#not even Catholic Mass apparently

[jay-avian]

Last Line Tag (pt. 3?)

Thanks to @arctic-oceans for another tag! I've been posting quite a bit on Kraken's Bane, so let's take a break from that and share something from Our Intrepid Detective.

Rules: Post the last line you wrote (or last few if you wanna be extra like me lol) for any of your WIPS

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for Mass, young man?” I asked him. “Mass don’t start until 8, sir. I’ve got a bit o’ time for my duty. I already said the Angelus this mornin’, anyway.” “If you say so, kid.” I turn to the rest of the officers. “What’s the scoop, Evans?”

Softly tagging @lena-rambles @gummybugg @sabinabardot @faelanvance @writerain @writingwithfolklore (some of these are random writblrs I found cause I don't want to tag the same people over and over, unless y'all are okay with that, in which case, oops)

[toubledrouble]

I literally converted to Christianity because of a Dan Brown book but some of y'all aren't ready to hear that story

[conejossays]

When people ask me what is my religion and I simply don't know because...I don't know and they keep pressing but how come you don't know they say and then give me a list of religions and I'm like no I'm not any of those I don't know maybe I don't have any and then they say so you're an atheist and I reply no I'm not that either and then they bring up another list of things and I'm still like no I haven't ever heard of half of those tbh and they keep questioning so I just say my mother prays sometimes??? And they mention a religion and again it's definitely not that and that's her not me but I really don't know the difference so I just nod and they finally leave me alone

[katakaluptastrophy]

You know when you're at a dinner party with God and things start to get...weird...? It's Maundy Thursday, and it's time for more Bible study for fans of weird queer necromancers!

It's currently Holy Week, the week where liturgical Christians reenact the events of Jesus' death and resurrection in real time. And today, it's Maundy Thursday, which commemorates the Last Supper, where Jesus ate with his friends before he was crucified.

Before we get to the Locked Tomb, what's so special about the Last Supper?

There are actually a few significant things that happen during the Last Supper, but this is where Jesus introduces the concept of communion:

Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood. - Matthew 26:26-28

This isn't actually the first time Jesus has told his followers they will need to literally eat him:

So Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. - John 6:53-56

If you're thinking that sounds a bit intense, you're not alone - the Bible says that "many" of his disciples left after being told that they were apparently going to have to eat Jesus to be saved and resurrected.

While many Protestant denominations take this symbolically, Catholicism teaches transubstantiation: that when the priest prays over the bread and wine at mass, they really do become Jesus' body and blood.

With this in mind, let's circle back to necromancers:

"Overseas to Corpus. (She likes the word corpus; it sounds nice and fat.)"

This is probably Corpus Christi College, Oxford (named after the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, where the church celebrates the real presence of Jesus in the eucharist). The symbol of the college is a pelican - there's even a fabulously gilded pelican atop the sundial in their main quad.

What do pelicans have to do with the eucharist? Quite a lot, actually... The pelican is a really old symbol for Jesus, because it was believed to feed its young on its own flesh and blood in times of famine. The pelican on the Corpus Christi sundial is pecking at its own chest.

The pelican, like Jesus, was believed to give its own body to save those it loved.

Okay, so we've talked about Jesus, and weird cannibal birds, but why is this relevant to necromancers?

Specifically, the necromancer, the Necrolord Prime. John Gaius styles himself as "the god who became man", echoing Jesus as "the word became flesh". His entire pastiche of divinity is a sort of bootleg Catholicism. But while Catholicism posits Jesus' offering of his own body as foundational to the salvation and resurrection of humanity to eternal life, John's godhood relies the exploitation of other's bodies as the foundation of an empire of eternal death.

I've mentioned before in discussing Lyctorhood, how vampires have been understood to represent a sort of inversion of the eucharist because instead of consuming Christ's blood to receive eternal life in heaven, they consume other people's blood for an cursed eternal life on earth. John, and the Lyctors who followed him, gained power and eternal life from the consumption, body and soul, of another person.

In Catholic theology, Jesus offered his own body to degradation and death for the eternal salvation of humankind, but John forcibly consumes someone else's in service of his own apotheosis and immortality, dooming humanity in the process. He wants to be a Catholic flavoured god, but without the suffering that entails. But he's perfectly willing to outsource that suffering to others.

There's something just achingly awful about Alecto liking the feel of the word "corpus" - "body" - when she so hates the body that John constructed for her. John describing Alecto as "in a very real way" the mother of humanity and the mother pelican on the Corpus sundial rending her own flesh for her children. John forcing the earth into a personification of femininity and playing Jesus on another's sacrifice. His daughter, unwillingly trapped in her own corpse walking around with the wounds of her significant self-sacrifice like the resurrected Christ but yet again another body exploited by John in support of his performance of godhood. It brings to mind a very different fantastical engagement with Catholicism, where in the Lord of the Rings Tolkien - riffing on St Augustine - suggested that evil cannot create, it can only mock and corrupt. The ethics of The Locked Tomb may be messier than that, but there's something indicative in how John shies away from his creative powers - his abilities to grow plants, and manipulate earth and water - in favour of his dominion over death.

The metaphysical world of The Locked Tomb is clearly not intended to be the same as that of Catholicism. But with hindsight, perhaps John was onto something when he was surprised that he didn't "get the Antichrist bit" from the nun too.

John isn't the Antichrist. But he is, thematically, anti-Christ.

If we're talking about John and Jesus, there's also, of course, the question of Resurrection. But we've got to go through Hell and back before we get there on Sunday...

[ddarker-dreams]

Chrollo tells you a story from his childhood centered around bread.

(Warnings for religious mentions and canon typical depictions of his hometown, Meteor City)

“Hm… how uncanny is that.” 

Knowing that he’ll continue speaking cryptic phrases until you express an interest you most certainly don’t have, you sigh, and rest your cheek on your fist. 

“What’s uncanny?” 

Please don’t mean the bread, please don’t mean the bread, please don’t mean the bread— 

“This bread loaf,” he inclines his head toward it, as if you couldn’t spot the table’s lone occupant, “It’s bringing up some memories.” 

He’s really going to talk to you about bread. Fuck.

“Meteor City, destitute as it is, was an attractive prospect for missionaries. My friends cared little for the religious doctrine they’d expound, but I always found the teachings fascinating. It wasn’t uncommon to go days without eating, so they’d come along with me on the sole condition that food was being provided. The priest, knowing this, had me relay the message that at his next teaching, there’d be fresh bread. Children overflowed from the tent that normally only I would occupy. He preached his sermon.” 

There’s a nostalgic air to him as he continues. “By the end, he presented us with a challenge: whoever capable of best verbally expressing their devotion to God could have the bread. Each child present wanted to be the victor. There was a great deal of murmuring and thinking. He had us form a line, where one by one, we’d give what we hoped to be the winning response. My friend Phinks was first. ‘If I’d been there, I’da stomped the shit out of that snake,’ is what he went with. As you can imagine, the priest kept going down the line. 

Eventually, he got to me. I’d been closely monitoring his body language and facial expressions. From what I could tell, no answer so far had even come close. I decided to take a different approach. From his theology, I could tell he was of the Roman Catholic persuasion. And so I suggested that to best prove our love, we should have mass. I thought that by focusing on the collective rather than oneself, I’d meet his unspoken criteria. He intended to keep the results to himself until everyone had spoken their piece, but no sooner as the words left my mouth did I know that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. 

After everyone had their turn, he brought the bread out for all to see. While we were all excitedly wondering who the lucky individual would be, he raised his voice and began admonishing us. He quoted Matthew, ‘It is written: Man must not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God’. With that, he left us there, so that we could ‘think about what we’ve learned’.” 

Your jaw practically hits the floor. 

“I intended to counter his points later that night to see if I could win the community the bread they were promised. While I was preparing, a few children happened by, eating the bread that was pulled from under our noses. I asked where they got it from — they said Uvogin. Apparently, he learned what had happened and was incensed. I went to go see him so I could ask how he convinced the priest to give him the bread. I didn’t find Uvo at the place he normally hung out at, but I did see the priest.

He was… shall we say, arranged in a way that’s strenuous on the body. All the while he kept chanting, ‘Pater, aphes autois, ou gar oidasin ti poiousin’, though he lay dying. It left a strong impression on me. Especially because his pronunciation was slightly off… but more than that, I thought it interesting he held firm to the belief which landed him in this position. A belief he didn’t even understand properly. He passed with a content expression. He must’ve fancied himself a martyr. It later became a popular joke that in the end, he did prove that you can’t live on bread alone, since it didn’t seem to do him much good.” 

“How… how old were you?” 

“Seven or eight, I believe.” 

You get up from the table. You can feel his eyes following your every movement, from the suite’s dining room to the living space it's connected to. The suitcase you’ve yet to unpack sits patiently as you rummage through its contents. Grabbing what you need, you return to the table, where Chrollo regards you with a curious countenance. 

Your antidepressants rattle inside a small orange container as you put it before him. How he gets the medication, you haven’t the slightest clue. It’s more convenient to receive them from your enigmatic kidnapper than an uninsured trip to the psychiatrist. He’s got one thing going in his favor, at least. 

“Do you already need a refill?” 

You shake your head. 

“Just… after hearing that story… I think you might want to consider getting some of these for yourself. High dose.” 

[ghoulette-knell]

Little Dove

Mountain x Fem!Reader

⛧⛧⛧ Requests are Open ⛧⛧⛧

Swiss is making fun of you for being a virgin, and Mountain decides to help you out with that.

🔞MDNI🔞

TW: Size Difference; Size Kink; Cunnilingus; Fingering (female receiving); Friends with Benefits; Age Gap; Fondling; Aftercare.

Word Count: 7,108

It was a beautiful Sunday evening. Usually, it was seen by Catholics that Satanists would despise Sundays due to the day's religious significance, but that wasn't the case at all. Your ministry was indifferent to them, but you weren't. Sundays were your favourite. It was an excuse to make a coffee, sit in the Ghoul common room by the great window, and read a book as you ended your day. It was your only day off, and you looked forward to it every day of the week.

Of course, you'd never get a moment of silence when Swiss was around. The man thrived on pranking everyone in the ministry, and you were the target of his antagonizations today.

“Poor little (Y/N)! 18 years old, and still a virgin!” the voice of Swiss taunted you from across the room as you sat down in a comfy loveseat with a mug of coffee, “You’re the only Ghoul in the whole ministry who’s never been laid! Why is that? You know Satan rejoices in fucking! Why are you holding yourself back when you know the Olde One wants this for you?"

Mountain, who was also in the room, frowned as he heard Swiss’ words to you. He didn’t like that at all.

You blushed intensely at Swiss' words, almost choking on your coffee as you took a small sip. You coughed lightly, your face beet-red, "W-What are you talking about?" you wheezed, taken aback by the older Ghoul's comment regarding your apparent virginity.

It was so unprecedented and uncalled for… typical Swiss. He really had no filter which made him VERY obnoxious.

“Everyone knows you’re a virgin, sweetheart! It’s the talk amongst us Ghouls,” Swiss continued, “It’s so pathetic, everyone is teasing me for never having gotten into your bed yet! Everyone thinks it’s so strange we haven’t gotten together. I suppose they’re right, aren’t they? So, what’s the hold-up?” he said as he leaned back in his chair, waiting for your response.

Your eyes flickered momentarily over to Mountain. Subconsciously, you were waiting for Mountain. He had been your best friend ever since you were summoned from Hell to join the ministry, and you had fallen in love with him… you didn't know how it happened.

"I'm not interested in you like that, Swiss," you mumbled while taking an awkward sip of your coffee; your cheeks flooding red from embarrassment.

Swiss chuckled, “I find that hard to believe,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “it’s probably because you’re too shy? Come here. I can help with that.”

Swiss motioned for you to sit on his lap, causing your cheeks to blush even brighter, but Mountain stepped forward with a determined look on his face. The earth-ghoul's tail lashed in aggravation. Swiss had crossed a line.

“Stay away from her, Swiss,” Mountain snarled, “and don’t you ever try to touch her again!” Swiss sneered and turned his attention to Mountain, but kept quiet.

It was obvious that Swiss was intimidated, as Mountain was much larger and stronger than the multi-Ghoul. Swiss was like a child whenever it came to height and body mass compared to Mountain.

You looked up at Mountain from your place in the chair and smiled warmly, gracious that your friend was willing to help you out like that.

"Thanks, Mountain. I appreciate it," you whispered while lightly rubbing Mountain's hand with your pinky.

Mountain squeezed the pinky of your hand and nodded his head, clearly having been affected by your touch in this instance. His expression was serious, but his demeanour was also affectionate... only towards you, anyways.

“Don’t worry about him,” he told you, “We all know Swiss is a creep.”

"I think he's just lonely," you murmured while watching Swiss leave the room, fuming. Of course, Swiss had no defense for his shitty actions, "That's why he picks fun at me being a virgin. He just wants companionship and doesn't know how to... verbalize it. He's not a creep. He just needs to recognize that I don't like him like that."

Mountain considered your words carefully as he glanced across towards the door where Swiss had left. It is true, perhaps Swiss really did just want a relationship to fill the empty hole inside his life. It didn't excuse his words, though.

“Well, he’s not acting very nicely, now, is he?” Mountain said, “I hate to see him try to manipulate you with the whole virginity thing, it ain’t right.”

You shrugged and took another sip of your coffee, “I know. I try not to let him bother me though. It’s not worth it. I can’t help it, so why let it bother me? I know I’m the only Ghoul… with my virginity left, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I do a lot of other sinful things to please Lucifer."

Mountain sighed as he listened to the reasoning of your words. You had a point. You were happy being a virgin... or comfortable, rather, and despite the teasing you took from others, you felt content with your situation. There was no reason for him to get upset at your own choices.

“I’m impressed, really. I could never be as confident as you in this same situation,” he said sincerely as he looked down at you.

Your tail flicked slightly as you shrugged, “I don’t really have a choice to not be confident. I can’t change my… situation, and I sure as hell not going to lose my virginity to Swiss. My time will come eventually, I hope.”

“It will, I promise,” Mountain replied with a smile, his demeanour soft and gentle. It wasn’t every day he got to have a heart-to-heart with you, and he wanted to make it worth every moment.

“I just don’t know why the others are so focused on something so trivial,” he said as he brushed a small lock of hair away from your eyes, “It shouldn’t matter.”

Your face lit up subtly as Mountain lovingly pushed a piece of your hair behind your ear. You leaned into your friend’s touch, sighing in contentment, “You always understand me, Mountain. Thank you for your words.”

With those words, something within Mountain seemed to break. He had felt this way for too long, he couldn’t keep pretending that it was going to go back away, he needed to say something. The earth-ghoul felt like a bottle of pop that had just received a line of mintos... he was about to explode.

“I want to ask you a question, Little Dove,” he said, now looking directly at you and using the nickname he had given you a while ago, “and I’d like for you to be honest with me in your answer, okay?”

You slowly grasped Mountain’s hand and held it in yours as he spoke. You looked up at him with a small, close-lipped smile, and nodded, “Sure, Mountain. What’s up?”

In that moment, a small, shy grin graced Mountain’s lips as he noticed the close grip you had on his hand. “I may be overstepping a boundary, so again, I want you to be honest with your answer,” he said, “Do you… want me to help you with your virginity issue...?”

You blushed wildly and stared up at your friend, “M-Mountain. That is not what I was expecting you to say…”

You covered your face with your hands to try and block away your blush from your amused friend.

Mountain couldn’t help but grin as he saw the way you were flushed red. His eyes took notice of the pink hue that had overtook your face instantly, a purr vibrating deep in his chest.

“So...is that a yes?” he asked with a coy grin, knowing his offer was most likely a welcome one.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared up at your friend.

“I-I don’t know, Mountain. I don’t want to risk ruining our friendship."

Mountain was glad to see that you did consider your friendship. He respected you and your opinions, after all, you two had been friends for such a long time... ever since you were summoned, anyways. Mountain did not wish to damage the special bond that the two of you shared, as it was equally as important to him as it was for you.

“I completely understand,” he said kindly as he squeezed your hand, “But, just know, the offer still stands if you’re too nervous and want someone you already trust to help you out.”

You squeezed his hand back and peered up towards him. You were so unbelievably nervous, but he was right. There was no one you would rather lose your virginity to than Mountain. You trusted him more than anyone else.

You hesitated for a moment, sensing Mountain’s unease at your silence.

“You’re really willing to help me out?”

Mountain laughed slightly at your nerves. He certainly found your flustered personality adorable, but he also recognized just how tense you had gotten. This was a sensitive topic, and the drummer wished to take it as seriously as possible.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” he said as he squeezed your hand, and his eyes shifted their gaze towards the entrance, looking towards where Swiss had left. “Why don’t we get out of here…”

You squeezed Mountain’s hand and slowly got to your feet; abandoning your now-cold coffee on the table, alongside your book. Your knees were shaking from nerves, but this felt right. You were nervous because this was the unknown. It was like when a mortal had stage fright regarding public speaking, or fear of anesthesia because they'd never had surgery before. You had never done this before, but Mountain would take care of you.

“I’m a little scared,” you whispered while looking up at Mountain as he walked you down the halls towards his quarters, “Will it hurt?”

Mountain smiled at the way you seemed to cling to him, it was adorable in a sense to see just how comfortable you were with him.

“Don’t worry, Little Dove,” he said in a voice filled with affection as he guided you to his room, “I would never hurt you. It may be a little uncomfortable your first time, but it gets much, much, much better afterwards. You’ll see…”

You felt his hand clasp your back affectionately, your nerves beginning to calm as he used your nickname. Little Dove. He always called you that when he knew you were nervous or uncomfortable.

“Okay,” you murmured while gripping onto his sleeve like a frightened child, “I trust you.”

A gentle smile graced Mountain’s features as he guided you into his room, which was only a few steps away from the common room, and closed the door behind the both of you. The room was covered in shadow, save for the soft moonlight streaming in through the window.

“Now, then.” he began, his voice soft and reassuring, “Why don’t you go lay on the bed for me.”

You swallowed nervously and walked over, kicking your shoes off before sitting down on Mountain’s bed. You slowly laid back, your head laying on Mountain’s pillows. You laid still and motionless, still quite nervous.

You couldn't help but marvel over how much larger Mountain's bed was to yours. You only slept in on a twin mattress, but Mountain had at least a king to accommodate his impressive height. You felt so small laying in his bed. Oh, Lucifer... why were you thinking about that right now? That was such an insignificant detail, yet here you were-- dwelling on it.

It was obvious that Mountain would have to guide your every move.

He stood at the side of the bed, taking a seat on the floor as he looked over you, his expression one of care.

“Relax, I promise to take care of you and take things slow,” he said in a comforting and affectionate tone, “Are you comfortable like that or would you like for me to do something to ease your stress? I can turn the light off, if that helps? Or I could lay next to you, if that would make you feel more at ease…”

“No, it’s okay,” you whispered, your face softening at how sweet Mountain was being, “Thank you. Just do what you’re doing. I’m fine, I promise. Just a little nervous. I do trust you though.”

You laid your hand on Mountain’s clothed chest, rubbing the surface slowly. Your breathing began to slow down as you grew more comfortable with the situation.

Mountain felt the warmth of your touch as your hand rubbed the surface of his chest. A small smile grew on his lips as he watched your chest expand with your breath. The sound of your breathing was soft and gentle, matching the essence of the moonlight pouring in.

He felt your trust within that moment, a trust that Mountain would protect you and take care of you.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he said softly as he placed his hand on top of where yours was, his hand now innocently resting upon your breast, “How are you feeling?”

You blushed lightly in response to the drummer's touch, “I’m feeling better,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.

The lightness of your trust filled Mountain with a warmth that he couldn’t describe. Even in this moment of nervousness and anxiety, he still heard nothing but your calm voice and soft breathing. No words seemed to be needed between the two of you as he lightly rubbed his palm over your chest.

“I am glad you trust me like this,” he whispered back, “I can tell that this is scary for you, but I promise you have nothing to fear. I will take care of you and go at your own pace.”

"Thank you, Mountain," you whispered, barely audible while pressing your lips softly to his knuckles as he lightly rubbed over your chest, "I think I'm ready to start... you can do whatever you need to do. I will follow your lead."

Mountain’s cheeks flushed as you kissed his knuckles, but the sensation only made the moment feel even more intimate. Your trust in him was touching his heart, causing the bond between the two of you to strengthen even more.

“Okay, my Little Dove-“ he whispered back, “I’m going to pull your shirt off of you… is that alright?”

You were still incredibly nervous, but you felt safe at the same time. The way Mountain was verbally walking you through what was happening really made your heart soar with adoration and love towards the older Ghoul.

You nodded your head and relaxed your body, your eyes staring up at Mountain with hazy desire, "Yes, that is okay, Mountain."

As he heard your permission, Mountain took the bottom of your shirt and began to gently pull it up your body. The action made the small hairs on your arm stand up as the fabric of the shirt rubbed against your soft flesh.

He then ran the palm of his hand against your exposed skin, feeling the warmth that your body was radiating through its touch.

"You're absolutely gorgeous, Dove."

A soft blush formed over your cheeks as your stomach was exposed to the Ghoul. You still had your bra on, but that quickly changed as you stuck your thumb underneath the strap and pulled it up and over your head, "You're too kind, Mountain," you mumbled shyly while rolling your shoulders slightly, staring longingly up at the earth-ghoul.

Mountain was surprised to see your sudden movement to take off your bra, though he took the opportunity to look upon the gorgeous sight that was your body. His eyes traced your form, looking at every inch of you. Your breasts were a sight for sore eyes; not too big, not too small. They were perfect, and they made the drummer's mouth water.

"You're absolutely stunning," he said softly as he leaned over and took one of your breasts in his hand.

A small, breathy squeak left your mouth as his large, rough hand gently took hold of your breast. You stared up at him, completely enamoured over how slow and gentle he was making this whole experience for you.

"Thank you," you whispered, a blush dusting your cheeks as Mountain began to squeeze a little bit. You didn't really know what else to say besides 'thank you.'

Mountain lightly squeezed the flesh of your breast in his hand, taking notice of the way your chest rose up as your body reacted to the way he was touching you. He wanted his touch to make you feel good. He carefully rolled your nipple in between his calloused fingers.

“You’re so perfect…” he whispered as he lowered himself down to plant his lips upon your neck as he gently sucked along your flesh.

Based on instinct alone, you craned your neck to the side as the demon began to slowly kiss your neck with slow, open-mouthed kisses. Your breathing continued to slow down as Mountain gently licked at your flesh.

“Mmm, Mountain,” you breathily whispered, your tail wrapping around the earth-ghoul’s torso, softly pulling him closer to you.

Mountain’s body seemed to react to the way your tail wrapped itself around him, a light purr escaped his lips as he continued to worship your neck with his mouth. The drummer's breath from his nose made your neck tickle.

The earth-ghoul left a trail of hot, breathless, kisses across your skin as he continued his path down. Slowly, Mountain reached your breast and licked the nipple with his tongue, lightly flicking the tip.

Even though you were a virgin, you weren’t inexperienced. You had touched yourself before (often at the thought of Mountain), but this was beyond any form of self-pleasure. Mountain’s mouth was bliss. No toy could replicate that.

A strangled moan flew from your lips at the sudden stimulation to your hardening buds. Your hands snaked around Mountain’s neck; entangling in his tight curls that clung to his neck, “W-Woah! M-Mounty! Holy fuck!” you exclaimed pleasurably.

To Mountain, the feeling of your hands entangled in his hair made his head feel fuzzy with a sense of bliss and arousal. A small groan escaped from between his lips as you grasped his hair, the sensation making him want to do even more to you. Make you squirm. Make you gasp. Make you moan.

Mountain continued to tease the sensitive bud of your breast with his mouth, switching between sucking and licking as your grip at the locks of his hair seemed to tighten.

Mountain pulled away from your breast and moved his lips to your ear, whispering softly as he gently kissed your earlobe, “You feel good, Dove?” he whispered gently as he ran his fingers lightly across your stomach “You taste delicious…”

“Y-Yeah, I feel really good,” you murmured while slowly dropping your hands from Mountain’s neck; letting them rest on your breasts. You began to pinch at your nipples, giving them slight stimulation due to Mountain’s lips not being on them at the moment.

“Please keep going, Mounty. Please,” you practically begged, beginning to understand Mountain’s comment about how this would feel uncomfortable at first, then amazing… unlike anything you had ever felt before.

Mountain grinned at the sight. You looked so incredibly good like this, and he was going to take care of you.

His hand gently pushed yours aside as he gently squeezed your breast in his hand again, the skin of his fingers grazing over your puckered nipple as he leaned down and kissed you. His tongue slipped into your mouth, and his touch turned from gentle to slightly rougher as his tongue lightly wrestled with yours.

This kiss didn’t feel full of lust. Sure, arousal was evident between the two Ghouls, but Mountain kissed you with a sense of love. He wanted you in more ways than just body. Mountain loved you as much as you loved him. He wanted you in body and soul.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses were swapped between the two of you. Your hands slowly abandoned your breasts, and instead went to Mountain’s belt. Your eyes were fluttered shut due to being sucked into this moment with the demon, but you had no trouble undoing his belt.

Mountain felt your hands undoing his belt, and his lips stopped moving in their dance as he parted from the deep kiss, his lips slightly swollen by the intensity.

“Is this going too fast?” Mountain whispered, his tone gentle and soft, his breathing hot and shallow. He wanted to make sure he hadn't scared you at all, though the intensity of the kiss made his heart beat rapidly in his chest.

“It’s not for me, Mounty,” you whispered, a bit breathless as he pulled away from the kiss, “Are you okay with this? I know you offered to help me out, but if you don’t want to continue, or this is too fast for you, I won’t be upset.”

You cupped the much larger Ghoul’s face in your hands, placing a small kiss to his flushed cheeks; a smile on your face. Your words were sincere.

Mountain felt the touch of your hands against his flushed cheeks and he felt that warm feeling in his heart. Even though you were nervous and inexperienced at the start, you seemed to be enjoying yourself just as much as he was.

Mountain reached up and grabbed your hands that cupped his cheeks, intertwining his fingers into yours. “Of course, I’m okay with this, darling.” he said softly as he squeezed your hands, “I was just making sure you’re still okay with this!”

You squeezed back, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of the earth-ghoul’s lips, causing Mountain to blush, “You can continue if you’d like.”

You squeezed Mountain’s hands one more time before slipping them back down to the Ghoul’s belt; slowly slipping it out of the belt loops and throwing to to the floor.

Thud.

Mountain’s heart fluttered as you took off his belt. He could see the desire in your eyes, and it only fueled his lust for more. He needed to feel the other Ghoul from the inside.

“May I take off your pants…?” he whispered as he gently stroked your cheek, his touch tender and sweet. There was still a hint of hesitancy in his movements, as if he was still worried that he was moving too fast.

“Mhm,” you hummed, consenting immediately as you pushed down Mountain’s pants all the way to his knees. You propped yourself up on your elbows; your chest shining in the moonlight as Mountain pulled you to the edge of the bed.

You couldn’t help but stare at the tent that was pitched in Mountain’s boxers. He was… huge.

Mountain stared at the state of you on the edge of the bed, your soft curves and smooth skin on display made him want to keep touching you and pleasing you. The drummer didn’t want to stop.

The Ghoul’s hands gently traced down your body, the rough skin trailing over your bare skin as he knelt in front of you, kneeling between your legs.

Mountain swiftly discarded your pants, and with painful slowness, pulled your panties down as well. Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed; your face flushed from the adrenaline rush.

Without a warning, you squealed as you felt something hot and wet lick a strip up your pussy. Your toes immediately curled from the pleasure. It was Mountain’s tongue.

Mountain kept your legs parted as he placed your knees over his shoulders, keeping you spread out before him. His hands gripped your inner thighs, squeezing them gently as his tongue gently licked against the wet folds of your core, causing shrill moans to leave your mouth.

He could taste the sweetness of your wetness, the taste making him want even more. He felt like a horse that had been led to water on a hot, humid day.

“M-Mountain, holy fuck!” you squeaked out while wrapping your legs around the drummer’s neck, keeping his face pressed up and into your cunt, “J-Just don’t stop! -Oh my God- Don’t stop! A-Ah Lucifer!” you moaned out as his forked tongue darted out with such skill.

Mountain felt your legs wrap around his neck as he worked with his tongue to please you. He loved the way you tasted, how sweet and delicious you were. He was in heaven (ironic for a demon, right?), and his tongue seemed to be doing a good enough job at it by the sounds of your moans. He groaned against your pussy, the sound vibrating inside of you.

The Ghoul collected your clit in between his lips, vacuum sealing his mouth to your mound. A strangled moan left your lips; your back arching responsively.

You groaned like an animal in heat as your hips began to slowly move; grinding against Mountain’s swollen lips. Your hands had returned to your chest, and were now roughly pinching your own nipples in time with Mountain’s expert tongue. It hurt in a good way, this overstimulation.

Moan after moan spilled from your lips. This wasn’t a gradual lead up to pleasure; this was immediate.

To Mountain, you looked so incredibly beautiful like this, so lost to the overwhelming pleasure he was bringing to you. It made his heart beat wildly in his chest as he could feel you riding his face, his hands on your hips to help keep you in place.

Your moans and mewls seemed like music to his ears, it gave him an idea… an idea to increase your pleasure even further.

He pulled away from your core and licked his lips, breathing heavily as he looked up at you. His eyes were bright with lust.

“Little Dove, would it be alright if I… slipped my finger inside you?” Mountain asked, the slight edge in his voice evident. He was beginning to grow anxious.

You slowly unwrapped your legs from around Mountain’s neck as you felt him pull away. You panted slightly, your face blushing like a tomato from the pleasure your partner was giving you. Sweat droplets made your face shimmer in the moonlight.

“That sounds very nice,” you whispered in response to the drummer’s question, “Yes, please do whatever you want.”

Mountain could see the look of complete ecstasy on your face as you responded to his question, and it made his heart flutter. He wanted to make you feel good… he wanted to keep going until you were completely satisfied.

With that, he reached up with his hand and gently pushed inside you, the tip of his finger slipping into your pussy. “Is that okay..?” he asked quietly, his breath coming out in a soft pant.

You hummed in pleasure as you felt a tad bit of pressure from Mountain’s rather large digit. Your hips shimmied slightly, trying to create a bit of friction, “Yeah, feels good,” you groaned in confirmation, your head falling backwards as you felt the earth-ghoul begin to move his finger; curling it inside of you.

Mountain began to thrust his finger inside your core, his movements starting out somewhat slow as he looked at you. He wasn’t sure how far you wanted to go with this, and he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Can I add another finger, (Y/N)?” he asked softly, his head rested on your thigh as his finger thrusted inside you slowly. You could feel his hot breath on your thigh, causing goosebumps to cover that area.

“Yes please,” you immediately replied, “Can you also go back to using your mouth again as well? That felt really good, and I feel like it would feel even better with your fingers.”

You were a bit embarrassed to be asking Mountain for such things, but you knew he wouldn’t mind. The older Ghoul was sweet and you knew he cared about you, maybe even more than he cared for anyone else in the band. You knew he wouldn’t mind, and would comply to your request.

Mountain couldn’t help but smile and chuckle slightly at how eager you were to ask (like you knew he would... the cocky bastard), but who was he to deny you?

“Of course I can, Dove. Anything for you…” he whispered as he leaned back down and placed his mouth over your aching, soaked core.

You felt his fingers beginning to move as his mouth returned to that previous position; his fat tongue pulling another scream from your lips. You were right— this combination did feel heavenly.

At first, you were able to just lean back, shut your eyes, and let Mountain work. But, very quickly, the pleasure began to grow, and it grew fast.

You were mewling like a goddamned cat after about 2 minutes of this; your hips aggressively grinding against the much larger Ghoul,

“M-More, please!” you wheezed out, your hands intertwining in his hair. Tears were beginning to prick at your eyes from the sheer amount of pleasure.

Mountain was entranced in his actions, watching you writhe on the edge of the bed, pleasured by his fingers and his tongue as they worked to give you that sweet, sweet release you were begging for. He was loving every second of this.

His fingers moved faster inside your cunt, his mouth working in his own pattern around your sensitive flesh. His groan vibrated against you as you ground your hips onto his face. Your tail even made its way to Mountain’s neck; lightly choking him pleasurably as he moved.

As more choked screams left your lips, stars began to dot over your vision. Your jaw hung slack as your body stiffened up; one last breathy moan leaving your mouth before you hit your first orgasm of the night.

Your fingers pulled at Mountain’s hair, likely making his scalp burn, but you couldn’t help it. The pleasure felt like an explosion going off in your head— all you wanted and needed was more.

Mountain groaned loudly against your core as your orgasm hit hard, the tight fingers tangled in his hair pulling at his scalp as you shook with pleasure. He was breathing through his nose while you quaked, holding himself in place as your legs tightly squeezed around his head. He would swallow every last drop that trickled from your clenching hole.

As your body began to relax a bit more, the earth-ghoul’s fingers and mouth pulled away from where they were, a thin string of your juices connecting them as he took a deep breath. His green eyes marvelled at your swollen entrance; unable to hide his satisfaction.

“How was that, darling?” Mountain asked softly, his voice a light and sweet whisper. “Do you want to continue?”

The drummer gently licked his fingers, cleaning them of your juices.

You slowly pulled your head off the cream-coloured pillows and nodded lazily; your face redder than the Cardinal’s cassock, before running a shaking finger through your folds. Your legs jolted roughly— you were so sensitive after such an intense climax.

“Yes, please continue,” you whispered, your chest glimmering in the moonbeams that carefully filtered in through the blinds due to your sweat.

Your eyes drifted down to Mountain’s cock, which was beginning to drip with precum. You were practically drooling at the sight.

Mountain’s chest heaved with his heavy breaths as he saw the effect he had on you. You looked absolutely beautiful with your hair tussled and skin flushed. His own chest was glistening with a thin layer of sweat; his arousal growing as he noticed you staring at his dick.

Mountain’s prick twitched.

“You seem to like what you see.” Mountain said softly with a grin.

“Can you blame me?” you asked suggestively while flicking your tail. Your spade-tipped tail wrapped around his length without another word, pumping lightly, “I think I’m ready for… the next part of this. I want you to take me, Mountain. I trust you completely.”

'I want to prove Swiss wrong.'

“No… no, I can’t blame you, (Y/N).” Mountain said; his breathing hitched a bit as your tail wrapped around his length. It was an odd sensation, but one that only added to the burning heat of his excitement.

The drummer leaned up over you and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips as your tail pumped his member lightly. “Then I’ll take you as gently and slow as possible.” he whispered against your lips.

You slipped your tongue into Mountain’s mouth as he promised to take you gently and slowly. You could taste yourself on his lips which made your hole clench. Your tail, still pumping his immense size, led Mountain’s cock to your soaked entrance, lining it up. You weren’t worried about protection— you didn’t care. You wanted Mountain skin-to-skin. Animalistically. Authentically.

You watched in arousal as Mountain spat in his hand to provide further lubrication. He was much bigger than you were, and even with his impressive oral skills, you still probably weren’t wet enough to accommodate him.

He slowly rubbed his spit covered, pruned digits over your hole, causing your legs to spasm again. So, so sensitive…

Mountain spit on your mound one more time before slotting himself in between your trembling legs. The Ghoul grasped his cock, pumping it a few times before rubbing it lightly against your swollen clit.

“You’re so wet for me, dove,” he whispered, using his thumb to slowly… antagonizing-slowly, massage your little bundle of nerves, “I’ve got the biggest dick out of any of us in the ministry, yet I can tell you’ll take me just fine. If Swiss tried fucking you like this, he’d slip right out. That cocky son of a bitch couldn't make you feel as good as I can.”

Mountain’s calm and patient side regarding your comfort levels was beginning to fade away. He knew you were consenting to this— he had already asked close to a million times. The earth-ghoul could start acting how he wanted to since you wanted it, and frankly, this cocky side of Mountain was hot to you.

Mountain’s tongue met yours in an intimate dance. He could feel your appreciation for him in that kiss, and he was determined to make you feel as loved and cared for as possible. He knew he was special; and so were you.

As his cockhead was lined up against you, it took all his control to not immediately plunge inside you. “Are you ready Little Dove?” he whispered as he looked at you intently, his chest rising and falling as his breath came out in ragged pants.

Your tail slowly unwrapped from around Mountain’s length as he got ready to begin moving. Your hands gripped onto the duvet below, your head rapidly nodding in confirmation, “Definitely ready.”

Your legs were shaking from anticipation. You had never known you’d need something as intensely as you needed Mountain right now. He was the the sunlight to flowers, or the shepherd to the sheep. He was everything to you.

Mountain looked down at you, seeing you trembling with anticipation, with excitement, with need. And it made his heart flutter once again. He wanted you just as badly as you wanted him.

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before he began to press inside you, a soft groan leaving his lips as he felt how tight, how wet you were. “Oh, D-Dove,” he whispered, the word rolling off his lips in a ragged breath.

You laid there for a few seconds, your face contorted in pleasure as well as mild discomfort due to Moutain’s thickness. It was probably a good thing that he had spat on his hand to create more lubrication. It wasn’t an uncomfortable discomfort though— it felt right. It was apart of it, and you were pleased to get to experience everything for the first time like this.

“O-Oh, Lucifer!” you swore in pleasure as Mountain sunk all the way in, your mound resting against his abdomen. Mountain put all of his weight onto his arms as he leaned over you. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he stilled, waiting for your confirmation, “M-Move, please.”

Mountain groaned as he felt himself sink all the way inside you, his eyes closing for a moment as he savored the feeling of you surrounding his cock; squeezing it as you breathed. The sound of his name falling from your lips in an almost prayer made his heart flutter.

His self-control shattered at the whimpered plea. ‘Move, please.’ Oh, he’d move. He’d fucking move.

Mountain began to thrust with a slow and steady pace, his breathing coming out in short and ragged pants as he moved over you. His face dropped to the left of yours, his tongue darting out to taste your face.

You slowly wrapped your quivering hands around Mountain’s wrists as he began to slowly thrust deep into you, savouring each movement. It felt biblical… it felt raw and powerful. Squelches due to your wetness echoed through the room, matching the volume of Mountain and your’s growing moans.

You bit your lip as the Ghoul began to speed up; your eyes resting shut from the wave-after-wave of pleasure. You couldn’t even formulate words. All you knew was that you didn’t want your lover to stop. The snapping of his hips was orgasmic; the way his balls began to slap against your ass. The way his dick fit you perfectly. The way the earth-ghoul knew where to strike— hitting your G-spot every single time without fail.

Mountain’s head dipped down against your neck, his breathing warm and ragged against your skin as he began to quicken his pace. His eyes closed as the pleasure consumed him, overwhelmed him, as he moved inside you. Each whimper or mewl you let out only added to his pleasure, and he wanted to hear more.

“Fuck- you sound so beautiful, (Y/N).” he breathed against your skin, his words ragged in between his moans and pants.

You let out unholy noises as Mountain verbally praised you through your fucking. You could feel the drummer's fingers leaving little bruises on your hips as he snapped in and out of you at an increasingly speedy rate. Mountain's body slotted in between your wetted thighs perfectly.

"Deeper!" you commanded while beginning to move your hips in sync with the Ghoul's thrusts, "I need more of y-you, Mountain! Fuck me! Fuck me!" This moment was unlocking a side of you that you didn't know existed.

Mountain groaned loudly as you began to move in sync with his thrusts, his grip on your hips tightening at your words and actions. “ Holy hell… “ he whispered against your neck as he began to pick up the pace more.

Your moans and mewls sounded like they were coming straight from the pits of hell, and the thought of you becoming feral and untamed under his touch sent a shiver down Mountain’s shiver. This was giving the earth-ghoul more adrenaline than any performance with the clergy's band.

“ You want more-? Need more of me? “ he grunted out as he began to thrust into you with a harder force.

Mountain forced his hands underneath your hips in order to angle you downwards, effectively deepening his thrusts as you had requested. A shrill shriek, sounding authentic and similar to those noises you Ghouls made in Hell, left your lips. It sounded alike to a goat bleat and a woman's scream from some cheesy horror film from the 70s.

Your hand trailed down to your swollen clit, stroking it aggressively to optimize your pleasure. You would definitely have to give Mountain back as much as he's giving you right now. Today wasn't the day, though. Today was about you.

"Need m-more of you. Holy Hell, don't stop!" you begged, your voice coming out all pathetic and in a begging manner. You were so incredibly cock-drunk for your partner. Your stomach clenched, and a fiery inferno of pleasure wracked your soul. You were so fucking close.

Lucifer you were beautiful like this— writhing and moaning with pleasure on the bed, a complete mess beneath him.

“Oh- oh Dove..."

Your begging was making his brain short-circuit.

You screamed in pain mixed with pleasure as Mountain sunk his fangs into your collarbone, effectively drawing blood. Your flesh muted his panted words, but you could still make it out. It was in the demonic tongue only you and the other Ghouls could understand.

Amongst the demonic grunts and growls... a simple phrase.

"You are now mine!"

You felt the earth-ghoul explode inside of you. His stamina was still at a peak as he slammed as far into your tight cunt as he could, spilling every last drop into your womb. Curses and obscenities erupted from your lips as you came for the second time today.

Your pussy violently milked Mountain's twitching dick dry. Stars dazzled over your vision as you experienced the most pleasurable and painful orgasm of your life. This was what Lucifer ordered Papa to preach about during his unholy sermons. This was what you had been missing out on. Mountain was what you had been missing out on...

There wasn't a single drop of cum left in the Ghoul's prick by the time your orgasm had passed. Mountain slowly removed his teeth from your flesh, his forked tongue emerging from his cracked and swollen lips to lap up your blood.

"I'm sorry," the earth-ghoul shyly apologized while pulling himself out of your soaking cunt, "I didn't mean to bite you."

Your hands went up and lightly stroked his flushed cheeks. You'd always thought Mountain was beautiful... but now? He was ethereal.

"I don't give a fuck about that," you said while giggling, pressing your lips to his, "You just gave me the best night of my life, and you're apologizing for making me bleed? You're trying too hard, Mounty."

The drummer purred as you used his nickname, his spade-tipped tail swooshing in the air as he slowly got out of the bed.

"Shut up. Just sit there and look pretty while I help you clean up."

Mountain sauntered to his bathroom and returned a minute later with a damp towel and some tissues. He was walking with an intoxicating aura. It was obvious he just fucked and had a good time, which made your chest swell with appreciation. He enjoyed himself as much as you had.

He was walking with the mentality that he had made you feel this good.

Not even Swiss could do that... and Mountain took great pride in that.

[desertpersephone]

el paso, between the crickets and the moon | 5k | gen | post s7, getting together, angst about eddie's childhood because he's staying over in his childhood home

a/n: written as part of the @911fanworksfestival for @p-trichor . I hope you enjoy!

Eddie's not sure if Chris is actually ready to come home, or if the prospect of staying longer and starting Catholic school in El Paso was the thing that got him to call his dad. But frankly, Eddie doesn't really care, doesn’t try to question it too much, because it means Chris is talking to him and is going to be home again. And that means that Eddie can make it up to him, explain some things, and show him how sorry he is. Show him that he's still a good dad. Or at least that he’s always trying to be a good dad, a better dad. And the thought of Chris putting on the same uniform Eddie had years before, with the little blue and white shield embroidered stiffly on the chest, forced to attend Wednesday Mass, taught abstinence only — which is a whole other thing to be anxious about but, regardless, Eddie isn’t going to let his kid get taught sex ed like that — is enough to make Eddie want to rescue Christipher even if it's against his son’s will. But being in El Paso is weird. Eddie hasn't been back since his dad's retirement party, and it's just weird. It's weird because he's apparently expected to stay the weekend while Chris finishes packing — except all he brought with him had been a backpack and everything that Eddie’s parents had bought him was basically just a double of something in L.A., so Eddie isn't really sure what he’s going to pack — and it's weird because he can feel his mom's gaze fixed on his back every second of the trip since the moment he and Buck touched down in the airport. It’s like she’s constantly on the lookout for some reason to keep Chris there, like she’s expecting Eddie to snap and pull out a Shannon wig of his own. Like he’s going to pull out a Shannon wig and plop it onto Buck. Which is a whole other thing, Buck being here. Because Buck is always here and he didn't even hesitate when Eddie said “I bought two tickets”. Because they’re always together and because Eddie knew he would need the moral support while dealing with his parents. That's why he brought Buck. Buck always has his back.

read on ao3

[and-her-saints]

i prayed a rosary for the first time with a new friend today.

after we were done, they made a comment about how intimate it felt. i have not stopped thinking about it since.

a rosary, to me, is something that has always been so personal, so internal. it echoes within me, and there it stays. i rarely pray out loud, or make much noise. i sort of fold into myself, into my own “interior castle” (st. teresa of ávila reference lols)

and yet, today there was someone there. we listened to each other’s quirks when reciting these ancient prayers (i apparently say the Hail Mary weirdly in Spanish) and gave each other grace in the spaces where we messed up the words.

there was togetherness in the meditation. togetherness in the call and response. i’ve always pondered what in Matthew 18:20, “When two or three are gathered together in My name, I am there in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20) i always related it back to Mass. to Church. to liturgy.

but even through a phone screen, an ocean apart and time zones away. i felt that verse come alive in the platonic love i am nurturing with my new queer catholic buddy. i feel gratefulness <3

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

[angeltreasure]

When I first heard about Marian Consecration, my first thought was skepticism. I personally had great difficulty understanding why it was even a thing, why so many Catholics were apparently doing it, what consecration actually is. I struggled in thought over it greatly when it was recommended to me at the time I revealed for the first time to any priest what happened to me when the enemy physically grabbed and paralyzed me months prior. I have delayed the consecration since, staying very cautious, for some reason… the thought of what Marian Consecration could be made me afraid, not wanting to make any mistake that would turn from honoring my Mother into worship (as I see some pagans try to do). Perhaps the block from learning the truth was a part of my own personal spiritual warfare. Marian Consecration is something not spoken about in Mass sermons either, like so many other things, so all the more I was left in the dark.

This year, I decided to start learning more on my own using proper discernment. I’ve watched and listened to countless hours of real videos of real Catholic priests from my country speak about exorcisms and spiritual warfare and the faith (plus the Catechism). I’ve learned so much that I can’t it all into this post, but to save time, I finally understand now in 2024 why Marian Consecration was highly suggested to me by that priest now. The devil fears Mary most of all, more than God. He can’t stand that a human would be chosen to be the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ, so full of grace and goodness to do God’s will. The devil may pray an Our Father during an exorcism but he will never be able to pray the Hail Mary. She will protect me under her mantle and strike at his head. It my Mother Mary, the Queen, who takes my prayer requests to the King, Jesus Christ, like a good queen does for a king. Mary, who will pray for me now and even at the hour of my death, that moment when devil will try his hardest to take me away from God!!!!…

I will be making my official Marian Consecration this year, on Thursday, August 15, 2024, on the Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary (a Holy Day of Obligation).

Please say a Hail Mary for me.

[pilotinthestars]

the new millennium's helen of troy - PilotInTheStars

rating: t | word count: 1072 | @today-in-fic

--

Scully had declared that Saturday was to be her spring cleaning, a yearly event she apparently attended more religiously than Catholic Mass. Not even his wandering hands that morning kept her from waking up early, starting the coffee pot, and getting to work. Mulder would quickly learn that he was fairly useless on spring cleaning days.

He decided to work on their case report while nursing coffee at her dining room table, occasionally looking up as she walked back to the cardboard boxes she had set up in the living room, pulling who knows what from who knows where, to fill them up with various contents from throughout her apartment. Her Georgetown apartment, apparently, had magical storage closets.

  When she’d been gone for a while, Mulder got up to stretch his legs. He surveyed the boxes to see what Scully had deposited in them. Most of it was old stuff - a University of Maryland sweatshirt in a color she hated and a sweater that Charlie had gotten her for Christmas that made her itch among it - and he resolved that none of it was that important. That was when he noticed something somewhat shiny.

He felt like a magpie, reaching into the box and pulling out the light pink satin that caught his eye, discovering a slip dress, the kind they enticed you with in department store windows to get you in the lingerie section.

It was right then that Scully decided to walk in and her face blanched.

--

Continue on AO3

[jurakan]

Do you have any thoughts about who/what Tom Bombadil might symbolize/represent/evoke in Lord of the Rings in relation to Tolkien's Catholicism? (I am watching Rings of Power and extremely excited to see my boy Tom)

I'm going to be real with you: I don't know.

[IT'S YA BOI]

Tom Bombadil, as you probably know, is an utterly bizarre figure, given that he was first protagonist of some children's stories before he hopped into the Hobbit sequel as Tolkien was writing it. And in it, he isn't just some guy. He's apparently ancient, as in he says he was in Arda (Earth) before the Dark Lord's arrival from "Outside". If the Dark Lord in question is Sauron, then he's pretty damn old. If it's Morgoth, then that means he is as old as the Earth itself.

Which is! By the way! Supported by the text: as the Tolkien Gateway points out, he calls himself "Eldest," and the elves call him "First" and "Oldest and fatherless", and outside Eru (God) and the Valar/Maiar, no one in the Legendarium is "fatherless". He was apparently in Arda before the trees and landscape, which is, uh, basically as the world was being formed in Tolkien. In The Silmarillion, Morgoth is also the first of the Valar to flee to the world after it was created? So, uh... he's literally old as dirt. He also is apparently sinless? Or at the very least, devoid of obvious temptation, because the Ring has no effect on him whatsoever.

Which makes him hard to place from a Catholic perspective. The Valar/Maiar are quite obviously parallels to both pagan deities and angels, in a way that is clear to even casual readers. It's not hard to fit the Valar into that role, knowing the author is Catholic--"Oh, here are angelic figures that ancient men mistook for gods! Okay!" And you can put different events in The Silmarillion into those sorts of ideas. But Bombadil doesn't fit neatly into that kind of slot. Tolkien also wasn't too helpful, as he deliberately did not clarify Bombadil too much, because he thought that the mythic Middle-Earth needed some mysteries kept.

It is tempting to say that Tom's meant to be God Himself, given at one point Gandalf (I think?) says, "He is," reminiscent of God's name in the Bible ("I Am"). But given Tom's married, and Tolkien was devoutly Catholic (he sang Latin in Mass after Vatican II) I don't think this works. Some have suggested that he's an avatar of Tolkien himself, though I don't know where that's coming from.

This Aleteia article has this quote from a letter, but it does not say which letter, so I am not sure how reliable this is:

“I do not mean him to be an allegory – or I should not have given him so particular, individual, and ridiculous a name – but ‘allegory’ is the only mode of exhibiting certain functions: he is then an ‘allegory,’ or an exemplar, a particular embodying of pure (real) natural science: the spirit that desires knowledge of other things, their history and nature, because they are ‘other’ and wholly independent of the enquiring mind, and wholly unconcerned with ‘doing’ anything with the knowledge: Zoology and Botany, not Cattle-Breeding or Agriculture.”

Said article goes on to compare this to Saint Augustine's approach to knowledge.

This article I found compares him to a Biblical angel in his role in the narrative--though the author makes a point to say that he doesn't think that Bombadil is, in-universe, an angelic being (again, he doesn't appear to be one of the Valar/Maiar), only that he fulfills that narrative function. Which is on to something, I think--Biblical stories, and medieval Catholic legends, often have an angel appear randomly and help out the protagonist only to disappear and never again play a role in that person's life. In LotR, it's enforced, because when Frodo suggests giving the Ring to Tom, Gandalf and Elrond point out that he'd probably forget about the Ring, which is as dangerous as leaving it out in the open.

So I think--and I'm not a scholar on this, so take this with a pinch of salt, friend--I think Tom is something of an odd, medieval pagan figure (that is, an incarnation of the natural world, or an aspect of it, at least) that is being applied in a Christian story. Ancient and medieval legends did this sometimes, like Saint Anthony and the satyr or Sir Orfeo, because these people certainly believed creatures like fairies or satyrs existed, but tried to fit them into the Christian universe. Which is fair, I guess, because there's nothing in the Bible that says these sorts of things don't exist, so there's no reason a guy like Bombadil can't be running around out there, as long as acknowledges what the rest of the order of creation is (which Tom does).

I'm also tempted to draw some sort of parallel-like line (???) to Melchizedek in the Book of Genesis--a mysterious figure who is oddly helpful at the beginning of the story (Genesis), and also kicked off a lot of speculation. He is also sometimes seen as very old, or having parallels to angelic figures, or even God Himself.

I'm sorry this answer wasn't as helpful as something straightforward, but it's the best I could do.

[hymnsofheresy]

Truly He taught us to love one another His law is love and His gospel is peace Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother And in his name all oppression shall cease Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we With all our hearts we praise His holy name Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we His power and glory ever more proclaim!

“Since that first rendition at a small Christmas mass in 1847, "O Holy Night" has been sung millions of times in churches in every corner of the world. And since the moment a handful of people first heard it played over the radio, the carol has gone on to become one of the entertainment industry's most recorded and played spiritual songs. This incredible work--requested by a forgotten parish priest, written by a poet who would later split from the church, given soaring music by a Jewish composer, and brought to Americans to serve as much as a tool to spotlight the sinful nature of slavery as tell the story of the birth of a Savior--has become one of the most beautiful, inspired pieces of music ever created.” (x)

Learn about the abolitionist history of O Holy Night:

“Things start in 1843 or 1847—there’s some discrepancy about the year—in Roquemaure, a small town in the Rhône valley region. Placide Cappeau, who had followed his father into the wine business, was also known for the poetry he composed. Though a critic of the Catholic church, Cappeau was asked by the local priest to write a few stanzas in celebration of the town cathedral’s newly refurbished organ. He is said to have written the song’s words while in transit to Paris on business, with the biblical Gospel of Luke as inspiration. On the advice of the same clergyman who had commissioned him, Cappeau took his completed work—then titled “Minuit, Chrétiens,” or “Midnight, Christians”—to Adolphe Adams, a composer of some renown. Adams, who was of French-Jewish descent, arranged the music, and the song was newly christened as "Cantique de Noel.” The carol would make its world debut, with opera singer Emily Laurey belting lyrics, during Christmas eve midnight mass at the Roquemaure church...

Though "Cantique de Noel” would quickly become a French Christmas favorite, it was later denounced by the French Catholic church—a reported consequence of Cappeau being an avowed atheist and socialist, along with the discovery that Adams was Jewish, not Christian. One bishop reportedly dismissed the song as having a "lack of musical taste and total absence of the spirit of religion.” There was also some resistance to Cappeau’s overtly anti-slavery lyrics in the third verse, which were perhaps made more glaring by his emergent political outspokenness. In any case, the ban reveals where the French Catholic church stood on matters of abolition...

In any case, "Cantique de Noel” would make its way across the Atlantic to John Sullivan Dwight, a white American abolitionist, Unitarian minister, musician and classical music aficionado who published a magazine called Dwight's Journal of Music...

Dwight gave his translated verse the title “O Holy Night” when he published it in his music periodical in 1855. It apparently became a hit in the U.S., gaining popularity among the abolitionist crowd during the Civil War. Even as the song was being banned in its home country, it was becoming a staple of Christmas, and a song of protest, thousands of miles away, in the U.S. It’s long since become part of the broader American Christmas songbook.”

(x)

[hussyknee]

sad how these "freedom for..." posts never include xinjiang because people aren't willing to take a stand against islam the way they are christianity. uygurs are facing genocide on two fronts - from the ccp and from islamists. there's only one uygur temple still standing - all the others have been demolished by muslim extremists. abrahamic religions colonising the world and brutally oppressing native religions and cultures is a tale as old as time, but people are stuck in the weird mindset that abrahamic religions are deserving of respect.

Idk what temples you're talking about, but "Uyghurs are actually a multi-faith society that was forcibly converted to Islam" is CCP propaganda to lie about the fact that they're genociding the Uyghurs for being Turkic Muslims and destroying their mosques and shrines.

I'm just going to lay aside the world-ending irony of accusing "Islamists" (whatever the fuck that is) of colonizing and forcibly converting a people...who live on top of China. I mean I tried to figure out which stage of Chinese history you're trying to erase to get here, but the answer can only be "all of it". China apparently both exists and doesn't exist for you. But Schroedinger's geo-politics or not, I can't let the "Abrahamic religions" bit stand because this horseshit is gaining way too much traction in South Asia.

Judaism, the world's oldest religion, being an upstart colonizing force is a frankly wild thing to say. I even tried to find mention of any colonization by Jews before Palestine and only found a couple of dynasties and vassal states under Ancient Rome. If you're talking about the Khazars in the sixth century, the rulers converted to Judaism voluntarily and there's no evidence it was either imposed or predominant among the rest of the population. Otoh, Jews have been repeatedly expelled, colonized and subjugated by Christians and Muslims (which is why most of their holidays are just "Yay We Didn't All Die"), and Muslims have suffered under Christian colonization for the last two hundred years along with the rest of us, and a lot longer in Europe. Islamic Empires rarely forced conversions (and in fact didn't like having too many Muslim subjects because non-Muslims were made to pay them taxes) and because of that were generally more tolerant than Christian ones, especially of Jews and Christians whom they considered "People of the Book". I mean persecution and ethnic cleansings did happen, depending on who was in charge (the Almohad Empire was particularly awful, which maybe explains the Catholic violence of Spain and Portugal), but in general, mass conversion wasn't the point of colonization. Among the Turkic peoples especially it was trade that spread Islam, not war or colonization, unlike shit-ass Portuguese traders who said, "We come in search of Christians and spices" and proceeded to kill and colonize everyone and torture them into converting. No fucking way you're lumping all of them in one "Abrahamic" colonial basket.

And the Christian legacies that endure in colonized societies are still as legitimate and integral part of their cultural identities. Once something is absorbed into a culture, the way it's shaped and used is unique to that society. Culture is a living, growing thing, like tree roots. It absorbs, merges, winds itself around generational traumas and obstacles and evolves in new trajectories. Whether or not you approve of the contortions of its survival and whether it looks different at the tip than at the root, it's still the same tree. That's why all religions deserve respect. You can't extricate or pathologize them apart from the individuality of the billions of human beings they shape. And all human beings share the same capacity for violence. Ideology has always been a rationalization for the violence we already want to commit. What motivates violence is power, not ideology, which is why we say "history repeats itself"—the dynamics of power are universal and consistent throughout history.

All our civilizations and cultures are as shaped by violent contact as by peaceful ones; ascribing the violence and impact of colonization only to Christian and Islamic empires completely erases thousands of years of histories all over the world (you know, like Imperial China???) Religions don't grow out of the ground; they were always evolved and spread among peoples along the lines of trade, migration, war, annexation, assimilation and resistance. Considering the religious identities of some people (always minorities too—isn't that weird?) inferior or illegitimate because they were "external impositions", and advocating a "return" to a "pure and untouched" past that never existed is the rhetoric of ethnosupremacy, colonization and manifest destiny—in short the language of genocide. I should know, I hear this crap out of fundamentalist Hindus and Buddhists in South Asia all the time. That's why I'm protective of Muslims. Because they're vulnerable to pieces of racist shit like you.

[bellatrixnightshade]

Family Means Fate

Hi! This story was based on this post of mine here. There is more info about it under the tag "fanfic: family means fate." Basically, this is a form of modern Au uses Rafal the Antarctic scientist I recall discussing with @liketwoswansinbalance, Rafal the girl dad, and some unused ideas from ATOTE and other stuff. I plan to make this fanfic shorter than some others in length. I will post this to Wattpad and a03 at another time.

Chapter One

Genevieve woke up to some muffled argument. She could discern that one of the speakers was her father. The other– she frowned. The other sounded a lot like her stepmother’s, who had just returned from a trip last night.

Gen was almost tempted to think it was a positively ruined weekend.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up in her bed. Arguments always put her in a bad mood, especially if they were in the morning. They reminded her of something else. Hopefully, though, if things were going sour between her father and Sophie (that evil woman!), things would become normal again. Saya, her damned twin, always mocked the idea or shrugged it off, but Gen had faith. And she rarely felt good about anything.

Minutes later, her father opened the door. The girls hardly locked their doors as a rule. Otherwise, he would grow suspicious and try to see what they were up to. Saya constantly broke the rule, and he would make her suffer for it. Genevieve always followed it. She didn’t have anything to hide. Not from him, at least.

Fluffles, her sister’s cat, entered the room at the same time. Gen pursed her lips in annoyance.

“Where’s Saya?”

“I think she went golfing with Myra this morning. It was a nice day, and James said he’d pick her up. I told him she should be back by one o’clock, otherwise I won’t be a very happy father. Rhian apparently will be joining us for dinner tonight.”

Ah yes. The iconic Uncle Rhian.

“Anyways, I came here to let you know to expect Sophie to come here soon. She wants to curl your hair. She didn’t like the way I was styling it. I personally thought it was neat and presentable enough, but she had different ideas. Said my wife didn’t teach me anything, though I hardly doubt I need to be taught. Especially not by– well, never mind. That surely opens up old wounds.”

Gen bristled at Sophie’s insult towards her mother but she didn’t say anything. “I guess that means I have to dress up then.”

“Yeah, you should.”

Gen got up, stepped over the cat, and approached her closet. She slid one door to the side, revealing her wardrobe. One thing that caught her eyes was a certain dress. A First Communion one.

She fingered her puffy white dress from ages ago. Well, actually, it wasn't pure white anymore. Time started to yellow it.

The only reason why she and her sister even had a First Communion was mostly due to their uncle, who was supposedly a devout Catholic. Saya complained that Uncle Rhian really had a mental illness (some form of OCD she claimed, but she was no psychologist so Gen discarded her opinion) and that, if people looked closely, he wasn't as practicing as he seemed. He was one person in church and another out of it.

It was the one of two times she received Communion, because all the other few times she went to Mass, her father stayed in the pews and she herself hadn't confessed her sins. She learned from Sunday school that a soul in some sort of sin (she would have to ask her sister which type it was, because there were two) couldn't go. The second time was her confirmation. Genevieve barely understood the point of a confirmation. Nothing in her life changed: no speaking in tongues, no fire falling from the sky, no healing power or prophecy, which were supposedly signs of the Holy Spirit. Rafal only mentioned some details here and there about his own confirmation ages ago, with Rhian, and provided some pictures. Gen was confused on what his chosen saint was: she thought it was Thomas the Apostle, the skeptic (very much like her sister, to be honest– always doubting), but Saya said it was Thomas Aquinas.

Her father wasn't religious but he wasn't exactly a disbeliever either. He did have his daughters baptized in the church with saint names, Rhian, of course, being a godfather to Gen. His practice was lousy and lukewarm at best, with some Miraculous Medals and scapulars being worn and the occasional rosary or novena. He didn't receive anything because he was a remarried divorced man. Rhian made such a big deal about it every Christmas and Easter before Mass, but Rafal had no intention of “fixing” his life. Well, so it seemed. Her mother was an ex Catholic who turned atheist. She did get married inside a Catholic Church only because of family. And thus, she nor Saya were very religious themselves.

Rafal had brought her out of her thoughts.

"You still have that old thing? Sophie will tell you to throw it out.”

“It’s for memories’ sake,” Gen said quickly. “And I won’t like her snooping through all my things, either. She’s just here to torture my hair.” At this moment, Fluffles brushed against Gen’s legs and ran off as perfume wafted inside the room. Perfume she found repugnant.

“Good morning, Sophie,” Gen tried to say as sweetly as possible. Her father rarely became angry with her, but Gen’s rejection of Sophie had been a source of his anger in the past. She hadn’t seen him cross with her since the time she and Saya used his debit card without his knowledge (he was livid that day) or when he had caught them on their mother’s tablet late at night on the way to get Nyquil for his cold. Oh, and when Saya had to go to the ER after an April Fool’s prank, courtesy of Gen, or when she pushed her twin down the stairs and gave her a nosebleed during a fight.

“Rafal wouldn’t let me color your hair,” Sophie complained, glaring at him. “I don’t see why. I think you’d look lovely with some red! The iron’s already heated up, and I don’t like to be kept waiting. The good thing is, I can rest assured you do have your beauty sleep unlike your sister, poor thing.”

“I think I will have to take her switch away,” Rafal said. “This is why I never was on board with video games being allowed in this household in the first place, but of course, we all know how my brother is.”

“It’s a miracle Saya even gets good grades,” Genevieve commented. “With that attitude she always has.”

“She does come off as ungrateful at times,” Rafal replied. “And I noticed– not that it really matters, anyway– that she’d rather go to anyone but me. You, Sophie, Rhian, Myra. Literally everyone but her very own father.”

Gen couldn't understand why she could never be happy with the way things were. What did Saya want? Their father did everything to stay as long as possible with them, but she was furious when he quit his job that took him all the way to Antarctica for months. Their mother was busy but soon, she would be with the family again and there would be no need of resignation or whatever. And maybe, Saya had to accept she was less. She had Gen's same GPA to be sure and got amazing grades, but everyone knew Gen was smarter, and what was wrong with that?

“I’m waiting,” Sophie hissed. “Do you want that thing to die out in a few hours? That is an expensive one!”

“Right. Genevieve, don’t keep her waiting.”

Genevieve nodded and begrudgingly followed along.

⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛⁛

Rhian had stopped by for dinner as expected, with something to complain about.

Genevieve opened the door for him, and he entered the house immediately demanding to see his brother. Rafal and Saya were arguing in another room, and Genevieve interrupted them. Saya looked relieved but Rafal wasn’t about to let the matter drop just yet.

“Why did you use all my rewards?” Rhian started out sweetly, not about to let his brother avoid him.

Rafal turned away from Saya. “What do you mean?”

“My Panera rewards. I went there today after picking up a frappuccino. I had some discounts I wanted to use. When I was about to pay, the cashier found nothing. Said it was already used.”

“Oh. That.”

“By drive thru pickup.”

“I called for the manager and he gave me a discount, to my surprise, but I never want to see you using my account again, Rafal.”

“I needed something to pick up that day,” Rafal answered calmly. “It was stressful. Stupid, uncooperative students, papers to correct…”

Rhian frowned, but smiled again. “Never mind about that. How are the girls?”

“Genevieve is doing well. Her teachers like her and ask her to help the other students with their classes. Saya has nothing much going on.”

Gen was beamng at this point. Her sister looked deflated.

“Do you have a problem with me speaking favorably of your sister?” their father sharply demanded.

“No.”

“Then why do you look as if you lost your cat?”

“I’m tired, but all you seem to want to do is argue about accounts and brag about how special and amazing Genevieve is. She doesn’t even remember your birthday, Dad. It was yesterday and she almost went through the whole day saying nothing to you or Rhian. She always forgets. Even Sophie gave you something after she came home with you from the airport yesterday.”

“Many people don’t remember.”

“She could have put it on her calendar. She has a damn phone, doesn’t she? But go on, defend her bullshit like you always do.”

Rhian fidgeted uneasily. “Do we have to eat here? I was thinking… Midas showed me a restaurant the other day. Buffet style. Lovely. A bit pricey.”

Rafal sighed. “Why are you talking with Midas? I thought he hated you.”

Rhian smiled. “No, he doesn’t. We’ve just had misunderstandings.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Genevieve was startled, because Saya always responded to things exactly like that. It made her ingratitude even more unacceptable.

Poor, jealous sister. Hating on the only people who had ever loved her while trying to get attention from the woman who was trying to destroy their home and to stop Mom from coming back to them. Hell, she didn’t even believe Mom was ever coming back.

But Gen knew the truth. It just needed time.

[theetherealbloom]

NOTRE DAME - CH. 4

Chapter 4: Mass Hysteria And False Accusation

Summary: In the rafters of Clinton Church, a mysterious reader with the power of illusion manipulation silently watches over Matt Murdock, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil. As danger engulfs Hell's Kitchen, their unlikely friendship blossoms into a bond of trust and longing, intertwining their fates in a battle against darkness that tests their resolve. Will their connection illuminate a path to salvation in a city of darkness or lead them deeper into the abyss?

Paring: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt to Comfort, ANGST, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, Religion, Fluff, Anxiety, PSTD, Nightmares, Catholic Guilt, Amnesia, Violence, Blood, Dark Undertones, Eventual SMUT, Shy Reader, Mentions of Abuse, Criminal Activities, Mobsters/Mafia, Character Death, Slowish Burn, Disassociation, 

Word Count: 9k

A/N: Every time I write, a part of me just goes, “Lol, is any of this making sense T^T” 

Song: Sirens by Fleurie

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dividers @/saradika-graphics

ACCESS TUNNELS, HELL’S KITCHEN – EVENING

As Matt pulls you out of the treacherous tunnels and into the bustling streets above, you're immediately hit by the sounds of traffic and the blur of city lights. The urgency in his movements is palpable as he swiftly guides you through the chaotic crowd, his hand gripping yours tightly. Without hesitation, he veers into a dimly lit alleyway, pulling you along and pressing your back against the cold brick wall.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you take a moment to catch your breath, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. The darkness of the alley provides a temporary respite from the chaos outside, shielding you both from prying eyes and potential pursuers. The faint glow of streetlights casts eerie shadows, further enhancing the tension of the moment.

Matt's senses remain sharp, his heightened awareness is apparent as he keeps a listening ear on the entrance of the alley. His grip on your hand tightens, offering a sense of reassurance amidst the uncertainty that surrounds you. The city's soundscape fades into the background, drowned out by the sound of your breaths, rapid and unsteady.

Matt feels you give him a knowing glance, as your eyes dance around his masked features, understanding of the danger you've narrowly escaped. The gravity of the situation hangs heavy in the air, and yet there's an unspoken determination etched on both of your faces.

In this hidden sanctuary, hidden away from prying eyes, you take a moment to gather yourself. The dimness of the alleyway contrasts with the swirling chaos of the city beyond, granting you a fleeting reprieve, however brief it may be.

He leans in closer, his voice a low, intense whisper that sends shivers down your spine, “Who are you?” The dim lighting and mask cast a shadow over his features, making his expression difficult to discern. The weight of his question hangs in the air, and you hesitate, unsure of how to respond.

A mix of emotions swirls within you, battling for dominance. On one hand, there's a deep longing to share your true identity with him, to bare your soul and let him see the vulnerable parts of you. But intertwined with that desire is an overwhelming fear, a gnawing insecurity that whispers doubts and insecurities in your mind.

You can't help but avert your gaze, your eyes flickering away from his figure, searching for an escape from the darkness surrounding you. The conflicted emotions within you make it difficult to form the words, to reveal who you truly are.

There's an unspoken expectation, a belief that whoever you are, it must be something remarkable, something that can impress Matt. The weight of perfection hangs heavily upon you, demanding flawlessness in every aspect. You feel the weight of your own perceived inadequacy, a self-imposed pressure to be extraordinary.

In this tense moment, you grapple with your own self-doubt, uncertain if you can measure up to the image you believe Matt seeks. The fear of disappointing him and falling short holds you back as if your true self wouldn't be enough to earn his acceptance.

As you wrestle with your conflicting emotions, you can't help but wonder if you'll ever find the courage to reveal your true identity, to let him in on the secret you've been guarding so fiercely. But for now, the fear of rejection lingers, entwined with the desire to be seen and understood by the man standing before you.

Instinct takes over, and without thinking, you tap into your mystical abilities. A surge of power courses through you, and with a swift motion, you cast a glamour over yourself, rendering your form invisible to the naked eye. The air around you shimmers momentarily as you conceal your presence.

As you slip away from his grip, a rush of adrenaline surges through your veins, urging you to make a hasty retreat. His voice, filled with urgency and confusion, reaches your ears, calling out for you. But you resist the temptation to look back, knowing that it would only complicate matters further.

Every fiber of your being longs to turn around, to explain, to let him understand why you made this sudden choice. But fear and uncertainty grip your heart, holding you back from revealing the truth. The weight of your hidden identity hangs heavily on your shoulders, and at this moment, escaping seems like the only viable option.

You move swiftly and silently through the shadows, careful to avoid any sound that might give away your presence. The invisibility granted by your enchantment provides a temporary shield, shielding you from prying eyes and allowing you to disappear into the night.

His calls echo in the distance, gradually fading away as you put distance between the two of you. Each step you take further severs the connection, leaving you with a sense of both relief and regret. The conflicted emotions churn within you, a mixture of self-preservation and longing for a different outcome.

But for now, you choose to keep your true identity concealed, opting for anonymity and the safety it provides. The decision to flee remains firm, fueled by a combination of self-doubt, self-preservation, and the lingering desire to protect yourself and those around you.

As you disappear into the darkness, the sound of his voice lingers in your ears, a poignant reminder of the missed opportunity for connection. But for now, your path diverges from his, shrouded in uncertainty and the consequence of your unspoken truth.

CLINTON CHURCH – MORNING

Silently and reverently, you perform your duties as an acolyte, carefully handling the sacred vessels used during the Mass. With a gentle touch, you place the chalice and paten back on the credence table, their golden surfaces gleaming in the dim light of the church.

The concluding prayer echoes through the sacred space, the words resonating with deep gratitude for the holy sacrifice that has taken place. As the final blessing is given, the congregation begins to disperse, their footsteps creating a soft symphony that gradually fades away.

You move with grace and precision, your steps barely audible as you carry out your tasks. With the books cradled in your arms, you navigate the pews, making your way toward the sacristy. The scent of incense lingers in the air, blending with the soft glow of candlelight.

Father Lantom, the wise and compassionate priest, engages in conversation with a few of the churchgoers who have chosen to linger a while longer. Their hushed voices intertwine with the sacred stillness of the sanctuary, as they share their thoughts, hopes, and prayers.

You watch the sacred environment in silence like an acolyte, being inconspicuous. It feels as though the faithful's hushed prayers and ambitions are being held within the church's walls while the gravity of the situation hovers in the air.

With each passing moment, the church gradually empties, until only a handful of individuals remain, their presence a testament to their unwavering devotion. They seek solace in the quiet sanctuary, seeking solace and guidance in their intimate conversations with God.

Completing your tasks, you carefully return the books and bells to their rightful place in the sacristy, ensuring that everything is in order. Finally, you approach the flickering candles, their flames casting a gentle, warm glow. Using the candle snuffer, you extinguish each flame, one by one, the hushed hiss signaling the end of their radiant dance.

As the final candle fades, the sanctuary is enveloped in serene sight as sunlight shines through the stained glass, a sacred silence that invites reflection and contemplation. You take a moment to absorb the solemnity of the space, appreciating the profound connection between the earthly and the divine.

With a sense of fulfillment, you take a few moments to bask in the serene atmosphere that envelops the church. The hallowed stillness wraps around you like a comforting embrace, easing the weariness that lingers in your bones. As you stand amidst the flickering candlelight, a peacefulness settles within you.

Your gaze shifts to the votive stands, where rows of small candles await their gentle illumination. Retrieving a lighter from your pocket, you click it open, the spark igniting a flame that dances to life. The warm glow casts soft shadows on your face as you lean forward, carefully guiding the flickering flame to touch each wick.

The candles come alive one by one, their tiny flames flickering with a delicate radiance. The air is imbued with the scent of melting wax, a scent that carries both solemnity and hope. With each candle you ignite, a hopeful smile graces your lips, despite the lingering soreness and ache from the previous night's trials.

In this simple act of lighting the votive candles, you offer a prayer for solace, healing, and strength. Each flame becomes a beacon of hope, illuminating the sanctuary with its gentle glow. It is a symbol of the unwavering faith that persists even in the face of darkness and adversity.

As the candles burn steadily, their warm light intermingles with the ethereal ambiance of the church. The soft glow dances in harmony with the golden hues of the stained glass windows, creating a tapestry of tranquility and devotion.

With your task complete, you take a moment to appreciate the flickering glow of the candles, their collective radiance guiding the prayers and aspirations of those who seek solace in the church. The quiet beauty of the moment lingers in the air, infusing your spirit with a renewed sense of hope and determination.

The voice of your previous mentor, the Ancient One, reverberates through the air, and you startle, turning your head to see her standing right next to you. The surprise causes your eyes to widen, and a brief moment of panic floods your system. Nervously, you lick your lips and manage to utter, "Are you actually here or..."

"I thought I trained you well enough to know," she says, her voice carrying the familiar wisdom and authority.

You take a moment to steady yourself, recognizing the comforting presence of your mentor. She moves with a grace that seems to defy the laws of physics, gliding effortlessly in each step. Your gaze sweeps across the surroundings, and you realize that she has brought you both into the mirror dimension, where shattered glass reflects the ethereal landscape.

The significance of recent events is crushing upon you as you sigh and settle down on the steps leading to the altar. The Ancient One sits down next to you with dignity and care in her gaze. Your voice is worn out as you inquire, "Did something happen?"

"It's been a while since we last spoke. I wanted to check in, to see if all is well," she explains, her words carrying a genuine care and interest.

You roll your eyes, a mix of exasperation and vulnerability. Shaking your head, you watch as the shattered glass fragments shift and rearrange in response to the mirror dimension. "Many students in Kamar-Taj miss you," the Ancient One continues, her tone gentle. "Even Wong was wondering how you're doing."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you think of your fellow students back in Kamar-Taj. The memories of their camaraderie and shared experiences bring a sense of warmth to your heart. But as you shrug, a hint of uncertainty creeps in.

"I miss them too," you confess, your voice tinged with nostalgia. "They were like family to me, and I often find myself wondering how they're doing."

The Ancient One looks at you with understanding in her eyes. She senses the conflict within you and gently places a hand on your shoulder, offering reassurance.

"But you know, my dear, there is no right or wrong path in this journey," she says softly. "Sometimes, we must follow the whispers of our own hearts, even if it means deviating from what others may expect of us."

You nod, the uncertainty slowly giving way to a newfound clarity. The allure of the mystical realm is undeniable, but there is something special about the place where it all began—Clinton Church, St. Agnes, and the community that holds a piece of your soul.

"I think deep down, I long for the connection with the people," you admit, your voice filled with sincerity. "The opportunity to make a difference on a more personal level, right here in Hell's Kitchen. It's a calling I can't ignore."

The Ancient One smiles, acknowledging your revelation. She understands the power of community and the fulfillment that comes from touching lives directly. Clearing her throat, she broaches a different subject. "So... you've been aiding the masked vigilante of Hell's Kitchen?" Her words hang in the air, and your heartbeat quickens. Heat rises to your face, and you instinctively rub the back of your neck with your left hand, attempting to maintain a nonchalant demeanor. "Kind of. It just... sort of happened," you reply, the uncertainty lacing your voice.

"It seems you've taken a fondness for him. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen," the Ancient One observes, her words cutting through the air with perceptiveness. 

“That’s what they’re calling him?” You say as anxiety begins to coil within you, the yearning for tenderness and understanding intertwining with the fear of voicing it as the Ancient One hums as a response to your question. In a moment of vulnerability, you choose to shift the conversation, avoiding the subject that stirs a whirlwind of emotions within you.

"I did these things last night... stuff I was never able to do before, and... it terrifies me," you confess, your tone wistful. The Ancient One places a comforting hand on your shoulder, her touch conveying warmth and reassurance. "You were always able to do those things. It just took the right person to help you believe and realize that you could do them," she says, her voice carrying a profound sense of conviction.

At that moment, you find solace in her words, the weight of uncertainty lifting ever so slightly. The bond between mentor and student, forged through years of guidance and wisdom, continues to offer a beacon of support and understanding amidst the tumultuous journey you find yourself on.

ELENA CARDENA’S APARTMENT – EVENING

It had been a few hours since Mrs. Cardenas had called you, asking for help with her groceries. You couldn't refuse her, especially after the bond you had formed with her over time. To your surprise, Karen, the spirited woman from the office, had tagged along as well. There was something about her that intrigued you, and you felt a connection even in your brief encounters.

Now, as you stood in Mrs. Cardenas' apartment, the aftermath of destruction surrounded you. The once cozy living space had been turned into a scene of chaos. Broken furniture, shattered glass, and scattered belongings painted a picture of the violence that had unfolded. Yet, despite the devastation, Mrs. Cardenas remained resolute in her decision to stay.

You placed the vegetables in the fridge, doing your best to restore some semblance of order amidst the chaos. Meanwhile, Karen diligently worked to stock the pantry, her determination mirrored in her focused expression.

As you surveyed the disheveled apartment, a mix of concern and admiration filled your heart. Mrs. Cardenas' refusal to leave spoke volumes about her strength and loyalty, even in the face of danger. You couldn't help but feel a deep sense of respect for her.

Karen's concern for Mrs. Cardenas prompted her to switch to Spanish, seeking to understand the extent of her injuries. "¿Cómo está tu cabeza?" she asked gently. Mrs. Cardenas waved her hand dismissively, shrugging off the concern. "Estoy viva. Es suficiente," she replied, emphasizing her survival as the most important outcome. Then, she turned her attention to the practical matter at hand. "How much do I owe you two for the groceries?"

You exchanged a glance with Karen, both of you realizing that convincing Mrs. Cardenas to accept help wouldn't be an easy task. Speaking in Spanish, you reassured her, "No te preocupes. No queremos tu dinero." The sincerity in your voice was clear— you didn't want her to feel indebted or burdened by the gesture.

Mrs. Cardenas, however, remained resolute. She refused to accept what she perceived as charity. Sensing the impasse, Karen sought a compromise. Looking at you for support, she proposed, "Está bien. Puedes pagarme si quieres... ¿con información?"

Curiosity sparked in Mrs. Cardenas' eyes as she contemplated Karen's proposition. "¿Qué puedo decirte?" she asked, genuinely curious. Karen's response was laced with determination, "Espero que mucho."

You observed the interaction, recognizing the delicate balance between seeking answers and respecting Mrs. Cardenas' boundaries. Unsure of what to say, you gave a slight shrug, your eyes conveying support for Karen's request.

With Mrs. Cardenas settled on the plush brown couch, Karen continued their conversation in Spanish. "Estoy trabajando en un caso legal..." she began, her voice filled with determination.

As you closed the fridge door, making your way towards the living room, you overheard Mrs. Cardenas' reply in Spanish, her tone tinged with amusement, "Oh, sí, sí... con el abogado guapo."

Karen chuckled, her own smile lighting up the room. "Yes, um, Matt," she confirmed, causing your eyebrows to raise in both interest and surprise. It seemed there was more to Karen's connection with Matt than you had initially realized. However, Mrs. Cardenas quickly corrected Karen's assumption, shaking her head. "No, el Sr. Foggy."

Curiosity piqued, and you joined them in the living room, finding enjoyment in the lively conversation. Karen's eyes widened in playful disbelief. "¿Crees que Foggy es guapo?" she asked, genuinely curious about Mrs. Cardenas' perspective on the matter.

Mrs. Cardenas smiled, her expression warm and knowing. “I see the way he looks at you. Never is a man more good-looking than when he is in love,” she replied, her words carrying a hint of wisdom and affection. 

Karen's face flushed with embarrassment as she realized her unintentional blasphemy. "Oh, Christ," she swore instinctively before her eyes darted toward the image of Jesus hanging on the wall. She quickly corrected herself, realizing the irony of her slip-up. "Oh, uh, Lo siento," she apologized, her voice filled with genuine remorse.

Feeling the need to change the subject, Karen swiftly moved on, resuming her conversation in Spanish. "Um, moving on..." she said, attempting to regain her composure. "I'm trying to make a connection… between a construction company and the repairman that did this to your apartment."

Mrs. Cardenas listened attentively, her eyes fixed on Karen as she absorbed the information. After a moment of contemplation, she responded, "¿Por qué no preguntas al Sr. Tully? Él los envió." Karen's smile turned sheepish as she admitted, "No puedo encontrarlo. Sus abogados dicen que está de vacaciones."

Elena gasped in disbelief, her frustration evident in her voice. "I live like this and that fat shit is lying on a beach?" The realization of her choice of words struck her, and she immediately glanced at the figure of Christ, seeking forgiveness. "Excuse me," she murmured apologetically, acknowledging her unintentional outburst in the presence of the sacred image.

As you gave Elena's shoulder a comforting touch, you conveyed your empathy and solidarity. Speaking in Spanish, you reassured her, "Creo que... es bastante apropiado en este caso, ¿verdad?" Your words offered understanding and a shared frustration towards the situation.

Karen nodded in agreement with your sentiment, her eyes focused on Mrs. Cardenas. She continued the conversation, gesturing toward Elena, "Do you have papers from the repairs? Receipts? Anything you had to…" Karen's voice trailed off as Mrs. Cardenas interjected, "Sign? No, I'm sorry. I just called Mr. Tully, and he sent them over.”

Curiosity piqued, and Karen pressed further, "Can you tell me what they looked like?" There was a growing sense that something more than a simple legal case was at play, and you couldn't help but share the same suspicion. The absence of proper documentation and the involvement of Mr. Tully raised doubts about the true nature of the repairs.

“Yes. One was bald. And the other had a big tattoo on his arm.” Mrs. Cardenas said as Karen's pen danced across the pages of her notepad, capturing the crucial information provided by Mrs. Cardenas. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously jotted down the descriptions. The urgency in her voice was palpable as she sought to uncover the truth.

With a curious tilt of her head, Karen inquired, "Of what?" The question hung in the air, and you leaned in closer, eager to hear Mrs. Cardenas' response.

Elena's face contorted with a mixture of disgust and relief as she recalled the tattoo. "Not a picture. It was like a… pattern. Ugly. Went up to his neck. Thank God he's no son of mine," she explained, her voice tinged with gratitude that such an unsightly pattern did not adorn her own child.

Karen's gentle touch on Elena's hand conveyed a sense of reassurance, providing a moment of solace amidst the chaos. As Karen rose from her seat, expressing gratitude to Elena, you mirrored her actions, gathering your belongings. However, Elena's voice quivered with genuine concern, casting a shadow over the room.

Karen's determined gaze met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. In unison, you both stood, preparing to leave. Yet, Elena's anxious words halted your movements, injecting a sense of unease into the air. "All of this makes me worry," she admitted, her voice tinged with fear and apprehension.

Karen swiftly returned to her seat beside Mrs. Cardenas, her eyes filled with determination. She attempted to assuage Elena's worries, her words resolute. "No. No. No. No, Elena. Ellos... ellos son los que deberían preocuparse. Si puedo encontrar una conexión... entre los hombres que hicieron esto y la compañía..." Karen's code-switching faltered, unable to find the perfect translation, "then we will have their dicks in a vice."

The shocking declaration hung in the air, causing Elena and Karen to gasp simultaneously. Yet, the unexpected turn of phrase elicited a smile from you, recognizing the humor in the situation. Mrs. Cardenas, taken aback, could only respond with a simple "Oh."

With the tension in the air reaching its peak, you bid Mrs. Cardenas a heartfelt farewell and closed the door behind you. Sensing that there was more at stake than just Elena's legal case, you leaned in closer to Karen, your voice barely above a whisper, "You wanna tell me what's going on? 'Cause I'm getting the feeling there's more to this than Elena's legal case."

Before Karen could respond, your attention was abruptly drawn to a figure approaching from across the street. Exchanging a knowing glance with Karen, you both instinctively began crossing the street in an attempt to evade the looming threat. As you moved, you noticed Karen reaching into her purse, her hand grasping for her mace. But in a sudden turn of events, she was forcefully grabbed by another man and thrown against the metal barriers.

Reacting swiftly, you rushed to Karen's aid, only to find yourself caught from behind by the tall bald man who had been trailing you. Karen's struggles echoed in your ears, igniting a fire within you to fight back. However, your mouth was covered by the other man's hand, stifling any cry for help. His words dripped with menace as he taunted, "She gonna spray you."

Meanwhile, the man holding Karen continued his threats, suggesting he would render her defenseless and punish her for prying where she shouldn't. Determination burned in your veins, prompting you to muster the strength to break free from your captor's grasp. You swiftly retaliated, delivering a knee strike to your assailant and spinning around to unleash a powerful swing at the man restraining Karen, ultimately managing to kick him to the ground.

Just as the man who had held you regained his balance, ready to strike you down, Karen's urgent voice pierced through the chaos. She alerted you to a lurking threat behind you, but before any harm could befall you, a softball flew through the air, connecting with the assailant's head and causing him to crumple to the ground. Both men groaned in pain, subdued for the moment.

Your eyes followed the trajectory of the unexpected projectile, landing on Foggy, who stood before you with a metal bat in hand. Karen's surprise was palpable as she exclaimed, "Foggy? Oh, my God."

Breathing heavily, you managed to compose yourself enough to question Foggy, your voice strained, "Wait... what are you doing here?"

Foggy retorted, his tone laced with surprise and curiosity, "What are you doing here?" Karen chimed in, echoing your confusion, "What are you doing here?" Foggy echoed Karen's question, causing her to respond in exasperation, "Are you following me?"

Still clutching the bat, Foggy calmly replied, "Yeah." Karen's voice rose in pitch as she asked, "Why?"

Foggy offered his reasoning, "Because you were acting weird. I was worried about you."

Meanwhile, the disoriented assailant attempted to rise, only to be met with a spray of pepper spray from Karen. She shot Foggy a meaningful look, asserting, "I can take care of myself."

Sensing the urgency of the situation, Foggy gestured for both of you to move to a safer location, urging, "Let's discuss that away from the maniacs, okay? Come on!"

Karen curses under her breath as she snatches her purse and darts away from the imminent danger. Foggy, bat in hand, prepares to strike at the dazed criminal, but before he can make a move, you execute a flawless spinning hook kick, landing with precision and force, effectively ending the confrontation.

With the immediate threat neutralized, the three of you waste no time and hurriedly make your escape from the area, ensuring you put a safe distance between yourselves and the assailants. As the adrenaline starts to subside, Foggy's astonishment breaks through, and he exclaims, "How the hell did you just do that?!"

You offer a weary smile, knowing that the night is far from over. It's going to be a long and eventful night ahead.

THE DAILY BUGLE, BEN URICH’S OFFICE – EVENING

As soon as possible, you lied to Foggy and Karen about the self-defense training you had to do for the residents of the domestic violence shelter in the worst-case situation. You reach the Daily Bugle and proceed to Ben's workplace.

Ben, his anger subsiding, strides toward the door of his office, swinging it open to allow you, Karen, and Foggy to enter. His tone is stern as he chastises Karen, "What part of 'Don't tell anyone about this' didn't you understand?" Sympathy fills your gaze as you observe Karen, understanding the weight of the situation. Ben then turns his puzzled gaze to you, inquiring, "And how the hell did you get caught up in this?"

You shrug, fully aware that trying to dissuade you is futile. "There's no point in trying to convince me out of this, Ben. You and I both know that."

He mutters about your stubbornness, likening it to Doris, and shakes his head. Karen interjects, determined to make her point, "She and Foggy are not just anyone... alright? He's a kick-ass attorney, and sooner or later we're gonna need one of those. And she and Foggy just plain kicks ass."

Foggy flashes a smile and shrugs nonchalantly, "When the need arises."

Ben gestures towards you, acknowledging his trust in your character. Your lips quirk slightly to the side, and Karen affirms, "You can also trust him, Ben. He's one of the good ones." Foggy beams at the compliment.

"Show them the board," Ben sighs, prompting Karen to offer a grateful smile before moving towards the corkboard. "Alright, Ben has everything laid out... all of the possible connections... starting at the bottom... and moving up." Karen gestures, revealing the array of possible connections and shreds of evidence.

Foggy's eyes catch sight of the card at the top and he inquires, "The king of diamonds?"

"The man at the top," Ben confirms. Foggy continues his line of questioning, "Any idea who he is?"

"No. But I think he might have been the one behind Union Allied," Karen sighs, her thoughts returning to the events of the past.

Ben shifts his attention to the table and retrieves another card, remarking, "There's another player on the field. Man in black."

Foggy glances at Karen and queries, "You think he's working for the king?" Karen shakes her head, resolute in her belief, "No. No, he never would have helped me expose Union Allied if he were."

Stepping forward, Ben places a pin on the Jack of Hearts card, symbolizing the enigmatic man in black, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. "If that's the case... they're working against each other. So the question is... which one trumps the other?"

As you absorb the information laid out before you, a newfound determination takes hold. The pieces of the puzzle are gradually coming together, revealing a complex web of corruption and deception. The man at the top, the one who may be responsible for the atrocities committed by Union Allied and the dire state of Hell's Kitchen, has now become your focus.

You can't help but feel a sense of responsibility, knowing that the lives of innocent people like Mrs. Cardenas are being shattered by the machinations of this unknown kingpin. The image of the Man in Black, the vigilante protector of Hell's Kitchen, flashes in your mind. While his methods may be unorthodox, his actions have shown a dedication to justice and exposing the truth.

With a resolute nod, you turn your gaze to the corkboard, your eyes scanning the connections, searching for any clues that will lead you closer to your goal. The battle has only just begun, but you are prepared to fight, to become a force that cannot be ignored.

In the shadows of Hell's Kitchen, a new alliance has formed, united by a common purpose. The city's darkness will be challenged, and the man at the top will soon learn that even the mightiest of kings can be dethroned.

THE NEXT DAY…

NELSON & MURDOCK ATTORNEY’S AT LAW OFFICE – MORNING

After a much-needed nap and replenishing your energy with a few cups of your favorite drink from the nearby coffee shop, you find yourself in Karen and Foggy's office, engaged in a discussion about whether or not to inform Matt about your activities.

Karen opens the door, leading the way from the conference room into the small waiting area. She places the folder on her desk, and you and Foggy follow suit. Foggy, with a mouthful of a cream cheese bagel, manages to chime in, "That we're awesome?"

Karen scoffs at his response, while you affectionately place your hand on Foggy's elbow, offering a reassuring touch, and say, "That we're being stupid and putting ourselves in danger."

Foggy, now wearing a sad frown, comments, "If we're gonna be Nancy Drew-ing together, I think a certain level of honesty is required."

Karen looks at him in disbelief, "What? You don't like my coffee?" Foggy takes a bite of his bagel and casually admits, "I hate it." Your hand swiftly smacks his arm in disapproval, accompanied by a gentle scolding, "Foggy!"

He defends himself with a playful grin, "I appreciate the effort, but the technique, or lack thereof..." Karen interrupts him, exclaiming, "My God, you are such a dick."

Foggy responds, undeterred, "On occasion, some dickery may leak out, but doesn't mean I'm wrong." As you and Karen grab her hot cup of coffee, making your way to the small reception desk, she hums thoughtfully, "Well, it means somethin'."

Foggy trails behind as the three of you lean on Karen's desk, continuing the conversation. Foggy ponders aloud, "Okay, let's say we keep Matt in the dark. How long do you think..." The sound of the door opening abruptly interrupts the discussion, causing all three of you to freeze. Your eyes widen in anticipation before squeezing shut, bracing yourselves for the realization that Matt most likely overheard your conversation from the bottom of the staircase.

In a desperate attempt to divert Matt's attention, Foggy quickly offers a lighthearted excuse, "I should grow my hair? Matt, what's your take on that? Mullet? Full pony?"

Karen, trying to hide her surprise, questions Matt, "Holy shit. Did you fall down again?" Her gaze lands on the large gash adorning Matt's forehead, causing your body to tense up at the sight. You instinctively step forward, concerned, and ask, "Do you need an ice pack?" Matt waves off your offer, placing his briefcase on the floor and his cane against the wall. "Oh, it's nothing," he assures, his voice calm. "Don't tell me what?"

Foggy, frustrated by the situation, lets out a curse while Karen, unable to believe her ears, queries, "You heard that?" Matt approaches the three of you, his hands finding their place in his pockets. Foggy, attempting to clarify his earlier statement, comments, "Guy's like a bat. Not blind like a... I mean, you know, with the hearing."

You couldn't help but purse your lips, trying to suppress a laugh, as Matt responded, "Bats aren't blind, Foggy."

"They're not?" Foggy questioned with a hint of surprise in his voice. Matt shook his head and clarified, "It's a myth."

Foggy, eager to steer the conversation away from bats and blindness, confidently declared, "So, we're good." He attempted to redirect Matt's attention, but he tilts his head toward you and softly called your name. In response, you mustered a composed reply, "Hmm, yes?"

Matt, his voice filled with charm and enchantment, pressed further, "What don't the three of you want me to know?" Your gaze shifted to Foggy and Karen, both shaking their heads, signaling their reluctance to divulge the information. With a sigh, you bit the inside of your cheek, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "You know what... this sounds like a conversation between the three of you... so I'm just gonna..."

Karen couldn't contain the secret any longer and blurted out, "We're investigating Union Allied." Your frustration mounted, and you closed your eyes briefly, bracing yourself for the repercussions. Meanwhile, Foggy glanced up at the ceiling, his expression conveying a mix of exasperation and resignation, as he muttered, "Remind me to keep you off the witness stand."

Matt's tone turned serious, a familiar protective stance that you quickly recognized, “You can't be doing that.” Karen, refusing to back down, raised her voice and challenged, "Why not?"

Matt explained firmly, "For starters, you signed legal papers and took money to leave it alone."

Nervously, Karen laughed and attempted to downplay the situation, "No, I signed papers saying that I wouldn't go public and I won't."

Foggy couldn't help but blurt out, "We have someone lined up for that part." You shot him a wide-eyed, exasperated glance, mixed with a hint of annoyance, and mumbled under your breath, "You two would not do well in espionage."

Confused, Matt turned to Foggy and asked, "What part?"

Foggy looked to Karen for assistance, and she quickly clarified, "Breaking the story that, uh... Look, whoever is behind Union Allied, or whatever they call themselves now, they are trying to strong-arm people like Elena so that they can sweep their homes away from them and build condos no one can afford."

Matt's scolding tone filled the room, leaving a weight of concern in the air. "And what do you think's gonna happen when these 'whoevers' find out what it is you're up to?" he questioned, his voice laced with worry.

Foggy, trying to diffuse the tension, assured Matt, "We already took care of it." Your frustration reached its peak, and your mouth hung open in a silent scream. Visibly overwhelmed, you rubbed a hand over your face, bracing yourself for the incoming storm of Matt's anger.

Matt's concern grew as he probed further, asking, "Took care of what?"

You looked to Karen, who sheepishly began to explain, "The, uh, guys who busted up Elena's apartment. They, uh, came after the two of us when we were leaving her place last night."

Frustration caused Matt to lick his lips as he shifted his stance, his tone stern as he asked, "Are you two okay?"

"Yes. Foggy was following us, well, me," Karen responded, not doing any favors to alleviate Matt's concerns. His frustration mounting, Matt sighed and pressed further, "Mmm-hmm. Why? Why were you following her?"

Foggy pointed an accusing finger, asserting, "She was acting funny."

Karen swiftly fired back, "No, there was no funny."

You couldn't help but interject, "Even I could tell there was a little funny."

Matt huffed in annoyance, his patience wearing thin. "This is what I'm talking about. There are things out there. You can't be doing this. You're gonna get yourselves hurt."

Karen's voice turned honest and vulnerable as she expressed her determination, "No, I have already been hurt by those bastards. You know, I don't care what I signed or how much money they paid me to forget. I don't. And I'm not just going to stick my head in the sand and let it happen to somebody else because I am scared. Which I am... a lot." Her words hung in the air, a testament to her courage in the face of fear.

Foggy's words carried a hint of frustration as he defended Karen, "And if you could see her face, you'd know she means it." The room fell into a brief pause, the weight of Karen's sincerity hanging in the air. Matt, attuned to the subtle cues, acknowledged, "Yeah, I kind of got that."

A moment of silence passed between the four of you before Matt cleared his throat and made his way to his office. His hands lightly grazed the wall and door as he stepped inside, his actions revealing a touch of vulnerability. "Right, who else is involved? Who's helping you break whatever it is you think you're gonna find out?" he inquired, seeking more information.

"Ben Urich, from the Bulletin," Karen answered, prompting Matt to recall, "The one who wrote the Union Allied piece?" Karen nodded, and Foggy chimed in, "Karen's been working with him. He seems like a good guy."

Matt's skepticism rang through his words, laden with weight. "Yeah, everybody does, until they aren't," he replied, caution etched in his voice.

"No, I trust Ben as much as I do her, or Foggy, Matt," Karen affirmed, her unwavering trust evident. You added your reassurance, "Ben's a good guy, Matt. I've known him and his wife for a while now. They aren’t bad people.”

Karen interjected with determination, "I know what I'm doing. I am not some kid..."

Matt let out a weary sigh, his voice filled with concern, "Then don't act like one. The three of you. I know you're just trying to do the right thing here, but we have to be smart about this."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, absorbing Matt's words. Foggy seized the opportunity and asked hopefully, "We?"

With a firm tone, Matt declared, "First rule, no more skulking around, asking to get hurt. If we're going to do this, it's going to be on our turf. The legal system." Karen couldn't help but mumble, "That's not nearly as heroic as you might think."

Matt's voice rose slightly as he emphasized his point, "I don't want anyone to be a hero, Karen. I want you to be safe. And I want to protect this firm and everything we're trying to build here. We know the law. We'll use it to our advantage." There was a brief pause before Matt asked, "Agreed?"

Foggy's question hung in the air, tinged with a sense of resignation, "Do we have a choice?" Matt's reply was laden with a touch of inevitability, "Not so much."

Karen's voice carried a hint of curiosity as she inquired, "Yeah, okay. So, what's the second rule?" Matt's response was soft and contemplative, "I don't know, I'm making this up as I go along."

A FEW HOURS LATER…

NELSON & MURDOCK ATTORNEY’S AT LAW OFFICE – NIGHT

You found yourself seated next to Matt, engrossed in a sea of case files, articles, and documents spread across the table. Every piece of information was scrutinized, your eyes scanning for any potential lead, but the trail seemed to fade into obscurity, leaving you grasping at empty shadows.

Fatigue weighed heavy on your shoulders as you rubbed your tired eyes, the strain from the laptop's blue light taking its toll. Across from you, Foggy stretched his limbs, voicing his frustration, "This is pointless, Matt. We should be out on the streets, cracking names and taking skulls."

Suppressing a reaction to Foggy's oblivious remark, you let out a weary sigh and continued rubbing your eyes, seeking a momentary respite from the endless screen time. Karen, sipping her coffee, couldn't help but chuckle at Foggy's statement, "I think you have that backwards."

You slouched in your chair, feeling the weight of exhaustion and anxiety building up over the past few days. Unconsciously, your left leg bounced up and down, a physical manifestation of the stress you were experiencing.

Foggy, determined in his own way, replied with a hint of bravado, "Not the way I do it." Matt couldn't help but laugh, a touch of amusement coloring his voice, "Five minutes out there, and you'd end up in intensive care."

Matt had a single earbud tucked into his ear, immersed in his own private world of sound, while you discreetly observed his hands delicately tracing the braille on the braille display. His fingers moved with such grace and precision, effortlessly gliding across the textured surface. You couldn't help but be captivated by his dexterity.

Amidst the conversation, Foggy directed his attention to Matt, proudly stating, "Hey, I handled myself pretty damn skippy against baldy and his tattooed gorilla. Tell him, K."

Karen nodded in agreement, then looked at you with a puzzled expression. "You definitely handed their asses. Also, what? I'm... What, I'm 'K' now?"

Foggy chimed in, nonchalantly brushing it off, "Trying something new." Meanwhile, you shook your head, attempting to downplay the situation. "It's nothing, guys..."

Foggy, always observant, called you out, "You did a whole ass spin kick and completely knocked out the guy. Remind me to never get you angry."

Blushing, you continued to shake your head, trying to deflect the attention. "It was probably just all the adrenaline," you stammered, but your voice faltered as Matt placed a comforting hand on your knee, causing your movements to freeze. He sensed the change in your breathing, his perceptive nature kicking in. Matt asked with genuine curiosity, "Where'd you learn to do a kick like that?"

To others, it might have seemed like an innocent inquiry, a desire to get to know you better. But you knew that answering truthfully could raise suspicions. Matt's heightened senses would detect any deception. So, you chose a half-truth, carefully crafting your response, "Learned it when I was young from an old friend. Taught me how to protect myself, y'know, being a woman and all that.”

Matt's hand gently squeezed your knee before he returned it to the braille display, his touch leaving a lingering warmth. The atmosphere in the room was charged with anticipation as he brought up an intriguing lead.

"Wait, this is interesting. Confederated Global Investments," Matt announced, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Foggy chimed in, trying to recall the company. "The one that hired us to defend that bowling alley nut?"

Matt nodded in affirmation. Turning to Karen, he asked, "Do you have a list of the subsidiaries you were able to track down through their check?"

Karen, already prepared, responded while swiftly typing on her laptop, "Uh, yeah, yeah, I think so." The sound of keys clacking filled the room until the laptop emitted a beep, signaling Karen's success. She smiled and confirmed, "Yeah, yeah, I got it."

Matt proceeded to press a few buttons on his device before inquiring, "Can you tell me if Westmeyer-Holt Contracting is on the list?"

Karen checked her findings and replied, "Um... Yeah. Yeah, it is." Her smile widened, pleased with the discovery.

Matt's expression turned serious as he shared his findings, "There are half a dozen complaints against them for doing the same thing they did at Elena's tenement."

Foggy leaned on the desk, crossing his forearms, his mind racing with the implications. "Confed Global's trying to force renters out of tenements?"

Karen quickly pointed out another lead, saying, "What about Elena's landlord? That Tully guy? I mean, he's gotta know something about this."

Foggy shrugged and got up from his seat, determined to track down Tully. "I'll see if I can track him down."

Without missing a beat, Matt interjected, "Use the phone."

Foggy's face fell into a pout as he begrudgingly sat back down. "Oh, come on!"

Matt's tone was firm as he established a new rule, "I'm making that rule number two."

Foggy couldn't resist a retort, "Your rules suck. I want that on record."

Matt grinned at his best friend's playful complaint. "Fine, noted."

Karen's sudden exclamation grabbed everyone's attention, causing a momentary pause in the conversation. Matt's concerned gaze shifted towards her, prompting his inquiry, "What do you got?"

Stumbling over her words in her excitement, Karen shared the breaking news, "Uh, no, it's not, um... The New York Bulletin online just reported that that cop that got shot, he just regained consciousness."

The mention of the detective's recovery piqued your curiosity, and you carefully asked, "Detective Blake?"

Karen confirmed, her voice filled with a mix of relief and anticipation, "Yeah." Meanwhile, Foggy couldn't resist making a remark, "Guy's a real dick. Still, he didn't deserve a bullet from that masked douchebag."

In a reflexive defense of the vigilante, you interjected, "Okay, Foggy, nobody knows what actually happened out there."

Matt, removing his earbud to fully engage in the conversation, added his thoughts, "Detective Blake might." His statement carried a weight of curiosity and a desire for the truth.

Meeting Matt's gaze, you could sense the depth of his interest. Foggy chimed in, acknowledging the potential significance, "Be interested in what he has to say."

Matt responded with a deep conviction, his voice carrying a hint of intensity, "Yeah, so would I." The pursuit of truth and justice burned within him, igniting a determination to uncover the whole story.

Karen and Foggy decided to head home, and you remained behind, assisting Matt in packing up the remaining items. The urgency in his movements indicated his eagerness to gather information from Detective Blake before any unfortunate developments could occur.

Clearing your throat, you offered a helping hand, "Uh, I can fix up the rest of this and lock up. Karen gave me a key. You can go ahead, Matt. You definitely need some rest if you want that wound on your temple to heal."

Matt flashed you a grateful smile, his gratitude evident in his voice, "Thanks. I appreciate it. You sure you don't want me to hail you a cab back to the church?"

Shaking your head, you reassured him, "Nope. I'll be fine."

"Alright, well, stay safe. Text me when you get home," Matt advised, his concern evident. You stumbled over your words, realizing the absence of exchanging phone numbers, "I don't... you don't have my number."

Quick to remedy the situation, Matt handed you his phone with a charming smile, "I think it's about time I did."

Frozen for a moment, you slowly reached for his phone and typed in your contact information. Handing it back to Matt, you nervously licked your lips, feeling a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. "Uh, you should get home so you can heal up."

Nodding appreciatively, Matt replied, "See you tomorrow."

You remained silent, watching as Matt departed through the front door, his cane in one hand and his briefcase in the other. A soft whisper, barely audible, escaped your lips, fogging the glass ever so slightly, "Stay safe out there, Matt."

A FEW DAYS LATER…

SAINT AGNES ORPHANAGE – MORNING

“'You get what you deserve.' It's an old saying. One that survived the years, because it's true. For the most part. But not for everyone. Some get more than they deserve. Because they believe they aren't like everyone else. That the rules, the ones people like me and you, the people that work and struggle to live our lives, just live, don't apply to them. That they can do anything and live happily ever after, while the rest of us suffer. They do this from the shadows. Shadows that we cast. With our indifference. With a pervasive lack of interest in anything that doesn't directly affect us, we, in the here and now. Or maybe it's just the shadow of weariness. Of how tired we are, struggling to claw our way back to a middle class that no longer exist, because of those who take more than they deserve. And they keep taking, until all that's left for the rest of us is a memory of how it used to be before the corporations and the bottom line decided we didn't matter anymore. But we do. You and I, the people of this city… we still matter. There's someone in Hell's Kitchen that doesn't share this belief. He's been among us for quite some time. You've never heard his name. You've never seen his face. He's stayed in the shadows. Because men like him, men that want to control our city, our lives, fear the light and what it reveals. This man must no longer be allowed to operate in the darkness. If he has nothing to hide, let him step forward."

– Ben Urich

As you set the wooden spoon down, your attention shifts towards the television screen, momentarily forgetting about the breakfast you were preparing for the orphaned children of St. Agnes. Grabbing a towel, you wipe your hands, the world around you fading as you reach for the remote and turn up the volume. The headline flashes on the screen, displaying Wilson Fisk's name as he begins to speak.

"I'm not very good at this, out, being in public," Fisk's voice fills the room, captivating your attention. "But I felt the need to speak up for this city that I love with all my heart. No one should have to live in fear. In fear of madmen... who have no regard for who they injure."

You shake your head in disbelief and scoff at his words, unable to contain your growing anger. Fisk's voice continues, his rhetoric calculated and persuasive. "In fear of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, who has inflicted untold pain and suffering. This masked terrorist and psychopaths of his kind, we must show them we will not bow down to their campaign of coercion and intimidation. We must stand up to them."

Throwing the towel in your hands onto the nearby table, frustration surges through you as Fisk's speech continues. "As this man, my dearest friend, Leland Owlsley, a pillar in the financial community, stood up when he was recently assaulted. But this assault was for no other reason than to send me a message. A message warning me to stop. To give up my dream that I have for this city. A dream of a better place. A place for its citizens to feel safe. To feel pride."

Fisk's words echo in your ears, his manipulative tone making your anger boil. "I tried to do this quietly, not wanting to draw attention. The last thing I wanted was for anyone close to me to become a target from those who do not share my dream. For those who will have this city stay exactly as it is, mired in poverty and crime."

He pauses, building anticipation, before resuming his speech. "But I know now it was foolish to make that decision. That I can no longer do it alone. That I cannot keep living in the shadows... afraid of the light. None of us can. None of us should be forced to. We must do this together. We must resist those who would have us live in fear. My name... is Wilson Fisk. And together, we can make this city a better place."

As the anger inside you intensifies, it transforms into something primal and unstoppable. It becomes an all-encompassing fury, incomprehensible and overwhelming. It is an anger that rejects solace and turns away from faith, a rage so potent that it seems to connect with the very fabric of the universe. It becomes a wrath, directed both towards God and as a reflection of the wrath of God.

End Notes:

I’M SUCH A TEASE I KNOW IM SORRY BUT SOONNNN I SWEAR SOON WE WILL HAVE THE BIG REVEAL!! JUST NOT YET HEHEH >:D

I sat down yesterday, wrote this chapter, finished it today and edited it. :D

Did I write this properly?? Idk half the time I feel like I black out as I write each chapter lmao

Thankie for reading! Okay off I go to rewatch the next few painful episodes T^T

Grace :>

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