#no one does suffering like catholics

[greenlakegalpals]

thinking about schneider again and how she has truely been through A LOT.

ultra religious catholic family from 1920's italy, born as the thirteenth child, in a storm, her mother remarried(divorce is NOT seen so highly in those times especially when youre ultra religious roman catholic, wouldnt be surprised if she was blamed for that). seen as a bad luck. slap in some religious trauma where she wonders if god hates her.

outright neglected and malnourished because there were too many mouths to feed family and very little food to go around in a country so extremely impoverished at the time. then her family moves to chicago usa of all places, now she has to deal with racism ontop of being an immigrant girl who didnt speak a lick of english. had to learn it by force, had to find odd jobs to support her family. considering shes based off a showgirl, very possible that was one of her many jobs to keep herself and her family afloat. so add sexism and the very real and common threat of sexual harrasment she nost likely dealt with. then she goes into bootlegging, though its helping her family..... this brings gangsters and cops and rival bootleggers who dont like competition.

so she had to defend herself and her families future. she had to sacrifice her own principles. shes not a killer, shes not a cold blooded unfeeling murderer. she loves and feels so deeply, especially for her family that she HAD to do the unthinkable, went against everything she was raised to be just to support them. even if it meant killing and lying and blackmailing.

oh and dont forget the religious trauma that made her think next to nothing about herself. she thinks herself as a sinner, cursed and left by god. the way she talks about herself obviously imply she thinks she deserves punishment.

i cant stop thinking about this girl

[bijoumikhawal]

WRT to Kai Winn I hold two opinions constantly at the same time

The writers and fans often position her in a way that is inconsistent with their world building by giving her more power than she actually has (thinking of her as a white catholic or evangelical when in universe she just isnt in that position) and the show occasionally gave her views that were "radical" in what felt like an attempt to delegitimize them

In 60 years Bajor will have its own version of the Hinduvta movement or some shit and they'll fucking love Kai Winn, because she has horrible politics and will have sown the seeds for their existence

[efloarchive]

modern verse hana would just be a regular university student, getting her degree in art history while also maintaing her dad's old flower shop with a "vintage" approch. and by vintage i mean doing more traditional arrangments like ikebana and tailoring the shop to follow the aesthetics of japanese arts.

[inkskinned]

they want to talk about mental illness and acceptance and how everyone is a little ocd it's cute and quirky and their "intrusive thoughts" are about cutting their hair off and you say yours are about taking a razorblade to your eye and they say ew can you not and everyone is a little adhd sometimes! except if you're late it's a personality flaw and it's because you are careless and cruel (and someone else with adhd mentions they can be on time, so why can't you?) and it's not an eating disorder if it's girl dinner! it's not mania if it's girl math! what do you mean you blew all of your savings on nonrefundable plane tickets for a plane you didn't even end up taking. what do you mean that you are afraid of eating. get over it. they roll their little lips up into a sneer. can you not, like, trauma dump?

they love it on them they like to wear pieces of your suffering like jewels so that it hangs off their tongue in rapiers. they are allowed to arm-chair diagnose and cherrypick their poisons but you can't ever miss too many showers because that's, like, "fuckken gross?" so anyone mean is a narcissist. so anyone with visual tics is clearly faking it and is so cringe. but they get to scream and hit customer service employees because well, i got overwhelmed.

you keep seeing these posts about how people pleasers are "inherently manipulative" and how it's totally unfair behavior. but you are a people pleaser, you have an ingrained fawn response. in the comments, you have typed and deleted the words just because it is technically true does not make it an empathetic or kind reading of the reaction about one million times. it is technically accurate, after all. you think of catholic guilt, how sometimes you feel bad when doing a good deed because the sense of pride you get from acting kind - that pride is a sin. the word "manipulation" is not without bias or stigma attached to it. many people with the fawn response are direct victims of someone who was malignantly manipulative. calling the victims manipulative too is an unfair and unkind reading of the situation. it would be better and more empathetic to say it is safety-seeking or connection-seeking behavior. yes, it can be toxic. no, in general it is not intended to be toxic. there is no reason to make mentally ill people feel worse for what we undergo.

you type why is everyone so quick to turn on someone showing clear signs of trauma but you already know the fucking answer, so what's the point of bothering. you kind of hate those this is what anxiety looks like! infographics because at this point you're so good at white-knuckling through a severe panic attack that people just think you're stoic. even people who know the situation sometimes comment you just don't seem depressed. and you're not a 9 year old white kid so there's no way you're on the spectrum, you're not obsessed with trains and you were never a good mathematician. okay then.

mental illness is trending. in 2012 tumblr said don't romanticize our symptoms but to be fair tiktok didn't exist yet. there's these series of videos where someone pretends to be "the most boring person on earth" and is just being a normal fucking person, which makes your skin crawl, because that probably means you are boring. your friend reads aloud a profile from tinder - no depressed bitches i fucking hate that mental illness crap. your father says that medication never actually works.

you still haven't told your grandmother that you're in therapy. despite everything (and the fact it's helping): you just don't want her to see you differently.

[bamgyw]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ c.bg; six nights ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

summary: six nights of emo boy gyu sneaking into your room without your daddy knowing. aberrational catholic guilt ridden catcher in the rye wannabe porn document. afab reader x softdom!beomgyu. warnings: everything, unfortunately. minors dni. heavy smut ahead. lots of pretentious writing, too. catholic guilt and imagery. abusive behaviour, parental neglect. drug use. violence. everyone is sad. i’ll keep on updating part-specific tags. index: prologue: the house of god, first night, second night, third night, fourth night, fifth night, sixth night, dawn of the seventh.

prologue: the house of god

when daddy wanted to hide something from you, he would turn to his beloved bible. and ever since you turned fourteen, he had been holding on to a passage that he would repeat to you every night before going to sleep: 

"let no one say when tempted, "i am being tempted by god," for god tempts no one. but each person is tempted when lured by his own desire. then desire gives birth to sin, and sin brings forth death."

that is the only sex talk your daddy ever gave you. it was more of a sex mantra than a talk, or a warning, or even a prohibition. just a rule of nature that he wanted you to have engraved in your mind: desire is sin, and sin is death.

when daddy didn't want you to do something, he'd blame the rule on god. and there's little you could say against that. 

as you grew up, you realised that god might not be real, but daddy most certainly was. a punitive, disciplinary god. and one feels much more compelled to obey divine rule when god lives under your roof. when you can touch him, and he can touch you.

when god lives in your house and his wrath can tear your flesh apart not in hell, not in heaven, but in this life; you become more cautious than the most devoted of christians. so even when everyone in your grade started drinking, dating, having sex; you had it very clear that the priority was to protect yourself. not from the dangers of drinking, dating, or sex; but from daddy, that is to say, from god.

none of your friends from school understood it, that the fear of god was not irrational. you had scars and bruises that god had given you which you could perfectly show them. but then daddy would get in trouble. besides, he wouldn't like you showing your body around. 

none of them could ever understand what living with god was like, so they were the kind of people who would ask that stupid question; if god loves us, why does he hurt us? 

the first person to understand god was a boy called choi soobin. 

daddy had remarried choi soobin’s mom the year before you started college. she was a beautiful woman, lively and hopeful to start a second life after becoming a widow. it must be thrilling to get a chance at a second life when your first one has gone wrong. soobin’s mom could have been very happy in another universe. you felt sorry that she had stepped into daddy‘s trap. 

you had always wondered how daddy had managed to get a woman like her. bright, cultured and affectionate. but then you figured that maybe, as he was god, he didn't necessarily need to be yahweh, or elohim. he could also be zeus and disguise himself as a swan to kidnap and rape leda. 

you found out later that soobin‘s mom had never fully recovered from the passing of her first husband, and she often suffered from major depressive episodes. daddy saw that void in her, and her urgency to fill it. he forced himself into the hollowness of the void, and obstructed her veins, bones, and heart with the word of god.

soon enough, soobin’s mom had no limb or internal organ she controlled herself. she had once had colours, you remembered; rosy cheeks, a hazel head of hair, lips tinted with vibrant red. but daddy had turned her grey. 

soobin’s mom had been kind enough to see the good sides of daddy, you had liked her for that. but you regretted that she hadn't learned to hide her colors so that daddy couldn't steal them away, like you did. 

she became a shadow of herself, an almost non-verbal phantom trapped between the real world –that is, the confines of daddy's house– and the world of hopeful prayers and the salvation of soul.

the boy called choi soobin would never forgive daddy for that. but it was alright. you understood. in a sense, he had killed his mom. you had to love daddy because he had created you, but you didn't think choi soobin was obliged to. 

people said choi soobin had changed, too. that he used to be a gentle kid, polite and sweet, but he had turned hostile. that, like most teens, he had become self-absorbed and belligerent without a cause or that he had gotten those adolescent mood changes so late in his life because he was an attention seeker. people say things like that when they don't understand what living with god is like.

you were the only one who didn't believe daddy when he said that soobin had a demon inside. you knew better than that, you knew that daddy saw demons everywhere. but soobin’s own mom believed it. when daddy tried to exorcise the demon away from soobin with fist and blood, she looked away.

all that soobin had wanted by acting up against daddy was to save his mom. to bring her back from the dead. but after that betrayal, he stopped trying. 

soobin had never been violent towards you, though. not once. not even mean. you were the only one who understood him, the only one who told him he wasn't evil. you knew that god's tyrannical rule could break a person, fill them with hate. and so soobin and you became close, often talking against god. every whispered defamation, every blasphemy, the danger of it felt so exciting. not because of the mischievous sin, or because of the disobedience, but because you felt like you could speak your mind at last.

your first kiss was soobin. you felt loved when it happened, something you realised you weren't used to. the feeling bloomed throughout the following week as you hid from god's watchful eye to be together.

soobin told you a hundred times that you were the most beautiful girl in the world, kissing all over your face, clasping you as close to him as he humanly could. he would sneak his hand under your skirt and whisper, "don't think about him right now. it's just you and me." and though his touch never went very far in the magnitude scale of sin and punishment, it was enough to breathe a new life into you.

you sensed that a big part of why soobin wanted you so bad was because he got turned on at the idea of defying daddy, and groping his holy daughter was the greatest offence he could commit. but that was alright. you felt the same way. and you hoped that that hate-induced lust would turn into love, in time. you could then be happier, even in the house of god. 

or you could have been happier. because god is omnipresent. and he would soon act to see you separated. the blossoming flower was brutally ripped from the soil.

when daddy found out, he locked himself into the master bedroom with soobin one morning and didn't let him go until the sun began to hide. soobin left that room broken and dead in life, just like his mom, but he didn't have one single bruise. maybe daddy really was god, after all.

soobin never talked to you again. spoken, yes, but it was hollow. you never felt loved again. you learned a lesson that day: your pleasure brings pain to everyone around. the mantra became true. desire is sin, and sin is death.

so if there was any need left in your body to touch, to kiss, to lick, to possess or be possessed; you confined it to the darkest pit of your ribcage, way past your heart, never to be accessed again. 

until choi beomgyu came around.

he was the second person to understand god. but he had brought his lesson learned from home. he knew god’s ways even before he met daddy. he had a god of his own. you called yours daddy, he called his ‘that narcissistic sadist’. but strangely enough, you felt like they meant the same thing. 

choi beomgyu was sort of soobin's friend, if you could even call it that. they never labeled each other as such, never sought out each other's company for the sake of friendship. they just wanted to live through their loneliness while sitting in the same room.

beomgyu’s dad was a dealer. he made a living out of ruining people's lives, as beomgyu saw it. growing up, he had promised himself that he would never be like that, the kind of person who doesn't care about poisoning someone's body if that meant keeping the cash flowing. but as he grew up, he learned that it wasn't all black or white. that all of those fools kept showing at his father’s doorstep, like they had no other choice. like they enjoyed hurting themselves. 

beomgyu, like soobin, had become hateful. one of the things that bothered him the most was the "why me?" question. how unlucky he could have been to be born of such a father. but then again, he could run away. he could sort his shit out, get a job, never see his father again. but he kept going back. like he had no choice. like he, too, enjoyed hurting himself.

his dad barely knew he existed, and if beomgyu ever tried to make himself heard, he would silence him in cold blood. so any semblance of love or validation beomgyu could aspire to, he sought out with mathematically strategised plans. he craved the drug of attention and knew exactly where to get it.

he'd linger around fancy schools and church events, scoping out a certain type of girl. there was always a few of them going through a rebellious phase, desperate to go out with a bad boy and piss off their high-official dad. 

it didn't take much effort for him to get what he wanted. he was handsome enough to make it easy, and even though he was a spiteful nihilist, he could be charming on command. just a smirk, a tousle of the hair, and some cheesy lines like, "i'm messed up, but with you, i feel like maybe i could be better," or "you're too beautiful for a screw-up like me." and he would have them wrapped around his finger. 

he would bring them over to his place and fuck them rough on his drug-money-bought mattress. if there was shouting, or a gunshot coming from another part of the house, he'd fuck into them harder, muffling their fear with a rough kiss, using their panic to fuel his own twisted thrill. you fucking scared? i've gone through this crap every day since i was a kid. 

if he could crack the shell of a privileged princess, dragging someone along with him down to his mud, his pain would slightly numb out.

for just a little, but never enough.

that pattern of behavior didn't lead to happiness. not even to satisfaction. it was a vindictive way of muffling his pain with the aching moans of someone who had it easier. but in reality, it only pierced what was left of his soul, making him even more hollow. it was soobin who made him realize that.

until that day, beomgyu saw soobin as almost a kid—pitifully weak and too sheltered. but when he told him about his exploits of going after posh girls, soobin didn't applaud in shared bitterness as he often did.

beomgyu explained to him how hard he got seeing the fear in their eyes as they realised that the life he led, that freedom of the rebel, wasn't as cute and bohemian as they had romanticised.

soobin responded curtly. "and then what? you cum, the spell wears off and you stare at the ceiling in silence, thinking of how miserable you are." he said. "and then you feel guilty for being a piece of shit and using that girl as a blow-up doll. and because of that you feel even worse about yourself, which means becoming more hateful and ruining more people. its not a you thing, you're not that special. that loop has been said and done. probably how your dad feels after beating on you."

beomgyu was taken aback. he didn’t even find it in himself to get offended. he remained pensive for a while before saying, "hyung. do you think i'm a bad person?"

soobin replied; "i think you can choose not to be."

and beomgyu took the advice. he put an end to the hunter-gathering of rich girls. he respected soobin from then on, too. soobin had therefore been a good influence, one could say. or at least an influence beomgyu was willing to accept. he started hanging around your house more, to the point of almost never leaving.

you learned about him as if he were a mythological figure—someone everyone talked about but whose existence you couldn't confirm. as a friend of soobin, beomgyu was bound from the start by an unspoken rule to maintain the least possible contact with you.

beomgyu was made aware of that rule very early on. what he didn't know, because he had been misled, was your age. that's why he didn't think much of it at first; he thought you were a kid. so, whatever—he couldn't talk to soobin’s annoying little stepsister. big deal. he didn't care about kids anyway.

this, combined with the prison-like structure of daily life in that house—minimal time in common areas and endless hours rotting in your own cell—fulfilled daddy's command to keep your life and soobin's, and therefore boemgyu’s, completely separate.

but even though you hadn't seen choi beomgyu in person, you had been able to construct a fairly accurate forensic portrait of him, pieced together from your father's warnings about people like him.

about the piercings, daddy believed that the body is holy, and anyone capable of mutilating within sin. about the music they played when locked up for whole afternoons in soobin’s room, he believed that god is serene, and disturbing that peace is a sign of the devil. he considered long hair on a man an abomination, and much like the eccentric clothes, a mark of a sodomite.

daddy didn't approve of him, and saw him as no more than a threat to the sanctity of his home. but beomgyu was quick to remedy the situation.

beomgyu was most acquainted to the ways of gods. he knew they were capricious, proud and pathologically narcissistic. so he made sure daddy could see he was a troubled young man and played the role of the lamb seeking guidance. he convinced daddy that he could abduct him, like he had done with soobin and his mother.

when soobin recounted the scene to you, his voice had sounded more hopeful, more full of admiration than you had ever heard. "he went to your dad and talked to him as if he was the buddha. said that he was lost and needed someone to guide him on the right path." soobin said. "he had some quotes from the prodigal son parabole learned, and he just delivered so naturally. not a trace of shame because when he lied to his face like that. it was like watching a play. your dad bought everything."

from then on, beomgyu became an unsung hero in your eyes. the boy who had outmanipulated daddy into having it his way. the boy who had defeated god.

around halloween that year, beomgyu and his dad had a terminal fight. it ended on a threat so destructive that beomgyu thought it was for the better if he stayed away from his father's place for a couple days. maybe a week. soobin, knower of the impotence and humiliation of having to sleep under the roof of the one who lacerated you and torn you to pieces, offered him shelter.

daddy's eyes lit up with greed. he saw the definitive chance to welcome a prodigal son into the fold. for beomgyu it was almost a joke. he was amused at how fast daddy allowed him in. so clueless and hasty, like one of the girls he used to charm into his bed.

in truth, beomgyu wasn't even to blame when he inevitably bumped into you. it had been daddy's mistake, he had let him in himself. you thought maybe that made daddy more human, somehow. that he forgot to close the back door to the prison and the devil strolled in.

but it wasn't really a matter of having let his guard down. daddy was still as stern, still as disciplinary, still as paranoid as he had always been. choi beomgyu was just much smarter than daddy.

he was a demigod, he was a promise. he was soon to make you his.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next part

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ please let me know if you think reading about booty sex is gross (i'm doing market research)

[thehollowwriter]

Maybe I'm being silly, but despite all my ranting abt Rollo's mischaracterisation making me seem angry, I'm actually more sad than anything. Idk, it just kinda hurts to see a complex character I love so much being portrayed as a racist, religious bigot.

He's a traumatised teenager who literally watched his brother burn alive and couldn't do a thing about it. Like. Do you understand how horrific that is? And the cause of this horrific situation that left Rollo scarred is magic.

Rollo is, again, a traumatised teenager who watched his brother burn alive, and likely never got the help he needed to properly deal with his grief. Of course he's going to blame magic, it's likely how he copes, how he brings a sense of reason to a complete accident that could have happened to anybody with magic.

It's easier to view magic as a malevolent force that caused this tragic event. That way, Rollo won't have to confront the fact that there wasn't any "reason" at all. And now, he can eradicate the "cause" of his brother's death and make everything better. It's much more fulfilling than not being able to do anything to make it right because it was just an accident.

I would also like to take the time remind you that Idia literally tried to end the world and is still treated better than Rollo is.

"But he's based off Frollo!" You cry, except you seem to forget the fact that Jamil is based off Jafar, an old man who lusted after a teenager and wanted to marry her, and while Jamil is horribly misunderstood by many people, he's still not treated like a bigoted monster.

A lot of people came to the conclusion that he's racist against fae, even though nothing he does indicates that. He hates magic users specifically, and of course he'll hate Malleus, Malleus is notorious for using magic for every little thing and mainly being revered for his magic.

I also think Rollo being religious/Catholic doesn't make sense for his character. Think about it. He sees magic as dangerous, a vile influence that will bring nothing but harm, but people are complacent to adore and use.

Imagine trying to tell him there's an all-powerful, essentially magical being he must submit to and worship? One which, may I remind you, many say "allows" bad things (like the death of a brother in a blazing torrent of fire magic) to happen? He'd hate that shit. He'd probably gear up to fight god himself. He wasn't even afraid when he fought Malleus, after all.

Idk, this is just from a culmination of far too many posts, memes, "analysis'", and fics portraying this incredibly complex and tragic character who challenges the ideologies of our main chast as a creepy, obsessive copy-paste of Frollo, when characters who have done much worse are adored and treated like little meow meows.

I just don't understand why people do this? Is this because he went against the fan favorite, Malleus? Is this because he's "ugly" (he's not, and it's gross how many of you think ugly = bad person)? Is it because nobody can read?

I really don't know. But it really frustrates me that the common portrayal of him is so far from his actual character, especially since I relate to him in the sense of feeling a burning rage at something that has caused suffering for you, and not being healthy in your response to it/not being able to get help.

Idk man

[buddierecs]

infidelity buddie fics

this list has different rated fics, so please look at the rating make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :) (also i don't condone cheating/infidelity, but i am eating these fics up oops.)

three strikes and you're out by: eightpackdiaz "buck's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend chooses to ignore him every time the kiss cam points in their direction. eddie does the opposite" word count: 3.1k rating: teen and up important tags: cheating, tommy kinard bashing, kiss cam, jealous!eddie diaz, first kiss, getting together i slept with someone from 118 and all i got was a broken nose (eddie diaz can't relate) by: sterrenhemel ".....still, he punches tommy square in the fucking nose." word count: 4.4k rating: general audience important tags: non-graphic violence, cheating, protective!eddie diaz, tommy kinard bashing, chronic pain, getting together, first kiss counting pulses by: tinydancerr "eddie diaz’s life is going great. he’s in therapy, he’s got a great girlfriend, a great kid, his friend is getting married to the woman of his dreams, and his best friend just came out to him. now his best friend is dating their new friend. things are going great. he promises." word count: 63k rating: teen and up important tags: eddie diaz centric, catholic guilt, ocd, co-parenting, emotional infidelity, therapy, slow burn, jealous!eddie diaz something touched me (like a knife-blade) by: kithmet "eddie self-implodes. christopher, seeking refuge, flees to buck—whose priorities amount to, in varying order: take in the kid, get eddie to talk to him, and keep the three of them afloat in the process. (oh, and tommy’s there too. he thinks.)" word count: 42k rating: explicit important tags: co-parenting, emotional infidelity, possessive behaviour, sexuality crisis, mutual pining, getting together, anal sex, masturbation what if i can't have us by: woodchoc_magnum "in which eddie is dating marisol; buck's dating tommy, and eddie has feelings about that, which he simply does. not. understand." word count: 47k rating: explicit important tags: emotional infidelity, mutual pining, catholic guilt, getting together, team as family, eventual smut oopsie daisy (never knew that was your boo, baby) by: ameliahart "five times Buck cheats on Tommy with Eddie, and one time he doesn't." word count: 5.4k rating: explicit important tags: 5+1 things, cheating, sneaking around, sexting, blow jobs, anal sex, getting together mixed messages by: coldbam "eddie accidentally receives a text meant for buck's boyfriend." word count: 2.6k rating: explicit important tags: cheating, phone sex, sexting, getting together, love confessions how could you not know (all this time) by: deadsapphicssociety "in which the 118 holds a movie night for chris's school, buck's boyfriend is a flaky loser, bobby knows too much, and eddie suffers. greatly." word count: 5.7k rating: mature important tags: cheating, pining, making out, hand holding, frottage, tommy kinard bashing nothing wrong with me loving you by: cranberrymoons "buck and eddie watch red white and royal blue together; one thing leads to another (aka: the sexting fic)" word count: 4.4k rating: explicit important tags: cheating, sexing, dick pics, masturbation, praise kink, dirty talk, dom/sub undertones no place like by: clytemnestra "buck and eddie and the many paths home." word count: 51k rating: explicit important tags: cheating, angst, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, getting together, love confessions drink up (you're wasted on me) by: okanus "eddie and buck hook up at the bachelor party. difficulties ensue." word count: 9.5k rating: explicit important tags: cheating, flirting, sexual tension, drunk sex, hand jobs, possessive!eddie diaz, jealous!eddie diaz, praise kink mask over my eyes and arrow through the heart by: youbetsya "buck is getting married. he is." word count: 35k rating: explicit important tags: emotional infidelity, angst, idiots in love, coming out, jealous!eddie diaz, hand jobs, blow jobs, come eating

[morphean42]

The whole idea of Edwin being stuck in Hell due to being a sacrifice has never sat well with me, especially taking what the Night Nurse says into consideration. She says she’s never seen an error like his in all her years on the job, but there have obviously been many human sacrifices throughout history, does the show imply every one of them is still forced to suffer in Hell?

Then I was thinking more about it, and I’ve never interacted with The Sandman but from what I’ve learned there’s an emphasis placed on the idea that if you believe you deserve Hell, you go to Hell. I’ve seen some people talk about how Edwin may have believed he deserved Hell, but I just felt the need to make my own post on it.

If Edwin didn’t think he deserved Hell, Death would have come for him like She came for Simon (once he essentially forgave himself). The Night Nurse has never dealt with a case like this, meaning most sacrificed souls probably are picked up by Death soon after arriving in Hell. They aren’t there to be tortured after all, so they would end up wherever the demons of Hell stay until Death came.

Enter Edwin Payne, 16. He’s sacrificed to Sa’al, he’s confused, his catholic guilt takes over. Of course he deserves this, God wouldn’t have let it happen otherwise right? This is a punishment for how he is, those boys had seen it after all, chanting Mary Ann as he was went here. The demon who took him is nice enough, for a demon, but when it becomes clear Edwin isn’t going anywhere, he’s traded off.

Maybe I’m overthinking this all, it would be interesting to see more of Hell in season two. Maybe sacrificed souls are used for a specific purpose, and it’s just Edwin’s escape that stuns the Night Nurse. The idea that Edwin could have forgone 73 years of torture had he simply known he was a good person and didn’t deserve it is some good angst though

[catholic-character-tournament]

Round 1 - Side B

firestar art by @kudos-si-do

Propaganda below ⬇️

Kirei

He fucked up so many people's lives so badly in just one decade (not on purpose) that the universe put him in the summoning pool of all world influencing souls. He doesnt really have any special powers but he does serve as a vessel for rasputin at one point. He's the guy who says "people die when they are killed"

please please please there's literally a type moon character in the gif on the top of this form so it's typemoonphobic if none of them get in but it shouldn't be her it should be kirei bc he's 50x funnier & more iconic than jeanne. funny lil murder priest who's fucking THE gilgamesh (from the epic of) in the church basement and dies in a knife fight w a 17 year old whose dad he wanted to fuck back in '94 before realizing that he was actually kinda lame and he's been bitter abt it ever since. he has an orphan torture factory in his basement but he's also canonically good at being a priest. he's so funny you should def try his mapo tofu i swear it's totally safe for human consumption and not made with any california reapers. did i mention he's a deadbeat dad.

Priest claims to be Pro Life to make Sakura Matou the most miserable girl on the planet, but he dies anyway.

bro became a catholic because he loves suffering

He’s a priest. Kind of. Not a very good priest obviously. There is something seriously wrong and fucked up with that man. It’s so entertaining.

he's gotta be one of the most insane catholic men ever with a very in-depth and interesting relationship with his religion and his relationship with god also he's the sexiest man ever to be conceptualized in the known universe and all of time

Will never forget the 40+ minute monologue in heavens feel being a thinly veiled metaphor for abortion

he wants to torment churchgoers and make them face their failures and suffering but all he ends up doing is motivate them to improve themselves. cringefail moment for him

he's absolutely insane. the coldhearted mercenary that barely reacts to anything is terrified of kirei. he's super fucked up. his ult in stay night is literally him channeling divine power into something called kyrie eleison. he's the vessel of rasputin (on account of being a priest with a huge....no i shant say) the biblical beast in grand order among other things. he gets drunk with and tops gilgamesh from the epic of gilgamesh in the church basement after gilgamesh from the epic of gilgamesh bats his eyes a little too hard at kirei in some of the horniest shot scenes ive ever seen. he also used to be a heretical "fixer" for the church, cleaning up scenes that would expose shit to the public. uhh what else. he holds cool swords between his fingers like a kid pretending to be wolverine but in my favorite route he just squares the hell up with the protagonist and they fight to the death outside planned parenthood

Firestar

Kitty jesus, he believes in starclan which is the kitty version of heaven/god and yea. All the warrior cats characters except those outside the clans or those that are atheist believe in the kitty heaven and would irl be bri-ish and christian as hell so. The authors are all older british christian women and so the way starclan is written is like undoubtedly that.

The main religion in the series is extremely catholic coded. Most clan cats believe in Starclan and the Dark Forest(or heaven and hell). There is a set of rule they must uphold and follow, where following them leads to heaven and breaking them leads to hell. Their religious leaders are sworn to celibacy, and the punishments that "code breakers"(or cats who break the rules) face are extremely similar to situations people with religious trauma have gone through.

OP notes: apparently converted to avoid getting his balls cut?? Idk. The discord yet wild for firestar so I had to include him because it's hilarious hehehe

[nilboxes]

How Sunday is Perfectly Morally Gray

Original thread on Twitter

Sunday is a misguided savior—made to believe he is the sole salvation of all, who was willing to be the lonely scapegoat/sacrifice/host of a place where everyone else but him lives in a beautiful never-ending dream.

Repeatedly during 2.2, Sunday alludes to a story about the Charmony Dove and how he believes an injured bird who can't fly should be caged, pampered and fed to live the rest of its days in comfort. It is alive, that is what matters the *most*

Sunday's thoughts to me probably go—Why can't we be all caged like the Charmony Dove? Where is the place that we can exist without predators and hardships? Everything should always be nice and unchallenging, we should just leave in perpetual peace and happiness and indulgence

This idea of a paradise free of suffering is reflected in the "sweet dream" of Penacony, but Penacony itself is fueled and fed by its dreamers who slowly lose themselves as the dream eats away at them.

So Penacony can't be the paradise, there needs to be a better, a newer dream that someone will bring forth so that everyone can be the Charmony Dove in the cage. No more hardships, no more sadness, no more disease, no more death, everyone lives their best lives.

Sunday was brainwashed into thinking HE would best suit as a sacrifice to these needs, he was ready to be the lonely host of this new and so much better dream where everything is all good. He designated himself as the cage, he is the sacrifice so that everyone else can have it good.

Everything about this heavily references an old short story by Ursula Le Guin called "Those who walk away from Omelas" which is basically a story about a wonderful utopia called Omelas where everything great and stuff, BUT it comes with the price of one single child suffering very badly

The story details how most people are horrified to learn about this child who lives in total abject misery, darkness and filth, but they see the utopia they live in and go "this is fine, this beautiful paradise is all worth the suffering of one person"

But SOME people can't deal, even just one person suffering and not being part of utopia is a no go, it's not worth it, so they "walk away from Omelas" and go somewhere not better objectively, but just away from that place and that price they had to pay for utopia

Sunday literally wants/offers himself up to be this child. He is willing to be the sacrifice so that everyone else can live happily. Because, selfish as it is, he feels like everyone should be put in a gilded cage so they can have it good and easy.

There's a very misguided savior complex here where he thinks everyone should be subject to this sort of "salvation" like there's a special mindset here of Sunday's, self-sacrificing and very Catholic that HE can choose what is good for others and be willing to pay the price for it

And like, it's terrible but also commendable at the same time. Sunday says if you are weak that is fine, he will give you a dream where you can just live your """best life""" and be ""happy"" but is it really happiness if it's "fake"/handed to you on a platter and decided for you

But the message of Penacony says dreams are just dreams and you should wake up and strive for it, not live in the dreams. Omelas says if even just one person has to pay for your paradise it will never be worth it.

Sunday is terribly misguided, was brainwashed/conditioned to believe this, using his childhood grief to perpetuate a misguided ideology where he will basically Jesus himself for a thing that is objectively not really any good for anyone.

But like, he is rather straightforward as a character and yet his motivations and what thoughts he might have while believing in this is so so fascinating…

Anyway I stop yapping maybe don't hate Sunday, maybe read Omelas

PS: Does Sunday think he is unworthy of his own paradise because he failed to save his mom if so that's so Catholic of him dude needs therapy

[cafejulii]

Kurapika being deemed by the hxh fandom as one of, if not the most, aesthetically pleasing character in all of hxh is ironically hilarious to me.

While I agree with this sentiment to an extent, as someone who is very keen to elements that make up an inherent sense of asethetic, canonically speaking; it should be expected that Kurapika has almost everything that would go against having a cohesive one. If anything, I am in firm belief that the main reason why he holds such a title is due to the manga covers along with the elegantly crafted filler added in hxh 1999 in which depicts the suffering intertwined with the discovery of his nen ability in such an artistic manner, which then created the baseline aesthetic for the lovely artists of this fandom to further expand upon.

But outside of this? Even so, many hxh fans still agree that he holds a sense of aestheticism to him. It truly does not matter that his color palette is all over the place, or that he would absolutely not care for style, and that, when not his cultural attire or a suit; he dresses as though he had walked into each of his friends closet's, picked out one item from each one, and wore them all together and called it fashion. (They absolutely do not match at all and Killua would absolutely have a stroke at the sheer sight of such grievous combinations).

Specifically talking about these 2011 official arts in which he is one step away from becoming Armin Artlert. (Even complete with the seagull)

Either that, or he dresses like a recently divorced wine mom. Or a butch lesbian. Not to feminize him in any way of course. It’s just the observed truth. It’s just the, pure, unavoidable reality when you dress in those particular color combinations, wear flannel or an oversized sweater, and have that oh so particular “fuck ass bob.”

Specifically talking about these 1999 official arts. A friend of mine had pointed out to me that the one on the right reminded them of Major Hughes’s wife from FMA and I couldn’t stop laughing. Poor 1999 official art Kurapika they did him so wrong.

Though there also many instances in the 1999 official arts in which he does a complete 180, and dresses as though he were the most insufferable character in a shitty 90’s mafia movie. While yes, in the manga, he is technically a mob boss as of now, I genuinely could not fathom watching the absolute mess of succession war unfold with a straight face if he dressed like this.

Yet even still, we have a multitude of artists making the most breathtaking artworks that depict him in agony while holding the eyes of his people almost as if he were some sort of sacrilegious patron, a lot of which are usually inspired Catholic/ Orthodox paintings. (I love these types of arts so much)

Now thinking about it, I suppose, maybe he is so aesthetically appealing because he is an androgynous presenting man with heavy backstory that has many symbolic ties to Christianity as he is representative of Lucifer in juxtaposition to Chrollo who is seen as this twisted version of Jesus Christ. And as we know, it was Lucifer who was considered to be the most “ beautiful of all the angels.”

But anyway, I digress. Bro is just ethereal. Congratulations togashi for creating a character so intentionally-unintentionally aesthetic.

(also this is very much a shitpost please I beg don’t take this seriously at all)

[pearlessance]

Faith in Me - Idle Threats [v]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel faces hard truths and discovers you've been assigned an impossible task. He doesn't intend to let you chart your course alone.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI (no smut in this part, but in almost every other in the series), brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, BIG angst in this one, reader shoots at joel, added backstory to progress the plot

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

The following morning, Joel wakes up to a cold bed. The sunlight leaks in through the window, casting rays of yellow across your room. He realizes he’s never seen it like this, all lit up. There’s a mahogany dresser across from the bed, one of those handmade ones that last through lifetimes. There are scuffs and scrapes in the wood stain, but they make it look cozy and lived-in and comforting and warm, just like you. He realizes too, that the sheets on your bed that he once thought were navy are more of a plum—and that, too, suits you.

He turns his head and finds the ripped paper sitting on your pillow. He unfolds it, and inside there’s a note in your scribbly handwriting that reads, I had plans with a friend. When you let yourself out, make sure you lock the front door. 

Joel’s a little surprised for two reasons. One, you allowed him to sleep in your bed, in your home, without you, as if it were his, too. It makes him feel tender yet…territorial, somehow. Like he wants it to be his. Wants to wake up slowly like this every day, with the smell of your shampoo stuck in the sheets and in his skin. And, two, he’s surprised he slept through the night. 

It’s been a long time since he’s done that. It’s been a little easier, being in Jackson, being someplace safe. But while the walls around the commune make sleeping a little less fretful, his thoughts are what keep him up at night. Guilt and shame and all the loss he’s suffered. The memories, the picture-perfect images in his head, the bloodstain that never seems to leave his hands, the sounds of gunshots and clicking infected, and the screams, always the screams. He’s lucky to get an hour or two of solid rest every night. 

But it was dark when he fell asleep cradling your head in his hands. And now the sun is out, blinding him— midday. He feels rested and sated and revived. As if sleeping here, with you, has changed something in him. Altered the chemical makeup of his brain.

Joel doesn’t know how to process it. So, he doesn’t. Instead, he finds his clothes on the floor and does just what you ask. He locks the door behind him, wondering who this friend is that you’ve left him for, wondering if it’s someone he knows, wondering if it’s another older man who’s got morals as loose as he does.

It had been your words last night, though, and that brings him comfort. I’ll only see you.

He believes it. He has to. Because the alternative is…unthinkable. Dangerous.

When he nears the two-story colonial that Maria had given them upon their arrival to Jackson, Joel notices the door to the garage, where Ellie has taken up residence, is propped open. He hears her rambunctious laughter, and his chest pulls tight at the sound. He makes a mental note to spend some time with her soon—her birthday is coming up, and she’s growing so fast, right before his eyes. But Joel wants her to enjoy this phase for as long as she can. Wants her to get a chance to be a kid the way he’d gotten to. The way…the way Sarah will never get a chance to. 

He swallows hard as the thought crosses his mind.

And he knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s an invasion of her privacy, but he lingers outside the garage, wanting to hear that easy happiness in her voice for a little while longer. He expects to hear Dina’s voice, or Cat’s or Jesse’s, or maybe even all three of them. But he hears you instead, and something akin to relief fills him to the brim as he realizes who your plans are with.

“No, no! It’s good!” You’re laughing too, and Ellie mirrors the sound twice as loud. “C’mon, look. Let me see.”

Joel can’t help himself. He peeks into the room, decorated with band posters and paintings and polaroid photos. The two of you sit on the floor with your backs pressed against the side of her bed, knees pulled up with a composition notebook held between you. In your lap lies that journal Joel has seen so many times, the same one he’s been so curious about. 

Part of him is a little envious that whatever you’ve put in it, you’re sharing with Ellie and not him. But he supposes if not him, at least it’s her.

He watches as you pluck the ballpoint pen from her hands, making minuscule edits to whatever it is she’s drawn in her notebook. “There,” you say, handing both tools back to her. “See? You just forgot the hindwings. That’s all.”

Ellie looks up at you, admiration in her eyes. “How are you so good at this? I love drawing but I feel like I suck at it sometimes.”

“It just takes practice,” you tell her. “And I’m not good at drawing. Just these two things.” You pick up the leather-bound journal in your lap and flip through several pages.

“Bugs and bones,” Ellie says, eyes scanning each page and drinking up its contents greedily. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you echo. “Just bugs and bones.”

She stops your flipping of the pages and points to one in particular. “What’s that one?”

“A moth,” you answer.

“Is that a skull?”

“It’s called a death’s-head hawkmoth,” you say, setting your journal aside and picking up hers instead. You take the pen and speak as you draw on the page. “People used to think because of the markings it has that it was bad luck to see one. That it meant trouble was coming. But, back before the outbreak, some scientists used to study bugs like this exclusively, and some of them wondered how they survived so long because all they do was eat honey. I mean, all they do. They don’t even harm the bees who make the honey. They don’t have fangs or claws, they don’t sting like bees or cause harm to the environment. How can something like that mean trouble? Just because of the way it looks, because of what people think ?” You shake your head and hand the journal back to Ellie.

Joel knows, without even having to look, that you must have copied the image from your journal into her notebook. He mulls over your words and thinks about all the reasons he’s told you he can’t be with you. Wonders if you’ve ever compared yourself to a moth, remembers Kelly’s words. 

Bit of a troublemaker, really.

He remembers the first thing his brother ever told him about you. 

That’s just how she is. Explosive, defiant, easily provoked.

Remembers how Tommy noticed the immediate change in you after that night spent in the tree blind, that night Joel saw you for what you were and wanted it still.

That girl has been a pain in my ass every single day. Someone has a complaint about her, or she’s hollerin’ about something or other. Never does as she’s told—fights Maria and I on everything.

He thinks about Stella standing outside the bakery, shaking her fist at you with your name shouted from her lips over the loss of a single strawberry scone. One you split with a girl who’s never had one before, and likely wouldn’t have even thought to try it if not for your thievery.

How can something like that mean trouble?

Joel feels that pinch in his chest again. It’s a little different this time, a little more like guilt than appreciation, a little more like perdition, like eternal damnation.

Because he did this to you. Joel put these thoughts in your head, didn’t he? And you don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you.

“You write a lot,” Ellie says, and there’s a sensitive tone to her voice. One that lets you know you don’t have to talk about it, but that you can. 

And Joel is a little surprised that you do. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do you forget stuff all the time?”

You shake your head, flipping back to the next vacant page in your journal. You’re drawing inside of it, and Ellie is drawing in her notebook, and Joel lets himself appreciate the sight of the two of you seemingly so comfortable with each other. Two gifts he’d been given from God, two gifts he’s too corrupt to deserve but too lamentable to ever let go of. “Not really. It’s…it’s the opposite,” you tell her so softly he almost can’t hear it from where he lingers just outside the doorway. “There’s too much I can’t forget.”

Ellie’s drawing stops, but she still holds the pen tightly between her fingers. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you answer.

“I think…I think I like Cat,” Ellie says, and Joel isn’t even a little surprised to hear it. He’s old, but he’s not blind. “I mean, like like her. Is that…weird?”

“That’s not weird,” you say casually. You don’t even lift your pen, don’t even turn your head to look over at her. Joel sees the relief in Ellie’s shoulders, knows this confession has been made easier for her with how little you’ve reacted to it. “Cat’s cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Ellie says, cheeks flaming. She starts to draw in her notebook again, pursing her lips together to hide her pleased smile. “Cat’s cool.”

Joel clears his throat and knocks his knuckles against the door. “Hey, kiddo,” he greets.

“Hey,” Ellie says, brows pinched together. “Where’d you go off to so early this morning? Maria was asking for you.”

“Just had a couple of things to take care of,” he says. “I’m gonna shower and then I’ll go find Maria. We’ll grab lunch in the dining hall after. Sound good?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. I think they’re serving venison today.” Her eyes widen dramatically, and she gives him a pointed look, and then she’s inconspicuously nodding toward you, hinting at something. 

It takes Joel a little too long to understand what she’s saying. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and shrugs as he turns to look at you, trying to prepare himself for the embarrassment, the discomfort. But when your eyes connect, none of it’s there. It’s just that warm tenderness you bring out in him, and somehow that’s even worse because Ellie is right there and he doesn’t know how to hide this, doesn’t know how to keep it under wraps when every time he looks at you he feels he might burst with the rapture he’s stolen with you. Joel fights his knowing grin as he says, “You can come.” And as soon as the words fall from his mouth he regrets them, coughs to cover up his chagrin. “I mean, for…for lunch. If you…if you want to. You don’t have to, but you’re…you can—if you want.”

You’re laughing as he stumbles over his words, and Ellie’s mouth falls open in astonishment. “Uh…sure,” you say. “Sure. I’ll come with you, Joel.”

His face burns, and he’s trying not to laugh and scream at the same time. 

“ Jesus,” Ellie huffs. “That was painful. Now go, please.”

He knows she’s pushing him out to save herself any more embarrassment, but Joel knows there’s no way it compares to his. He tries to remedy the conversation. “I didn’t mean…I’m just trying to invite you,” he says. To…to lunch. Venison.”

Ellie leans back, grabs a throw pillow from the mountain of them on her bed, and chucks one at Joel’s head. “Oh my God, go!”

Joel does as told, catching the throw pillow in his hands and tossing it on the floor at your feet before disappearing out of the garage. His mortification eases at the sound of joyous laughter that spills from both of you, and he can hear Ellie as he walks away.

“You wanna know something insane? I think he’s seeing someone. Like a girlfriend. Can you believe that?”

Your answer is spoken with mock astonishment, and Joel decides to make you eat your words later as you snark, “Whoever it is should teach him how to talk.”

He does just as he said. He showers quickly, trying to avoid thoughts of you, images that flit through his brain of your shampoo sitting next to his on the side of the tub, of a second towel hanging behind the door. He does his best to not think about you sleeping here, in his bed with your hair splayed out over his pillows. He tries not to think about hearing your soft sighs echo in his room, about waking up to the warmth of you wrapped around him, about your pretty sounding pleas for more, more, always more, needy little girl. 

Joel fails, of course—and twice he has to take his cock in his hand and grant himself a little relief in the shower before he feels sated enough to go about his day.

An hour later, he finds Maria near the stables. She’s talking to a young man Joel can’t quite place. He’s your age, and Joel’s seen him around, but his name slips his mind. Maria listens intently as he tells her about the foal who was born a couple of days ago, updating her on the horse’s progress. When she spots him, she gives him an inviting smile and says, “Joel! There you are.” 

He waits for her to say her goodbyes and the two of them leave the stables and start down the street. “Ellie said you were lookin’ for me.”

“I was,” she says, wasting no time. “When you weren’t home, wanna know the next place I checked?”

Her stare is weighted, heavy. And he suddenly feels a little bit like a child being scolded, knowing he’s been caught but not willing to admit fault.

Joel doesn’t offer a reply. Maria doesn’t either, because they both know right where she went. “She was leaving when I got there, on her way to meet Ellie. Said she hadn’t seen you since yesterday morning at The Tipsy Bison.”

She leaves room for him to confirm or deny the accusation in her words. He doesn’t. 

“You snore, Joel. Did you know that?”

He stops, feet sinking into the fresh snowfall in the middle of the street. The sun shines brightly, though—and he knows the spring thaw is coming soon. He hopes the end of this conversation comes sooner. “Maria…”

She turns to face him, several paces ahead. “She’s only lied to me once before today. And it was to protect someone then, too.”

He opens his mouth to say something, anything —but nothing comes out.

Thankfully, Maria stops him with a raised hand. “Don’t you go lying to me too,” she says. “Look, I…I know you probably think she hates me, and maybe—maybe there’s a little truth to that. But I love that girl like she’s my own, Joel. And she’s irreplaceable to this town. You understand? I don’t need her distracted. And I really don’t need you to be causing issues with the others because of her.”

It surprises him to hear it, in truth. The only interaction he’d seen between the two of you was the one in the dining hall where you’d been throwing things and screaming in Maria’s face, and Joel had assumed it’d given him all the information he needed about your relationship with her. Had he been wrong? Jackson has a pretty lengthy history—maybe there’s more to this than he once thought. Maybe there’s more to you than he thought. 

The desire to pry confessions out of you rises in him, desperate to discover that something that’s happened to you, to drink greedily from your well. Joel realizes he wants to know it all. The good, bad, and ugly.

“I’m not causing issues,” he says, but it even tastes like a lie. He’d sent Kelly away crying and almost stabbed Abel with a broken beer bottle just yesterday.

“Hey, Maria! Come take a look at this!”

Joel’s thankful for the distraction. She raises a hand in greeting to the older woman a few feet away, and then turns back to Joel with a heavy sigh and exhaustion on her face. “Look, you’re both adults, and I’m not trying to give you the talk. What you do together is your business—all I’m saying is…don’t do irreparable damage to yourself or to this town to indulge her,” Maria says. “I’m sure you know by now she can cause a whole lotta trouble when she wants to, and I don’t want you to start thinking this is anything but a way to get back at me, to prove her point. I know you think you’re what she needs, and, hell—maybe you are right now. But she’s young, Joel. She’ll never love you—not the same way you’ll love her. This is just a phase, and she’ll grow out of it. She’ll grow out of you.”

The words are cold and sharp, stabbing behind his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs, dousing that warmth you’ve elicited and leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Because in the back of his mind, Joel knows it’s the fucking truth. 

Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, though. He chokes on it instead.

Maria seems to sense his struggle and offers an apology that does nothing for him because she can never take the words back, can never replace the blindfold she’s ripped off. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was really hoping Tommy would get through to you but I think you’re more like me. Sometimes we need the truth to hurt a little to understand it.”

The woman tries to grab Maria’s attention again. This time she gives it to her, squeezing Joel’s shoulder in a way that makes his hands curl into fists at his side. He hates Maria at this moment because despite desperately trying, he can’t find a single lie in her words.

She’ll grow out of you. 

Joel swallows it down like a bitter pill.

When he returns home, he’s relieved to discover you’ve fled Ellie’s company for the time being. He thinks about canceling, urging her to have lunch with you alone because of a non-existent headache. 

But she’s so excited to see him when he gets back, excited for the three of you to share a meal, and Joel doesn’t have the heart to ruin it. She babbles about you the whole way to the dining hall, talks about how cool you are, how pretty you are, and Joel agrees.

It throws Ellie off guard enough that she squints and turns her face up at him as they settle at a table with one vacant chair. “I thought you hated her,” she says.

“Hate her?” He shakes his head. “Nah. Ain’t like that.”

This answer, it seems, has her even more suspicious. “Sooo…what is it like then?”

Like religion.

Because Joel wants the comfort you bring. He wants the warmth, the devotion, the prayer he makes you recite whenever he finds himself between your thighs. He wants the succor that comes with urging you into submission, wants the satisfaction that blankets him when you’ve got nothing bratty left to say, foul words replaced with pleas. He wants the respite he finds whenever you’re near.

But he’s never much believed in God, never believed he’d be good enough to get into heaven. And he’s having a hard time believing he can keep you, too.

It’s not the worship he struggles with. It’s the faith.

“Sore subject, I see,” Ellie says. And there’s something on her face akin to understanding, which makes Joel realize she’s growing up at the speed of light.

“Yeah,” he says, seconds before you and Tommy walk through the door. 

The laces in one of your boots have come undone, loosening with every step you take into the dining hall. You talk to Joel’s brother animatedly, a serious look on your face. Tommy’s nodding in response as you tick off something on your fingers, and it’s barely there but Joel can see the fear in his brother's face as he looks at you. 

Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know what it is or how he knows it, but Joel knows. Can see it in the way his brother’s shoulders are pulled tight, can see it in the crease between your brows. Worry emanates from both of you. And when you glance over at Joel and Ellie waiting for you at the table, it dissipates for a single moment as a warm smile stretches across your face. 

Tommy pulls you into a tight embrace—something familiar and affectionate that would enrage Joel had you shared it with anyone besides his brother. Your goodbyes are muffled by the clink of silverware and the dull chatter of the people around you, but Joel can make out two of Tommy’s words. “Be careful.”

You shake off whatever unsettles you and sit in the chair between them. “Sorry I’m late,” you say. “Tommy caught me on the way here.”

“Everything okay?” Ellie asks carefully.

“Yeah, yeah—all good.” It’s a lie, and both of them sense it but neither prod for more.

Joel leans over, takes either side of your chair, and turns it toward himself, legs scraping noisily against the wooden floor. You glare at him and start to call him some obscene name, but then he gently takes your ankle in his hands. He can feel your gaze on him as he sets your boot between his knees and laces it back up—because it’s dangerous for you to be walking around like that. What if you trip? When he’s finished, he sets your foot back on the ground and stands from his chair, trying to ignore the look of bewilderment on Ellie’s face. “You two stay put. I’ll grab lunch.”

He hears both of you break out into hushed whispers the minute he walks away, but whatever it is the two of you are talking about is way less concerning to him than what you and Tommy were talking about.

It takes him less than a minute to slip out of the back door in the dining hall, round the building, and find his brother just outside. He stops him with a brisk hand to the shoulder. “Tell me.”

Tommy lets out a sigh and runs the back of his thumb over a wrinkle on his forehead. “A few months ago, just a couple before you and Ellie showed back up, there was a raid. A bad one. Only lost a few good people but…a lot of the survivors were pretty hurt. We made it through, but the stock we had in medical supplies has been slim ever since. An’ it’s hard—finding stuff like that these days.”

“That’s all it is? A run for supplies?” You’re the best runner Jackson has. Tommy’s said so on multiple occasions. That doesn’t scare Joel, the idea of you going out there. So why has it got his brother so rattled?

Tommy swallows, and Joel knows there’s more. But his little brother hesitates, pity filling his brown eyes, and it does nothing but fuel the panic slowly creeping into Joel’s bloodstream.

“Tell me,” he insists, a little more aggressive this time.

He has to look away to answer. Tommy instead finds the steadily melting snow far more interesting. “There’s a…there’s a hospital out in Casper. About two weeks on foot, one with a horse. It’s got all the supplies we could ever need—aspirators, sterile bandages, ECG monitors, ventilators, antibiotics.”

“Get to the point,” Joel demands.

And he does. Says it outright as if it’s not a death sentence. “It hasn’t been touched since before.”

Joel knows, but he narrows his eyes and asks slowly, “Before…before what, Tommy?”

“Before the outbreak.”

Which means that whatever’s inside… “No,” he says, shaking his head and taking a step back, suddenly unable to pull air into his lungs fast enough. “No. Find someone else.”

“There is no one else, Joel.” 

“Then call it off! Send her on a scouting mission—farther away if you have to. You have no idea what’s in there.”

He can’t imagine it—something worse than clickers, worse than bloaters. Joel’s mouth runs dry as one terrifying thought rings like a warning bell through his head. You’ll die, you’ll die, you’ll die.

“You think that’s the kinda man I am? That I’d send her in there knowing how dangerous it’ll be without giving her a choice?” Tommy glares at him. “It was her idea.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care whose idea it was, I’m sayin’ no.”

“It ain’t your decision to make,” Tommy says in warning.

And Joel knows it’s the truth as much as he knows Maria’s sharp words were the truth—but he doesn't care about any of it. Not when your safety is on the line. “Nah, Tommy, you’re not—you’re not hearin’ me. I’m telling you it’s not going to fucking happen.”

“Maria’s gonna give birth soon, Joel. We need those supplies,” Tommy says, finality in his voice. He shoves past Joel, a clear sign that the conversation is over—but Joel doesn’t care about that, either.

He shoves his brother hard, and when he turns around to face him Joel can see the anger on his face. But it’s no match for his. “Don’t you walk away from me!”

“It’s not your fuckin’ call!”

Joel scoffs. “This is someone’s life you’re gamblin’ with, Tommy. You’re tellin’ me you need those supplies more than this town needs her? More than I need—?”

He stops. Freezes beneath the weight of his brother’s accusatory stare, knowing just what he’s almost said, knowing just what he’s admitted. So much for keeping it secret, Joel thinks. 

His chest constricts, ribcage closing in on his lungs. Joel suddenly can’t breathe. 

Tommy’s eyes soften as he watches his brother fall apart in the middle of the street. “I tried to warn you, man,” he says. “I told you to put an end to it. Told you nothing good would come of it.”

It becomes obvious to him then that there’s no getting through to his brother. Joel decides to take a different approach instead.

When he storms back into the dining hall, you and Ellie have already gotten plates for yourselves and one for him—and the sentiment would warm his heart if he wasn’t currently fuming. He doesn’t sit back in his chair. He stands over you and says firmly, “You’re not going.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to understand what the hell he’s talking about, and roll them dramatically the moment it clicks together in your mind. “I didn’t ask, Joel. Sit down. We got you lunch.”

“It’s a goddamn suicide mission and you know it,” he says, trying to no avail to keep his voice down.

He expects you to lash out, to fight him like you always do. But you sit still in your chair. Don’t even turn to look at him. Just stare pointedly forward, knee bouncing furiously beneath the table. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you hold back that anger, the first time he’s ever seen you try to keep it in check.

Joel’s not sure what that means. For him, or you. “If it’s been left untouched for that long, it’s probably been that way for good reason. Have you lost your mind? ”

It’s then you stand abruptly from your chair. Even though the words are dripping with irritation, you try your best to put on a gentle front as you say, “I’m sorry, Ellie. I’ll catch up with you later.”

And then you’re pushing past him, shoving him with a shoulder, leaving the dining hall with watery eyes. And Joel starts to feel a little bad, but he knows he still hasn’t gotten through to you and he has to. He needs to make you see reason before you run off and get yourself killed. 

Because he’s only just gotten a part of you. It can’t end so soon. It can’t. He won’t let it.

He follows you back to your house, calling your name, trying to avoid the stares the rest of the Jackson residents are giving the two of you. It isn’t until he says your name one final time that you turn to face him.

Joel’s chest cracks at the sight of the tears on your cheeks. He needs to get through to you, but he wishes it didn’t have to be like this. “Baby, please—just listen to me. It’s not safe.”

“Nothing is safe, Joel! Have a little faith in me. Why are you so sure I won’t make it back?”

“Because whatever’s in there is going to be so much worse than anything you or I have ever seen. Don’t you get that? You can’t do this. I couldn’t do it. No one should have to.”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes and breathe a long sigh. When you finally compose yourself enough to speak again, you don’t look at him. And that hurts more than anything, Joel thinks. “Miley…she, uhm…she’s fifteen. Same age as Ellie. Been in Jackson her whole life, never been outside. Not really. And she’s so sweet…one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She has…she has a—a tumor on her spine,” you say softly. “It can be removed, and she’ll live. But to operate, we need anesthesia. You know where to find anesthesia, Joel? A hospital.”

He shakes his head slowly, feels pressure build in his throat. “No,” he says softly. “We’ll…we’ll find it somewhere else. I’ll help you, baby, okay? We’ll go together—we’ll figure it out—”

“She doesn’t have that kind of time! God, are you hearing me? I’m going. And when I make it back in one piece with everything they need to save her, you’re gonna feel real fucking stupid for not believing in me.”

You turn away, push through the door and slam it closed behind you. Joel scrambles up the steps after you only to discover that, this time, you remember to lock it.

An hour later, Ellie finds him in his room with his backpack on the bed and his boots laced tight and an extra flannel on beneath his coat. She leans against the doorframe with her arms crossed and asks quietly, “Tommy told me what happened. You’re going with her, right?”

He doesn’t find any resentment on her face, and it relieves him if only a little. “Yeah,” he says. “That alright with you?” He prepares himself for any answer she gives. Decides then and there he'll remain here, in Jackson, if that's what she needs from him.

“‘Course,” she says, much to his relief. “Just…be careful.”

He hugs her tight, makes her promise she’ll bother Tommy with everything she needs, makes her swear she’ll stick with Cat or Dina or Jesse, that she won’t hermit in her room. She makes a joke about how he’s the hermit between the two of them, and then she urges him on his way. 

As he’s descending the stairs, she leans over the banister and says, “Hey, Joel? By the way, fuck you for stealing my wife. I liked her first.”

It makes him laugh, and the small moment of ease she creates just before he leaves brings his spirits up. He says goodbye to Tommy on the way to the stables, who points him in your general direction. He ignores the look his brother gives in response to his decision. Ignores him, too, when he warns, “Maria won’t like this.”

Because Joel doesn’t give a fuck what Maria thinks. Not when it comes to you. Because she might say she loves you like you’re her own, but she doesn’t love you enough to refuse to send you to your death. It’s all the information Joel needs about her opinion. 

He takes a horse and enough rations for two weeks and follows the tracks you’ve left behind in the mud. Once he’s deep into the forest surrounding Jackson, Joel realizes that you’re smarter than you let on—because the hoof prints veer off a mile into the trek, off the trail, and into the more secluded brush. He knows he’s getting close when the tracks become more defined, knows he’s just on the cusp of finding you. 

But it’s not him that finds you at all. 

Joel feels the hair on the back of his neck rise a second before he hears your voice from behind him. You look a little like some sort of Valkyrie warrior, standing tall beside your horse with your bow pulled taught, an arrow aimed right at his head. “Go home, Joel,” you say, an edge in your voice he’s never heard before. 

And he knows it’s partially due to frustration, but mostly because you’re here— outside the walls, out in the open where everyone has to be harder, sharper, crueler. He dismounts, keeping a loose hold on the reins. He raises his hands in surrender. “Let’s not do this,” he suggests. “You and I both know I’m not goin’ anywhere. Alright?”

The stiffness in your limbs subsides the smallest bit at his words, the soft side of you he knows and loves peeking through. But it’s only a second before those walls come slamming down again. “I don’t do runs like this anymore,” you tell him. “I don’t take partners.”

Anymore. The word haunts him. Because it implies that you did at one point. But something changed, something happened to make you break Jackson's most important rule, to draw the boundary he’s currently crossing. He can feel the pain it causes you, even from several feet away. And Joel doesn’t want to hurt you any further than he is right now but he can’t let you do this alone. “Put the bow down,” he says, taking a tentative step forward.

You only raise it higher, pull the bowstring back further. “Joel,” you say in warning. “Go. The fuck. Home.”

Another step, closing the distance. One more and fear bleeds into your pretty eyes. 

“Stop.” Your jaw clenches. He’s moving a little faster now, steadily invading your space. “I said stop!” You release the arrow, changing its trajectory in a second. 

It whizzes through the air, sinking deep into the earth between his feet. It’s dead center—and Joel would be impressed if he wasn’t furious. “You just shot at me,” he says in disbelief. 

“No fucking shit,” you bite back. “Maybe now you’ll take me seriously.” But then he lets go of his horse’s reins completely and is stalking forward, face contorted in rage because how dare you. “I swear to God! Don’t do this!” You reach behind your head and pull another arrow from the quiver strapped to your back in the blink of an eye. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

You won’t, and he knows it. The moment he’s able Joel rips the bow from your frigid fingers, ready to grab you by your hair and force you into submission if need be.

But the moment your hands are free you’re pushing his chest—pushing and pushing so hard it nearly sends him off his feet. But Joel feels that anger, that sadness, and he realizes suddenly this has nothing to do with his being here and everything to do with what happened to you. It’s about your something. “Please,” you say, the word broken in your mouth. “Please, Joel, please don’t do this to me.”

“Hey,” he says softly, laying your bow on the ground at your side. “Hey, baby, hey, c’mon now.” He takes your hands between his, pausing your assault. They’re so cold that he brings them to his mouth and tries to warm them with his breath. It seems to calm you if only a little. “S’okay, sweetheart. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you, alright?”

Your cheeks are flushed crimson and water lines your lashes as you confess, “I don’t care about me, Joel, what about you? What happens if you get hurt? What do I do? I can’t lose anyone else, I can’t— please. Just go home, I’m begging you.”

It’s then he understands. Joel knows this kind of grief, is real intimate with it, in fact. He knows how unforgivable it feels to lose someone on account of bad judgment. He pulls you close, wraps his strong arms around your frame and cradles your head against his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, little girl. Okay? You’re alright. I’ve got ya. Shh…s’okay, baby. I’m right here. I’m right here .”

And he is—wherever you are, he silently vows to be with you. To keep you safe, always. To do his damndest to keep you from suffering any more loss, any more of that sinking misery. He lets you cry it out, lets your tears soak into his flannel, lets you catch your breath. 

When you do, you lift your head and wipe your face and fix that hard stare back onto it. “Okay,” you say softly. And then again, a little stronger. “Okay. But you play by my rules, Joel. You do what I say, when I say it.”

He hears the echo of his conversation with Ellie back in Boston. Feels the urge suddenly to spill his guts to you so you know he really, truly understands. But now isn’t the time. So Joel caresses your cheek, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Your run, your rules,” he says. And he means it. 

You lean down and pick up your bow, sling it across your shoulder, and pull yourself back up into the saddle. “It’ll be good, having two horses,” you say. “We can carry more supplies back.”

Joel leaves your side only long enough to mount his horse, who he steers back toward you the moment he can.

“Only one problem now,” you say. 

He furrows his brows, following you back onto the path through the forest. “What’s that?”

“You’re twice my age, Joel,” you say dismally. But there’s something else there, something teasing in your voice. “Not sure if you can keep up with me, old man.”

Joel shakes his head as you set your horse off into a gallop, flying effortlessly through the trees at a break-neck pace. He can’t resist the grin that tugs at his lips. He scoffs and mutters under his breath before following after you. “Brat.”

[part four] [part six]

[aetherghouls]

I personally believe that Simon's gods awful father would use religious guilt and religion in general against young Simon.

The same man that doesn't care for any god, that breaks all the commandments and laughs at Simon for even believing; he'd absolutely weaponize the very religion Simon's mother, Tommy and himself use as an escape.

It's not like Simon has ever been very religious in the first place, but their local church was a respite from his father and it was something. His mother had been taking him and Tommy there every week, sometimes more often, because it was the only real place where they could be a family without him.

Don't get me wrong though, Simon as a child? He absolutely did believe, he prayed every damn day, begging God to save them, so they wouldn't have to suffer by his father's hand any longer, because they all did. Their life was a living hell and gods, did they suffer.

The older Simon gets, though? The longer his father uses his own religion against him and his family? The longer he says things along the lines of "what would your god say, kid? Disobeying your father? You listen to me and do as I say, isn't that what your God would want from you? Isn't that what they preach in this church of yours?"

It's either threatening the rest of the family because Simon is the oldest child and he feels protective over the rest of them or using the church against him. Two ways to get him to obey and don't say a fucking word, because Simon wants to be a good son for his mother, he doesn't want to be like his father and he needs to protect them.

Because other than fear, this man had nothing to hold Simon by. He is Simon's father by blood, but nothing else and Simon Riley had known that since he was old enough to comprehend what was going on around him.

So the older Simon gets, the more he just cannot stand anything about the religion because why is it constructed in a way that allows abusers to use it against their victims? And why doesn't God hear them out? He has been praying every single day, begging for it to get better, for a life that isn't just a constant suffering, yet it never comes.

Why does a god who's supposed to love His creations just leaves them to suffer this fate?

By the time he joins the army, he is not a believer anymore.

He prays one more time in his life though, the day when he tries to get back to his home before them, to make sure his family is safe. He hadn't prayed even once when he was in Mexico, when Roba had him, never did pray for his own salvation after he stopped praying for his father to be gone. But them? His brother, sister in law, nephew and mother? He prays for them to be fine, because that's the only and last thing he cares about in this world, even his own life doesn't hold any meaning anymore. He's here to make sure they are safe.

And God fails him one last time that day, for Simon Riley never has a real reason to turn to Him ever again.

Because he doesn't trust that God could keep Johnny safe, because all God did so far was disappoint him, fail him and those he loved.

And to be fair, he's afraid. That if he even thinks about praying ever again, he will lose Johnny too, the same way he lost his family; because the catholic God is cruel.

Also catholic guilt this catholic guilt that, Simon never feels guilty for killing, not in the way catholic guilt eats away at someone; God doesn't care about any suffering, so He cannot care if people kill one another, that's not where the catholic guilt comes in

It's Johnny. It's always Johnny.

Because for the first days, weeks, months, it feels wrong.

It had with any other man ever before that, but it's always passed with them. A temptation that didn't last for too long, the priest's and his father's words ringing in his ears whenever he even considered anything like that. But John MacTavish? It doesn't pass. It's always present, God, it gets stronger every fucking day he has to work with Johnny, so when they are in Las Almas and Graves betrays them, while he doesn't know where and how Johnny is? Before they meet up again? Simon has enough time waiting to realise that it's not just an infatuation that can pass as soon as it comes, because he's in love and he doesn't know what to do, because the wave of guilt that overcomes him, guilt caused by the very God who took away everything from him, it's nauseating, makes him feel small in a way nothing has since he got out from his father's claws. He has to take a moment to just breathe and pull himself back together, otherwise he would fail; fail the mission, himself, Price, Los Vaqueros, but most importantly, he'd fail Johnny.

And that, he cannot allow himself to do.

hello hello I am heavily projecting my own religious trauma onto Simon Riley in this one 🫶

as if bro didn't have enough trauma of his own lmao. Please don't eat me it came to me in a dream last night (not really in a dream) and after I made my friends suffer I came to a conclusion that I need to make more people suffer 🫡 bye

also I may or may not be cooking the other side of this for Soap haha (aka how I personally think Johnny sees religion)

[flowerandblood]

The Gate of Salvation [3/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, kissing, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After what they had done they lasted for a moment in the tight embrace of each other's arms, trying to calm their breathing, his hand stroking her soft hair.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" He asked so quietly that she barely heard him; she felt a tightening in her heart at the thought of how much she wanted nothing more and how inappropriate it was.

Nonetheless, she knew they were both scared, embarrassed and needed their closeness, proof that although the situation was complicated and hopeless, they were in it together.

"Yes." She whispered and heard him sigh loudly in relief, as if he feared that she now abhorred and hated him, that she would betray him, sell the story to the newspapers, destroy him as a man, as a priest and as a pope.

She thought that they were both complicit in this situation, and although she felt remorse knowing that she had contributed to him breaking his celibacy, some kind of warmth filled her lower abdomen.

She thought with despair that she had fallen in love with him.

She looked in her drawers for some of her uncle's old tracksuits that he had left in his flat and gave them to him to change into, showing him beforehand how to turn on the washing machine so he could clean the ones he came in. Taking advantage of the fact that he was in the bathroom, she changed into dry underwear and sighed quietly, somehow feeling clean again.

She waited for him lying on her bed – when he came out of her bathroom he looked at her for a moment standing in the entrance, clearly not knowing what to say, his face just like hers, red from tears and emotion.

"I'm sorry." He whispered helplessly. She sighed quietly, raising herself up on her elbow, looking at him with understanding.

"Do not apologise, Holy Father."

He swallowed heavily and moved towards her, startling her when he lay down opposite her and immediately hid his face in the material of her shirt between her breasts, his large hands clamped down on her back.

"Can you embrace me?" He asked uncertainly with a regret and embarrassment from which she felt a squeeze in her throat, the fingers of one of her hands sinking into his short hair while the other wrapped around his waist.

She felt him tense and wondered sadly after what she had learned, if anyone had ever hugged him, if he had found his place and understanding in someone's arms.

"Can I fall asleep like this?" He asked again. She sighed quietly, leaned in and kissed his hair, stroking it with her fingers – she felt a shiver pass through him, his hands clenched tighter on the material of her shirt.

"Yes." She whispered; she felt him move closer to her, snuggling his whole body into her, felt his desperation, the fact that he was and needed to be vulnerable, weak, protected, that he wanted to feel and love, wanted to suffer, to experience what others did.

"If it's a sin, why do I feel so peaceful?" He asked quietly, one of his hands trailing up and down her spine making wonderful shivers run through her – she nuzzled her nose into his hair, thinking on the answer.

She understood perfectly what he had in mind, because she felt the same.

She felt a kind of shame at the thought that her grief and remorse was less than she had expected and was only concerned with the fact that she was afraid someone would find out about this.

"I don't know, Holy Father. I am ashamed that my soul is so quiet now. Perhaps it hasn't yet come to us what has happened?" She asked quietly, watching as her fingers tentatively played with his hair. She heard his murmur of contentment, his face pressed tighter into her chest.

She wondered how it was possible that he could breathe in such a position.

"I need you by my side if I am to keep my sanity. I need you because Vatican is like a dark, black hole, like hell on earth, the centre of Sodom and Gomorrah." He whispered into the fabric of her shirt, his voice vibrating through her whole body, apart from their breathing all that could be heard was the quiet ticking of the clock standing on her bedside table.

She swallowed loudly, feeling her heart begin to beat faster, torn internally by her own insecurities and doubts; he felt it, his fingers gripped the fabric of her shirt tighter.

"It's too late. Too late. I can't take it back. This is God's answer to my prayers, to my plea that He not leave me alone. He sent you to me as a sign, as my revelation and salvation." He muttered, and she clenched her eyelids, feeling tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, hugging him tighter, realising with despair that he had possessed her the very first moment she saw him.

"A sign of depravity and bitterness? A taste of sorrow and eternal thirst? That is what I am and will be for you, Holy Father." She exhaled with difficulty, feeling her body begin to twitch, her breast trembled in a heavy breath. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her, his large hand touched her cheek with a tenderness and respect from which she felt a squeeze in her throat.

"No. No, you are my joy. My flower garden to which I escape with my thoughts when I am tired. My faithful need me, and I need you." He said softly, wiping with his thumb from her warm cheeks the tears that ran down her face.

"I will not go to a monastery, Holy Father. It is not my vocation." She whispered and he pressed his lips together, swallowing with difficulty.

She could see in his gaze that he was struggling with himself and his disappointment, that he wanted to somehow make sure that he would have her exclusively as a man and a Pope.

"So what is?" He asked finally; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain, realising with that she didn't know the answer to that question, that she didn't know what she wanted to do after university, where she wanted to live, how she saw the next years of her life.

"I don't know. It's a very difficult question." She muttered in a trembling voice, bursting into sobs when this time it was he who pulled her close and embraced her, letting her snuggle into his chest, locking her in a tight grasp of his arms as she did before, placing warm, tender kisses on her hair, combing through it with his fingertips.

"− shhh − it's okay − I'm here for you, child − I won't let you get lost − I'll take care of you −" He whispered, and although she knew there was something ambiguous and indecent in his words, she felt relieved, her fingers tightened into fists on the material of his sweatshirt, his wonderful scent filling her lungs.

There was something wonderful and tender about the fact that neither of them tried to touch each other anymore in a way that could be perceived as purely physical – they just cuddled, stroked and intertwined their fingers. She felt the heat in her chest every time she turned in bed lying in his arms facing him, his lips placing a lingering, soft, wet kiss on her forehead.

"− sleep, child − sleep, I am with you −" He whispered tenderly. She felt butterflies in her stomach and sighed softly, cuddling her face into the hollow of his neck smelling of his perfume as they fell asleep again.

It was the most beautiful night of her life.

She was woken in the morning by the sizzle of oil in the pan; she opened her eyes, unsure for a moment where she was and pulled herself up on her bed, frowning.

She got up and walked out of her bedroom into the corridor, but stopped immediately with her heart beating fast, seeing him standing with his back to her in her kitchen, again all dressed in a white tracksuit. She realised by the smell that he was making scrambled eggs.

The Pope she had spent the night with was just making them breakfast in her kitchen.

Good God, she thought with amusement and walked closer – he heard the sound of her footsteps and turned over his shoulder, a soft contentment on his face.

"Good morning. We have to leave soon, so I decided to prepare something quick. I didn't want to wake you up. You were sleeping so peacefully." He hummed with some kind of warmth and tenderness from which her heart beat faster; she swallowed quietly, trying not to think about the fact that she felt his words deep between her thighs.

She wanted to ask him if he really thought she should still be working for him, to tell him that it wasn't wise, but she realised that there was no desire in her to object.

I will take care of you.

She wasn't sure what he meant by those words, but she knew that some part of her wanted his assurance to come true.

After a short prayer, which took her completely by surprise, and which apparently was a daily occurrence for him before every meal, they ate breakfast while listening to the morning broadcasts on the radio.

She didn't know where she should be looking, so she just focused on her plate, tasting what he had prepared, finding to her surprise that his scrambled eggs were perfectly fried and spiced. She grunted quietly and lifted her gaze to him when she suddenly remembered something important, from which she felt a cold sweat on her back.

"We should go to confession…shouldn't we?" She asked, not daring to suggest for what reason, figuring he would know what she meant. He raised his surprised gaze at her and took a sip of his coffee, then set his mug down on the table.

"Of course." He replied, and she lowered her gaze to her plate, feeling that she had lost all appetite, terrified of the humiliation that awaited her and what she had to confess.

She allowed herself to be touched by the priest and took pleasure in it herself.

"Go to Father Lenz, I will also pay him a visit. He is a very good confessor. He's the only one I trust." He said matter-of-factly, throwing her a look that told her that gossip spreads like a disease in Rome and Vatican and she could not confide such a sin to just anyone.

Clearly not everybody respected the seal of confession, she thought with dismay.

"I'll go now." He said getting up abruptly from his seat, taking his player out of his pocket, putting his earphones into his ears and pulling his hood over his head. "I'll meet you in the Vatican."

He said and simply walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving her with a look of disbelief on her face.

She covered her mouth with her hand, clenching her eyelids and swallowed loudly, wondering what she was actually doing.

What had exactly happened between them?

Who was she to him now?

His lover?

She thought with pain that as long as he was by her side everything was well, but now that she was left alone with her thoughts she was crushed by the weight of what had taken place, of who the person who had touched her was.

What they had done.

She felt tears of fear and shame under her eyelids, of bitterness and anger that he wasn't just an ordinary man about whom she could have some hope, that even if not now, in the future their relationship would stop being something bad.

In their case there was no such possibility, what they had done was a contradiction of everything they should represent, what he symbolised as the Head of the Church.

She thought sadly that he was wrong.

That it was not God who had sent her to him, but the Devil, as a temptation that would lead to his downfall.

She drove to the Vatican with a heavy heart, sad, distracted and heartbroken, thinking with shame that she had acted like an animal that couldn't control itself and lowered her gaze, looking down at her hands.

When she got out of the car in the courtyard Father Lenz was waiting for her as usual. They both moved inside the building, but she stopped him in mid-step, placing her hand on his arm.

"I would like to make a confession." She muttered, the man cast her a calm glance over his shoulder and nodded.

She thought with shame that he already knew everything.

To her surprise, he did not take her to the basilica or any chapel but to the garden; they sat side by side on one of the white stone benches, the sun shining high above them.

She wondered for a moment if she should keep the formula, but decided after a moment that it was just a waste of time.

"I have sinned, Father. I gave in to the weakness of my flesh. I led a clerical person to his and my moral downfall." She muttered, feeling that with every word she spoke her voice quivered more and more, tears of regret and bitterness gathered in the corners of her eyes.

A long silence answered her, during which she only looked at her knees, wiping her wet cheeks with her hands, trying to calm her ragged, broken breathing.

"You are not responsible for anyone's downfall but your own, child, though I think you are using too solemn words. What happened?" He asked, although she knew perfectly well from his posture that the Pope himself had confessed to him exactly the same things she was telling him now.

"He touched me and brought me to fulfilment with my permission." She whispered in shame, swallowing loudly, feeling small, dirty, worthless, breathless at the memory of how wonderful it had been to fall asleep in his embrace and wept quietly.

"What happened next?" He asked calmly and she sighed heavily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"We went to sleep, cuddled together. But nothing more happened between us." She mumbled, fiddling with the material of her black dress between her fingers in a nervous gesture, her leg bouncing with stress.

She wondered how she could have done it.

"Hm." He hummed and sighed quietly, bowing his head.

"I'm going to tell you something now, child. I'm going to tell you this as a man, not a priest, and you're going to listen to me. Vatican devours people. It sucks the energy out of them, their strength, their free will. Cardinals manage to believe in God or do a merciful deed, however, they are first and foremost businessmen, officials, monarchs. Do you know why Cardinal Targaryen was elected Pope?

Because they thought he would be easy to manipulate.

Quiet, withdrawn, reading books or concentrating on prayer. He spoke to no one, befriended no one, confided in no one. They thought they had planted someone lost, weak-willed and without an opinion on Peter's throne. Meanwhile, he had fooled them all. He planned it deliberately."

He spoke calmly, looking ahead with blank eyes. She stared at him in disbelief, feeling her heart pounding hard, her throat squeezed so tightly that she breathed with difficulty.

Meanwhile, he had fooled them all.

He had planned it deliberately.

Was it the same with her?

Was it possible that her uncle wasn't the only one treating her as a pawn?

"He never confided in anyone, never spoke to anyone for longer than necessary. He doesn't let anyone sit or eat in his presence, he locks himself in his solitary room and sits there for hours. Except when you visit the Vatican. I exchange a maximum of four sentences with him during the day, while with you he talks for hours." He said looking at her finally, the expression on his face gentle and heartfelt, her lips parted in disbelief, her cheeks hot with emotion.

"He has fallen in love with you. He had already admitted this to me after confession, asking me for advice. And although it creates a temptation to sin I told him to keep you close. I believe that God sent you to him like cold water to a man who has sunk into hell and is burning in it every day. He is completely alone. Despite my deepest efforts, I cannot help him."

He muttered, covering his face with his hand and she watched in disbelief as the grown man sitting next to her burst out crying like a small child. She pressed her fingers to her lips and stifled the sobs that wanted to escape her throat, hot tears one by one running down her cheeks.

He fell in love with you.

"He told me he trusts only you, Father." She whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm her ragged breathing. Father Lenz looked at her and laughed in a way that made her feel at least uncomfortable.

"He knows that I report on him. He knows that one of the cardinals, a fierce opponent of your uncle, is blackmailing me. But I don't always tell him about what I see and hear. Not about everything. Do you understand?" He asked in a trembling voice, and she nodded, looking at him with horror and fear, feeling the cold sweat on her back.

"Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." He said lowly, making the sign of the cross in the air with his hand in front of her.

"Amen." She mumbled, not looking at him but at her feet, quivering all over, tears of disbelief and despair making the world around her seem blurred.

"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

"His mercy endures for ever." She whispered and rose from her seat, moving quickly ahead, covering her mouth with her hand, bursting into hysterical sobs, feeling that she had panicked.

She headed towards his office where he usually worked, the same one her uncle had taken her to when she first saw him. One of the guards, on seeing her, simply opened the door, as if he had been warned that she would come.

She walked slowly inside, and the door closed behind her with a loud clatter of wood.

She looked to her left and saw his figure clad in a white cassock, sprawled comfortably in his chair, reading some documents. He lifted his gaze to her and for a moment just looked at her, as if shocked by her condition, then rose quickly, staring at her with concern.

"Good God, what's happened?" He asked in a trembling voice, his eyebrows raised in fear.

She knew she wasn't allowed to do this, she knew she shouldn't, that if anyone saw them it would be over, but she couldn't help herself.

She wept as she ran to him and pressed her face to his chest, feeling the cold cross hanging from his neck against her cheek, embracing him tightly around his waist, clenching her fingers on his cassock.

"Holy Father." She mumbled like a helpless child who needed someone to lead her by her hand, like a frightened bird that had fallen out of its nest, like a ship that was unable to find its way to port.

"− calm down, child − I'm here − shhh −" He hushed her, sinking his face into the top of her head, stroking her neck and back with his hands with calm, tender movements full of affection, his wonderful scent filling her lungs.

"− it's okay −" He whispered soothingly, combing his fingers through her hair – she felt a wonderful shiver ran down her spine every time he did it and closed her eyes thinking only of how safe she felt.

She murmured quietly, relaxing and calming as she felt his lips on her head, heard him place drawn out, wet kisses on her hair.

"I love the way you smell. I saw your perfume in your bathroom and bought myself one just like it so I can remind myself of you when I fall asleep here alone. After my escape they increased my protection, they don't leave my side." He whispered softly, and she felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought of how deep his feeling, his devotion, his commitment, his desire was.

"I want you to pose for a painting made on my request as Mary Magdalene."

She could not put into words how ambiguous, lewd, intimate his proposal was. He gave her time to think, indicating that he would respect her refusal, but said that he wanted to have her by his side also in the quarters in which he slept, said he would hang the painting opposite his bed.

When she asked him if this sight would distract his thoughts from God he replied that he had never felt the presence of God as strongly as when he thought of her.

Lying in her room in complete darkness, she thought about what Father Lenz had told her.

He has fallen in love with you.

Vatican devours people.

He is completely alone.

She closed her eyes, swallowing loudly, thinking about the question he had asked her that morning regarding what she thought her vocation was, and wondered if in some incomprehensible way God was trying to tell her something.

I believe that God sent you to him like cold water to a man who has sunk into hell and is burning in it every day.

She felt tears under her eyelids at the thought of his sullen, absolute loneliness among people who were so vain and power-hungry, and she wondered where he was going to get the strength to fight against paedophilia, abuse of power, bribes and profligacy when almost everyone around him was content with this state of affairs.

She found herself wondering if her presence could support him in some way, give him courage, a sense that there was someone by his side who didn't care about his position or money, someone who simply loved him, gave him comfort and tenderness in moments of doubt.

She thought with a kind of relief that there was nothing disgusting, nothing disturbing in this thought, that although certain things would remain taboo, the feeling that God had aroused in her heart could not be wrong in nature, because it did not stem from a desire to objectify.

For some reason she felt the desire to sacrifice herself for him, to suffer for him, to die every day for the love of him.

She agreed to his proposal.

He made sure that the painter's arrival at the Vatican was covered by complete secrecy – it was agreed that she would stay until the evening to work and then come to one of the small rooms where they would wait for her.

When she walked in she saw them in half darkness, the Pope dressed in his white cassock with a large cross on his chest was speaking with a middle-aged man about what stood before them, a small platform on which lay an ornate cushion and a cloth on which lay a skull, the only source of light was the tall and low candles standing around on the floor.

When they saw her the Pope grunted and nodded, folding his arms behind him.

"Come closer, child. This is Marco, the painter I mentioned to you." He said softly, though his expression stern, contentment lurked in his eye.

She swallowed loudly and walked towards them, feeling her heart pounding like mad, terrified of what they had come up with, of someone catching them.

"Marco has prepared a robe for you to pose in. Wear just that and let your hair down. We'll wait in the other room." He said calmly and nodded at the man, walking out through a small door, closing it behind them.

She was left alone.

She walked over to a chair on which lay a cream-coloured, simple linen long robe – when she picked it up she found it pleasant to the touch, with pieces of cloth hanging down the sides to tie around her waist.

She stripped naked and, with trembling hands, placed the garment over herself, arranging it like a bathrobe, tying a knot at the waist so that the whole thing would hold together somehow and not reveal anything. She pulled the pins out of her hair and undid her braid, letting her dark curls fall to her shoulders.

"I'm ready." She muttered in a trembling voice and heard the sound of the door opening.

The Pope stepped inside and paused, letting out a loud breath as if this sight surprised him, his lips parted slightly; she felt heat in her lower abdomen when she saw him involuntarily lick them with his tongue.

"Lie down and take this skull in your hands. Yes, just like that." He said, stepping closer to her, placing his warm hands on her shoulders covered by her soft cloth, arranging her as he had apparently seen her in his vision, moving the skull in her hands so that it lay in front of her, next to her body.

"Your body is to lie down, but your face must be tilted towards me. Perfect." Said Marco when she did as he asked, glancing down at his canvas and at her.

She felt strangely cornered and small, tense that all attention was on her.

"No. One more thing." The Pope hummed. A powerful shudder ran through her body, her lips parted in horror as he gently grabbed the fabric that covered her chest and pulled it aside, revealing a part of her breasts and the golden cross between them, her sternum and stomach, just a hint more and her nipples would be visible.

"Gorgeous." He whispered, looking at her with a gaze that was dark, hazy and dreamy, she felt the muscles inside her clench desperately around nothing at his words, her breath stopped in her throat.

She was terrified and aroused.

She was wet.

"Do not be afraid, child. Marco does not feel lust at the sight of a woman's body. You are safe here." He said softly, with a kind of need to soothe her, to give her the feeling that he did not desire to take advantage of her, that this was about something more. She sighed quietly as his hand rose to her cheek, closing her eyes in relief when his thumb ran over her warm skin.

"Beautiful." He murmured and stood up, looking at her with proud satisfaction, as if he had just gazed upon some mystical scene, a revelation as if from the Bible, as if he truly believed her to be sacred.

He stood behind the painter, who had already begun to sketch her silhouette, and pressed his lips together, furrowing his brow.

"You have to properly render the shape of her lips, the warmth of her gaze, the softness of her hair. That's the most important thing to me, I want the most significant point of the painting to be her face." He said dryly, the man nodded wordlessly, apparently writing down his words in his head.

They stared at each other for a moment in silence, the loud ticking sound of a tall, large clock standing against the wall all around them.

"No. That's not the look I mean. Get out. Give us a moment." He said, startling them both. Marco grunted and put his pencil down on the easel, nodded and walked out into the other room, closing the door behind him.

"Did I do something wrong?" She asked in a trembling voice, raising herself up on her elbows, but he commanded her with a hand gesture not to get up and sat down beside her with a quiet rustling of the fabric of his cassock.

"No, sweet flower. But I can see your terror." He said softly, touching her cheek with his palm again, into which she immediately cuddled her face, desperately needing his touch, his closeness, his wonderful scent filling her lungs and her mind.

"Your tension." He added, his voice changed slightly, deep and sharp; she trembled hearing the way he said the words, involuntarily clenching her thighs.

He noticed it out of the corner of his eye and sighed quietly, as if he had been forced to the last resort, as if fate had left him no choice.

"It's all right now. Come here." He hummed, his hand sliding lower, in a gentle motion full of care and respect digging his fingers into the soft skin of her thigh hidden beneath the material of her robe – her heart began to pound like mad, her hands clenched on the pillow on either side of her head.

"Open." He commanded, and she shook her head quickly, her legs twitching all over in his grasp, feeling the sticky liquid running down her buttocks onto the bedding beneath her. He pressed his lips together, looking at her like a naughty child who refused to comply.

"Open, I say. I see your suffering. The Holy Father only wants to help you, child." He said calmly, as if he was explaining something obvious to her, something that was essential and necessary.

She swallowed loudly and parted her lips as her thighs finally opened, a sigh of contentment came from his nose – she tilted her head back suppressing a moan of surprise when his hand from her hip slid between the material of her robe, right between her legs.

"− it's alright − it's alright − shhhh −" He hushed her hearing her quiver of delight as the tips of his fingers ran over her fleshy womanhood, collecting her moisture, spreading it in circular, steady strokes around her bud, the tickle she felt in her lower abdomen was unbearable.

"− oh God −" She mumbled out, her body quivering before him with pleasure, her breathing quickened as he deliberately began to tease the spot between her folds, it seemed to her that the whole room around her was spinning, her heart pounding like mad, she could feel the tension even in her lips.

"− you shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain − if I do not close these lips will you continue to blaspheme? −" He growled and leaned over her, startling her completely when his full, swollen, hot lips pressed against hers in a sticky, hot kiss. She moaned loudly and threw her arms around his neck, his tongue forced its way deep into her throat with his sigh of delight.

Her body began to tremble and shudder beneath him as his fingertips dug into her hot folds, squeezing them with increasingly confident motions, teasing her slit, sliding in a little only to slide out a moment later and start all over again, his fingers wet with her moisture.

"− I'm wasting so much of your precious nectar − I should lick it all off, shouldn't I? −" He breathed out into her mouth. She clenched her hands tightly in his hair at his words and just came on his fingers with a surprised moan of pleasure, tilting her head back, his lips pressed against her neck, placing greedy, hot, wet kisses on it. She cried out when she felt his middle finger slide into her hot core and stay like that, her walls clenching around it again and again.

He lifted himself up on his hand, looking down at her, sliding his finger out of her in a slow, careful motion with a shameless click of her moisture.

"− Blessed Ludovica Albertoni −" He whispered and lifted his fingers to his face, sliding them deep into his mouth; this sight was so perverted that she looked away, her body breathless at the memory of the sarcophagus on which the saint cruves in wonderful convulsions, her face and parted lips expressing the relief of fulfilment.

"− Bernini −" She whispered in a trembling voice, and he hummed under his breath, delighted that she knew what he was referring to.

"− exactly − you look magnificent −" He murmured and covered her thighs back with the material of her robe, rising slowly, looking with satisfaction at his masterpiece.

"Come in, Marco. She is ready."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

[fellthemarvelous]

Invisible scars

(TW: religious trauma)

Looking at me, you wouldn't know that I've survived religious trauma. The marks of religious trauma are seldom visible. In fact, I had no idea for the longest time that I had religious trauma (I thought it was a thing that happened to other people). I simply spent decades questioning the reasons I felt like I was so broken on in the inside. I kept trying to figure out what I was doing wrong and why I never felt happy or like I was never able to connect to anyone. I had no idea that my experience with the church as a small child is what shaped me into the anxiety-ridden, majorly depressed disaster creature I am today.

I spent 12 years learning inside of Catholic schools. It has taken me more than 20 years to process and deconstruct, and I am always going to be a work in progress. I was brainwashed into believing the very worst about myself, and I was always just beyond saving because I had the misfortune of being a woman in a church that taught us that women experience pain during childbirth as a natural consequence of Eve eating the apple, which is why they enjoy making us suffer in the first place. They taught us that Adam ate the apple because Eve seduced him, so even though Adam also ate the apple, his sin still wasn't as bad as Eve's because she did it first and used sex to get him to do the same. They placed the blame for Original Sin squarely on Eve and thus onto every single girl who entered the church. If a boy did something to me that I didn't like, it's probably because I did something to provoke him first.

Do you know what I learned to do at a very young age just to be able to cope with that?

I learned to use humor to deflect when I was struggling. I smile when I don't want people to know I'm sad. I laugh at inappropriate times, especially when I'm uncomfortable. I learned to bottle up all of my emotions because expressing anything other than happiness is bad. I learned to compartmentalize. I taught myself how to pull out the right emotion for the right occasion because I was always striving to be who I thought everyone else wanted me to be. It was exhausting.

In the midst of all of this, I'm trying to figure out which parts of me are really me and which parts of me are things that were put into my head. If you've experienced indoctrination, you know what I'm talking about. They pulled us apart as small children and placed us in specific boxes and told us that deviating from the norm was bad.

Crowley is a fallen angel. His change from angel to demon is drastic on the outside.

You know he fell and that his wings turned black and he ended up in a pool of boiling sulfur. It's the reason Crowley is so easy to sympathize with. He suffered unfairly because of arbitrary rules that deemed him unforgivable. He's accepted that part of himself. He's clever and creative and it has helped him find ways to get out of doing his job for centuries. Hell doesn't care how jobs get done just as long as someone does them, and at this point humanity is doing more to damn themselves than the demons are able to keep up with. They're tired and overworked. Hell is overpopulated even though it should be infinite in size. Crowley wants no part of that system because he sees it for what it is, just as he sees Heaven for what it is. He has the marks to prove that he is one of the damned, but that has given him all the perspective he needs to see that both sides are fucked up and toxic and "irredeemable" (just like him). He has yet to fully let go of the hold Heaven has over him because of how badly he got hurt.

Aziraphale is still an angel.

He never fell, and he doesn't know why. He has lied to God. He has lied to Gabriel repeatedly. He lies to protect Crowley. He lies to protect humanity.

Remember, Crowley and Aziraphale started off in the same place.

They both started off as angels who were created to do God's bidding. Aziraphale is the one who told Crowley what he'd heard about everything shutting down in 6,000 years. He was simply trying to make conversation. He didn't think it was something Crowley would object to. Angels were just supposed to go along with God's plans, but Crowley had a different opinion and was vocal about it. Where did Aziraphale get his information in the first place? Why does nobody ever ask this question?

Aziraphale knows Heaven is toxic. He's not blind. We need to move past this idea that because he still has love for God that he doesn't know Heaven is fucked up. He never fell, and it's something he still fears because who the hell doesn't fear the thought of eternal torment, especially if you know it's real? God has never cast him out of Heaven though and he doesn't know why. It's probably something that hangs over his head like the Sword of Damocles.

Letting go is not an easy task. Aziraphale has always been an angel. He didn't have his identity ripped from him the same way that Crowley did. Crowley had to adapt to a brand new way of existing because he was cast out of Heaven.

Crowley's trauma is evident on the outside. Aziraphale's trauma is hidden on the inside. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.

Crowley was an angel and then he was a demon, but he doesn't want to be labeled as either.

Aziraphale has only ever known how to be an angel. He's only ever known the ways of Heaven.

I'm only in my early 40s. It has taken me 20+ years to undo 12 years of religious abuse. Aziraphale is immortal. He and Crowley have abandoned their jobs, but four years in the space of millions isn't a lot. No one overcomes indoctrination in four years. Especially when you had millions of years of blind obedience indoctrinated into you. It simply does not work that way no matter how much you want to believe it can.

It has taken me more than two decades to learn how to stop hating myself. I still have no idea how to love myself, but it's something I'm trying to learn.

My entire identity was wrapped up in what the church told me it would be. Once I fully denounced it and all organized religion, I found out I had no idea who I was. No one had prepared me for a life outside of this one very specific identity and role that I was expected to fill based on a very specific box I was placed into.

I still struggle with black and white concepts. It's hard to unlearn when you have no other basis for comparison, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. It means that these changes do not and will not ever happen overnight.

The fall didn't just affect the demons though. It affected the angels as well. Look at how tightly wound the angels are. They're always trying to do the good thing, but they have no idea what that actually means, and you realize this when Uriel asks The Metatron if they had done something wrong. They are scared of making mistakes, but none of them know what they are supposed to be doing since Gabriel disrupted the status quo. You can see they are unsure of themselves and of each other. The concept of free will is so foreign to them, but Aziraphale showed all of them that it was in their grasp when he allowed Gabriel and Beelzebub to decide where to go so they could be together.

It takes a lot of audacity (and sheer ignorance) to dismiss Aziraphale as power-hungry and abusive.

Aziraphale did nothing to punish Gabriel and Beelzebub. He allowed them to leave because they were in love with each other, and he knows what that feels like. He thought he was about to get the same fate with Crowley until The Metatron showed up and refused to take no for an answer.

He doesn't want to fix Heaven because he thinks it's perfect. If he thought it was perfect he wouldn't want to fix it.

Aziraphale is going back into the Lion's Den. He knows what he's going up against. He's been humiliated and belittled and abused by Heaven for thousands of years.

His scars are there even though you can't see them, and he hides his pain with humor and silliness.

When I see people advocating for Aziraphale to suffer even more because they don't think he has suffered enough, I find myself sitting back in one of those classrooms in Catholic school being told that I deserve the bad things that happen to me because I somehow failed to measure up to some impossible metric. The cruelty of that mindset aimed at Aziraphale is kinda the reason Crowley hates Heaven in the first place because he's been there too.

And as someone who is processing religious trauma, it's disheartening to see people say that because Aziraphale has yet to fully let go of Heaven that he deserves harsher treatment. Crowley would definitely not agree with that sentiment.

[orgasming-caterpillar]

Formula One: The Curse Of The Prancing Horse

There is something so inherently poetic about Ferrari— all the glory behind it's name, the decades of history behind the logo— and it's failures. The sheer splendor of decades worth of building its name to what it is, only to be stuck a step behind from greatness. Too close to rest, to far to push.

And yet, no matter how much they lose, it's still the dream of every young man stepping foot on the grounds of Formula One. It is the Formula One dream. The deep devotion that drives anyone with a Ferrari badge on his chest, the blind faith despite every blow. It's larger than a religion. A cult.

Because even in all its misery, Ferrari is Formula One.

Time after time, we have another spectacular driver who's won it all and won it again, coming to Ferrari in hopes of winning it all with a legacy to support. This deadly hope in the heart of every driver coming to Ferrari that "I'll be the one to change things. I'll be the one to give them back their glory." It happens over and over again because a martyr that does not die lives to create more like him.

It's a cut that always bleeds because not only do you lose your lustre and yourself in the process, you watch another young driver take your place and go through it all over again. Do you think the past drivers look at Charles and pity him? Do you think they warned him? Do they understand the feeling of losing yourself in the process of finding glory for the prancing horse? Do you think charles will feel the same about whatever rookie joins him in the coming years?

Because it's Charles' relationship with Ferrari that's the most poetic of them all. Every race weekend he gives his body and soul to the team, and this team— they don't know what to do with it. It’s all very Renaissance, bold reds and religious zealotry. He’s a walking tragedy. He knows how to suffer and does it well — he was raised Catholic, even if he doesn’t acknowledge God anymore. He acknowledged misery and that's close enough to God.

Charles knows what's wrong with Ferrari. Over the years, he's become well familiar with how they break you, but he no longer cares. Not when occasional glory is poured down his throat like white hot nectar. It burns, but the blisters too are rosso corsa, the colour of prestige.

He says "If this is a cage then I'd like to be kept in a cage my entire life." As if he thinks he has a choice. As if he has it in him to make the choice. He won't change being Il Predestinato in red to being Charles Leclerc in any other color. He was born for rosso corsa.

He says "At times I have not been merciful towards myself" but oh sweet boy was it ever your choice to make? This is what the prancing horse does to those who put a saddle on him.

They call him Il Predestinato, but for what? Predestined for what, glory? Ha, no. Predestined to be the next sacrificial lamb, is what they mean. Predestined to stand on the altar ringed with fire, bearing a prophecy that hovers its fingers over his heart, digging its nails into the warm flesh the longer he is unable to fulfill it.

And it's how we watch it all unfold. How we watch driver after driver sacrifice himself to the team, the team sacrifice him to victory and Victory's satiated sigh at the taste of winning blood before doing what she wishes. It's poetic— all the blood spilled with no respite.

It's the cycle of misery, the curse of the prancing horse.

Ferrari will forever be red on the canvas of history because it is stained by the blood of the heroes that tried to save it.