidthedollface2 @scarsandallaz @therealmoonstone @hannzoaks @grapeflavoredwater @fhgsvbnh

general taglist: @rowaelinsdaughter @bookishbroadwaybish @nestaismommy @erencvlt @book-obsessed124 @callsigns-haze

acotar taglist: @lilah-asteria @yeonalie @i-am-a-lost-girl16

[reasonsforhope]

"Faced with declining membership, aging buildings and large, underutilized properties, many U.S. houses of worship have closed their doors in recent years. Presbyterian minister Eileen Linder has argued that 100,000 churches may close in the next few decades.

But some congregations are using their land in new ways that reflect their faith – a focus of my urban planning research. Some are repurposing their property to provide affordable housing, as the housing crisis intensifies across the country.

Take Arlington Presbyterian Church in Arlington, Virginia. In 2016, the church sold its historic stone building to the Arlington Partnership for Affordable Housing to construct a 6-story complex with 173 apartments, known as “Gilliam Place.” The building still houses space for the congregation, as well as La Cocina, a bilingual culinary job training facility and cafe. In Austin, Texas, St. Austin Catholic Parish is partnering with a developer to build a 29-story tower providing 200 beds of affordable student housing, in addition to new spaces for ministry.

Other houses of worship are pursuing similar projects today.

Same mission, new projects

Faith-based organizations have been building housing for many years, but generally by purchasing additional property. In recent years, however, more houses of worship are building affordable housing on the same property as the sanctuary.

This can be done in a variety of ways. Some congregations adapt the existing sanctuary and other faith-owned buildings, while others demolish existing buildings to construct a new development, which may or may not have space for the congregation. Another option is to build on excess property, like a parking lot.

Depending on how a development deal is structured, a faith-based organization may receive proceeds from the sale of its land, or from leasing their property to a developer – funds which they can then spend on ministry or on a new space for worship. If a new development includes space for the congregation, sometimes they rent out those spaces when the space is not being used for worship, which can also financially benefit the congregation.

Faith-based organizations often see these projects as a way to do “God’s work.” In some instances, they include community services beyond the housing itself.

Near Los Angeles, the Episcopal Church of the Blessed Sacrament in Placentia partnered with a nonprofit affordable housing developer – National Community Renaissance, also called National CORE – to develop 65 units for older people. The complex also includes a 1,500 square foot (140 square meter) community center. The city’s diocese has a goal of building affordable housing on 25% of its 133 properties.

For some congregations, these are mission-driven projects rooted in social justice.

In Washington, D.C., Emory United Methodist Church redeveloped its property and constructed The Beacon Center – which has 99 affordable housing units, community spaces, and a commercial kitchen that provides job training for recently incarcerated people – while preserving the sanctuary. In Seattle, the Nehemiah Initiative is working with Black churches in the Central District, a historically African American neighborhood, to redevelop its properties into affordable housing to keep residents from being displaced."

Potential to evolve

As states and cities struggle to provide affordable housing, studies have been conducted from Nashville to New York City on the amount of land faith organizations own, and their potential as housing partners.

In the D.C. metro area, for example, the Urban Institute found almost 800 vacant parcels owned by religious organizations. In California, a report from the Terner Center at University of California, Berkeley found approximately 170,000 “potentially developable” acres of land owned by religious organizations and nonprofit colleges and universities...

When thinking about the redevelopment process, Arlington Presbyterian member Jon Etherton told me, “the call from God to create, do something about affordable housing was bigger than the building itself.”"

-via The Conversation, July 19, 2024

[duskmachine]

I can't take it anymore. The new Chainsaw Man chapters are so good I have to talk about them. Spoilers for chapters 176-178 below.

Love Yoru here. She undermines the sacrifices Asa has made and describes them as "trifling things" because in Yoru's eyes she has a much bigger goal. She constantly makes fun of Asa because Asa is a child and therefore values things much lesser than the dreams of the War Devil. It's so insane because right in the next panel,

Asa acts like an adult! Would you sacrifice the things you have fought for the sake of your own gain? You say one thing but mean another. Asa is much like Yoru in this regard, she wishes to fulfill Denji's dreams (whatever they may be) and protect him. But in reality, she wants to do these things for the sake of proving she is a "good" person.

This connects back to the church briefly touched on in the previous chapters! What makes a good person? Action or intent? Many people go to church to follow tradition, and follow the values of this religious system because it will secure them in, what they believe to be, heaven. If one does good for the sake of personal gain, can we say that person is "good"?

Yoru and Asa both are willing to destroy what they had wanted to protect in order to gain this "goodness". Asa, without really understanding, is harming Denji while trying to do right by him. And Yoru, who is willing to kill her comrades for...

This! She is willing to give up everything for the sake of proving she is a "more fearsome devil"! She ridicules Asa for the "trifling things" she values, and yet she is sacrificing her own kin for the sake of the most petty bullshit dick measuring contest EVER. One that Chainsaw Man does not even care about. It's not a contest between two of the most "fearsome devils" it's a desperate devil attempting to find any means to remain relevant.

This is some teenager angst coming from a centuries old horseman of the apocalypse.

Armless, mouthless, and with zero agency she comes to realize her pettiness and chooses to steal the freedom of choice from her children. They must serve her as her mouth and her arms. Children then are:

Asa was saved by her mother from the Typhoon Devil. In reality, despite Asa's flaws she is a teenager. She wants go to college, have a home, have friends. Her story reflects Denji's. She wanted a normal life where she was loved and yet, her agency was taken by a devil much more powerful than her and now she must find meaning and power in a position stripped of those things.

In a way she is attempting to find a silver lining, "If I can protect Denji, that means I'm still a good person despite everything". Which is so tragic, because in more ways than one, she was never truly able to make a sound decision due to the lies she was told and the possession of her body.

And come this horrifying sequence of events. Where Asa finds herself as the War Devil, hollowed out of her original heart. Her dream desecrated by war waged for the most petty bullshit dick measuring contest EVER. And isn't that all war? As the Statue of Liberty reveals itself to be a cocooning child of war. True freedom, in the hands of law makers and of devils, is defined by one's ability to wage war and decide who, in the end of mindless violence, is the true victor.

Individuals willing to kill children understood to be a parents' property, or a state's property, are devils through and through.

This is the fundamental horror of being a child, of being poor, of being irrelevant. This is the fate devils and humans similar to Yoru avoid by constantly participating in petty bullshit dick measuring contests.

Denji and Yoru are children who have been hollowed out so devils and humans can wage violent wars that destroy colleges, homes, and families with these children's bodies and hearts.

[qwimchii]

𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘴 (pt 5) — 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘙𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4 pt 5 pt 6

𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘤𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯!𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘸𝘤 — 3.3k

𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘸𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘯𝘯𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘢, 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦?, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘧𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨

note: i had no idea that i posted this almost an entire WEEK AGO?? istg it was only 2 days ago 😭 sorry for the wait lovlies, here's some unhinged content for you ❤️

the next few weeks passed in a dizzying flurry. work became busy and you got caught up between group work and your personal life—an old friend from college visited town, your mom and dad’s memorial service passed in a flash, and you worked at the halloween costumes, carving a few little pumpkins every now and then as decor for the church stands. the halloween festival was just hours away, and there was another group meeting scheduled just before it.

you dreaded it.

Simon and you had not spoken once outside of the meetings. just polite remarks and a yawning chasm that cleaved the space between you. to say it was awkward was an understatement.

you thought back two weeks prior when you were isolated in the church basement.

you didn’t mean it?

yeah. none of it.

the memory was a splintering reminder that Simon didn’t want you. at least, not in the way you wanted him. retracing the footsteps of your mind over and over, you tried to figure out where you had gone wrong.

maybe from the beginning, you thought bitterly, failing to forget your rude, blunt behavior towards him. you guessed you deserved his treatment, though you didn’t expect him to make fun of you the way that he did.

have you never dated before? do you even know how to kiss someone?

just the thought of it made you wince as you entered the meeting room, later than usual. a dozen faces stared back at you, and Kate stopped mid-talk, eyes narrowed with something only you could decipher as worry. you just mumbled a quick apology, settling in your seat in the circle across from Simon, avoiding his eyes.

Sarah nudged you with her foot in greeting as Kate continued whatever talk she was going on about. out of habit, you half-tuned her out as Maya pat your knee softly.

from what you absorbed out of the random bursts of Kate’s words, the group met early to set up the stalls in front of the church. there’d be a costume rack, photo booth, pumpkin carving booth, face painting, and a couple tables for the bake sale—which wasn’t really a bake sale, but free baked goods because it was sinful to sell on church property, or something like that.

the church did the same events every year so none of it surprised you till Kate was saying, “now get dressed into your own costumes.”

what?

that was definitely new, you realized with a stiffness, looking around the group moving toward the exit of the meeting room with bags of, what you assumed, to be costumes.

when you didn’t budge, Sarah and Maya standing and grabbing their own things, they both paused, giving you curious looks.

Maya called your name in question and you just stayed stock still in your chair, feeling like life was being drained from your blood.

“oh my gosh,” Sarah said, a slow, impish smile spreading over your lips. Kate’s head immediately snapped up from her desk, looking pale and panicked.

“what? what is it?”

Maya pointed at you. “you didn’t bring a costume.”

your voice was high strung and tight. “i didn’t know we needed one.”

Sarah laughed out, long and airy, before gliding out the meeting room, absolutely beside herself.

Kate sounded peeved. “did you not look at the email chain?”

email, you thought, a stale taste in your mouth, who the fuck uses email these days?

Maya offered you a look of sympathy. “maybe run home really quick?”

Kate stood at her desk, just shaking her head. “don’t worry. i planned for this.”

she shooed Maya away and tugged over a plastic box from her desk, popping open the lid. inside it were an array of outfits.

she gestured to it. “pick one.”

sighing, you crouched down and pulled out the first costume that caught your eye—a greenish, white airy dress. turning it around, you realized floppy wings were already sown into the back of it. 

snatching up your purse, you tucked the dress under your arm, about to make a beeline for the bathroom when Kate clutched your elbow, pulling back to her.

with a muffled noise of surprise, your brow furrowed at the pinched look of concern over her face. 

“halloween is your favorite holiday,” she chewed out, “why aren’t you acting like it is?”

“what?” you spluttered. technically, halloween was in two days. the festival happened just prior. 

you could’ve been a smart ass about it, but instead you bit back the retort, because you knew what she meant. usually, you’d be ecstatic the whole month before halloween. but these days, only a circling, endless pit of dread followed you to sleep, and was still there when you woke every morning.

“what’s wrong, hon’?” she pressed and you just shook your head with a laugh, lying through clenched teeth.

“nothing.”

you knew she didn’t believe you for a second because her grip only tightened on your elbow. “is there something going on between you and Simon?”

your gaze widened for a split-second, before you blinked it away, eyes darting away from hers. “of course not.”

she just scoffed. “like hell there’s not.”

you rolled your eyes. “not in the lord’s house, Kate—”

“listen to me,” she said, jerking you closer to her, and you muffled a yelp. “if there’s not something wrong with you, then there’s definitely something wrong with Simon. he was doing better. now he’s… acting strange.”

you cocked a brow at her. “he’s always a bit strange.”

she eyed you in return. “not as strange as how you’ve been acting.”

“ouch. that hurts,” you deadpanned, shaking free from her grip. she relented with a low grumble.

rubbing at her temple, she sighed as you turned from before, stopping you when she said, “just smooth out whatever’s going on between you. he’s going back for work soon.”

your blood ran cold. “what?”

“he won’t be on leave for another couple of months, so i suggest you talk to him today,” she said, moving to her desk. 

you stared after her, wanting to ask more, but bit down on your tongue when a couple girls, chattering between each other, returned from the bathroom.

in their stead, you trudged down the hallway and into the old bathroom with a flickering, artificial lighting burning down overhead. in a stall, you stripped yourself and shimmied into the dress, the cheap fabric grating against your skin, but you wouldn’t complain since this situation had arisen due to your own fault.

moving past a couple other girls by the sinks, exchanging a couple words with them, a genuine smile twisting your lips, but then you looked at yourself in the mirror and almost cringed. the dress was a lot more revealing than you would have ever chosen for yourself in public—hugging at your body in the way your baggy outfits did not.

Iris stepped out of one of the stalls, whistling lowly. “lookin’ good, girlie.”

with a blush, you mumbled a thanks, digging around your purse for your makeup bag that you, thankfully, had shoved into your purse on a whim before work that morning. opening it, you began to apply a thing base, then soft shimmers around your eyes, attempting to look as fairy-like as you could.

“who are you trying to look good for?” Iris asked beside you, squinting into the mirror to brush mascara over her lashes. 

with a bitter feeling, you noticed its brand. dior.

you choked a strained laugh, waving her off. “just the endless line of ladies.”

“right,” she sang, and you flinched when she put down the tube of makeup with a loud clunk against the porcelain sink. “‘cause you and i both know that you’re lesbian.”

you paused at that, brushing away the last bits of powder on your face. through the mirror, the girls behind you, Iris’s friends in the group, had fallen silent. 

you glanced at her through your peripheral. “what do you mean by that?”

she turned to you, lips screwed in a thin line, hand on her hip.

“how long have you been fucking Simon for?”

jaw dropping, and you turned to look at her, taking in the intensity of her hot glare and the angry twitch of her features. 

you should’ve denied it, but remembering the way she clung to Simon after the night of the party, all bashful and talkative with him, your own anger simmered to the surface.

“none of your business,” you said in a cool voice, turning back to the mirror to finish with a light blush over your nose and cheeks.

she scoffed. “you’re a bitch.”

your brows twitched together, and you reached up to rub at the spot, willing it away. “okay.”

she stepped towards you, jerking her hand up so it almost knocked against your face, the tip of her acrylic pressed to your cheek.

“you always complain about how much you hate men, but as soon as you go near one, you’re start fucking them.”

you completely ignored her. “i don’t know what you’re talking about. why do you care about my personal business?”

she laughed, long and mirthless. “because you’re airing it out at every meeting, whore.”

you screwed your eyes shut, an icy feeling churning inside you. this was exactly what you were afraid of when new members joined the group. your simmering anger rose to a boil, and you swallowed the heat down, trying to lock it down in your stomach.

“don’t you have a husband? maybe you should pay more attention to that cheating bastard than a random guy you met at a support group.”

“excuse me?” she seethed, and you couldn’t help but give her your most shit-eating smirk.

“what? too boring being a housewife, doing nothing all day long? fucking men for money—”

the noise she let out was carnal, raking a hand through your hair and jerking on it hard, so your head pulled back with a painful snap. the girls behind you screamed, and a blur of a person rushed forward to clutch tightly at Iris’s neck and push her off you.

“you bitch-ass, motherfucking whore—” 

your jaw dropped at the sight of Maya slamming her against the tile wall, clawing at each other like two rapid cats before Sarah stumbled through the scene from a bathroom stall, screaming bloody murder.

one of Iris’s friends came up and fixed the state of your dress and hair, apologizing profusely for her friend, and you didn’t know whether to be angry at the girl, or thank her, as Iris’s friends scurried out of the bathroom quickly. you felt like you were in a daze, watching Iris drag Sarah by her hair before Sarah reached up and ripped through Iris’s hair so they were locked between each other, hands tangled in each other’s hair.

Maya was clutching at the wall, gulping down mouthfuls of air before she limped over and stomped on Iris’s open-toed sandals with a ferocity. she screamed, crumpling to the floor, releasing Sarah from the bind as she fell to her knees.

the three women stilled for a moment, panting with effort. 

“what in the actual fuck…” you trailed off, unsure what to say after the scathing events of the fight.

Sarah’s hands were on her hips, knees looking wobbled as she rasped between gasps, “we couldn’t let this whore bad-mouth you like that.”

she jerked a thumb over at Iris who had braced herself against the floor, leaning over her palms with heavy, gasping breaths.

Maya stumbled over to you, wobbly on her heels, and you enveloped her in a hug, trying to smooth out her hair to the best of your ability.

“you guys…” you started, choking up when tears brimmed at the edge of your eyes. Maya only hugged you tighter and Sarah limped over, cooing softly as she joined the hug, squeezing you tight.

“don’t ruin your makeup,” Maya sniffled against your shoulder, your dress absorbing her tears.

you quickly wiped at your face with a nod, clutching at Maya and your other hand holding Sarah’s cheek.

when Iris stood, leaning against the bathroom sink, the hug broke apart.

she glared at you, clawing the hair from her face. “are you done?”

sending Sarah and Maya a quick glance, you gave them a curt nod, and they obliged, stomping out of the bathroom. Sarah turned to flip Iris off on her way out, the latter girl just rolling her eyes at the sight.

when there was silence once more, you turned to the girl, taking in how disheveled and… normal she looked for once.

“your hair—” you said, pointing to your own head, and she whipped around to look in the mirror. hastily, she scrambled around for her brush but you just sighed and picked up your own on the sink, stilling her with a light grip on her shoulder. you brushed through her brunette curls with a soft hand as she glared at you through the mirror.

“let’s talk,” you offered, putting down the brush when you were done. “and let’s be civilized about it.”

she hmphed, not looking at you. “what is there to even talk about?”

you shrugged. “clearly, something is bothering you.”

“yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “your relationship with Simon.”

you bit back your own retort to remind her that she was married. “we’re just friends.”

her brow quirked at that, looking unconvinced. “really?”

“for now,” you said with a nod, and her shoulders deflated.

“i knew there was something going on,” she said, sounding morose, eyes flickering with a distant haziness.

“you could’ve just asked me,” you sighed out, and her eyes snapped to yours again, flashing with irritation now.

“i did.”

how long have you been fucking Simon for?

at the memory of it, you flinched. “maybe more politely next time.”

she just huffed, brushing out the wrinkles of her witchy dress. “you won’t tell Kate about this?”

you scowled at her before, slowly, your lips twitched into a devilish smirk. her eyes darted nervously through the mirror, inching away from you.

“i won’t, because we played fair and square today.”

“what do you mean?” she chewed out, voice icy.

“you got to talk shit, and my girls fucked you up,” you said with a nasty grin, wholly enjoying when she shivered.

stepping away from you, she cleared her throat. “right.”

it was like she remembered where she was and who she was again, gathering her things and shoving them into her stupidly expensive bag with a poised expression. you watched in amazement at the calm, collected veneer that overtook her in a second, turning on her heel to strut out of the bathroom with an elegance before jumping with a shriek at the entrance.

you quickly trailed after her, rounding up your things in one, sweeping armful and shoving them into your own purse, your eyes moving up the way her spin shook to the sight over her shoulder.

a foot away, a man stood in front of the women’s restroom, a white, plastic skull outer layer over a black balaclava. at the sight of him, you muffled a squeak, bristling with shock.

but then your eyes trailed down to the rest of his attire—a sweatshirt, jeans, boots, and… gloves. skull ones, in fact.

“Simon,” you deadpanned, glaring at him from over Iris’s shoulder, “what the hell are you doing?”

“this is Simon?” Iris shrieked, shuffling backwards, knocking into you.

“i heard screaming,” he said, voice gruff and slightly muffled under the mask. “is everything alright?”

you rolled your eyes. he was a bit late for that.

“everything’s fine,” you confirmed, gently pushing Iris out the doorway. she squeezed past Simon, not giving him or you a second glance as she rushed down the hallway and into the meeting room.

the hulking man stared after her, before turning his head to blink down at you. even under that stupid mask, his big brown eyes were still the same.

“what happened?” he asked and you just shook your head.

“you really don’t want to know.”

he let out a low noise of disapproval and you waved him away, edging forward so he stepped further back into the hallway.

“there is one problem though,” you said, cocking your brow at him.

he stepped forward again, reaching a hand out to you, but you just shook your head again with a huff. “that mask.”

suddenly, his eyes pinched, and he reached up to trace the divets of the outer skull layer.

“what’s wrong with my mask?”

the genuine hurt in his voice had you smothering a smile. “nothing. just not for children. you can’t wear that at a church halloween event.”

he was silent for a long moment, eyes narrowed like he was weighing the pros and cons of what you had just said, before sighing out.

“fine,” he grumbled, unclasping the front of it and pulling off the baclava, leaving his hair slicked up in a strange, messy clump.

biting back a laugh at the sight, you made your way back down the hallway. Simon’s careful footsteps were just behind you as you stepped back into the meeting room.

the girls were loitering around for a bit, gathering up needed materials to set up the booths. Sarah and Maya chattered with the better half of them who were blissfully unaware of what had just gone down in the bathroom. Iris eyed you from her posse carefully, watching you move near Kate with a tenseness, but you just passed her, instead moving to the box of adult costumes. you rummaged around in it, struggling and failing to find any size that may potentially fit the massive man.

groping around at the very bottom, your hand closed around something small and prickly, and you pulled it from the box with a snort, eying it in your hand.

turning around, you shoved it against Simon’s chest, and he didn’t even flinch, just taking the thing from your hand slowly.

“no,” he said immediately.

“it’s the only thing we have,” you said, sighing out, gesturing to the box behind you. Kate looked up from her desk curiously now, eyes flitting between you and Simon, then seeing the thing in his hands and choking down a laugh.

he glared at her from his peripheral, his scowl deep when he tugged it over his head.

a smile tugged at your lips, and you pressed them together, failing to hold back a little giggle at the sight of the tinsel cat ear headband on his head.

“adorable,” you cackled, slapping two hands over your mouth, trying to muffle your laughter beneath your palms but you couldn’t cease the shake of your shoulders.

his scowl only deepened, shoving his hands into his pockets with a grumpy look.

Kate hummed approvingly by your side, failing to keep her voice even. “looks great, lieutenant.”

he shot both of you a glare before slinking away and taking a seat nearby, but not before he was flanked by some of the girls fussing over his costume. they insisted on painting a nose and whiskers on him in loud, sharp demands and he didn’t even try to hide their irritation with them. but nonetheless, he relented, and Sarah pulled out her liquid eyeliner.

you watched the whole scene with shaking trembles of silent laughter, crumpling into a seat near you, and he kept glaring at you from his peripheral. once your laughter subsided, you leaned back into your chair, the sight of the girls pester him, full of laughter, and the smallest smile stretching Simon’s face had your chest feeling full of gooey content. he lazily looked over to you, a small black nose and whiskers across his cheeks, dark eyes sparkling as his warm gaze ran over you.

cute, you mouthed, pointing at your own cheeks and he just scoffed, turning his gaze from you, but his smile only widened.

yeah this part's kinda crazy (and maybe borderline cringe?) but iris had it coming for her so idkkkk—

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[wardenparker]

Woo hoo! big congrats on the 2.5k. now onto the prompt: I think a Dave York and "I'll protect you" combo could be interesting

Dave York. 1,269 words. "I'll protect you." Co-written with @absurdthirst

Wounded Dave, description of wounds, cursing, character holding a gun. Takes place directly after the events of Equalizer 2.

The address for the farm where you live is pretty straightforward. He’s had it since the day you closed on the property nearly ten years ago. Never needed it until now, but he’s glad that he had kept. Moving is slow, unable to be as stealthy as he once was with the nerve damage and loss of vision in one eye. It takes him nearly three days of watching the small clearing with several buildings before he decides to creep into the house when you are away.

Grocery shopping is only a small project, but you do it once a week at the break of dawn on Sunday morning when most of the devout town in the valley below your little farm is either at church or having a family meal. Most people don't bother with you after so long. You have your little farm and you're mostly self-sustaining at this point. There is fishing and hunting in the area so no one notices when a few extra fish or one more deer go missing every once in a while, and you only need to venture into the local grocery store for a ten minute trip of things you simply can't buy or make yourself.

Or sometimes, like today, you just need a little treat. A bag of chocolate chips and some bananas make their way back to the farm with you in what is probably your most decadent purchase in a year.

Something is different when you get to the farmhouse, though, and even the simple act of walking through the front door has you on high alert. The house feels different. Smells different. And you glance down at the threshold to see mud caked in your entry way. Just a dab of it, but it's enough to have you carefully and silently dropping your groceries inside the doorway and filling your hands instead with the gun you carry every time you leave the house. It's small, concealed, but effective.

"You have to the count of three to get out of my fucking house," you call to whoever it is that has snuck in, in your absence.

He’s got to give it to you, you haven’t slipped. Your senses are just as sharp as they had been when you left the team. Purposefully making noise to alert you to the direction he’s coming from, Dave manages to shuffle forward enough to step into the doorway. “Might take me longer than three seconds, Slim.” He huffs, calling you by the nickname that you had begrudgingly adopted when you realized it wasn’t an insult. They had been talking about your slender fingers and how you could do some of the delicate work they couldn’t. He’s exhausted and ready to collapse, but he keeps his lone eye on the gun in your hand.

You recognize his voice faster than his face. It's been ten years since the last time you saw Dave York and he's in rough fucking shape. In fact, he is the smell that first alerted you to your house being compromised when you got home. He reeks like three days in a swamp. But it isn't until he comes around the corner that you understand why.

"Fuck, Dave." One look at the wreck he's become after whatever the fuck happened to him and you're slipping the gun back into its holster and rushing forward to keep him upright long enough that he can make it to an actual seat instead of collapsing on your floor. "What the hell happened to you?"

“Bad day.” Dave jokes weakly, barely managing to not lean all his weight against you as you guide him to a chair. His wounds are still bleeding, seeping through the bandages that he’s managed to wrap around them and to be honest, he’s got a fucking infection or ten. “McCall.”

“Ah, fuck.” For whatever it’s worth, you never liked McCall that much. Too self-righteous. Smug about being intelligent. Sanctimonious to the point of irritation. Parting ways with the team a decade ago had been a blessing. “Is he gonna come track you down while I’m cleaning you up, or do we have time to figure out how bad a shape you’re actually in?”

Dave grunts in pain after he tried to shake his head. “He— he thinks I’m dead.” He hisses. “I should be.”

"Stop trying to move, you dumbass." 'Affectionate heckling' is what you once called the name calling on the team and apparently you haven't lost that touch. Although it shouldn't surprise you – the other reason you left the team when Dave and some of the other guys were getting into mercenary work is because you've had feelings for Dave York so long that it feels like part of your DNA at this point. "Let me get my kit and a wash basin. We'll get you cleaned up and rebandaged and figure out how fucked you are. Okay?"

“Same old Slim.” Dave grunts, but it’s warm, softer than he would have talked to anyone else on the team. Not that he can talk to them anymore. They’re dead. He thinks about Carol and the kids and his stomach twists, knowing that he has to stay away now. He will be a danger to them if he shows up again. His entire world is gone and now he has to figure out what to do.

"Do I even want to know what happened?" The farmhouse isn't large, and once Dave is leaning against the counter you dart across the room to scoop up your groceries and get the few cold things put away before you head into the bathroom to retrieve your first aid kit and a basin of clean water.

“Shit went sideways.” He can always be honest with you; in a way he couldn’t be honest with the team or with Carol. You know his soul. Even as dark as it is. “We tried to clean it up and there was a casualty that was McCall’s friend.”

“The rest of the team on your heels?” If they are, you’ll need to prep. There aren’t enough places for four guys to sleep in this house, but you’ll make it work.

“Everyone’s dead.” Dave murmurs quietly. There was no way anyone else survived. Hell, the only reason he survived was because the water was freezing. Slowing down the bleed out and the storm washed his body away before McCall could do anything else.

"Fuck." That has you stopping in your tracks, whipping around on the spot to turn and look him in the eye. The one he has that is still working well. The wreckage of the powerful man you had fallen in love with so many years ago and pined for ever since makes your chest ache in a hollow and long-forgotten sort of way. Like your heart had forgotten how to beat, but even the sight of a bruised and beaten Dave York is enough to bring it back again.

"Don't worry," you murmur, reaching out to put your hand over his. "We can keep you hidden up here as long as we need to." It's no small feat, but you have and would do far less for this man. "I'll protect you. I promise."

Closing his eyes, Dave relaxes, knowing you will keep your word. He’s always known you’ve had his back, even when you left the team. You left because of him, because of Carol, and not for the first time he wishes he had followed you. “I know, Slim.” He murmurs softly. “You’re the only one I trust. Always have been.”

______

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My Masterlist!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Symbolism of Food

We need food to live, so it comes as no surprise that we have accorded many ingredients with "magical powers".

Indeed, some of the things we eat every day carry both constituent elements and meanings which go far beyond mere nutrition.

Below is a list of some foods, real and mythical, which have become symbols in themselves.

AMBROSIA

For the Greeks, ambrosia was the food of the Gods.

Given that it conferred immortality, the deities on Mount Olympus guarded it jealously.

As well as ensuring eternal life, ambrosia could be used as an ointment that could heal any wound.

However, for a mortal, eating ambrosia was a big mistake.

Example: The story of Tantalus. He was invited to eat with the Gods, and so, presuming that he was accepted as one of them, he ate ambrosia. In the tradition of all good dinner party guests, he decided to return the favor and invited the Gods round to his place. Deciding somewhat sycophantically that they should feast upon all the good things that they had given him, he served up the flesh of his own children, and was banished to Hades.

CHOCOLATE

Long before the Western discovery of the Americas, the natives of Brazil, Mexico, the West Indies, and South America used the seeds of the chocolate tree to make a stimulating drink. These bean-like seeds were cacahuatl, or cocoa.

Primarily symbolic of love, chocolate is a sensual food with aphrodisiac properties that are due, in part, to association.

However, its melting point is the same temperature as blood, a very satisfying sensation.

The botanical name of the plant gives a clue as to its sacred status. Theobroma cacao means “food of the Gods,” from the Greek “Theo,” meaning God and “Broma,” meaning food.

The beans were so highly valued that the Mayans used them as currency.

Possibly the world’s first chocoholic, their ruler Montezuma was completely addicted to the beans.

He drank them infused in cold water with no seasoning. He served this sacred drink in goblets of beaten gold, and at the coronation of Montezuma II in 1502 a concoction of chocolate and psilocybin mushrooms was served to the guests. This must have been a heady mixture.

Cortés cultivated the plant primarily because of its reputation as an aphrodisiac; this secret was divulged by one of the nineteen young women given to him by Montezuma as a tribute. Perhaps the 2000 chocolate trees that he consequently planted were testimony to the efficacy of the beans in keeping the ladies satisfied.

By 1550, chocolate factories were operating in Lisbon, Genoa, Marseilles, and other European cities. The recipes became more and more refined.

Catherine de Medici slowed down the progress of chocolate for a while because it was so good that she wanted it all to herself.

However, although the Church tried to ban many of the foodstuffs that had been discovered in the New World, especially those that were considered as stimulants, their advice was largely ignored and it is possible that this disapproval increased the popularity of this illicit substance.

Neither Catherine nor all the forces of the Church could stop the world becoming chocolate coated.

Today, the form of chocolate has changed so much that Montezuma would probably find it unrecognizable, both in taste and form. However, it is still unrivalled as a token and symbol of love.

HONEY

Legislation decrees that all packaged food carry a “best before” date, but this seems to be particularly unnecessary in the case of honey, since jars of the stuff found in the tombs of Egyptian kings of several thousand years ago has proved to be perfectly edible even now.

It could well be because honey is so long lasting, and because it is used as a preservative, that it is a symbol of immortality and is used in funerary rites.

The bees that make the honey have their place in the realms of magical creatures accorded with supernatural powers, but more of that in the Fauna section.

The Promised Land is said to “flow with milk and honey” as being the very best that the Gods can offer.

The sweetness of honey is believed to confer gifts of learning and poetry.

We’ll never know if the story that Pythagoras existed on honey alone is true, but the fact that the rumor exists is in accord with his God-like status.

As well as being edible and fermentable, honey has healing and antiseptic qualities, and a dollop of honey smeared onto a wound will soon draw out any impurities and speed the healing process.

Honey is said to be an aphrodisiac and to encourage fertility and virility, wealth and abundance, and is a symbol of the Sun, partly because of the flowers from which it is made but also because of its color.

MEAD

Like honey, mead also carries the gift of immortality.

The Celts believed it was the favored drink of the Gods in the Otherworld.

It is a sacred drink in Africa, too, where it is believed that drinking the stuff will make you more knowledgeable.

It is very simple to make—it’s simply honey mixed with water and allowed to ferment—and this process of fermentation is akin to a magical process in itself, which is akin to transmutation in alchemy.

MILK

Given that milk is the first food, it’s not surprising that it is associated with many stories of the Creation, and is a symbol of divinity.

Amrita, or soma, the absolute nectar of life for Hindus and the equivalent of ambrosia, was created as a cosmic sea of milk was churned.

The curds that were created by this epic stirring formed the Earth, the Universe, and the stars.

Along with honey, there is an abundance of milk in the Promised Land, and Indian myths tell of a magical milk tree in Heaven.

Because of its color and its association with the feminine, milk is a symbol of the Moon.

The main food source for milk for us human beings (once we’re weaned) is the cow.

The cow is sacred in India because during times of famine it made far more sense to keep the animal alive for its milk rather than slaughter and eat it purely for its meat, so all parts of the cow are accorded sacred status and are ruled over by one or other of the Gods or Goddesses.

In the hidden symbolic language of alchemy, the Philosopher’s Stone is sometimes called the Virgin’s Milk.

NECTAR

Nectar is often referred to as ambrosia, but has secrets of its own to tell.

Flowers create it, and its scent attracts the bees, which then transform the nectar into honey.

Seemingly insignificant, nectar is nevertheless a very magical ingredient, created from flowers, sunshine, and bees working together in a collective consciousness known as the “hive mind” in an environment which itself is constructed from one of the key shapes in sacred geometry, the hexagon.

SOMA

Like the Greek Olympians, the Indian deities had a type of food, like ambrosia, that ensured their immortality.

This was soma, or amrita. Whereas dire consequences befell any mortal that dared to partake of ambrosia, the Indian Gods were more generous with their soma, and any mortal that ate it was immediately given immortality and access to Heaven.

The ancient Indian Vedic scriptures, the Ramayana, tell the story of Rama, an epic hero, the perfect man:

Rama was born after his father was visited by an angel.

This angel brought with him some magical food.

Eating this soma meant that Rama’s father was able to sire offspring that were the human incarnations of the God, Vishnu.

WINE

The symbolic meanings of wine are generally attached to the red variety; it seems that a nice dry white or a sweet rosé carries no hidden mystery.

The red color means that wine is often linked to blood, particularly since the wine is the “blood” of the grape.

Because it looks like blood, wine is often used in rituals where blood would otherwise be called for, and because ceremonial wine is often drunk from a shared chalice, it is seen, like bread, as a unifying principle.

Wine is male, and bread is female.

As a partner to bread in the ritual of the Eucharist, the consecrated wine is transformed into the blood of the Christ, a reminder of both sacrifice and immortal life, and it’s this transformative power that accords wine with much of its mystique.

When the water is turned into wine in the story of the Marriage at Cana, what is really being shown here is the transformation of the mundane into the magical, the Earthly into the Heavenly.

It is this magical process of fermentation at work that explains why wine is associated with Bacchus/Dionysus, and the intoxicating power of wine is symbolic of divine possession.

The phrase, “In vino veritas” links wine to the truth and is a reminder that those intoxicated by perhaps a little too much of that nice claret will be more likely to speak the truth than most, which can be good or bad, depending on the circumstances.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[sugar-grigri]

Miri does the chair as much as Denji

The chapter confirms the suffering of the hybrids who turn out to be the "weapons" (thank you Fujimoto for confirming at least one of my theories).

But let's go into a bit more detail in this chapter, which only talks about alienation and never about freedom.

What better title than 'A Chair's Feelings', which is a perfect antithesis.

I have the feeling that something specific has happened, let me explain.

Firstly, Fumiko Mifune plays her role as Denji's guard perfectly. She's not protecting him as a person but as the property of the public hunters.

How does she do this? Firstly because she sticks to Denji, but more importantly she seriously disrupts the discussion between Denji and Sugo.

Every time Miri puts an advantage on the table, she questions it. A high position in the church? Chainsaw Man deserves to be guru.

Steak every day? We're getting tired of it, other dishes would be preferable.

The public hunters represent the opressor who uses Denji as a tool. In other words, the entity that Miri is trying to remove Denji from.

But what's particularly interesting is that Miri doesn't demonstrate free will and spits out someone else's arguments.

What's even more fascinating is that Miri thinks he's going to convince Denji with his own arguments, which turns out to be in vain.

Miri seems like someone who operates on principle and has taken on board concepts such as dignity and freedom, which he now intends to protect. Denji doesn't think like that; he needs concrete arguments to engage him.

For example, Miri presents Denji as his liberator. This has no effect on him, as he was unaware of it because it was Pochita who was fighting. Once again, we're projecting onto the figure of Chainsaw Man the image we'd like him to represent here: the first weapon to free himself from the oppressor that was Makima.

But Miri is far from imagining that not only was Denji not conscious, but that he consciously 'saved' Makima by allowing her to become a new version of herself who would be cherished and loved. Because Makima was never the oppressor, she was merely the object of the Japanese government, which surely also used a few weapons.

That's why I think Miri's way of presenting himself is a step backwards. I don't know if it's intentional, but the way his name appears in the dialogue bubbles and the suspension points…… The syntax is important. Miri knows that his name is just a number given to him by his former oppressor.

In fact, that's why he calls Fumiko "sushi-woman" or refers to the students as rubbish; he doesn't think of them as they never thought of him.

Sugo has no intention of forming a relationship with the humans, whom he seems to reject, which clearly shows that weapons are used by humans, not demons.

But Denji grimaces when he sees that he is so easily popular and integrated, and that he would prefer to be rejected.

Miri rejects humans, wanting only to make friends with weapons, while Denji continues to define himself only by humans. One holds a grudge and wants revenge, while the other still prefers integration. Which already demonstrates a fundamental difference.

Swordman's arguments move from the abstract to the concrete. He starts by talking about abstract concepts such as gratitude (Denji saved him), freedom and having a community, and then starts to integrate the concrete.

He already includes food by using the precise line that Denji had used, namely steaks.

Miri isn't interested in the debate about food, deploring Denji's interest in it, and reiterates in a cruder and more brutal form what he was saying before, "being used by bastards", instead of talking about instrumentalisation and freedom. And again, he has to push Denji to confirm this.

It's obvious that Miri, who presents himself as the messenger of the church, either sent by someone or is carrying out someone's order, is contradicting himself and is not yet free. As Fumiko points out.

When Miri confronts Denji, who is still in the chair position, Denji has a more interesting response than it seems: being a chair suits him because he can feel buttocks against his back.

Being a chair means contact, and physical contact with girls. Even if it's a rather perverse line (and far from the most poetic), it shows that Denji is once again interested in being a chair if it allows him to make contact with his own kind. That he has no abstract concept built in like self-esteem or claiming his dignity.

Even becoming a friend is too abstract for Denji, who doesn't react. He will only react when new physical contact is mentioned, reacting unusually comically.

Miri mentions this last argument as a last resort, leaving as if he was already sure it would be pointless. It's as if someone had told him to mention low, childish things like steak and sex because they were the only things that would convince Denji.

There's a clear dichotomy in Miri's speech between the arguments that convinced him (surely used by the church to hire him) and the other kinds of arguments that would convince Denji, whispered to him by someone in the church who knows Denji.

Who knows Denji? No hybrids, they don't have any memories, so surely not Reze.

I like to imagine that it's Kishibe, since the steak and sex with several girls are explicit things that Denji mentioned in front of him when he proclaimed his dream.

He was also the only one to observe the fight between Pochita and Makima. So he's the only one who can tell us about the hybrids' past. If we support his link with the hybrids through Quanxi...

It all ties together!

If we go back to the title... A Chair Feelings. It takes on a whole new meaning.

Note the use of the indefinite article "a" and not "the" when only Denji is doing the chair? Wouldn't a chair be a broader metaphor and category? The chair would be the form of alienation accepted by the weapons. Still not freedom.

In short, Fujimoto questions one thing: is the man who claims to be free so far removed from the man who makes the chair ?

[teaboot]

True facts about my home town that I think about sometimes:

Nobody knows how big it is or what the borders are. There is some general consensus on what buildings are inside the town and which buildings are outside the town, as well as which buildings are definitely a different town entirely, but there is no clear "You are now in" or "You are now leaving" type locations you can point to on a map.

Tangentially, there are people one or two towns over, less than a 45 minute drive away, who will regularly ask "where is that?" Or, "I've never heard of that place" when you mention the town by name.

There are so few people that it is technically classified as a Village.

For many years, our only gas station did not sell gas. Once it began selling gas, I remember that they had to patch up the giant hole in a nearby billboard and use it to declare, "We Have Gas!", which was hilarious.

The whole place is mostly just woods.

There is some disagreement among locals as to whether or not there are wolves in the area. That being said, I have absolutely seen wolves in the area.

There is a public transit system that passes through. That said, it only stops by three times a day, and there are no set stops, so you kind of just have to pick a spot on the side of the road and hope for the best. If you are already on board and want off, you have to ring the bell and tell the bus driver where to pull over, which they may or may not do depending on the driver, the weather, traffic conditions, and general vibes.

I had three neighbors and I didn't even see any of them until about fifteen years in. One property across the road was a farm where I never saw anyone outside, but cars and equipment would move places throughout the day.

There is a post office. The woman who operates it is generally regarded as either incompetent or genuinely malicious, as she will often send mail back where it came from  with the justification that she doesn't believe your address is real.

The nearest actual city, with schools and a library and a hospital, famously has absolute dog shit cell service to the point that it is locally famous for it.

My childhood home specifically had a reputation for being a bad traffic spot despite being along a strip of straight road with no turns, and we regularly had to patch up holes in the fence from cars going through it. Most notable was one crash that woke me up as a child on Christmas morning, which I received a lovely thank-you card for noticing after I fetched my parents to assist.

Another time when I was a kid I went outside to find a car with the rear wheels in the air, nose-first in a ditch. I was home alone, so I went inside to call 911 on the landline, where I was immediately put on hold.

Someone stole our church and kept it for several years before inexplicably bringing it back and leaving it behind town hall. Just lifted it off the foundation and trucked it away.

The whole place is just around 100 years old and if you go into the woods you can still find hundreds of humongous tree stumps with foot holds carved into them from when the first white people came in and started settling down.

Apparently an entire family was axe murdered here in like the 80's and nobody talks about it

[oceandolores]

In the Shadows of Faith

Dbf!Joel Miller x Preacher's daughter reader

Dedication: To the secrets we keep and the desires we can't hide.

Epigraph: "Sometimes the truth is too terrible to be told, and can only be lived."

****

The Texas sun blazes overhead, turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirage as you walk the familiar path home from church. Your Bible feels heavy in your hand, a symbol of the piety expected of you. A good Catholic girl. A preacher's daughter.

You hear the low rumble of an engine and glance up to see Joel Miller's truck pulling up beside you. Joel, your father's best friend, the man who lives just next door. His presence sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something else you dare not name.

"Need a ride?" His voice is a gravelly drawl, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. You nod, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach as you climb into the passenger seat.

The truck's interior smells of leather and sawdust, a stark contrast to the humid, floral scent of the church. You steal a glance at Joel, his rough-hewn features softened by a hint of a smile.

"Hot day," he remarks, shifting the truck into gear. You nod again, your mouth suddenly dry.

The road stretches out before you, a ribbon of faded black cutting through fields of swaying grass. Joel's silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It’s filled with the unspoken, the unsaid. Your thoughts drift to the sermon this morning, your father's voice echoing in your ears about sin and redemption.

"How's your daddy?" Joel asks, breaking the silence.

"Fine," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "He's still talking to the deacons."

Joel chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that makes your skin prickle. "That man could talk the hind legs off a mule."

You smile despite yourself, the tension easing a bit. Joel's presence is commanding, intimidating even, but there's a gentleness to him that few others see. A gentleness you've glimpsed in stolen moments, like the way he pets the stray cat that hangs around his porch.

The truck pulls to a stop in front of your house, the white paint peeling in the relentless sun. Joel turns to you, his gaze lingering a moment too long.

"Stay outta trouble, now," he says, a teasing note in his voice.

"Yes, sir," you reply, your heart pounding as you climb out of the truck. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk up the porch steps, your skin tingling under his gaze.

Inside, the house is cool and dim, a sanctuary from the oppressive heat. You lean against the door, closing your eyes, trying to calm the storm inside you. But the image of Joel, his rough hands and piercing eyes, stays with you.

That night, as you lie in bed, the cicadas singing their endless song, you can't help but think of him. Of the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice wrapped around you like a warm blanket. You know it's wrong, know that thoughts like these are the very definition of sin, but you can't help yourself.

You close your eyes, whispering a prayer for strength, for purity. But in the darkness, all you can see is Joel. All you can hear is his voice, calling you into the shadows.

And deep down, you know you're already lost.

The days blend together in the suffocating heat of the Texas summer, each one bringing you closer to Joel Miller. Your interactions are fleeting, stolen moments that leave you breathless and longing for more. You know it's wrong, but you can't help the pull you feel towards him.

One evening, after another long Sunday at church, you find yourself walking along the edge of Joel's property. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the fields. You hear the creak of a porch swing and look up to see Joel sitting there, a glass of iced tea in his hand.

"Evenin', darlin'," he calls out, his voice a low rumble that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Evenin', Mr. Miller," you reply, hesitating for a moment before stepping onto his porch.

"Join me?" he asks, gesturing to the empty spot next to him. You nod, feeling a thrill of excitement as you sit down beside him.

The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and the sound of crickets chirping in the fading light. Joel hands you a glass of iced tea, and you take a sip, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat.

"You been alright?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.

"Yes, sir," you reply, trying to steady your voice. "Just been busy with church and all."

He nods, his gaze lingering on you. "You know, you don't always have to be so formal with me."

You feel a blush creep up your neck. "It's how I was raised."

"I know," he says softly, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. "But you're more than just a preacher's daughter."

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you look away, feeling the weight of his words. You've always been seen as the good Catholic girl, the one who follows the rules and never strays. But with Joel, you feel different. You feel seen.

"Mr. Miller…" you start, but he cuts you off.

"Joel," he corrects gently. "Call me Joel."

"Joel," you repeat, the name feeling foreign and thrilling on your tongue. "This… this ain't right."

He sighs, his hand dropping to his lap. "I know, darlin'. But sometimes what's right and what's easy ain't the same thing."

You look up at him, his face etched with a mixture of desire and regret. The silence between you is heavy, charged with the unspoken. You know you should leave, go back to the safety of your home, but you can't bring yourself to move.

"You're just a girl," he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. "A good girl. You deserve better."

"But I don't want better," you whisper, the words spilling out before you can stop them. "I want you."

Joel's eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he's going to push you away. But then he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tentative kiss. It's soft at first, hesitant, but then it deepens, a flood of pent-up desire and longing.

You lose yourself in the kiss, in the feel of his hands on your skin, the taste of him. It's everything you've ever wanted and everything you know you shouldn't have. But in this moment, none of that matters.

When you finally pull away, you're both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. Joel's eyes are filled with a mix of love and torment, and you know that this is just the beginning of something that will change you forever.

"We can't do this," he says, his voice breaking. "It ain't right."

"I know," you reply, tears welling up in your eyes. "But I don't care."

He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as the sun sets behind you. And in that embrace, you know that no matter what happens, you'll never be the same again.

Days turn into weeks, and the tension between you and Joel becomes unbearable. Every glance, every touch feels like a promise of something more. One hot summer night, the heat oppressive and suffocating, you find yourself standing on Joel's porch once more. The cicadas are loud in the background, and the air is thick with anticipation.

Joel opens the door, his eyes widening in surprise before they darken with understanding. Without a word, he steps aside, letting you into his home. The house is dimly lit, the only light coming from a lamp in the living room. It casts long shadows on the walls, adding to the intensity of the moment.

"Are you sure about this?" Joel asks, his voice low and gravelly.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes. I need this. I need you."

Joel closes the door and steps towards you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch is gentle, but there's an urgency in his movements. He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. This time, there's no hesitation, no holding back. It's a kiss filled with need, with desire.

He leads you to his bedroom, the path familiar yet forbidden. The room is simple, a reflection of the man who occupies it. The bed is large, the sheets crisp and cool against your skin as you sit down. Joel stands before you, his eyes locked onto yours.

"We can stop at any time," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "You just say the word."

You shake your head, reaching out to pull him closer. "I don't want to stop. I want this, Joel. I want you."

With a groan, he captures your lips once more, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch of you. His touch ignites a fire within you, a fire that you've never felt before. You lose yourself in his touch, in the way he makes you feel.

Clothes are discarded, and soon you're lying beneath him, his body pressing against yours. His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of doubt. When he finds none, he kisses you again, his hands gentle yet firm as they explore your body.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispers, his voice thick with desire.

You arch into his touch, your body responding to him in ways you've never experienced before. He takes his time, his hands and lips worshipping every inch of your skin. It's overwhelming, the sensations flooding your senses, the pleasure building with every touch.

Joel's hands are rough, but they move over your body with a tenderness that leaves you breathless. His lips trail down your neck, across your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

"Joel," you whisper, your voice trembling with need.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Tell me what you want, darlin'."

"I want you," you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "I need you."

Joel's hands slide down your sides, his touch igniting a fire within you. He shifts, his body pressing against yours, and you feel the hard length of him against your thigh. The sensation sends a jolt of desire through you, and you arch your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

He kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, claiming you. His hand slips between your thighs, and you gasp as his fingers find your most sensitive spot. He teases you, his touch light and tantalizing, driving you wild with need.

"Please," you moan, your hips rocking against his hand. "Don't stop."

He growls low in his throat, his fingers moving faster, pushing you closer to the edge. The pleasure builds, a white-hot heat that spreads through your entire body. You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, as you spiral higher and higher.

With a cry, you shatter, the pleasure overwhelming you. Joel holds you through it, his touch never faltering, his eyes locked on yours. As the waves of ecstasy slowly subside, he kisses you tenderly, his lips soft and soothing against yours.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "So perfect."

You smile up at him, your heart swelling with love and desire. "I love you, Joel."

He presses his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "I love you too, darlin'. More than you'll ever know."

He shifts, positioning himself between your thighs, and you feel the head of his erection pressing against you. Your body tenses with anticipation, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Joel looks into your eyes, his gaze filled with love and longing.

"Are you ready?" he asks, his voice rough with desire.

"Yes," you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'm ready."

With a slow, steady push, he enters you, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect mix of pleasure and pain. You gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders, as he begins to move, his thrusts slow and deep.

He sets a steady rhythm, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. You meet his thrusts, your hips rising to meet his, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. The room is filled with the sounds of your passion, your moans and gasps mingling with the creak of the bed.

"Joel," you moan, your nails digging into his back. "Oh, God, Joel."

He kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth as his movements become faster, more urgent. The pleasure builds again, a white-hot heat that spreads through your entire body. You cling to him, your body trembling with the force of your desire.

With a final, powerful thrust, he pushes you over the edge, and you scream his name as you shatter around him. He follows you moments later, his body tensing as he finds his own release, his moan a deep, primal sound that sends shivers down your spine.

For a moment, you lie there together, your bodies entwined, your breaths mingling in the stillness of the room. Then Joel gently pulls out of you, lying down beside you, pulling you into his arms.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice soft and tender.

"I love you too," you reply, your heart full of joy and contentment.

As you lie there, wrapped in each other's arms, you know that this is just the beginning of your journey together. It won't be easy, and there will be many challenges ahead, but you are ready to face them together. And with Joel by your side, you know that anything is possible.

The weeks pass, each day bringing you closer to Joel, both physically and emotionally. The summer heat is relentless, but it only seems to heighten the intensity of your connection. You spend as much time together as you can, stealing moments whenever possible. Your relationship remains a secret, hidden from the prying eyes of your small Texas town.

One evening, as the sun sets and the cicadas begin their evening chorus, you find yourself once again on Joel's porch. The air is thick with humidity, and the scent of jasmine lingers in the breeze. Joel sits beside you, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles on your skin.

"Darlin'," he says softly, his voice filled with a mixture of love and worry, "we need to talk about this. About us."

You look at him, your heart aching at the uncertainty in his eyes. "I know," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't want to think about what could go wrong. I just want to be with you."

He sighs, his grip tightening on your knee. "I want that too, more than anything. But we have to be careful. Your daddy… if he ever found out…"

You shiver at the thought. Your father, the preacher, would never understand. To him, this relationship would be the ultimate sin. "He won't find out," you say firmly, trying to reassure both yourself and Joel.

Joel nods, but you can see the worry etched in his features. "I can't lose you," he says, his voice breaking. "I can't."

"You won't," you promise, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I love you, Joel. We'll find a way."

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as he takes a deep breath. "I love you too, darlin'. More than you'll ever know."

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of soft touches and whispered promises. You know the road ahead won't be easy, but with Joel by your side, you're ready to face whatever comes your way. Your love is strong, and you believe it can overcome any obstacle.

As the sun sets, casting a warm glow over the fields, you sit on the porch swing with Joel, wrapped in each other's arms. The future may be uncertain, but in this moment, you know that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

In the shadows of faith, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, you find your own kind of salvation.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Sergeant John Soap MacTavish Headcanons

Part One

Words: 790~

TW: None (sfw)

Part Two

I think I accidentally gave Soap the most headcanons.

Enjoy!

John isn't Soap's first-name. Well it is, but it's his second first-name. So it's completely legal for him to go by and to have marked down as his first-name on his papers. Soap's mother, Oighrig Mactavish, is a proud Scottish woman who gave all her children Scottish names.  Soap's name is actually Coinneach John MacTavish. 

None of Soap's siblings have a second first-name, but as the first born boy Soap was named for his dad, John MacTavish, who was named after his own father. So technically, Soap is John MacTavish the third. Only Price knows that John isn’t Soap’s only first name.

Soap is the second eldest of the six MacTavish children. The first born was Iseabail, then one year later Coinneach John, then two years later Eilionoir and Donella the twins, then three years later Artair, then one year later Maighread.

Soap was raised with the hard rule that you don't start eating until everyone's sat to the table, you've said grace, and even then only after the head of the house (growing up this was usually his Grandad) has had their first bite. 

In service he subconsciously followed this habit by waiting until after the person of the highest rank at his table started eating, or the person of the most seniority if they're all the same rank. | Ghost hates this because if Price sits down after them, Soap will automatically stop eating until Price starts, and at breakfast Price tends to sip his way through half his morning cuppa before he starts to eat. Ghost originally tried reminding Soap to eat, but it was blatantly obvious Soap felt so dispolite and guilty eating first that Ghost started demanding (silently glaring and kicking shins) Price start eating instead. 

Soap does still say grace as well, but after some razzing he's gotten very subtle about it. No head bowing or closed eyes or clasped hands. Just a pause after he sits down to mentally recite the prayer, then he crosses himself, and he's good to go. 

Oighrig Mactavish, Soap's Ma, was the oldest of her siblings while her husband, John MacTavish, was the youngest of his. John MacTavish's parents have long since passed of old age, while John MacTavish himself died of a heart attack shortly after Maighread was born. | After her husband died Oighrig’s Parents, Soap's Grannie and Grandad, invited her to bring her family down to come live on the family property with them. | Oighrig's family all hail from Uibhist a Deas(South Uist) and are very proud of their Scottish heritage.

Soap's first language is actually Gaelic, along with all his siblings. It was the primary language spoken in the house while he was growing up.

When Soap first got accepted into service his Grannie got him a rosary. With the beads made of rose petals and the cross of real silver. She even got it blessed at their church. Soap only ever takes it off to shower.

Soap is really good at picking things up and learning on the fly. When he puts his mind to something he finds it easy to learn new skills. Is it the adhd hyperfixation? Probably. This man has so many random skills and abilities, he never runs out of weird party tricks. 

Has the weirdest luck. The team has made it a rule that if they’re playing a chance based game everyone else gets to have an ‘Honest try’ before Soap goes, because it's guaranteed that he’ll win it within five tries. | However, he is also the most likely to have innocuous shit go wrong. Visiting a base? The ceiling over Soap’s bunk drips. He’s trying to wash his clothes? The washing machine breaks and traps all his clothes inside. Trying to season his food? The cap falls off the shaker. 

Very particular about his personal bubble. | With strangers: he doesn't like any sort of contact. He's absolutely fine chatting with them, but does not want them in his bubble. | With acquaintances and people he knows he's going to get to know(new teammates, friends of friends, and the like): it's fine if he reaches out, but when they try to initiate touch with him first it gets his hackles up, makes him uneasy and uncomfortable. It pokes at his hindbrain and makes him feel like they’re currying his favor for something. Which is most often false, but he can't help it. | With friends and partners: he has no sense of personal space and loves being tactile.

Soap can throw it back. He knows how to twerk, whine his hips, body-roll, grind, and drop it low. That white boy can dance. This is 10% his older sister Iseabail being a bad influence, 40% bored fidgeting giving him weirdly good muscle control, and 50% him teaching himself thirst-trap dances off the internet. Gaz and he will have little dance parties in the 141's kitchenette, or anytime they're waiting on something really.

Thank You For Reading!

Yes, I made Soap the ultimate Scot. Activision said let's make a scot and gave him an accent, I'm giving him everything he deserves. I'm not trying to make him a caricature, but he is a fictional character, so ╮(^-^ )╭

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