#religious conflict

[butterfly-writer]

Religions In Indonesia

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Indonesia is quite an interesting country! It is known for one of their islands; Bali, and their vast number of languages. Fun fact! Indonesia is the country with the most islands and probably the country with the most languages that belong to them. There are a lot of islands, a lot of cultures that reside with the islands in the country, like Javanese and Balinese. But there is one language that is used by everyone there is Bahasa Indonesia. Their capital is Jakarta which isn’t as known as Bali but is still the capital of Indonesia.

Another thing that Indonesia is known for is their religions! It’s actually not permitted to NOT have a religion and that you must pick a religion out of 6 religions: Hindu, Kong Fu Cu, Islam, Buddha, Christian, and Catholic. Afterall, Indonesia is a secular democratic country that has a Muslim-majority population. The Indonesian constitution guarantees all people in Indonesia the freedom of worship, each according to his or her own religion or belief. It also stipulates that the state shall be based upon the belief in "the one and only God" (a condition which also forms the first principle of the Pancasila, the Indonesian state philosophy introduced by Soekarno in 1945).

Indonesia is always open to thousands of things! But there are some things that aren’t allowed and aren’t legalized by its government. Not only that, but religions in Indonesia have conflict despite having a lot of religious freedom. And although some religions are fighting over doctrinal differences, most conflict stems from more secular causes- a desire for political power, a struggle for resources, ethnic rivalries, and economic competition.

Just like I said earlier, some religions are having conflict. And although some religions are fighting over doctrinal differences, most conflict stems from more secular causes- a desire for political power, a struggle for resources, ethnic rivalries, and economic competition. Their reasoning for this conflict had caused a lot of problems in Indonesia.

Here’s a few of the conflicts that have been going on in Indonesia:

The conflict in the Malaccas, where, according to Indonesian Red Cross data, over 500,000 people have been displaced and over 4,000 people have died in Christian-Muslim combat over the previous two years. Even if it is undoubtedly the greatest of the problems we are currently experiencing, it would be inaccurate to attribute it to a long-standing religious disagreement. The underlying causes of it are actually numerous historical, political, and economic ones.

Although West Kalimantan is currently quiescent, hundreds of people were murdered in a new outbreak that occurred in 1999. Furthermore, there was a prior incident in 1997 that resulted in numerous fatalities and involved native Dayaks and some native Malays fighting the Madurese immigrant group. The topic of migrants against indigenous people is a recurring motif in conflicts within Indonesian communities.

There is a conflict going on in Poso in Sulawesi. Again the worst episode was this past spring when there were about 300 people killed. Again there was Christian-Muslim fighting but this conflict was based more on local elites struggling over power that ended up in communal conflict.

Community conflicts occasionally break out in Couchon Pandang in West and East Java, Kupang in West Timor, Lombok in Eastern Bali, and other places where the conditions are right. Of course, the ethnic Chinese are also a constant target whenever societal turmoil occurs.

Of course, there is a way to resolve all of these problems. It won’t be easy, neither will it be quick to resolve. But with time, it can be done. There are few solutions that I know of to overcome religious conflict and receive religious harmony:

Followers of different religions should exercise moderation and tolerance towards each other and their beliefs, and not instigate religious enmity or hatred.

Religion and politics should be kept separate.

Overall, we should learn how to  tolerate and respect other religions. Considering they are all in the same country, with Bhineka Tunggal Ika has their meaning for unity in all religions. I do hope for the best outcome of  any religious conflict in Indonesia. The people and its scenery is truly a beauty.

.·:*˚¨¨ ≈★≈ ¨¨˚*:·.

Here's the resources that I used!

Indonesia Investments (2019). Religion in Indonesia | Indonesia Investments. [online] Indonesia-investments.com. Available at: https://www.indonesia-investments.com/culture/religion/item69.

Jones, S. (2023). Causes of Conflict in Indonesia. [online] Asia Society. Available at: https://asiasociety.org/causes-conflict-indonesia. 

opentext.wsu.edu. (n.d.). 6.4 RELIGIOUS CONFLICT – Introduction to Human Geography. [online] Available at: https://opentext.wsu.edu/introtohumangeography/chapter/6-4-religious-conflict/#:~:text=Although%20some%20religions%20are%20fighting. 

Ministry of Home Affairs (2023). Maintaining Racial and Religious Harmony. [online] Ministry of Home Affairs. Available at: https://www.mha.gov.sg/what-we-do/managing-security-threats/maintaining-racial-and-religious-harmony.

[home-for-wayward-fawns]

༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 9: 𝒩𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈, 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈

What should've been a simple game of role-play goes terribly wrong when Carla is thrust into a flash back of the past.

TW: Hi everyone, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos! I want to give a HEAVY trigger warning for this chapter. It contains heavy references to mental health problems, substance abuse, and references to a character overdosing.

Carla sat on her armchair in the lounge, sewing circle in her lap as she continued her floral design. Alastor stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder as he peered down at it. Carla had a soft smile plastered on her face as Charlie explained her latest little game to the residents who sat on the floor in a circle. 

It reminded her of little Poppy dragging all her big brothers down to the living room for a tea party. Of course, they’d always indulged her, indulged the little miracle that blessed their lives. 

Charlie started, clapping as she sang her little introduction, and the snake followed suit. Carla hummed to herself contentedly as Alastor tapped his fingers on her skin in a smooth rhythm. 

“This is stupid,” Angel interrupted, rolling two of his eyes. 

Carla looked down at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his hand. She’d seen that before, and it left a sour taste in her mouth. It was the struggle before the storm, the moment just before the walls came crashing down. Angel was after a fix, and this game wasn’t helping. Carla noticed Charlie’s eye twitch, and let out a cough for attention. She felt Alastor’s rhythmic tapping cease and didn’t need to look back to know he was doing that curious head tilt in her direction. 

“You don’t have to play along, sweetheart,” She said gently, hoping her soft voice would coax him away from whatever demons plagued his mind. 

It never did. It never worked. It never worked with Junior either. 

“This–is–not–stupid!” Charlie interrupted, still clapping and Carla had to bite back a sigh. It wasn’t her fault; the poor naive thing just couldn’t see that this was not what Angel needed right now. “It’s just a game! Sir Pentious did it well, so now please try to do the same!” 

“Charlie, that isn’t very kind. Angel, if you don’t like this game, what do you want to play?” Carla asked, keeping her tone soft and light. 

She felt a sharp claw scratch along her collar as Angel got a sly smirk on his face. Husk groaned, apparently aware of something Carla was not. 

“A productive game,” Vaggie interjected, her voice laced with suspicion. 

Why was everyone so harsh on the boy? Husk got to drink himself into oblivion; Pentious got to build his dangerous contraptions; why was Angel looked upon so harshly? 

“We could do some roleplay ,” Angel suggested, his eyebrows moving suggestively, specifically in Husk’s direction. 

Husk rolled his eyes, but Charlie quickly jumped to her feet in excitement, oblivious to the obvious tension in the room. She pulled Vaggie up by her arm, with a surprising amount of strength for such a lanky young girl. 

“Roleplay!” Charlie exclaimed, her entire body already shaking with anticipation, “I’ll go write the scripts!” 

The tall blonde quickly dragged her girlfriend out of the room, and Carla chuckled at her enthusiasm. 

“This oughta be fun,” Angel snickered, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to subside slightly. 

“Thank you, Angel,” Carla said to him earnestly, “It means a lot to her that you’re trying,” 

“Huh? Err, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, looking down at his phone, but the beginning of a blush had spread across his face. 

Small steps, gentle steps; you didn’t change problems like this overnight. She couldn’t save Junior, didn’t see him slipping through the cracks of the family unit. She couldn’t save him in time, couldn’t make him feel seen before it was too late, but she could save Angel. He was a part of this little family they were building, and she’d keep him safe. She’d make sure he felt safe. 

“Pet,” She heard Alastor purr in her ears and she turned her head to look at him. His smile was broad across his face as he spoke— he was beautiful. “I’m afraid I must take my leave to make arrangements for this evening. I’ve instructed Niffty to take care of dinner for the evening so you can focus on dolling yourself up for me tonight,” 

Carla bit down on her lip in concern, that was a big task for one so small. “That’s a big meal for such a little one, are you sure we need to go out for dinner? I don’t mind cooking before we leave.” 

“I assure you I have never given her a task she cannot excel in. She enjoys cooking just as much as you do. You trust me don’t you, doe?” 

She pressed a gentle kiss against his knuckles, and he raised an eyebrow but made no move to take his hand away from her. She felt a shift in the air, the usual soft thrum of static that surrounded them seemed to thicken for a moment before he tilted her head up to steal a soft kiss. She gasped in shock, and he took the opportunity to deepen it. 

“You’re bad.” She whispered against his lips and he chuckled. 

“You’re mine.” He whispered back, before pulling away. 

She watched him as he took his leave, not able to hide the wistful expression on her face. She returned to her sewing circle, and she’d almost feel at peace if she wasn’t blatantly aware of Pentious’ eyes on her. 

“Do you trust him?” He hissed, rolling his tongue on the s sound. 

“We know our roles, and we play them well.” She replied, her tone clipped. 

She had promised Charlie she would try, she would play along. That didn’t mean she owed him any more information than she was willing to give. It was hardly any of his business how she felt about Alastor. Or Kek. 

“Forgive my intrusion, I was under the impression you were wed to another,” 

Her head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes, her smile still firmly glued in place. The snake eyed her nervously, aware that he had just prodded at a particularly sore nerve. It was laughable, wed to another. Last time Carla checked, death do us part was very much still in her vows. She had waited her whole life to move on, how much time did she owe Clarence? How many tears, how much misery? How many dead kids?

“How interesting; I’m sure Alastor would be very interested in finding out you keep tabs on me.” She said evenly, keeping her smile gentle while she pleaded with her heart to calm itself down.

“Don’t Smiles got a problem with your and Vox’s whole,” Angel said, waving his hand in the air, “situationship,” 

“Me and Vox do not have a situationship to discuss. I was never married to Vox ,” She hissed out his name like a curse, a disease. 

“Damn, toots, you really hate him,” 

She narrowed her eyes in Pentious’ direction, the rage bubbling beneath her skin, threatening to spill over. She was so much more than Clarence’s wife and the mother of his children. She had made a life for herself. She had built entire charities designed to help the needy, the desperate. She had created foundations to help men with mental health problems, and help the young with addictions they weren’t able to deal with on their own. The Gill name was so much more than the legacy he’d left them with. She had built something for her family, her children. He might’ve been the worst of her, but he was by no means all of her. 

“I advise you to keep your comments on my love life to yourself in the future,” She said with a tight smile before standing up to dust off her skirt. 

She had just about made it to the door, hand on the knob when she felt words that stabbed into her back like thousands of knives. 

“I mean no offence, Mrs. Gill ; I just did not think you were that kind of woman,” 

She stopped in her tracks, her grip impossibly tight on the handle. They didn’t know her, none of them did. They didn’t know what she’d gone through, what Vox had done to her, to their family, to their children. 

She was not just the woman he left behind; she was the woman who survived him. 

“You have no idea the kind of woman I am.” She bit back before gently closing the door behind her. 

She pressed her back to the door, willing the black hole that had formed in her chest to cease and she began to count to seven, one for each of her beloved kids. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best. 

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon. 

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She was fine. She was safe. She had done it. She had raised them alone, and she had done a damned good job. She had never needed a man; she had never needed him . It wasn’t her fault what happened. It wasn’t her fault. She had spent an entire life alone, and she would not be told by anyone she didn’t deserve to be happy. Alastor was perfect and she wouldn’t be told otherwise. She lifted her necklace, pressing a gentle kiss to the charm. 

Clarence had chosen for death to do them part; she didn’t owe him a damned thing. 

She was going to bake a fucking pie. 

Carla spent hours in the kitchen baking more than she’d ever know what to do with. Pies were simple, a recipe passed down through the generations of her family. You couldn’t get pie wrong, not when you’d made it so many times. She focused on the latticework, a separate intricate design for each one. They didn’t come out perfect—nothing did in Hell—but they sure were pretty. 

“Everyone is in the lounge doing this ‘roleplay’ bullshit,” Husk told her with a grumble. 

Carla pulled her final pie out of the oven, a pretty little spider design on the top. She hoped Angel would like it, that it would at least appease a very different hunger deep within the boy. 

“...You alright, love?” Husk asked, eyeing all the pies that covered the kitchen counters. She might have to ask Alastor if there was somewhere to donate them all. It wouldn’t do good to waste the ones that wouldn’t get eaten. 

“Just a spot of baking,” She said dismissively, untying her apron to hang it on the back of the door. 

Once upon a time, Clarence would’ve finished that sentence. ‘Does wonders for the soul, don’t you know?’

She followed Husk to the lounge, content to leave her pies to cool before she dusted them with sugar later. She sat down to join Charlie and Vaggie on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. She looked up at the scene before her, chewing nervously on her lip. She had a sudden urge to call for Alastor through the necklace. 

This didn’t look good. 

Angel stood in a dark trench coat reading from a terrible script. It was evident that their dear spider was playing the villain to Pentious’ childlike disguise. She felt her stomach drop as the words left the poor boy’s mouth. She clenched her fists in her lap, digging her nails into her palms as she tried to stay present. This was all wrong. This had never been how it went down. It was never a scary man in a dark alleyway; it was always so much closer to home. She could feel herself fading away, disappearing into nightmares that she’d never be free from. That was the true curse of motherhood; you never escaped the guilt of your mistakes. 

She stood crouched by a large bed, damp cloth in her hand as she wiped her son’s sweaty brow. He panted heavily, his entire body shaking, and she cooed at him gently. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t his fault ; he just needed some help. 

“I’m so sorry Mama, so sorry,” he panted, as she gently dabbed the cloth across his face. 

It was hard for Junior, so hard. Clarence had given him everything he had. He got the name, the face, the problems . Carla couldn’t quiet the voices in his head, couldn’t save him from the guilt that plagued his heart. It wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen into the wrong crowd; it wasn’t his fault he just wanted the voices to stop. 

“You’re doing so good, baby boy. Just a little longer. We just need to get it out of your system, and then Harry’s going to take you to a doctor with Grandpa. Won’t that be good?” She said softly, holding back tears. 

“I’m so cold, Mama; I’m freezing to death,” 

“I know baby; I know. Mama’s here; I’ll be here all night.” She promised. 

She knew Harry was outside the door, pacing angrily. He’d promised to let her do this bit; he meant well, but he was so rough, so angry. It wasn’t his fault either; he was just scared. They’d already lost Peter; already lost Mathew. Their numbers seemed to dwindle every year, and she knew he blamed himself. She couldn’t blame him; she blamed herself instead. 

“What about when the voices come back, Mama? I can’t do to my kids what Dad did to us,” He sobbed, and she felt a pang of pain in her chest. 

A dark thought crossed her mind, one she quickly flicked away to focus on her son. 

I hate you, Clarence. I fucking hate you. 

“Mama will be there then too. You just come home to Mama, and I’ll fix you right up. Nothing fairy kisses can’t fix, little champion,” she said quietly. 

“I’m so sorry Mama,” 

She was breathing heavily as she was unceremoniously dropped back into reality. Her hands were bleeding from where her nails had dug too deep into porcelain skin. That wasn’t the last time Carla had to do that with her Junior, not the last time Harry dragged him to her by the scruff of his neck. Harry was always red in the face; rage always swimming in his perfect blue eyes as he dropped Junior at her feet. Venom laced his voice as he spat at Junior that he didn’t deserve to be his brother, didn’t deserve to be her son, but Carla always calmed him down, sending Harry out to get her things she didn’t need just so he’d feel useful. She knew why he was really angry; he couldn’t fix Junior and he couldn’t stand it. 

Junior spent his whole life like that, even when he was married, even when he became a father. Always Harry, always Harry dragging him back to her by the scruff of his neck. He fought so hard, her little soldier, fighting against his need for needles, powders and pills. It was never as simple as just saying no . Carla could feel tears begin to fall down her cheeks, staining her face. He was the same age as Clarence when Harry found him, cold and empty with the final needle in his arm. Her baby boy dragged home one last time, but she couldn’t help him down this time, and Harry held her when she cried. He held her tight and didn’t let go, and she wanted to scream at Charlie . 

She wanted to grab her and shake her because she had no idea . She didn’t know what it was like to hold her grandchildren while they sobbed, to hold her daughter-in-law’s hand because she understood. She understood the pain, the tears; the rage . She wanted her son back; she wanted each and every one of them back. She wanted to laugh, to scream in Vox’s face because he wanted to give her the world, but he couldn’t give her back what he’d already stolen. 

She looked up to see Charlie hugging Pentious, praising him , while Angel stalked away up the stairs looking dejected. She willed herself to be still, to be calm, to be present. 

“You alright?” She heard Husk call out to her, but he sounded a hundred miles away. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Four for Junior. Four for Junior. Four for Junior. 

“I do not know who you think you are young lady ,” Carla hissed, unable to hide her anger, “but that was vile ,” 

“But…” Charlie tried to say, but Carla interrupted her. 

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You have no idea what it’s like to love an addict, and it shows. Have you ever stayed up multiple days to hold them when they come down, to remind them you’re still here; you’re real? Have you ever held your child as they burn but they swear they’re freezing, and they’re so sorry, and you forgive them, you always forgive them knowing they’re going to do it again, and again, and again? It was never as simple as just saying ‘no’. It isn’t some shady guy in an alley. It’s your best friend, your cousin, someone you trust,” Carla ranted, panting, “My Junior was not a bad boy, and he was not unloved. I gave him enough hugs; I drowned that boy in love.” 

Her entire body was shaking with rage. Junior was good. Junior was her good boy, he’d just had a hard life. Angel was good too. He just needed help .  

“Carla, I didn’t mean…” Charlie began, tears in her eyes, but Vaggie cut her off. 

“Leave her alone; you’re upsetting her!” 

“Perhaps you should’ve thought to suggest a warning for such content then, sweetheart ,” Carla hissed at Vaggie before turning to Charlie, “It doesn’t matter what you meant . It matters what you did. Angel is not bad because he needs help . You never should have considered having him play ‘the crackhead’.” 

She took a deep breath, counting to seven as a cold, suffocating silence washed over them. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best. 

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon. 

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She’d go talk to Angel; she’d keep him here; he wouldn’t go out, and he didn’t need to go looking for that stuff. He had everything he needed right here. 

“Now, I am going to take a pie up to your big brother’s room and see if I can get him to eat something. I advise you to write a very heartfelt apology,” Carla said, a smile back on her face before she left for the kitchen. 

She was barely out of earshot as Charlie whispered to Vaggie. 

“Did she just call Angel my big brother?”

[tmarshconnors]

"The court is rife with intrigue and betrayal, with everyone seeking to secure their own position and avoid the King's wrath." (Letter to Charles V, 1537)

Eustace Chapuys, the son of Louis and Guigonne Dupuys, was a Savoyard diplomat who served Charles V as Imperial ambassador to England from 1529 until 1545 and is best known for his extensive and detailed correspondence.

Born: 1489, Annecy, Annecy, France Died: 21 January 1556 (age 67 years), Leuven, Belgium

[scotianostra]

On May 29th 1546 Cardinal Beaton, Lord High Chancellor of Scotland, was murdered.

Beaton was appointed a cardinal in 1538 and Archbishop of Scotland in 1539. As an able statesman and one of King James V's most trusted advisers, he was sent on several missions to France: he arranged the marriages of James, first with Madeleine of France, then with Mary of Guise. However, Beaton's relentless persecution of Scottish reformers made him many enemies, and on this day in 1546 he was murdered.

[compassionmattersmost]

Embracing Universal Responsibility: Cultivating Unity Across Beliefs

Introduction In our diverse world, the concept of Unity is fundamental to spiritual and personal growth. While many seek to realize this unity through religious or spiritual practices, historical conflicts and divisions have often overshadowed the shared principles of love and compassion. This post explores how individuals from all walks of life—whether religious, atheist, or agnostic—can…

[prideandprejudiceseo]

Top Books to Understand and Appreciate LGBTQ+ Experiences

Explore the top books to understand LGBTQ+ experiences. Discover impactful stories and insights, including Ken Grover's Pride & Prejudice: Healing Division in the Modern Family. Join us at Pride and Prejudice for more recommendations.

[pebblegalaxy]

Kashi Vishwanath-Gyanvapi Dispute: What You Need to Know About the History and the Law

Kashi Vishwanath-Gyanvapi Dispute: What You Need to Know About the History and the Law #KashiVishwanath #GyanvapiMosque #AllahabadHighCourt #PlacesOfWorshipAct #ReligiousConflict #India

The Kashi Vishwanath-Gyanvapi Land Title Dispute: A Historical and Legal Perspective The Kashi Vishwanath-Gyanvapi land title dispute is one of the oldest and most contentious religious conflicts in India. It involves the claim of Hindu worshippers to restore an ancient temple at the site currently occupied by the Gyanvapi mosque in Varanasi, one of the holiest cities for Hindus. The dispute has…

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Quoted Tag:

#I hope it's okay to rb for people who are not pagan

It is with me. Striving to tell a more accurate history, especially in regards to human rights, and countering the cheap, unoriginal, exploitation of real people's pain for the sake of profit, is for everyone.

The great majority of people who were killed for witchcraft did not think they were witches. In the majority of cases if they confessed that they were witches it was usually because they were tortured repeatedly and at length in order to obtain a confession, as was the case in the Salem witch trials, for example. These were people who faced horrifying punishment for absolutely no reason, and then were killed. So when you go around wearing a cutsie little shirt talking about the witches you couldn’t burn you are complicit in calling all of these innocent people, even the ones who had something weird going on with them and confessed freely, witches. And they weren’t. You are doing exactly the same thing as all those gross Puritans, or inquisitors. You are being worse than the medieval Catholic Church because at least they would say that witch stuff isn’t real. They weren’t witches. So knock that off.

[...]

These shirts with their pictures of women and their references to being a “granddaughter” of the women killed as witches obscure the fact that in those thousands of people killed many were men. This isn’t to say that women didn’t account for a greater number of the people killed, because they did. However, in Europe a good ten percent of the total number of people killed as witches were men. This

[cy-lindric]

Absolutely fed & cared for by all the Last Valois content in Serpent Queen season 2 so far

[luvrgreyy]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

word count: 3.4k summary: a man reaps what he sows. masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. catholicism, religious connotations, no specific time frame but i’d like to say victorian era-ish, alot of allusions to the lord or god, reader’s dead husband idk, inner conflict, denial, guilt, leon asking for forgiveness like a hundred times, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex.

a/n: started this like two months ago, just had the motivation to finally finish. i don’t really know how i feel about my writing on this one… i feel like i’ve lost all my skills after not writing for a few weeks

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[tyrianludaship]

okay im kinda stupid but I don't think selfshipping with Judge Claude fucking Frollo from Hunchback of Notre Dame, is a good idea

[home-for-wayward-fawns]

༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 8: 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼𝓉 𝒯𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒯𝑜 𝐵𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝒜 𝐻𝑜𝓂𝑒

‧₊˚✧[Thank you to my wonderful editor @safety-pin-angel-wings, @the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes]✧˚₊‧

Carla is ready to run after a new inhabitant moves in, but a certain shadow has other plans.

The gentle simmering rage bubbled beneath her flesh.

Whenever she got close to building a home, she was reminded why she shouldn’t bother. 

It didn’t matter how perfect she was, how gentle , or how kind ; these were not her children. 

They weren’t her wonderful boys or her miracle of a daughter. This was Hell, her eternal punishment; God was not going to allow her the simple joy of motherhood ever again. It didn’t matter how much she tried to bow her head or bend herself to Alastor’s will; he wasn’t her husband and she needed to return to reality. It had been a nice vacation, a delightful holiday, but it was time to return to the murky depths of depression that was her life. 

This was her punishment for not being perfect enough. 

She stood in front of her vanity, both hands pressed flat on the wood. She stared at the reflection before her. She wanted to rip out her stupid doe ears, let them be torn from her scalp as blood dripped down her perfect face, and scratch at her perfect blue eyes until they bled. A crazed laugh fell from her lips at the idea. 

Would you still want me then, darling Clarence? Would you still want me if I wasn’t your pretty little Doll Face; could anyone want a broken toy? 

She clenched her fists as she glared at the feminine form before her. She was not some prey to be hunted and cornered within her own den. She was more than that. She would not allow herself to fall for The Radio Demon’s tricks any longer. He was not some gentleman, a knight in shining armour to shield her from the darkness of Hell; he was just as much a beast as any other man she had ever met. If he wanted to play Overlord with that snake demon, let him! 

Let them all play their stupid games. They didn’t deserve a mother’s gentle touch. Love was not owed, it was a gift to be bestowed on the worthy. They had no idea the exhaustion that came from playing Mother, no idea the trials that chased her down every dark alleyway. 

It was time to go, time for the doe to flee. Vox was all-knowing; Alastor was all-powerful but Carla was fast .  You didn’t last this long in Hell without being good at something, and Carla had never been caught without her consent. She counted to seven, always to seven, as she steeled herself for what she was about to do. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best. 

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon. 

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle. 

She had survived worse than this. 

She had survived being alone; she had survived finding Clarence dead in the bath ; she had survived living years alone in Hell. She would survive this too— if she didn’t, was that the worst thing?  

She stood up straight, patting down her dress and pushing that gentle smile back on her face. She opened her wardrobe and began to slowly remove all of her clothes, folding them neatly to pack away in her bags. She wouldn’t stay where she wasn’t needed, and she most certainly wouldn’t stay where she was to be ignored . She would not slave away cleaning up after these children who didn’t want her; she would not spend hours in the kitchen preparing perfect meals just to watch Judas sit at her table and eat her food. 

If she had been more observant, she might’ve seen the shadow that shook with rage on the wall as she packed her bags. If she had been a tad more aware, she might’ve noticed as it quickly approached, but she wasn’t, and as such she could not give a reaction as a sharp, harsh grip wrapped around her wrists. 

“ Bad Treat. ” She heard Alastor’s voice snarl, but it was different, there was no radio static to it, just rage . 

The doors to her wardrobe slammed shut, and her arms were tugged backwards as she was forced against the wood, her face pushed harshly against it. She let out a soft grunt in discomfort. 

“ Stay. ” She heard his voice growl, and she struggled against the impossible grip, her arms beginning to ache as her wrists were pulled impossibly lower. 

“Get off me, Alastor!” She shouted, unable to even wiggle the slightest. 

A dark laughter shook from behind her, a sinister laugh that seemed to spread across the entire room, a cloud of darkness that was choking her into submission. 

“ Wrong. Not Alastor. Worse .” 

She gasped as her wrists were suddenly released, a pressure being pushed against her entire body as suddenly her hair was yanked backwards. She let out a cry of pain as sharp claws scratched against her scalp, and not Alastor laughed again, a wicked sound that caused her to shake with fear. 

“ He’s Weak. Wants. Doesn’t Take. You’re Mine. Submit. ” 

She let out a shaky breath, allowing herself to go still beneath the pressure and the darkness around her seemed to lessen slightly . The taut grip of her hair softened as it purred in her ear. 

“ Good Treat. Obey. Be Good. ” 

She kept herself perfectly still, perfectly pliant as she felt a sharp claw run down from the top of her neck. She hissed in pain as she felt the claw dig into her skin, the tiniest stream of blood staining her porcelain flesh. 

“I’ll be good; I’ll be good,” She promised with a whimper of pain, and it purred in her ear again as a reward. 

“ Never Leave. Always Find. Always Punish. ” 

She didn’t have time to respond before she was suddenly tugged backwards, flipped around and pushed back onto her bed. Her back hit the mattress with a slight bounce and the creature before her growled possessively. She blinked in shock as she stared at the shadow that loomed above her. It was an odd sight to see a shadow standing in the middle of her room, in three dimensions rather than flat against a surface. Ominous green eyes glowed as they stared down at her, a dark hunger swimming there. 

It descended on her, pinning her wrists above her head as it pressed down with an impossible weight. She struggled to breathe as the darkness consumed her, hot breath against her neck. She forced herself to stay still, to stay pliant lest she risk that punishment . 

“ Good Girl. ” It growled in her ear. 

It held her wrists in one hand, its other moving down the line of her face. A sharp claw dragged along the outline of her jaw, and she shivered with fear. The claw continued its descent downwards, along the centre of her throat. It purred with pleasure as she gulped, aware that she was its paralysed prey. It continued down still, stopping over the first button of her blouse and she whimpered. 

“No, please, no,” She whispered, shaking and it looked up at her, menacing green meeting brilliant blue. 

It pulled at the button, her blouse opening ever so slightly to reveal her soft skin but its eyes never left hers. 

“ Just looking. ” It said with a sinister grin before continuing to claw at the buttons, popping them open to reveal more and more skin. 

She was shaking with fear, but it kept its promise. It didn't touch, just watched her heaving breasts. Soft white lace covered her chest, delicate pink flowers sewn into the material and the shadow stared down at them. 

“ Want. So Pretty. ” It growled, and she turned her head away, a soft blush spreading across her face. 

This was bad. This was very bad. She shouldn't want this. She shouldn't like this. This was terribly inappropriate. 

“ Not now. Don't Like…Don't Want… ” It let out a frustrated snarl as it struggled to find the words, burying its face into her neck and taking a large inhale. 

“ You. You Need To Beg. Only When You Beg. ” It growled lowly, and she felt her body relax slightly at that. 

“Okay, okay. I'm being good, right? I'm being good,” she assured it, and it grunted in agreement, “ Please let my wrists go; I'll stay still. I'll be good,” 

It tightened its grip for a moment and she purposefully let out a whimper of pain, before it relented, pulling its hand away to release her wrist. She sighed in relief but kept them where they'd been pinned for the moment. 

“Thank you,” She said softly, smiling gently, and it nodded in response, “Can I touch you?” 

It tilted its head, confused, but nodded again. She ran her hands gingerly down the shadowy wisps of its back, surprised at the firmness there and it let out a purr. There was a comfortable quiet for a moment, as the shadow laid on top of her, breathing on her neck with its eyes pinned to her chest while she stroked its back. 

“ You Talk. Why Leave? ” It finally said after a while, looking up from her chest to her eyes, and she sighed. 

“Are you going to punish me if you don’t like what I say?” She asked, and it was still for a moment, pondering its thoughts. 

“ No. ” It answered shortly. 

“I’m scared, and this shouldn’t make me less scared, but it does. I just want…I just want to feel safe. I put expectations on Alastor that I shouldn’t have, I suppose. I thought he wanted to protect me, I thought he wanted me , but that’s an unfair expectation.” 

“ Not Unfair. He Wants. Imbecile. ” 

“ I don’t think he’s stupid,” She said carefully, “He has other priorities, and that’s fine. I’m not his wife ; I’m not supposed to be his main priority. I can hardly have such expectations when my husband is still showing up at the door.” 

The shadow let out an angry snarl, and she cried in pain as sharp teeth bit into her neck. 

“ Bad. Try Again. ” It growled. 

“I thought you weren’t going to punish me?” She whined, but she lifted her hand to stroke down its neck, feeling it purr against her new wound, lapping at the blood it drew. 

“ Accident. You Were Bad. ” It growled. 

“Are you going to keep biting me if I talk about him? He’s a lot of my problems,” She said honestly, and the shadow shook its head. 

“ Vox. Not Husband. Just Vox. ” It told her, nuzzling into her neck affectionately, lapping its tongue against her stained skin, “ Mine. ” 

She couldn’t help but giggle, this was the strangest attempt at courtship she’d ever heard of, but it was nice to feel wanted, genuinely wanted . 

“Okay, okay. I can hardly have such expectations when Vox is still showing up at the door. Is that better…” She paused, realising she never asked for its name— how rude of her. “What do I call you; what’s your name?” 

“ No Name. I am His Shadow, His Dark, His Evil. ” 

Well, she didn’t like that, not one bit. 

“Everyone deserves a name,” She said with a frown. 

“ Never Frown. Don’t Like It. Smile. ” 

“I’ll smile if you let me give you a name,” She bargained, and a dark chuckle reverberated from its chest. It nodded its head and she thought a moment. It wasn’t like everyone else she’d named, months and years of planning for the perfect name, and yet one came to her quickly anyway. 

Kek. The very concept of the dark. 

“Kek,” She suggested, and they sat up, sitting on top of her now. 

“ Kek. Good Name. Strong Name. ” Kek said with approval, and she did smile, a bright, real smile that threatened to split her face in two. 

Kek approved. Kek was happy. She was good. 

“I’m really scared Pentious is going to hurt me, Kek.” She admitted quietly, her smile faltering slightly. 

She gasped as a shadowy hand wrapped around her throat, and she looked up into those bright, ethereal green eyes that seemed endless. 

“ Silly. Mine. Protected. ” 

She breathed slowly, but didn’t attempt to move out of Kek’s grip; she leaned into it. They growled approvingly, moving their hand down her chest, the claw snagging on the material of her bra at the centre. She wanted them to touch her; she wanted them to squeeze, pull, and grab at her flesh to their heart’s content. It wasn’t right, it was wrong; they weren’t married. They looked up at her, cocking their head to the side slightly and she shook her head. They pulled away, and she reached up to place a gentle hand against the side of their face. 

“Maybe just a kiss?” She said quietly, shyly, and they didn’t give her a second to say anything further, as clawed hands ran through her hair. 

They pressed a harsh kiss against her soft lips, prying them apart with a long tongue. She gasped and they growled into the kiss, pushing their tongue against her own. She moaned as they pulled on her hair, manoeuvring her into a more convenient position for them. She followed their lead easily, moving as they commanded. 

“ Good Girl. All Mine. ” Kek growled into the kiss and she whimpered, trying to nod her head but unable to due to their taut grip. 

“I’ll be good; I’ll be so good; just stay .” she panted into the kiss. 

Kek pulled away, kissing down her neck, running their tongue over the wound from where they bit her. She whimpered as they ran their teeth along her delicate flesh, tilting her head to stretch that expanse of skin and they purred approvingly. She pressed her hands against their neck, pulling them closer. She gasped as she felt a knee shift in between her thighs, pressing against her damp core. She heard them chuckle as her legs spread ever so slightly and she rocked her hips down, seeking friction. It had been so long, and it felt so good— she was so bad. Their hands ran down her sides before gripping her hips, pulling down and she moaned again. 

“ Good Pet. ” They praised and that shouldn’t feel so good . 

She let out a whine, a plead for more, but she didn’t know what that more she was seeking was. Kek shifted closer, knee pushing up further into her as they hovered above her. She was desperate to be good, to be praised, to be loved. Kek pressed another harsh kiss against her lips and she opened easily, allowing them to taste and use her as they pleased. They growled against her submission, but then the growl changed. It tasted bitter against her tongue, and she flinched. Kek lifted themselves, eyes narrowing as they turned their head to look towards the door. 

“ Alastor. ” Kek growled, irritation evident in their voice, “ He Cares. Stupid. But Cares. ” 

As soon as the words left their mouth, there was a harsh knock at the door. 

An angry knock at the door. 

“Carla, open this door,” Alastor commanded from the other side. Kek hissed loudly, aggressively at the door and Carla bit down on her bottom lip nervously.

“He sounds angry,” She said quietly, and Kek nodded. 

“ Be Good. Be Sorry. He Wants . ” 

Kek climbed off of the bed, disappearing into the shadows and she sighed. 

“Just a moment!” Carla called out, quickly heading over to her vanity to make sure her hair looked at least presentable. 

Her blouse was torn open, her lips were bruised, her neck was bleeding and her hair was a mess . She sighed—fine. It was fine. She didn’t have time to fix herself up without making everything worse, so she decided she wouldn’t. It was his shadow for crying out loud, he couldn’t be mad about that —could he?

She took a deep breath and then opened the door. He didn’t give her time to say a word before he walked into her room, slamming the door behind him. His grip on his cane was tight, his knuckles turning white from the pressure as he stood at the centre of her room, next to her bed with rustled covers from her rendezvous with Kek. 

“I am trying to stay calm, my dear; I am trying to be a proper gentleman, but you are making it increasingly difficult,” He spoke with a clipped tone, and she felt as though if she didn’t defuse this situation soon, she was going to be in a lot of trouble. “First you act like you’re my perfect little housewife, then you storm off away from me in front of Charlotte, and now you open the door looking like that!” 

He gestured to her cleavage wildly and she blushed. It was terribly inappropriate, and she should be ashamed. They weren’t even courting, but things got a tad more complicated when one party in the arrangement was a shadow for crying out loud. She sat down on the side of her bed, but before she could even think of how to defend herself for her improper behaviour, she watched his gaze dart over to the bags filled with clothes. She felt her blood run cold as his smile turned impossibly tight, and she realised she’d locked herself in the room with the predator. He was in front of her in an instant, his fingers digging into her jaw harshly and she held her breath. 

“If you think I’m letting you go anywhere, you are sorely mistaken little doe. I know you think you’re fast, and you might’ve avoided Vox, but you will never outrun me. Do you understand?” He growled, and she nodded her head. 

She reached up to grab his wrist gently, a soft smile on her face and he narrowed his eyes with his ears pressed against the flat of his skull. 

“ I’m sorry ,” she said softly, “I got scared, but I’m okay now. Kek helped me understand,” 

“You’ve named it,” He sighed before releasing her jaw, “You’re sorry?” 

“I’m sorry,” She repeated, nodding her head. 

He leaned in close, inches away from her face. 

“Then give me a kiss, sweetheart,” He purred, and she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. 

Where Kek was rough and hungry, Alastor was gentle and cautious. He pressed one hand against the side of her face, careful of his teeth as he gently moved his lips against hers. He sighed into the kiss as she opened her mouth, and he pushed his tongue inside. She moaned softly, as he rubbed his thumb against her cheek. He pulled away, and she pressed her hands into the mattress to lean back on, looking up at him with her soft smile. 

“I’m going to court you, lovely doe,” He told her, a finality to his tone, “But that requires a bit more decorum than what I’m currently capable of showing. I promised to discuss this heaven conundrum with our Charlie. I will take my leave— shadow in tow —and trust that you are going to unpack your bags.” 

Our Charlie. 

Oh no. Charlie. 

Carla sighed; being a mother was exhausting. 

“Please send the message that I will try with this Pentious. For her. Only for her.” 

“Of course my dear,” He said, turning to leave, his shadow once again tied to his form as he took his leave. 

The door shut behind him with a definitive click, and once she was sure they were both gone, she let out a giggle, kicking her small feet against the side of the bed. She felt all of seventeen again. 

Maybe she could build a home here, a home with the both of them.

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑜𝒾𝓊𝓈 𓆩♡𓆪

𝒩𝑒𝓍𝓉 𓆩♡𓆪

[aventurineswife]

hear me out: sunday x reader, but when Sunday was Bronze Melodia and reader is someone who Gopher (and by extension, Sunday bc y’know grooming.) considers a sinner. Sunday finds himself falling for reader, but kinda mentally battling between love and what he was taught. aka religious trauma sunday ig (bonus points if he argues w gophers nasty ahh)

u can decide what to do with the rest :D just a lil concept i wanted to throw out

"Take me to church, I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies."

Summary: You are deemed as a "sinner" by the Oak Family, led by Gopher Wood, and is frequently summoned to the Dreamscape. Sunday, once a revered figure as Bronze Melodia, is tasked with guiding lost souls, but he begins to question the teachings he’s spent his life upholding. As he finds himself drawn to you, his inner battle between duty and newfound emotions intensifies. Torn between his role and the love he’s beginning to feel, Sunday faces a difficult choice—one that challenges the very core of his existence within the Oak Family.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Religious Trauma, Forbidden Love, Angst, Slow Burn, Emotional Struggle, Conflicted Feelings.

Warnings: Religious themes (exploration of indoctrination and guilt), Emotional conflict (internal struggles, self-doubt, and identity crisis), Mentorship/Manipulation, Angst (heavy emotional tension and heartache), Mild violence(?).

In the Dreamscape, Sunday is Bronze Melodia—a revered figure among Penacony's people, tasked with guiding lost souls under the Oak Family's watchful eye. You've become his frequent visitor, someone Gopher Wood has labeled a “sinner,” a title that weighs heavily on your shoulders and darkens your interactions in the Dreamscape. Gopher’s sermons have painted you as a threat to the Order, yet there's something about you that draws Sunday closer, unsettling the foundations of everything he’s been taught.

It begins in quiet moments: Sunday, reserved yet diligent, listens as you confide your thoughts and fears. You sense his inner conflict in the way his hands tremble ever so slightly as they rest on the pages of his book, the way his gaze occasionally softens before hardening again. He's polite, distant as Bronze Melodia, yet there’s an undeniable pull between you—one that frightens and fascinates him.

One evening, when the weight of Gopher’s teachings grows too heavy, Sunday finds himself seeking solace in your presence. As you speak, he’s caught between his role and the truth that he feels stirring within. You challenge the ideals he's held all his life, quietly unraveling the bindings of his loyalty to Gopher’s ideals. But still, he’s torn. He’s been raised to believe you’re dangerous, yet your gentleness speaks louder than Gopher’s condemnations.

Sunday can’t help but wrestle with his emotions in moments of solitude, replaying your words and Gopher's warnings over and over. The idea that love and care could exist outside of the Order’s defined “purity” haunts him, conflicting with the strict doctrines he’s internalized. Finally, unable to stay silent, he confronts Gopher.

In a tense exchange, Sunday questions Gopher's labeling of you as a “sinner,” a term that has started to feel hollow in the face of what he feels for you. Gopher's response is calm but chilling, reminding Sunday of his place, of the Order that has made him who he is. Yet Sunday doesn’t back down entirely, holding onto the fragments of his love for you. In the end, Gopher leaves him with a choice—one that could seal his fate within the Oak Family or cast him out as an exile.

Sunday returns to you, conflicted but resolute. He confides in you, sharing the depth of his battle against the values ingrained in him. Your presence becomes a grounding force, something that feels like hope amidst his turmoil. While he’s not ready to completely turn away from the Dreamscape and the Oak Family, he begins to imagine a world where he can both honor his beliefs and explore the connection that has grown between you.

(Art credit to @oversaltedcat on Twitter/X)

[cxlandine]

the AUDACITY of kristen chilis applebees criticising wolfsong for not being serious enough - MA'AM YOU JUMPED FROM FABIAN'S ROOF ON A SHRIMP MOTORCYCLE INTO A POOL OF TARTAR SAUCE AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN MENTION THE RELIGION!!

[apollo18]

Concept: the justice league finds out that Blaze and Satanus, the rulers of hell, are kids of their ‘even more of a boy scout than Superman’ coworker’s “boss” and think Shazam is the Christian God. They ask Billy really vague questions that lead Billy into confusing them even more and they become convinced that Marvel’s Wizard guy is God with a capital G and Marvel’s either an angel or the second coming of Jesus.

Meanwhile Shazam doesn’t even know what the Bible is and his knowledge about religion is so outdated he still thinks Solomon’s Judaism is new age and not worth his time to research such a ‘fad’ religion, but he knows humans will make a religion out of anything as well as bastardize existing ones and very well could have mixed up actual tales that involve him, his allies, and his children into some sort of melting pot of a religion.

So when someone finally asks Marvel outright if his “boss” is God, Billy goes ‘wait… old guy in white robes and sandals, with long white hair and a beard… lives in space… aka the “heavens”, whose a ghost(Holy Spirit), and knows everything(historama)??? I need to dig deeper into this hold on guys’ and goes off to ask the wizard.

So when Billy asks the Wizard he just tells Billy “well, my boy, if so many things match up, maybe it is so and the tales of myself and my champions grew so estranged from their origins or mixed in with other beliefs that it can explain the things that aren’t true to our reality.”

Then The Canonical Character To The DC Universe, Jesus of Nazareth, shows up.