#patrem

[jameslmartello]

Postulavi Patrem Meum - I Have Asked My Father #gregorianchant

[abba-enthusiast]

I have my Latin Stilübungen exam tomorrow and the pressure I am creating for myself for absolutely no reason? immensus est

[haemey]

Introducing my hella ambitious fanfic project: Credo

Screw it. I was going to wait with posting and uploading until I got further along, but nah, I'm way too impatient. And with the Ao3 servers back up earlier than expected after maintenance, what better time than the present?

Credo will be a series of Good Omens fanfics for which I treat the Nicean-Constantinopolitan Creed (aka Credo, Latin for "I believe," variations whereof are an indispensable part of many Christian liturgies) as a series of writing prompts. Most of the fics therein will be short oneshots, with many coming in under 1k words. At least one will be a long, multi-chapter fic (which I will only start uploading once I know I can finish it). For some of them, I will follow the original line from the Credo rather closely, others will be rather... abstract.

There will be silliness and fluff, there will be hurt and angst. There will be both comedy and tragedy. Everything will be sfw, most will be G or T rated. If there is an M rating, it will be because of really dark themes and high pain levels.

The fics will come out as I write them, so they won't be in order. I will arrange them correctly within the series, though. They can be read in any order though, since they will all work as standalones, even though, in my mind at least, they're all set in the same universe and might sometimes give additional context to one another.

Some will be plotty, others will just be character studies or theme explorations.

In other words, there will be something for everyone!

We'll begin with the first two, one for each of our Ineffables:

Credo in unum Deum, patrem omnipotentem (I believe in the one God, the Almighty Father), 711 words, G rated:

An exploration of Aziraphale's relationship with God and Heaven after Season 2. No plot, no set timeline, just thoughts and doubts.

Factorem Coeli et Terrae (The Maker of Heaven and Earth), 569 words, G rated:

Crowley reflecting on Creation. Just that.

I hope you give these a try, come along for the journey, and if you do, please tell me what you think!

Art by me :)

Edit: Ooooh, forgot to tag @goodomensafterdark :D

[thefactsofthematter]

hello newsies tumblr! i’m back to post a scene i found in a random wip folder, from a fic that will probably never exist in full lol

please enjoy some sad canon era javid <3

-

"...and I know we don't pray the same way, you and I, but your folks said you might not mind it if I sat with you and did this. Only one God, ain't there, so I figures we can ask Him for all the help we can get, every which way. Ain’t no harm in extra prayers."

That's Jack's voice.

David is awake, sort of, but too tired to open his eyes. His body is itchy, but he's too tired to scratch himself. His throat burns, so he doesn't dare try and speak.

He just lays there.

"This was my Ma's." He's placing something in David's hand. A string of beads, it feels like. "I should take the time to sit and pray it more often. She carried it everywhere. Only thing I've got left of her, really."

He wraps the beads around David's palm.

"You start at the bottom, see," Jack continues, as if he knows David's listening, "and you say a prayer for every bead. And you gotta have an intention, right— mine for today is that I'm asking God to get you better, 'cause you're starting to scare everyone, Dave, what with how you just keep getting sicker and the fever won't break. We can't go losing you anytime soon, so you've gotta get yourself better as soon as you can."

He's very sick, David realizes. That's why he can't move.

He's a bit scared.

But it's hard to stay scared for long with Jack Kelly holding your hand, so he starts to feel calm again.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," Jack murmurs.

David hadn’t realized Jack knew Latin. Wonders where he learned it, since he would've left school before the grades they started teaching it. He only went to school until he was eight— he told David that.

"Credo in Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae..."

Jack continues on in words that David's tired brain can't make sense of, but it's rhythmic and soothing. There's a cadence to it like Jack doesn't actually know what he's saying, has just memorized the sounds, probably at church— it's like how David felt about some Hebrew prayers when he was little, just echoing back what he heard others speak.

From bead to bead, Jack mumbles quiet prayers, and David finds himself, somewhere in his fever-addled brain, feeling quite charmed and grateful that Jack would show him this private, vulnerable side of himself. His faith is deeply personal to him, David knows— it's there in the way he never puts on his arrogant show towards the nuns, the way he's quick to take his cap off even on the steps of the church, the way he scrubs the littlest newsies into their very best shape on Saturday nights and drags them to mass on Sunday mornings. David loves to watch him in those short moments before he eats his dinner each day, lips moving silently as he gives thanks.

It's a softer side of Jack Kelly that often stays well-hidden, but makes itself very endearing when it peeks through.

"I think I might be praying for a miracle," Jack sighs, after a long time of quiet whispering, counting along the beads. His voice is a bit shaky now. "But they happens, you know. They said so in the good book. I know it's the very same God lookin' after you and I, and I know He loves you and won't take you away from us here on Earth, not just yet. Ain't your time."

And he takes the beads from David's palm, replacing them with his own hand. He intertwines their fingers and squeezes.

David tries to squeeze back. It's weak, pitiful, but enough for Jack to gasp.

"I knew it," he whispers. "Oh, I knew it, I knew it, Dave. You're there, ain't you? You're listening."

And David wishes he could give him anything more, but he can feel sleep creeping up on him again, so he lets it come. Not much else he can do, but it's nice to hear some hope in Jack's voice.

[sweetfire01]

Honora Patrem tum [pt.3]

[Pt.2]

1 year since the first Simmy fic! Thanks to all 200 followers who encouraged me to continue this blog and thanks to all those who left a comment or a like to my works! ❤

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

Your life here wasn't getting better. Absolutely not. But at least you were making progress with your body. Today, for the first time, you were able to stand. Alone. Without Simmy's help. Sure, you'd only managed to do it for a couple of seconds before falling back on your back onto the mat, but you'd managed it. It was a goal you had both been trying to reach for the past few days. At first you were too scared to take your first steps, you knew how unstable you were and you had fallen on your face just from standing up too quickly once. Luckily you were on the soft carpet the angel had placed for this situation, but your face confirmed that you could still feel the floor underneath. Sure, it didn't hurt that much, just a light bump, but the shock of learning that your balance and strength were still so compromised was enough to make you sob into Simmy's arm.

From that moment on you clung with all the strength you had to every object you could hold on to: a piece of furniture, the bars of the baby box, a daddy's hand. You didn't know if you felt more babyish "walking" like this or crawling as usual. You were playing looking at your stuffies while sitting in the baby playpen. The angel was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Weaning was going well, you had a few more days of vomiting, but now your tummy was quite used to solid food (as much as soups and soft food might be considered solid). You continued to receive your bottles, 3 times a day after each meal, on his lap, skin to skin. Luckily, the goodness of the milk was enough to let you ignore this detail. You appreciated how it became tastier and sweeter as the drug wore off. Maybe even too sweet. The scent of boiling carrots and potatoes wafted from the kitchen. You recognized that he was a good cook. Part of you wondered what you would eat if other people were your daddies. You knew the cooking of the demon brothers, it wasn't bad if you kept Beel away from the kitchen. Maybe it wouldn't have been bad with Diavolo either, he would have left all the meals to Barbatos. You wonder if the prince was able to cook, but probably he won't be able to prepare even a bottle for you. Just like Solomon. The stuffed rabbit in your hand told you that you were lucky you weren't with Solomon and you nodded at him. You continued to talk to him for a little more, remembering when he cooked some simple popcorn and almost burned down Purgatory Hall, when you suddently recovered to your sense and threw it against the bars of the stall. You shouldn't play with that stupid rabbit and above all you shouldn't be grateful to be here. Simeon had kidnapped you! In a fit of childish rage, you grabbed the rabbit again, grabbed onto the chest-high bars, stood up, and threw it across the room. Soon the other stuffies followed suit, being thrown out of the baby box one after the other. They didn't go very far, you didn't have all that strength yet, but you saw them land with a light thud at least a meter away. However, it is a good progress compared to the first days. And when all the stuffies in the box were gone, you felt so much satisfaction that you started throwing the other toys. A teething ring, a rattle, some wooden blocks that even made more noise than stuffies and reached further. You crawled around grabbing any toys that came to hand. You spotted a small xylophone and dragged it, ready to be thrown. It was a little heavier than the others, so it took more effort: you could try to throw it with both hands while sitting, but you probably wouldn't be able to use enough force to send it over the bars. You held onto the box tightly with one hand, standing up, but the other couldn't lift the small musical instrument on its own.

How could you throw this thing? Grabbing it from one end made it too heavy, you could try from the center but your hand was too small to do it properly. You really had to use all the strength you had (and had left). With a huge effort, still holding onto the bars with one hand, you tried again to lift it from one of the legs to the end. And you actually managed to lift the xylophone a little, get it to your chest...before it started to slip from your grip. It wasn't right! You were working so hard! Just another little effort... Before the toy slipped away from you completely, you grabbed it with your other hand. He suddenly felt lighter. With a naughty smile, you felt like you could finally send it over the bars. Who knows if it would have played! Unfortunately you didn't have the pleasure of finding out when, trying to take a step to lean out further, your legs gave out and you fell on your butt on the playpen mat. Oh, this really wasn't right! No matter how childish it may have seemed at the time, you were about to let out all your frustration in the worst way possible. “Ooh, little lamb, were you up all by yourself?” Simmy approached you, stepping over the stuffies scattered around the room. It was at that moment that you realized it: you had fallen because you had grabbed the toy with both hands… and you hadn't held on to the bars. You really had been standing all on your own! Oh my, you even almost managed to walk! You started gurgling behind the pacifier. You don't even know how long you had it or why you hadn't spit it out, but at that moment you were too happy to care. You grabbed the hands Daddy held out towards you, pulling you to your feet and lifting you into his arms. He planted a loving kiss on your forehead as he carried you to the kitchen. “My little baby will be getting his first walkies very soon, oh yes you will.” And as he nudged the blocks across the room with his foot, he added, "I think someone's going to need a ball to throw, too, yeah? Oh, let's hope you're not feeling frisky enough to throw your soup, too." Oh yes you would. Okay, maybe someday later, not today… One little step at a time.

[moss-the-irishman]

"Loquere linguam nostram" Artemis Bartoli's voice, - his Latin teacher, is an angry growl and Jason can barely make out what she's saying "tu Es filius Iovis, deus maximus, et honorare debes patrem tuum et non confundere eum". Jason feels something in his stomach clench angrily, he is seven years old and has been taught to speak Latin for a long time, his consciousness refuses to accept this language as his native and true one. He wants German. "Das ist nicht meine Muttersprache!!" Jason screams and the light bulbs burst. He is whipped so that he cannot lie on his back for a month and the scars are with him for life.

Loquere linguam nostram - speak our language.

tu Es filius Iovis, deus maximus, et honorare debes patrem tuum et non confundere eum - You are the son of Jupiter, the greatest god, you should honor your father and not shame him.

Das ist nicht meine Muttersprache, - It's not my native language.

All the more reason to hate Camp Jupiter.

@florenceisstrange @ashthenerdtheythem @aki-bara

[crossover-enthusiast]

HAIII

Next part of my lore fic :3 “secreta intus”

non sunt quae videntur;

astra potestas illis destinata det.

Fatum morphs et figurae sunt corporis.

osseus ignorat;

corpus tamen mutatur.

spectat ut filiam,

quae ad patrem pertinebat.

potuitne haec nova forma ei propius adduci?

As he stood in the bathroom he saw his body begin to morph and the more he saw it happen, the more confused he became.

“Why did my eyes turn blue? Why do I feel… different.”

Fear spread through his body, he didn’t know what was going on. He has had weird visions in his dreams ever since his father died. The dreams were of his body… changing. After the dreams he always felt like he was being watched. Closely. Small changes, that he barely noticed began happening.

When he first noticed the changes, it was when his eyes turned into a bright blue. But as he continued to look he realized he had more of a purple undertone than he did before, and his skin started to feel more unlike his own.

He wanted out. He felt scared, trapped even in his own body. Except he felt this wasn’t his own body.

“Why am I changing?! What- WHY?” He could barely muster up any words on how he felt. He was feeling somthing 1000x worse then being petrified… he almost felt the fear he did when his father died… his father. His father had the brightest blue eyes, and glamorous clear skin, with a marvelous purple undertone. He was starting to look like his father… when he looked in the mirror he could see his father looking back at him- then the memories started to flood back in…

“DADDY? WAKE UP! PLEASE IM SCARED.” She looked at a bloody corpse with terrible fear in her eyes, She saw 2 people come towards her… fight or flight set in.

“GET AWAY FROM ME. LOOK WHAT YOU DID TOO MY FATHER. *gasp* PLEASE DON’T KILL ME TOO.”

“Hey… hey it’s ok-“

“NO GET AWAY FROM ME” She started to throw anything she could grab at them.

“Skid honey please calm down… we’re not them!”

“NO GET AWAY FROM ME?!-“ skid? What did they mean skid? As the tears were flowing out of his eyes he realized those people were his parents… not those monsters that killed his father.

“IM SORRY MAMA IM SO SORRY JOHN, I-I DIDN’T M-MEAN TO HURT YOU I- UH…” he felt over whelming feelings swallow him whole. He started to cry, he didn’t know what to do anymore.

“Hey baby, it’s ok mamas here, we’re not gonna hurt you.”

Skid cried in his mother’s arm for what felt like seconds but was actually about 30 minutes.

Lila carried skid to bed, he needed rest.

“What happens with him?” John never saw skid like that… let alone act like that.

*sigh* “after skid saw the cultists kill his father in front of him… he well, started to have really bad panic attacks- and h-he started to see me, and some other people as cultists when he has some of his panic attacks. - and- uh,I- I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!! I WANT TO HELP MY BABY, BUT I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHATS HAPPENING?! DO I LOOK LIKE A CULTIST, I DON’T UNDERSTAND… I JUST WANNA HELP MY BABY BOY!!” Lila broke down in tears in front of John.

“Hey hey, it’s ok! We can figure out what’s wrong together. I will book an appointment with a therapist that specializes in childhood trauma, so we can progress and help him. Together.” John already had an idea on what skid could have, but didn’t know for certain.

Oooooo

[frozen-may]

♤•°Credo In unum Deum, Patrem Omnipotentem, creatorem caeli et terrae, omnibus visibilibus et invisibilibus.Et In uno Domino Iesu Christo unigenitus Dei Filius qui natus Est Ex Patre ante omnia saecula. Lumen est a Lumine, deus verus est a Deo vero, natus, increatus, Consubstantialis Cum Patre, totus ens.°●♤

[confessions-sm]

HAII NEXT PART OF MY FIC “secreta intus”

It’s on AO3

non sunt quae videntur;

astra potestas illis destinata det.

Fatum morphs et figurae sunt corporis.

osseus ignorat;

corpus tamen mutatur.

spectat ut filiam,

quae ad patrem pertinebat.

potuitne haec nova forma ei propius adduci?

As he stood in the bathroom he saw his body begin to morph and the more he saw it happen, the more confused he became.

“Why did my eyes turn blue? Why do I feel… different.”

Fear spread through his body, he didn’t know what was going on. He has had weird visions in his dreams ever since his father died. The dreams were of his body… changing. After the dreams he always felt like he was being watched. Closely. Small changes, that he barely noticed began happening.

When he first noticed the changes, it was when his eyes turned into a bright blue. But as he continued to look he realized he had more of a purple undertone than he did before, and his skin started to feel more unlike his own.

He wanted out. He felt scared, trapped even in his own body. Except he felt this wasn’t his own body.

“Why am I changing?! What- WHY?” He could barely muster up any words on how he felt. He was feeling somthing 1000x worse then being petrified… he almost felt the fear he did when his father died… his father. His father had the brightest blue eyes, and glamorous clear skin, with a marvelous purple undertone. He was starting to look like his father… when he looked in the mirror he could see his father looking back at him- then the memories started to flood back in…

“DADDY? WAKE UP! PLEASE IM SCARED.” She looked at a bloody corpse with terrible fear in her eyes, She saw 2 people come towards her… fight or flight set in.

“GET AWAY FROM ME. LOOK WHAT YOU DID TOO MY FATHER. *gasp* PLEASE DON’T KILL ME TOO.”

“Hey… hey it’s ok-“

“NO GET AWAY FROM ME” She started to throw anything she could grab at them.

“Skid honey please calm down… we’re not them!”

“NO GET AWAY FROM ME?!-“ skid? What did they mean skid? As the tears were flowing out of his eyes he realized those people were his parents… not those monsters that killed his father.

“IM SORRY MAMA IM SO SORRY JOHN, I-I DIDN’T M-MEAN TO HURT YOU I- UH…” he felt over whelming feelings swallow him whole. He started to cry, he didn’t know what to do anymore.

“Hey baby, it’s ok mamas here, we’re not gonna hurt you.”

Skid cried in his mother’s arm for what felt like seconds but was actually about 30 minutes.

Lila carried skid to bed, he needed rest.

“What happens with him?” John never saw skid like that… let alone act like that.

*sigh* “after skid saw the cultists kill his father in front of him… he well, started to have really bad panic attacks- and h-he started to see me, and some other people as cultists when he has some of his panic attacks. - and- uh,I- I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!! I WANT TO HELP MY BABY, BUT I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHATS HAPPENING?! DO I LOOK LIKE A CULTIST, I DON’T UNDERSTAND… I JUST WANNA HELP MY BABY BOY!!” Lila broke down in tears in front of John.

“Hey hey, it’s ok! We can figure out what’s wrong together. I will book an appointment with a therapist that specializes in childhood trauma, so we can progress and help him. Together.” John already had an idea on what skid could have, but didn’t know for certain.

.

[aracniss]

❝  ...  hey,  god.  's  me  again.  ❞

one  set  of  hand  is  clasped  in  reverence,  the  other  set  gloved,  smoldering  under  the  heat  of  a  makeshift  rosary.

❝  it's  been  a  hard  week.  hard  month,  really.  pop's  up  my  ass  something  awful  lately,  since  I've  been,  y'know,  thinking  'tings  over.  ❞

chin  tucked,  back  straight,  eyes  shut  :  the  perfect  catholic  schoolboy.  his  hands  shake.  he  doesn't  have  long.

❝  i  know  it's  too  late  to  forgive  this  sinner,  but  maybe  you  could  toss  him  a  little  strength,  huh?  just  enough  to  ...  to  do  what  needs  to  be  done.  ❞

vince  grits  his  teeth.  smoking  leather  irritates  his  eyes,  pulls  a  wheeze  and  a  cough  out  of  tired  lungs.  "  in  nomine  patris,  et  filii,  et  spiritus  sancti:  ❞  his  fingers  tremble  as  they  touch  his  forehead,  his  chest;  one  shoulder  and  the  other.  they  tremble  around  the  first  knot  in  the  cord,  but  he  holds  on.  he  holds.  he  breathes,  and  he  tries.

❝  credo  in  deum  patrem  omnipotentem,  creatorem  caeli  et  terrae  -  ❞

the  rosary  engulfs,  a  roaring  fire  in  his  palms  -  arackniss  staggers  to  deft  feet,  stamping  out  the  cord  like  a  spent  cigarette.  he  doesn't  bother  to  examine  his  palms,  sullenly  aware  of  the  heat  blisters  developing  under  the  surface  of  his  gloves.

he can't keep doing this.

[latinthusiast]

Lucan (7.617-631) on mourning and civil war

It's a shame to have devoted tears to the funeral of the world, innumerable deaths, and for someone following the deaths one by one to ask: through whose organs the death-bearing wound will have exited, who tramples the innards spilled on the ground, who, dying, his face turned away, will have expelled the sword sent down into his jaws, who collapses once struck, who will have rested while the limbs fall, what men will send weapons through the chest or whom the spear will have pinned to the fields, what blood will have burst through the air with veins forced open, and fall into the weapons of his own enemy, who will chop the chest of his brother and, so that he can despoil a known man’s corpse, toss far away the cut off head, who would destroy the face of his parent and with too great rage prove for those watching that the man whose throat he slits is not his father. No death is worthy of its own lament, and we are free from mourning no man.

inpendisse pudet lacrimas in funere mundi mortibus innumeris, ac singula fata sequentem quaerere letiferum per cuius uiscera uolnus exierit, quis fusa solo uitalia calcet,                  620 ore quis aduerso demissum faucibus ensem expulerit moriens anima, quis corruat ictus, quis steterit dum membra cadunt, qui pectore tela transmittant aut quos campis adfixerit hasta, quis cruor emissis perruperit aera uenis                   625 inque hostis cadat arma sui, quis pectora fratris caedat et, ut notum possit spoliare cadauer, abscisum longe mittat caput, ora parentis quis laceret nimiaque probet spectantibus ira quem iugulat non esse patrem. mors nulla querella                  630 digna sua est, nullosque hominum lugere uacamus.

[pikbin]

CREDO IN DEUM PATREM OMNIPOTENTEM

[virromanus]

Mula

In antiquo Chinae regno, bellum gravem oriri coeperat. Omnes viri ad militiam conscribi debebant, sed pater Mulan, Fa Zhou, iam senex erat et infirmus. Mulan, filia eius, timens pro patre suo, consilium cepit.

Mulieris culturam relinquit, et ut virum se vestit, in exercitum secreto intrat, nomen Ping ferens. Nullus de vera eius natura suspicabatur.

In castris, Mulan duras exercitationes perpessus est et strenue pugnavit. Paulatim, a solido gerens, amicitiam cum Li Shang, tribuno militum, fecit. Is quoque non intellexit, Mulan feminam esse.

Interim, Huns, populus hostis, imperio invadere inceptum est. Exercitus imperatoris prompte ad resistendum paratus est. Mulan, cogitans ingeniose, consilium capit, ut ab hostibus deprehensum exercitum salvum duceret.

In pugna finali, Mulan demonstravit virtutem et astutiam suam, et Huns vincitur. Tamen, in proelio, vera eius natura patefacta est. Li Shang, primum commotus, de virtute et fide Mulan miratus est.

Post victoriam, Mulan honore et gratia in exercitu donata est, sed a patria sua silenter recedidit. Revera, non erat honoribus publicis, sed amore et reverentia erga patrem et familiam ducitur.

Fa Zhou, recognoscens filiam suam, superba et laeta est. Mulan, quamvis non sequentur honorum splendor, vera heroina et filia patriae nunc appellatur.

Finis

[turangalila]

Jean Hanelle of Cambrai (c.1380 - c.1436) _ O Sapientia (plainchant) _ O Sapientia incarnata / Nos demoramur [I-Tn MS J.II.9 Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria, Torino, Italy]

_ O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem,fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia:veni ad docendum nos

_ O Sapientia incarnata, / mente seraphica contemplata, / voce angelica nunciata, / alvo almifica enutrita, / a patre genita prodiisti, / post patrem florida non fulcisti / una, sed splendida comprobasti / unius merita, cum fuisti / cuntorum entium primus motoret ut celestium fabricator, / sic et humilium contractator, / actorum omnium terminator, / cunta qui nectis modo sublimiea / que fortis iure suavi / semper disponis ordine, primi / velle resolvis atque supremi. / Veni, benigne instrue mentes / fervoris igne redde prudentes / molesque frange usque prementes, / nos tecum iunge diu morantes. //

Nos demoramur, benigne rector, / et prestolamur, que tu, promissor, / spondes, et famur quia transgressor / egit ut remur fieri horror. / Inde, gementes acre timemus / ne deviantes nos pereamus, / cum ignorantes, exerceamus / que cupientes desideramus. / Ergo, lux verax, fuga tenebras / quas nodus tenax usque latebras / limbique portas nobis acerbasdedit et minas ille superbas. / Dum ergo fatum parentis primi / tremimus, casum Plutonis diri, / viam prudentum rogamus pii, / voce silentum ne simus, veni. //

Jean Hanelle – Cypriot Vespers. Maronite and Byzantine Chants, Motets and Plainchant Graindelavoix. Björn Schmelzer (2016, Glossa – GCD P32112)

[sweetfire01]

Honora Patrem tum [pt.2]

[pt.1]

Weaning was approached very cautiously. After almost two weeks of feeding only on milk, the angel didn't want to risk upsetting your tummy. So it only happened during dinner, small tasteless portions but which you gladly accepted.

Simmy prepared a vegetable broth and it was vegetable broth - first day.

Simmy prepared cream of rice and it was cream of rice - second day.

On the third day you vomited.

You were grateful it hadn't happened in the high chair or, even worse, in the crib, you thought as you had a new retching. Your Daddy held you closer to his chest, worriedly watching you throw the rest of your dinner on the toilet. You will try again in a few days.

You were happy to go straight to sleep without silly stories, just a fast bottle filled with water, and even more when, instead of your cradle…Simmy laid you down on his bed! You still had to be wrapped, sure, but at least you could sleep comfortably tonight. And maybe roll onto your side. Or lay your head on a pillow. Being covered in a warm blanket.

You smiled and sucked on the pacifier, feeling a little more sleepy. You would never admit it out loud, but being taken care of like this wasn't bad when you were feeling sick. Closing your eyes, you could pretend you were still in the House of Lamentation, with the brothers pampering you so you don't strain yourself. Daddy Simmy Simeon's cooing made it a little hard to picture, but you could ignore him.

He laid you down on the mattress and you were almost ready to fall asleep. Then he unexpectedly took his your pillow away, which made you protest, to create a barrier around you, keeping you from falling down the bed. You weren't happy with this but now you couldn't do anything. Luckily he put a folded towel under your head, so it was slightly lifted. Not the greatest comfort, but better than nothing. You glared at him again as, instead of covering you with the blanket, he pulled it off the bed. It's okay that the baby wrap kept you warm, but it was the gesture itself that bothered you! No, there was no danger that you would suffocate, you weren't a real baby!

You watched him take a smaller blanket out of the closet - just for himself, this bastard! - and change into pajamas, before turning off the light and lying next to you. You wanted to turn into a more comfortable position, with your back to him, since there was no chest strap to block you. But you didn't have time to move, Simmy immediately put a hand on your chest, murmuring some words you didn't understand. And then you couldn't move anymore, an invisible force paralyzing you.

He kissed your cheek, wishing you night-night.

Might as well have stayed in your crib.

Another novelty concerned the afternoon walks. He would let you out as usual in your pram but, being more awake during that time, he took you to the park. Even though he made sure the area where he placed you was free of rocks and other things that could hurt you, you really didn't feel much like crawling. Honestly, you didn't really care to explore or play, not when other angels were passing by too. They were always, ALWAYS, chatting with Simmy and commenting on how cute you was. Plus, there was a very embarrassing event.

Your first meeting with Michael. You knew who he was from before he started talking. You felt uncomfortable just looking at him, and for once you were happy to be ignored. He only gave you a smile before discussing some matters with Simmy. No surprises it was about you anyway, but right now you wanted to focus on something else. For example your full bladder. You felt the slight urge on the way here, but it wasn't anything too uncontrollable. You could have waited until you returned home. But now the need became an urgency, the presence of the archangel somehow influenced you. No, it wasn't like wetting your pants in fear, absolutely not. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, you decided to let yourself go as discreetly as possible, you didn't need to be the center of attention even more.

One thing you never learned: luck wasn't on your side.

You didn't know if it was for his overdeveloped hearing or for some strange movement you made: Daddy - no wait, Simmy, immediately approached you, checking your diaper and deciding to change you. That moment. There. In front of Michael.

You had the reflex to get up and run, but you couldn't even stand without falling into the angel's arms. "Oooh, watch out baby." Both angels laughed at you as you were brought back near the pram. "Looks like someone here feels ready to do their first walkies, huh?" Simmy, not Daddy, held you close with one arm, while with the other he grabbed the bag he always carried. "Hmm, and they seem to be very lively too. Here, let me help. "The strongest archangel offered to help him, picking you up and holding you in his arms.

You didn't like that. You whined and squirmed trying to escape from his grasp, even punching him on the back. Too bad the other was too strong and in his eyes you were just…a baby. He just watched you in amusement, bouncing you a bit as you started to get tired. Hell, your stamina during this time really sucked. Did it really take you only a minute to surrender?

Meanwhile, Simmy has spread out the changing mat on the grass and taken the other supplies. He thanked Michael as he laid you on top of it, pulling off your light blue pants and unbuttoning the onesie. You started crying. All of this was too degrading, it was too humiliating. It was too much.

Your Daddy continued the change. His kisses did nothing to soothe you, so he preferred to proceed with the cleaning, at least it would ease the discomfort. His heart ached to see you like this, his little lamb must be happy, not sad! He didn't understand what made you so upset, maybe Michael's presence? He can have this stern look, sure, but he's not that scary. When he finished cleaning you up, he applied rash cream, just in case the problem was due to that. There seems to be nothing, but better to prevent.

At the end of the change, with something finally covering your genitals, you were able to stop crying. But while your pants were being pulled back, you were still frowning. This was all Simmy's fault! You were angry with Michael too, but you wouldn't dare make him mad. So you concentrated all your energies on the first one, kicking him weakly. Take that! And when he leaned in to kiss your nose, you grabbed his hair. You admitted that you didn't have enough strength to punch him properly, so you let this action be enough for you. But when you pulled his hair..did he lean in even more and coo at you? Happy? What-

He nuzzled your cheek, even planting a few kisses on you. The angel didn't care, you weren't even hurting him! You just wanted some more physical contact with him, didn't you?

[pinkiepiebones]

Okay the implications of Papa IV’s modified wimple being his (the church’s?) papal tiara are... I can’t...

“The papal tiara was solemnly placed on the pope’s head during a papal coronation.” Shirt calls the wimple the tiara. Papa IV wears it on stage more than his (pretiosa) mitre. Has the entire Imperatour run been his coronation?

“ Most of the surviving (three-crown) papal tiaras have the shape of a circular beehive, with its central core made of silver. Some were sharply conical, others bulbous. Except for that of Pope Paul VI, all were heavily bejewelled. “ Okay I guess I’m glad Papa IV isn’t wobbling around on stage with a big gold beehive or horn on his head...

“ The papal tiara was never worn for liturgical celebrations, such as Mass. At such functions the Pope, like other bishops, wore a mitre. However, a tiara was worn during the solemn entrance and departure processions” HUH. Maybe his constant wearing of the tiara is also to mourn the sometimes-dead Papa Nihil?

I just... Ages ago I did the deep dive on Papa IV’s blue regalia, more recently I wrote about his mourning dress, and now  gotta deal with the significance of calling this a papal tiara. None of this shit is done by accident. Torturous Flipant is too smart for that, I think.

Accipe tiaram, et scias te esse patrem principum et regum, rectorem orbis in terra vicarium Salvatoris nostri Satanas, cui est honor et gloria in saecula saeculorum