#sins of goliath

[cadenreigns]

Sins of Goliath chapter 19 is up on AO3, it was a big chapter so extra art.

[whitewaterpaper]

Jag läste Trollkarlen från Oz nyligen. Och det måste ju givetvis firas med att se om minst Judy Garlands klassiker och favoriten Return to Oz. En månad till då jag sett en film släppt i år!

Aladdins äventyr / A Thousand and One Nights (1945) [__]

Anti Matter (2016) [__]

Gamma People, the (1956) [20241003]

Goliath and the Sins of Babylon / Maciste, l'eroe Più Grande del Mondo (1963) [__]

Guldhöken / Golden Hawk, the (1952) [__]

Hocus Pocus (1993) [👍🔁]

Hocus Pocus 2 (2022) [👍🔁]

Killer Klowns from Outer Space (1988) [👍🔁]

Meander / Méandre (2020) [👍]

No Way Up (2024) [👍]

Oz: En Fantastisk Värld / Return to Oz (1985) [👍🔁]

Trollkarlen från Oz / Wizard of Oz, the (1939) [👍🔁]

Varulven i London / She-Wolf of London (1946) [__]

Anti Matter en en film som avgjort kommer med potential, synd att regissören inte riktigt nådde hela vägen och presentera storyn på ett intressant sätt. Ge annars franska filmen Meander en chans – den var riktigt sevärd.

[movieposters1]

[thinkingonscripture]

King David: An OT Example of Submission to God

David provides a good example of an OT believer who lived in regular submission to God. The Bible describes David as a man after God’s own heart (1 Sam 13:14; cf. Acts 13:22). David walked faithfully with the Lord and surrendered to His will. David was an obedient king, for the most part, and subsequent kings were measured by him (1 Ki 3:14; 9:4-5; 11:4-6, 31-34, 38; 14:7-8; 15:1-5; 11-15; 2 Ki…

[redkoi1]

Nephilim, mentioned as Giants in the Bible who fell from the heavens and gave man knowledge to advance their technology, weaponry, and science in exchange for Homosapien women. The women bore the Nephilim's children and they died during childbirth. I've read they have 6 fingers. No man alie today can wield that.

and so he didn't come back...

fucking gnarly i just noticed the arrowhead-hilt that's ferocious af DEMACIA!!! #ArmorPen

[...] >"pebble-rape"(in reference to getting stoned to death) [*everybody's losing it] > v

>collectively delving into what was instantly coined as "rape-ology" >Brick rape beats ear-rape >well that one's obvious

>#CockPaperScissors (eww😂) poggers >S for P >mmwait >R for P >what's Saper? [thinking emoji.]

>uhh. 🧟 #NoHomo #ButIThinkImOntoSomething

[kdmiller55]

The Self-Delusion of Self-Preservation

1 Now the Philistines had gathered all their forces at Aphek. And the Israelites were encamped by the spring that is in Jezreel. 2 As the lords of the Philistines were passing on by hundreds and by thousands, and David and his men were passing on in the rear with Achish, 3 the commanders of the Philistines said, “What are these Hebrews doing here?” And Achish said to the commanders of the…

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Guileless

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Masterlist

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: thanks to those who waited on this one!.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

It should be the happiest time in your life. You should be elated, and yet, as ever it is, every victory precedes a treacherous defeat. A proposal one day, and despair the next. That nipping of doom in your gut, that ever present doubt, is made certain by the passage of time. It has been much too long. 

You sit in the pews, throat tight as you keep your chin locked. You breathe slowly, as if too sudden an intake might unleash the tempest brewing inside of you. It is more than nerves, you know it, that sicken you so. You should be happy for your pending nuptials but you are only horrified at the thought. 

The bishop reads out the banns before the rows; the first for yourself, the third for your sister. She will be permitted to wed and your mother has presided over much of planning already. You dip your head as your name rings out beside Lord Odinson’s and you swallow back a swell of bile. You’ve been gulping down your own stomach for much of the morning, ever since you caught a whiff of pickled shallots in passing the kitchens. 

You push your head up and your hand down to your lap, knowing you will be observed. You must at least look certain of your fate. You must sit proud for the engagement all would put into question. For the time until it shall all dissolve, you must play your part. 

You can barely keep from wilting where you are. A prudent woman might bite her tongue. She may commit to the theatre of it all. She might lie and get away with the folly. You glance over at Lord Odinson, just across the aisle, and you know you cannot. It isn’t one lie, it’s a lifetimes’ worth of betrayal. 

Yet how should you tell it? It isn’t only him who must know. Your father would need good reason why you’d rather the convent to a proper marriage. You will be ruined but you could not put that stain upon the only person who was ever kind to you. Lord Odinson deserves an honest wife and a child of his own. 

Your insides sour and you nearly spasm as you fight the tide of nausea, brought upon by more than your forsaken condition. Your eyes trail away from your betrothed to another man bound in promise. Lord Rogers sits with your sister, as ever, and she leans on him shamelessly, even beneath the Lord’s rafters. 

She would deny it. She would laugh in your face should you ever reveal the absolute truth. No, you must confess the sin as your own and that alone. You will not name the culprit for they would they never believe you and he would never admit it himself. 

Yet, you know that the Duke Rogers will ever be triumphant in knowing that he has brought the monstrous giant to her knees. You are his Goliath, the vile retched creature he has slain in his valour. He will be hero and you be the villain. 

💟

You hand the letter to the carrier just before noon. You don’t expect an audience to be granted until the next morning at earliest. Lord Odinson is a busy man; an ambassador in much demand between the house and society. Even his betrothed must request his presence. 

The cart rattles through the gates and you watch it fade off into the grim horizon. The winter bites in the air, adding to the chill in your bones. That coldness that freeze over your heart. You must be strong now, as strong as the valkyrie he misnamed you as. 

When you go to Lord Odinson, you will bring the crown to him. You will hand it back and admit your tainted stature to him. You will show him how truly small you are.  

At least, that is what you intend. You may prove yourself weak as ever. However it should unfold, this engagement cannot persist. 

“A day! A day and I shall call you husband,” Cora’s shrill tone greets you as you come through the front doors. She is in the sitting room with Lord Rogers. Your mother continues to fawn over the last-minute details for their wedding. “Isn’t it very exciting, my lord?” 

“And I shall call you wife.” 

“And Duchess,” she preens with a trilling laugh, “oh, how elaborate I shall be.” 

“My Athena,” Rogers drones back, “my goddess, my beloved.” 

“Oh, how darling,” your mother preens over them, “it shall be resplendent. I’ve made certain the cake will be exactly as you like it, dearie. The cook has even procured some citrus for the lemonade.” 

The mention of lemonade makes you shrivel. You recall the sunny day when Lord Rogers spoke to you over a weeping beverage. As you fell for that virulent charm. And all that came after. 

You peer at the grim windows and frown. How everything does change so quickly. Happiness is fleeting and yet disappointment comes as a chronic plight. You will never know a day without shame. 

You flit off without notice. Your heart rents at the thought that you will not have the same fervour. You will not sit and plan your own wedding with Lord Odinson. All your fanciful dreams have evaporated. It is one thing to put a mask on, to pretend as virgin, but you could never foist a bastard upon the kind man who has shown you a taste happiness. You will be certain to thank him for all he’s done but you will not spit in his face. 

As you get to the bedroom doors, your stomach churns violently and you burst through, not stopping as you rush to the pot and fall to your knees. You wretch into it as your body contracts painfully. You empty your stomach until you are panting and hollow. 

“Sister,” Alina startles you as she rolls to the edge of the bed, a novel in hand, “is it a winter ague?” 

“I...” you shakily wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “I believe so.” 

That lie alone singes your tongue like a brand. Your eyes well with tears and you flick them away with your lashes. You sit back on your heels and heave out a pungent breath. 

“Oh, how awful, and just before the wedding,” she sits up and shuts the novel. “Let us pray it passes quickly. You needn’t delay your own nuptials.” 

“Mm, no, that wouldn’t be...” you let the sentence tail off and you stand, taking the pot with you, “I’ll dump it before it can stink.” 

“If you are unwell, call for the maid.” 

“No, it is fine,” you insist, “I didn’t mean to disturb your reading.” 

“You didn’t,” she insists. “What’s the matter, sissie? You hardly seem a lady about to marry.” 

“I...” you croak, “it is the ague, that’s all.” 

“Mm, perhaps Lord Odinson might offer some comfort should it get any worse. He does seem the character,” she offers. 

“Or perhaps he is better to stay away. You as well, should it pass onto anyone else,” you hold the pot to your stomach and turn, carrying it out without another word. Albina huffs and falls back onto the bed, the flutter of pages following shortly after. 

You descend and keep along the wall, passing through the kitchens and beyond the servants’ quarters to the rear of the manse. You come out into the crisp air and overturn the pot well away from the house. A wave of dizziness washes over you, silver spots dotting your vision. Perhaps it is an ague. Oh how you wish it were. 

You set the pot down as you grasp at some stability. You stand and wipe your clammy forehead. Your hand drifts down to your bodice and you let it venture further. You try to feel your stomach through the layers. It is tauter than it once was but no rounder. Not as yet. 

You sit on a low stump, the seat the stabler uses to shoe the horses. You let the frigid air seep through your dress and stare at the grey clouds that blot out the sun. You hold your chin, elbows on your legs, hunched over as you let the stagnancy of that moment swallow you. 

For a moment, you believe that you can make time stand still. That you might stretch on this fantasy a little longer. That a single second might be spent into an eternity. You shake your head and close your eyes as your cheeks tingle with the cold. 

You try to picture the convent. You imagine dark halls and darker mornings. Prayers and repentance filling the days and keeping wakeless the nights. Would the nuns even accept a ruined soul like yours? 

“Miss,” Mary, the broom girl, stands along the path back to the house, “you have a caller.” 

You sit up and blink, a caller? How long have you been there? You shiver and rise, towering over the young servant like the mottled forest creature of wives tales. You nod and stride past her, rubbing your arms to warm yourself as you return to the house. 

It cannot be him. Not already. You’re not prepared. It has been all you can think of and yet you are wholly unready for it. 

You carry on inside and come into the main hall. Lord Odinson waits, your mother chittering at his elbow as Lord Rogers and Cora stand in the archway to the west wing. 

“You will be at the wedding tomorrow? We did not receive your response sir,” your mother pleads as she tugs his sleeve. 

“Ah, yes, did I not give it?” Odinson says coolly, “certainly I will come with some Asgardian ale to christen the blissful newlyweds.” 

“And we thank you for such generosity,” Cora coos. 

“I’m certain refreshments will be plenty,” Lord Rogers deflects. 

“Ah,” Lord Odinson’s attention is drawn by your emergence from behind the staircase, “my valkyrie, you called for me and I am here.” 

“I... you have come so... swiftly,” you remark, your voice teetering. 

“Of course,” he assures as he crosses the polished floor, “as ever I will for my beloved.” He approaches and takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles, “you are like ice,” he feels your hands and covers them with his gloved ones, “are you ill?” 

“No, uh, yes, no,” you stammer, “sir, I only meant... I only thought to speak with you.” 

“I do cherish the tenor of your sweet voice, lady, I would ride so fast as I might to hear it,” he assures. 

“You rode... all this way, my lord?” 

“I do prefer to be in a saddle,” he affirms, “so, shall we converse? Perhaps we might have some tea to warm you, my valkyrie.” 

“Please,” you cringe, wishing he would quit his honeyed words, “I do not require it. Perhaps somewhere private...” 

“With chaperone of course,” your mother insists. You blanch but do your best not to show your unease. “Pollo! Pollo!” She claps, “forgive me I will not be able to do so myself as I have much to attend to for the morrow, but we have a groom here... Pollo!” 

She cries out and the dark-haired man appears. The old groom has a round belly and wine-reddened cheeks. He doesn’t speak more than Italian but he is steadfast in his service. Your mother bids him, pointing at you, then shoos him with a flick of her fingers. 

He shrugs and bows his head, nearing you and the duke. You peer over at your sister and Lord Rogers as they watch. The former stares at your betrothed as he clings still to your hands and the latter narrows his eyes in your direction. Just the sight of him makes you even more sick than before. Of any, he cannot know though you expect should Cora find out, it will not be a secret. 

“The sun room, perhaps,” Odinson suggests. 

“As you wish,” you agree. 

He offers his arms and you accept it. He guides you along, well-acquainted to the halls already, and takes you around to the sun room. The curtains are closed and the space is dim with the shadow of winter. The groom claims the armchair in the corner, making it groan with his weight, as another servant follows to light a lamp and put flint to the fireplace. 

When all is lit, you detach from Odinson and retreat from him. You mash your hands together and sway, spinning back to face him as he watches you intently. He seems unbothered by the spontaneity of it all. 

“You missed me? I have longed to see you again,” he beams. 

“Please,” you show your palms, “please, I... we must speak.” 

“Of? Name anything and it shall be yours. As my wife, you will never want for anything, valkyrie.” 

You wince as if struck. You drop your arms and your head. You stalk over to the bench that looks toward the window and sit, slumped forward as you shake your head. He approaches as he lets out a long exhale. He sits beside you. 

“Something is amiss. Forgive me for making light, I came upon mistaken sentiment,” his voice is grave, “you have something to say and I must listen. As ever, I am the storm but these winds have calmed.” 

You rock and another hot tinge settles behind your eyes. You roll them up and sit straight. You crane to see over your shoulder. Rollo’s eyes are closed as he’s halfway to sleeping. It is propriety alone that has him sat in that chair. 

You look ahead once more, “I cannot marry you.” 

He sucks in air and snorts, “what?” 

“I cannot—it cannot—I'm sorry, Lord Odinson.” 

“Why ever should you change your mind? The banns are read and will be again,” he touches your arm and you shy away. 

“You deserve... better.” 

“I deserve you,” he insists. 

“Please, sir, let me find the words,” you beg touch your temples as you try to rein in your wits. You close your eyes and shudder. 

“You are cold still, perhaps you might move closer to the fire--” 

“It hardly matters,” you lower your hands and clutch them tight.  

You make yourself look at him. You must. He warrants at least the truth told to his face and not the floor. His blue eyes twinkle as his usually bright face is stern. 

“I am...” you take a breath and struggle to let it back out as the words burn the tip of your tongue, “I... am with... child.” 

You choke out the last word and nearly faint. You stare at him, waiting for him to explode. You mightn’t even have a say in who knows should he speak too loudly. His eyes search yours and he blinks. He turns his face down and looks at his lap, gripping his thighs as he nods and hums. 

“That’s wonderful,” he says. 

“Pardon?” 

“Yes, it’s wonderful. We’ll have a child.” 

“Sir, I—we haven’t... it is another man’s,” you feel as if you shouldn’t have to explain this. 

“Why certainly he put it there, yes, but I would claim it,” he faces you again. 

Your eyes round, “why should you do that? That isn’t... proper. I am not proper, sir. I am telling you that I have been... corrupted. I should never have said yes.” 

“But you did.” 

“You needn’t-- it isn’t fair.” 

“Perhaps it isn’t fair that you should have to carry the cad’s seed,” he agrees, “for any many who would lay with a lady and not seek her hand, well, he can be nothing else.” 

You’re quiet as disbelief clouds around you. He can’t possibly mean it. He must be in shock. Certainly, he wouldn’t just accept another’s child. 

“Sir, you shouldn’t-- you shouldn’t do this. I am releasing you.” 

“I don’t want to be released,” he says sullenly. 

“Why? Why would you do this?” You ask. 

“I meant all I said to you, from the first breath, my valkyrie,” he proclaims. “And I mean it still.” 

“But, sir, you cannot—I cannot live with myself--” 

“You are honourable. Honest. You have told me this when you did not need to. When you could’ve claimed an early birth, when you could have kept quiet, yet you did not. That says more than a fleeting tryst. For that’s what it was, yes? Or do you lay with this man still?” 

You shake your head and look down at your fingers as you twists them until they hurt, “just once. Only once. It was... unplanned. It wasn’t...” your voice cracks. 

His chest inflates with a sonorous breath, “did you want it?” 

“Pardon?” You murmur. 

“Unplanned... did you... was it... your tryst, was it willing?” 

You put your fist to your mouth and sob. You can’t say it. You won’t. You replay it in your head every night and you think of how you told him to stop and yet you did not stop him. You should have fought more. You should have screamed. 

“I didn’t make him stop,” you eke around your hand. 

“Make him? Did you ask him to begin?” 

“Please, sir, I cannot—please just end this and I will ask my father for the convent once more. I cannot bring this shame on you.” 

“Shame? Shame is the man, if I should call him that, who has done this,” he snarls and reaches for you, taking your hand. “I swore you would be my wife and I will hold to that. As you swore to be my wife. We will see the altar together. As one.” 

“You do not have to--” 

“I want to,” he growls and you look up at his angry face. You’ve never seen such fury in him. “I have never done anything but by my own whim and will not change that now.” 

“You are too nice, sir. Too nice, I cannot ask it--” 

“Who?” He sneers. 

“Sir?” 

“Who has done this to you?” 

“I cannot--” 

“I should know.” 

“No, please, I wouldn’t-- it would be my ruin--” 

“No, it would be his and you protect him still, so tell me.” 

“No, no I will not. That I cannot tell you, sir. To say it would defeat me completely.” 

He sighs into a snarls and lowers his chin. He sounds like a simmering bull, readying for the charge. You tug on your hand but he will not release you. You relent and let him cling to you. 

Silence, suffocating and still.  

“My brother was an orphan. We took him in when he was young. He is a duke, same as me, now,” he declares as he squares his posture. “You wouldn’t know the difference. And I won’t. Not between this child and our next.” 

“Sir, surely--” 

“We are to have a child,” he says, “that is happy news and I thank you for bringing me here to hear it.” He pets your hand and leans his arm against yours. He brings your fingers up to your mouth and kisses them, “one day, I will know who the culprit is and on that, I will surely split his skull. Not for his bastard, for that child has no sin, but for your honour, lady. For my wife’s honour.” 

💟

Cora’s wedding to Lord Rogers culminates in a grand luncheon. The bride is a beautiful mist of tears as she accepts the well wishes of her guests. She basks in the attention as you gladly languish in the shadows. 

Despite Lord Odinson’s unexpected and reassuring reaction, you’re still uncertain. You don’t know if he’s keeping a good face on until he knows how to act, perhaps renegs his grace, or if you might come to pay for your discretion later in your union. You’re prepared to meet your atonement, however it comes. 

As you sit for the meal, the chair beside you is claimed almost at once. Your betrothed has appeared throughout the event but you’ve hardly been at his side. Each time you see him, his eyes skim the crowd as if he can see right through every one of them. Yet, when he looks at you, you feel only warmth. You don’t understand how he can look at you as such. 

“How do you fare, today, my valkyrie?” He asks as he straightens his cravat, “you look well.” 

“Good, I think.” 

“Glad to hear it,” he raises his glass for a servant to fill it with sherry. You opt for lemon water, as much as your tumultuous stomach can handle. 

“I thought we might have our own reception at Nine Pillars,” he suggests. 

“I would like that,” you agree, your eyes drifting beyond him, to your father’s gardens, where... “whatever you may offer, I will be grateful for.” 

“Mighty valkyrie, full of grace,” he praises and reaches for a platter, “ooh, they have some sweet ham here with pineapple.” 

He takes a helping and puts it on your plate. You smell the tangy fruit and the underline savoury waft of the meat. You lurch and grasp the edge of the table. You give a panicked look to Odinson as he peers down at the food. He switches your plates out swiftly. 

“Tell me, what are you in the mind for then?” He leans in so his arm touches yours as you sip from the lemon water to quell your stomach. “Valkyrie, give me your command and I will obey.” 

You give him a coy grin, “you can be so silly.” 

“Silly. Mad. All for love,” he assures you.  

“Is their anything dry?” You ask, “bread, perhaps.” 

“Sourdough,” he reaches to take the basket as others help themselves to the spread. 

“I’ll have some of that.” 

“With marmalade?” He offers.  

“No,” your face pinches at the thought, “no, bread will do.” 

You blink and shake of another tide of sickness. As you do, your eyes meet another pair further down the table, amid the rabble of voices. Lord Rogers tilts his head as Cora tugs on his sleeve and giggles up at the couple behind them. He hardly seems to notice as he stares you down. 

You go rigid and quickly look away. You touch Odinson’s arm to keep from panicking. He looks at you, then down the table. He doesn’t say anything, merely carves off a chunk of bread for you. 

You pick away at the hard crust and the dry spongey inside. You take small bites, cautious of upsetting your volatile stomach. The afternoon wears on, course after course, and you avoid those dishes which threaten to overthrow your restraint. 

At last, the cake is serves, a tiered sponge with cream and fruit and candied sugar spun in a facsimile fountain atop it. It’s splended and beautiful. The couple are served first as they smiles in delight. The doling out of servings takes some time as guests wait patiently for their turn and the cake is pushed on a cart from chair to chair. 

When it comes your turn, your name rises over the crowd. You sit up and glance over, relieved at least not to watch the layers of custard and cake hit your plate. Lord Rogers has his hand on the back of his wife’s chair. 

“And how do you like the dessert? I believe you’ve been saving space for it all day, eh?” He chirps. 

You angle your head in confusion. You look down then at Odinson who sits a little taller as he leans forward. 

“You’ve hardly indulged, so I hope you might show your support and delight in this delectable dessert,” Rogers taunts. “A wedding is no place for a sour face.” 

Your lips part. You’re stunned. How could he be so bold as to call you out? Among all his guests and he must torment you. Was one night not enough. Your whole life as his violation thrives within your womb. Lord Odinson subtly touches your elbows. 

“I am most happy for you and my sister,” you rebuff, “and you are correct, I’ve been in much anticipation for dessert.” 

You take your fork and scoop up a heaping mouthful. You smile at it even as your insides rage. You make yourself taste it. It’s so sweet and smooth and wonderful, but your stomach mulches as if it is rubbish. Your cheeks tremble and you swallow, nearly gagging. 

“To you, sir, and my sister, Cora, I wish a happy marriage,” you force out as you hide your mouth behind a handkerchief. 

“To the happy couple,” Lord Odinson raises his glass and the table erupts, at once, the attention shifted back to them. 

You brace his arm and squeeze. You fight but you cannot withhold the uproar within. You stand and rush away, frantically searching for somewhere to hide and spew your guts. 

💟

The days overcome your doubts. The weeks come with more affectations; your sickness ebbs and flows and the temperature feels at times hotter then colder, swaying back forth, while some moments you spend with a throbbing head and pulsing feet. The most obvious symptom of your condition is the tightness of your stay. Soon, you will be showing more than you like, but for now, loosened laces can ease your discomfort. 

Your wedding day fast approaches. Time does seem to defy any human whim. You wish it would slow so you could catch your breath. Much like your husband-to-be who has yet to falter in his affections. 

You sit before the mirror with the grown of silver petals in your lap. There is one still bent from Cora’s envy but you will keep it to the back of your head. You will wear it as proudly as that night Lord Odinson gifted it to you. You hope for the day you might both forget all else. 

If it is to be. If he is at the altar waiting still. 

Albina and Hannah take the crown from you and secure it among your styled locks. Albina smiles at your reflection as Hannah jabs you with a pin. You nervously wring your hands as you admire the lavender shade of your gown. You wish you’d had more of it, that you hadn’t needed to trim it in ivory to make up for your height. Still, it is beautiful and the nicest dress you’ve ever worn. 

“Are you nervous?” Albina asks. 

“Suppose,” you admit and lift your chin, “very, truly.” Though not for the reason she might think. 

“Lord Odinson is kind. He should be gentle,” Hannah says. 

Your cheeks tinge at her suggestion, “sister.” 

“Well, it is what we are all thinking, isn’t it?” She shrugs. 

“I hope I do not find a husband so soon,” Albina adds, “I would like to enjoy my books a little longer.” 

“You might take on the spinster’s mantel then,” Hannah snipes. 

“It shouldn’t be so bad,” you murmur. “Every woman must do it. Eventually. It cannot be so horrible.” 

You lower your head again, trying to hide the emotion battling in your chest. It was bad, that first time. Lord Rogers hadn’t been kind at all. Would Lord Odinson be any different? For Rogers seemed kind at first glance only to be cruel upon touch. 

What if you husband did not want to meet his duty? What if he could not knowing you had lain with another? You would not blame him and without consummation, he might still turn you away. 

“Cora said it was more painful than anything she’s ever felt,” Hannah undercuts your dread. “Though she still loves her husband well.” 

“You shouldn’t speak of that,” you gird. 

“Why not? Won’t you tell us how it is so we may be ready?” She challenges. 

“I... I... It’s rather strange to speak of it.” 

“You are strange,” Hannah retorts with a huff. 

“But pretty,” Albina chimes, “look at you, sissie. You truly look like a queen in that crown.” 

You meet the gaze of your reflection. You do look better than you ever have before. You wonder if they notice the new fullness in your cheeks. If they do, they don’t mention it. You take a deep breath. 

“I shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer,” you stand.  

If you wait any longer, you might lose your nerve. 

The bishop waits in the grand hall of Nine Pillars as you emerge from the rooms allotted for your preparations. The crowd stands among the columns and hushes as you appear at the end of the hall. You face the clergy man and for an instant, your heart dangles precariously, ready to plummet.  

Where is Lord Odinson? 

His golden head pops up beside the bishop and he fixes the flower tucked into his lapel. His long blond hair is draw back as a scarlet bow holds it back, its ears peeking out behind his nape. He is smiling as he pauses and his eyes meet yours across the space. 

You can see even from there how his features slacken and for a moment, you are breathless. He looks as stricken. You put one foot down and let your long legs carry you. 

All your doubts float away. The faces around you haze together and the world crumbles to dust. It's only you and that man.  

💟

The ceremony gives way to a soiree, bodies clustered together, partners dancing, and you among them. Your husband, a husband, has your hand in his as he leads you in the steps. This man, this wonderful forgiving man you vowed yourself too nearly sweeps you off your feet, a sensation you've never known before. 

Your cheer blooms from you as his cheeks flush in his excess. He barely pauses to receive kind words from his guest. His elation is contagious. It gives no way to your fears. 

"Do you know what I thought upon the altar, beautiful valkyrie," he purrs, "I nearly fell upon my knees even." 

"What?" You smile, glowing up at him. 

"That the gods did bless me. That you must be sent from them, a gift to me, mere mortal." 

You can't help but pat his chest, "you flatter." 

"You are too modest," he guides you along, "you are a statue come too life, art in the flesh." 

"My husband... you words are too sweet." 

"I know, I know, the wedding night is still ahead of us, I do run too fast," he chuckles, "but how can I help the anticipation? 

Your lashes flick and giggle, "husband." 

"That word has never sounded sweeter," he grins, "but a sweeter noise might be my own name. Say it for me, valkyrie." 

Your cheeks burn hot, "Thor?" 

"Delicious," he growls nearly baring his teeth, "and I shall savour every sound you make. Every moan and mewl. Every breath and laugh. Just as every part of you." 

It's too good to be true. You deign to let yourself feel it all but you must. If even only for tonight. If only for the next moment. You will have a morsel of happiness if it's all you have to chew on for the rest of your life. 

💟

The night wears on and so do you. Your feet ache, as does most of you, and your voice is raw from laughing and talking. It is the first that you ever spent an event not along the wall or hiding in some shadow. It is a night all your own, or so your husband has made it feel. 

Yet, he does not tire. Not as quickly. As he booms and bawls to the amusement of all, you cling to his arm and repress a yawn. You will not spoil his fun, you will persist. 

Still, you cannot ignore all urges of your humanity. You press a hand to his sleeve and excuse yourself, promising to return. Your husband pauses to bid you not be long and you're further abashed at his attention. 

You flit off to find the privy. You've been several times over the day. Your bladder swells no matter how little you drink. As you progress, you find your body is contradictory to your mind. 

You venture down the corridor and sweep into the room. Once relieved, you emerge feeling lighter but no less tired. The silent desolation of the corridor rather makes your exhaustion all the more potent. 

You turn towards the statue of a warrior, you recognise it, it is the means by which you've found your way. Before you can pass it, a figure appears from behind it and you falter in your slippers. 

You gasp and ball your hands, the man before you sending a ripple of horror through you as he smirks at your surprise. Lord Rogers' cheek dimples as he quorks his head like a cynical crow. 

"You are ever a creature of urges," he muses, "fluttering back and forth as a skittish bird." 

"My lord, I... what is the meaning--" 

"I'm afraid we've not had much of a chance to speak, have we? The blushing bride is much a titter," he chortles, "she has the gull to giggle like a maiden, even." 

"Lord Rogers," you utter, appalled. 

"But the sway of her hips do betray her true nature. That which is within her," he sneers, "as does the curdling of her face over any dish that tickles her nose." 

"Sir, I know not what you mean--" 

"I should laugh truly, to know that another will raise my bastard," he taunts, "that it is him, does entertain me more." He takes a step forward and you back, "so you will be certain to lay with him this night so he may believe he has vigour." He grabs your arms before you can elude him, "you will think of me, won't you, Athena, my fallen goddess? Of how I desecrated your--" 

Suddenly, you are staggered. Lord Rogers is swung backward and flung into the statue. There's a roar, tha same noise you would expect of a charging bear, and the flash of scarlet. You watch paralysed as Thor grabs Lord Rogers by his jacket and spins him, throwing him into the other wall. 

The smaller of the men, though they are both built well, slides to one knee, his hand on the plaster. The other is quick, wasting not a second before aims a foot into Rogers' stomach. The duke falls backward and is at once straddled beneath the larger. 

Thor lays blows upon the other man, hailing down on him like the tempest he claims himself. Your fear overflows and you push through the thick waves. You come forward numbly and pull your husband by the back of his collar.  

"Please sir, unhand him." 

"You would defend this animal!" He wails down another fist and growls. 

"No, no, I would not spare him but I would... I would have my husband not take me to my wedding night with bloodied knuckles. Thor," you pet the back of his head, "let this be a happy day. Please." 

He sits back on his heels and puffs out. He looks back at you as you step away. You put your hand to your middle.  

"Husband?" 

He snarls and spits on Lord Rogers, standing with a huff. You reach for his hand and he takes it. He squeezes as he sends one last kick of his toe to the man on the floor. 

"Let me save my strength for you, wife. I certainly would need it." 

[doomhands-jr]

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 7

Pairing: Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, religious guilt, mentions of religious trauma, mentions of masturbation. Mentions of anti-choice propaganda.

Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds

Authors note: Maybe grab a cup of tea for this one.

_________

Noah Davis didn’t like to think of his actions in terms of morality. He understood that right and wrong were subjective. That life didn’t exist in binaries of good vs. evil, and that things like virtue and righteousness weren’t so easily defined. 

That didn’t mean there weren’t some steadfast rules he followed: 

Do his best to act in a way that aligns with his internal moral compass

Reduce harm much as possible

Do what’s best for the collective, while still keeping his best interests in mind

That line of thinking has served him well over the course of his lifetime. He’d freed himself from moral obligations and had done what he truly felt was best, and in doing so, he was able to walk through life with his head held high, standing by his actions. 

The idea that some of his behavior was sinful had not entered his mind since he formally left the church. 

But now, as he laid in bed, recovering from the tsunami of brain chemicals that just flooded his system, he felt like a sinner . 

The sin coursed through his body, sick and bittersweet. It flowed through his veins, infecting his cells and rotting his bones like a poison. Like a drug. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, clammy palm meeting clammy forehead, cock still twitching with the aftershock. 

He’d expected you to put up more of a fight. He’d banked on you shutting him down, batting him away and telling him to behave himself, but you’d walked so willingly into his snare, so eager and needy, offering up yourself on a platter with almost no hesitation. 

It was a vile thing that you brought out of Noah. An ugly, profane creature that lurked in the shadows of his soul. He’d been aware of its existence in his periphery. It had been a sleeping beast. One he’d hoped he’d never have to contend with. 

But now? It had taken its first shuddering breath, and with it, thrown down its gauntlet. Its demand? You—not as a partner, but as a sacrifice. Sprawled out on an altar for it to consume and defile. To claim for the sake of hubris. 

Noah longed to find a way to cleanse himself—confess his sins and pray the rosary. Baptize himself in holy water. Take communion and walk forth a forgiven man. Would that be enough? 

War had been waged within Noah, and the odds were stacked against him. He was David, standing at the feet of Goliath. Jonah, staring down the gullet of the whale. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and the image of you at the apex of pleasure flashed across his vision. You’d made that offering to him. It was sacred. He’d cherish it for the rest of his life.  

_______

Noah had no holy water available to him to wash his sins away. He did have a hot shower, though, and at least that was a start. 

Turning on the water, he allowed the steam to gather in clouds around his bathroom. His skin had grown sticky with sweat, and his shoulders ached. As soon as he stepped under the spray, the tension began to dissipate. 

He pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall and allowed the stream to trickle down his back. 

He had a duty to himself—and to you. There was no denying his affection for you, but therein lied a glaring problem: you were ready for more. You deserved more. You deserved to push past these boundaries of purity and explore who you were outside of faith, and that made you vulnerable. Because whatever sickness lived inside Noah was itching to exploit that vulnerability. Not for your benefit, but for its own.

“Help me figure this out,” he whispered against the shower wall. It was a prayer in the most ironic sense. He wasn’t sure if he even believed in what he was praying to, but without any other ideas, it felt like the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m afraid.” 

He received nothing but silence in response. 

He scoffed at his own actions. What did he expect? Divine understanding? 

He grabbed the soap, lathering it up before scrubbing it over his disgusting, unclean body. Why did he even bother? He learned long ago that nobody was going to save him but himself. If he wanted his demons to die, he’d have to be the one to kill them. 

________

On a snowy Sunday morning, Noah didn’t have a church to attend, but he did have a pair of work boots, a heavy coat, and a trail through the woods that allowed him to commune with nature. 

He also had a pre-roll he stole from Nick, which he cupped against his jacket to light. It took a few tries. The wind wasn’t biting, but it was present, and it flickered the flame in his lighter. He eventually got it lit though, and he took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs and waiting for it to take effect. 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he closed his eyes to focus on the high setting in. His body began to lift, a warm, cloudy, hollow feeling expanding out from his chest to his limbs, and ten minutes later, the joint was spent and Noah was intricately connected to the forest around him.

He walked on the trail, delighting in the way the frozen leaves crunched under his boots. He forgot his gloves again, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked. 

You were probably in church right now. Might even be on stage leading the praise and worship music alongside Isaac, where you were safe. 

No, that wasn’t true. You deserved more than the life you’d find within the church. If you stayed put, you’d eventually find yourself on the arm of some 30-something with a trust fund and a perfect attendance record at Sunday school. You’d have to hide who you were from society, pretending to fit in where you didn’t belong. 

Noah dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He wanted you to have more than that, but he wasn’t the right person to give it to you. At least not in his current state. 

Giving up the idea of you was painful, yes. But it also gave him time to figure out how to contend with the ugly parts of himself. If he could let go of his desire for you, then he wouldn’t have to risk that part of him taking over. He could lock it back into the cage he’s kept it in for so many years and continue on in life as if nothing had ever happened. 

He’d never have to know that hunger again. 

He breathed in deep, allowing the frigid air to sting his lungs and throat. It wasn’t painful enough for him. He needed to toil and sweat and suffer to repent for his sins. He picked up his pace, letting his feet fall heavy onto the ground. Within a few minutes, his heart rate sped up, lungs stretching to accommodate his increased need for oxygen. All systems firing to pump fresh blood through his body. 

That helped. Maybe he could sweat the fever out. Force the toxicity to exit through carbon dioxide and leave it as an offering to the forest so it can convert it back to oxygen. 

He broke out into a run, thinking back to the time he caught you running in the rain and wondering if you’d been seeking the same energetic cleanse. 

You’d cried in his arms that night. 

He slowed his pace, down from a run to a jog. 

It was the first time he’d noticed something wrong—the first time he sensed that his control was slipping. 

A stray root caught his foot and he fell hard to the ground, catching himself with his palms and knees. He stayed there for a moment to assess his body and see if any damage had occurred, and when he found none, he rolled onto his back and laid in the snow and mud, stretching his arms and legs to the side and creating a snow angel. 

The snow fell lightly, catching on his eyelashes. He stuck out his tongue, allowing the tiny flakes to melt upon contact and tasting the nothingness of it all. 

He closed his eyes, and he was thirteen again. A nude magazine lay open on his floor. He’d just finished masturbating for the third time that day. Sobbing, he grabbed the leather belt hanging over his desk chair and whipped himself across the back with it. Harder this time than last. Perhaps with enough pain, he would learn his lesson. 

He bunched a shirt up and stuffed it into his mouth, biting down hard to muffle himself as he wept. God surely wouldn’t forgive him again after this. He would be sent to hell for being so unclean. 

For months, he’d tried to break this disgusting habit, but it was to no avail. He was sick and perverted, and lacked the self-control he needed to resist temptation.  

He didn’t want to go to confessional. He didn’t want to have to hear his priest’s disappointed voice telling him to say ten hail-marys. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath in, noticing how the icy air stabbed at his lungs. He didn’t want to dwell too long on that memory. He could already feel his throat constricting. 

It wasn’t until he befriended Ruffilo that he realized he wasn’t uniquely perverted. Ruffilo hadn’t been raised in a church. He talked about porn as if it was something exciting, rather than shameful. He’d been the first one to bring up the subject of masturbation, making casual comments and jokes about how often he got himself off. 

Ruffilo’s world—a world without shame—had been a foreign concept to Noah. After being exposed to it, he realized that faith and freedom were mutually exclusive. There was no way to balance the two, so he chose freedom and never looked back. 

Noah’s fingers found a frozen leaf. He caressed the edges, feeling how smooth they were and remembered brushing bits of leaves off your coat that time you’d jumped in the leaf pile. He remembered how you gasped when his frigid hands ghosted over the nape of your neck. He could have cut the tension with a knife. 

He couldn’t go back to the church. There was too much pain there to revisit. He cut off that part of him a long time ago, back when believing in God meant engaging in his own self-destruction. 

Being with you meant dipping his toes back in the water of religion. You and faith were a package deal. He knew that. You weren’t going to give it up any time soon, and certainly not for him. 

He closed his eyes again and felt the sting of saltwater. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d done enough of that in his adolescence. But the feelings were there, and they weren’t going to let him off the hook without being felt. 

It was you or self-preservation.

He inhaled deeply and forced himself back up, turning to start the long trek back to town. A conversation needed to be had. 

________

There was no priest to whom he could confess his sins, but there was Folio, and late on a Sunday afternoon, he could be found stoned in his room. 

“I fucked up,” he announced, standing in the doorway.

Nick was on his bed, controller in his hands and headset on. From where Noah stood, he couldn’t see the screen, but he guessed his friend was mowing down enemies in Call of Duty. 

“In the middle of something,” he said. “Give me a few.” 

Noah invited himself into the room and sat in Nick’s desk chair, observing the décor. Nick decorated his walls with posters of women in various states of undress. Some of them were holding fish. Others were posed on top of cars. 

His fishing rod and tackle box rested in the corner next to his desk. An electric drum kit lined the far wall. Clothes were strewn about the room, along with drumsticks, food wrappers, and half-empty water bottles. A few cans of beer spilled out of the overfull trash can. On the nightstand sat an ashtray with the spent ends of several blunts stuffed in the center. 

Quite the confessional booth. 

“What’s up?” he said, taking his headset off and turning his attention to Noah. 

“I fucked up,” Noah repeated. 

Nick blinked twice, but made no other movement. “Okay,” he said. “In what way?” 

“You already know.” 

“The pastor’s daughter?” Nick guessed, tilting his head lower to stare at Noah through furrowed brows. “Did you fuck her?” His tone was accusatory, and deservedly so. 

Noah shook his head. “Not exactly.” 

Nick turned on his bed to face Noah head-on. “What did you do?” 

Noah deliberated over exactly how much to tell his friend. What happened between the two of you last night was private and he didn’t want to share your business with someone else unless you said it was okay, but he needed to get some things off his chest. 

“So,” he began, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I think I need to stay away from her for a while. I’ve got some stuff to sort out and until I do, I might hurt her.” 

Nick gave himself time to fully process what Noah had just said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his eyes drift away from Noah and relaxing his focus as he mulled it over. 

“You really care about her?” he asked. 

Noah nodded. 

“Want me to stay away from her, too?” It was an honest question, and Noah was suddenly struck with how much his friends cared about him. 

Noah squeezed and relaxed his hands a few times to increase circulation in his fingers. They were still cold from his walk. 

“No, actually. If anything, I think you’d be a really good influence for her. She could use someone like you.” 

Nick’s eyebrows pulled up in the center. He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you say that?” 

“She needs to have more fun,” he said. “She’s been repressed for a really long time and I think she’s ready to break out of that and live life.” 

Nick’s eyes went wide and he  pointed to his chest. “And you want me to be the one to help with that?” 

Noah didn’t want Nick to do that. The last thing he wanted was to see you enjoying yourself without him, but if it was between that and you staying miserable under the church’s influence, he at least wanted you to be happy. 

“I think you’d be good for her,” he said, working hard to make sure he didn’t sound bitter at all. 

“What if I fuck her?” he asked, his momentary sincerity seemingly over. 

Noah’s face dropped. “Don’t fuck her.” 

“But what if I do?” 

Noah clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together as he steadied himself. He knew Nick didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being himself and trying to rile Noah up, but Noah wasn’t about to give in. 

“Then make sure you’re on the same page with her about what it means. Don’t lead her on.” 

Nick chewed on his tongue. “Where is all this coming from?” He asked. “Why do you think you’ll hurt her?” 

“I guess,” Noah said, picking at a bit of dead skin on his lip, “It’s sort of just a gut feeling? I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s something in there that tells me I gotta sort myself out before I get involved with anyone.” 

Nick blinked up at his friend, softening. “I didn’t realize you were so serious about her.” 

“I don’t know what I feel,” said Noah. “I just need some time to figure that out.” 

“You okay?” he asked, hand coming up to scratch an itch at the back of his neck. 

Noah nodded. “I will be,” he said. It was true, he would be okay eventually. He was sure of that. He’d survived worse than this. He just needed to figure out what the best course of action would be. 

Nick’s eyes flicked back to the paused game on the screen. “So you’re saying it’s cool if I fuck her then?” he said. 

Nick could be a real asshole at times. He was abrasive by nature. Many found his personality overwhelming, but the ones who stuck around knew that he was an antagonist, not to be mean, but to challenge people—coax them out of their comfort zones and force them to confront their triggers. He wasn’t always right, and he often stuck his own foot in his mouth, but when he was right, he was so right, it made up for all the other times. 

This time, however, he used his skill to diffuse the tension. 

“Man, fuck you,” said Noah, slapping the ash tray off the end table. It tipped over sideways and spilled its contents onto Nick’s bed, coating his sheets with ash and spent roaches. 

“Bro!” Nick shouted, but Noah was already out of the room, hissing to himself with laughter, and Nick was too couch locked to chase him. 

________

“Noah said to tell you he’s sorry. He got called in for overtime again,” Nick said as he walked into the community center seven minutes late. 

Your heart sank. Not just because you wouldn’t get to see Noah, but because he could have easily texted this information to you himself. 

It was as you’d suspected. Noah was avoiding you.

Over the course of the week, you’d grown more and more stressed. Sunday was fine. You’d woken up feeling well rested, having dreamt of Noah throughout the night. At church, you couldn’t focus on any of the sermon because you were too consumed reliving the previous night. 

Monday came and went with no word from Noah. You thought for sure he would have texted you to say hi or check up on you. Some sort of acknowledgement that the dynamic between the two of you had shifted. But you’d also heard it was customary to wait three days. 

So you waited. 

By Wednesday, your patience had grown thin. You’d given him the benefit of the doubt, wondering if maybe he was nervous and waiting for you to reach out, so you had, sending him a casual hey . 

He never responded. You’d been checking your phone religiously over the course of the week, but it had been radio silence on his end. 

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” You kept a straight face and a steady voice while you spoke, but it took effort. “We’re supposed to be shoveling snow today but since there’s only us, I’m going to veto that.” 

Nick sighed in relief. “Thank god . I wasn’t built for the cold.” 

“Get inside,” you nodded towards the doors. “We’ll start with windows.” 

He offered up a salute and bounded through the doors, eager to escape the cold. 

As Nick got to work, you processed this information. 

Noah’s silence was deafening. 

Was this your punishment? Was God unhappy with your behavior and was this his way of letting you know? 

An element to this was fitting. This was the cost, you realized. This was the price you paid for giving into temptation. 

A bitter laugh escaped under your breath. 

Was the church right about everything? Was there a reason you shouldn’t fall into temptation? 

Maybe Hell did exist—and it wasn’t a lake of fire, but the absence of Heaven after you’d already tasted it.  

Even after everything, you probably would still have done it all over again if you had the opportunity. He’d introduced you to a part of yourself that had been dormant for a long time and for that, you were grateful. 

But the price was steep. 

Your biggest regret was that you hadn’t even gotten to touch him before it was all over. You felt so stupid. Why couldn’t you have held out a little longer? Resisted temptation until you had him fully within your grasp? 

But then again, perhaps the loss of him would be even more painful, wouldn’t it? 

You sighed and stretched your arms up, resting your forearms on your head as you observed Nick spraying down the windows with cleaner. 

You could get through this. It would be hard, but it was within your grasp. People have survived much worse. In the grand scheme of things, this heartache was minor. It would hurt for a while, but eventually you’d recover and life would go on. 

It was just a matter of getting to the other side. 

You wanted to remember this pain. Savor the full impact and hopefully this would be the only time you needed to learn this lesson. You’d grow, heal, and move on a better and stronger version of yourself. 

Eventually. 

Right now, you needed to focus on the task at hand: overseeing community service without getting yourself into any more trouble. And that’s what you were going to do.  ________

That did prove to be a tougher job than you anticipated. Nick was charismatic as ever and kept trying to get your attention. 

You’d throw him a bone every once in a while, if only because it genuinely did lift your spirits to be around him. He was a much safer presence. 

“How many weeks do I have left?” 

You were strewn across the back pew, doing your best not to wallow, but failing pretty spectacularly, when Nick’s voice broke you out of your ruminations. 

“I’m not sure,” you said, sitting up and looking at him. He leaned casually against the back of the pew, rag thrown over his shoulder. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the wood. “I have it written down somewhere. I’d have to look.” 

“Can you let me know next week?” he asked, bouncing on his heels. You could see what attracted Ava to him so much. 

“Yeah.” 

“Or actually, maybe this Friday. Isn’t that when your Christmas thing is?” 

You blinked stupidly up at him. You’d forgotten all about the upcoming showcase. 

“Oh, yeah. It is. I didn’t realize you knew about it.” 

“Yeah,” he said, and then shifted on his feet as if he was trying to figure out a way to avoid saying that Noah told him about it. Which would mean that Nick was also aware of the awkwardness between the two of you. 

“Were you thinking of going?” you asked. “You don’t have to.” 

“I thought it might be fun to see you sing,” he said, voice soft and lips smiling.  

You were momentarily taken aback. You didn’t think Nick cared about anything you were doing. The thought that he might be interested in your life outside of community service was one that hadn’t crossed your mind. 

“Really?” you asked. 

He looked side to side and nodded, as if it should have been obvious to you. 

“Nick, that would mean so much. I would love for you to come.” 

“Good,” he said, a self-satisfied smile back on his face. “But try not to suck or I won’t be donating anything.” 

You snorted loudly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anytime.” 

The conversation died down, and you could feel the elephant in the room rearing its head. 

You could ask how Noah was doing. It wouldn’t be too out-of-character. But you’d give yourself away easily if you did. 

Besides, nothing good would come of it. If Noah wanted to contact you, he would. If he didn’t, then he was just someone you needed to get over. 

Nick lingered, just as hesitant to leave the conversation. 

“You doin’ okay?” he asked. 

You sighed, leaning into the back of the pew. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked. 

You rolled your head across the pew to look over at him. His face held a neutral expression, but there was softness in his eyes. 

“Maybe some other time,” you said. “Thank you, though.” 

“No problem,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.” He punctuated it with a squeeze to your shoulder and your hand came up to clasp over his on its own accord. He was warm, and truth be told, you really needed the gesture. 

Perhaps you’d be okay. 

_______

“And there were no signs prior to this?” 

“No,” you said, collapsing on Ava’s bed while she worked on her Contemporary Art project from her desk. It looked like a big lump of Styrofoam. She held a strip of sandpaper, rubbing it back and forth over a corner and causing little pieces to flake off and litter the desk and floor beneath her. 

“And neither of you talked beforehand about what it would mean?” 

“No,” you grumbled, recognizing your first mistake. You absolutely should have talked about what it meant for the both of you before doing anything, and you can’t understand why you’d been so foolish to skip over that. “It just sort of…happened?” 

Ava fixed you with an imploring stare. 

“Babe, I’m really sorry that you got hurt, but. I don’t know,” she began. “Aren’t you always the one preaching about that kind of thing? It seems like you could have used a little bit of your own advice, don’t you think?” 

You turned over and let out a loud groan into Ava’s pillow. 

“Not helping.” 

“I know, I know. That was probably insensitive. I just,” she trailed off, turning back to her project. “Maybe this was a lesson you needed to learn? Not to look down on others for the things they struggle with. And maybe also to recognize that we’re all human. We’re all sinners. Even you?” 

You pouted. “You really think I needed to learn that?” 

“You’ve been known to judge in the past.” 

“I’ve been better about that!” you said, throwing your hands up in the air. 

“I know,” she said. “I know you have.” She pouted back at you. “Maybe I’m not the best person for this kind of talk.” 

You sighed, crossing your arms over your stomach. “No, you’re fine. I think I’m just feeling sorry for myself is all.” 

Ava got up from her desk, brushing as many Styrofoam flakes from her clothes as she could, and crawled into her bed with you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You melded into her touch. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. He did send you mixed signals.” 

“What about you and Nick?” you asked. She chewed on her lip for a moment. 

“Nick and I…we talked about it beforehand. We knew it was just for that night going into it.” She rested her chin on your shoulder. 

“You didn’t want to pursue anything more?” 

Ava shrugged beside you. “Neither of us is looking for anything.” 

You leaned your head on her shoulder. It would have been nice had you had the same disposition going into the encounter with Noah. You could have just enjoyed it for what it was and then went your separate ways without any complicated feelings. You admired Ava’s ability to do that. 

“You’re right,” you said. “We should have talked about it beforehand. Made sure we were on the same page.” 

You turned to bury your face in her shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping. 

“It doesn’t always work out that way,” she said. “Don’t judge yourself for your mistakes.” 

She stroked your back as you failed to prevent your eyes from leaking. “Is it okay if I cry on you?” you asked, voice muffled by her shirt, a stray piece of Styrofoam finding its way into your mouth. 

“Babe, of course. I’m here for you.” 

You nodded into her shoulder, allowing the first of many sobs to fall. She continued to stroke your back, soothing you as you wept. 

It hurt. You’d trusted Noah to care for you. You never would have believed him to be the type to get what he wants and then not call. 

Plus, he still had five weeks of community service (you’d checked), and there wasn’t any way he could get out of that. 

“How am I supposed to face him on Saturday?” you whined. 

“Hmmm,” she said. “Is Folio talking to you?” 

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “He’s actually been really nice.” 

“What if you just talk to him? Use him as a distraction so you don’t have to talk to Noah. Who knows? Maybe having fun with him would help you move on.” 

You pulled away to look at her. 

“You mean like…?” you trailed off. 

She laughed. “I’m not saying have sex with the guy,” she said. “I doubt he’d do that since Noah’s like, his best friend. But he’s a good guy and he’s fun to be around. And you could use that kind of energy in your life.” 

You sniffled again and let your head drop back down to rest on her, spitting out another fleck of Styrofoam. It truly was everywhere. 

You doubted that hanging out with Nick would help you get over Noah. If anything, it would just remind you of him. But you did need more friends in your life, and he was someone you could see yourself getting along with. 

Perhaps focusing on your friendships would help. You squeezed Ava’s middle. 

“I love you,” you said. “Please be my friend forever.” 

She breathed softly, squeezing you back. “If you play your cards right.” 

______

Friday’s showcase had a much larger turnout than expected. People lined the pews and even stood in the back after all the available seats had been filled. You peeked through one of the side doors that entered onto the stage and saw Nick sitting in a middle row. Ava sat a few rows in front of him. She caught your eye and gave you a big thumbs-up for good luck. 

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, searching for a tall, tattooed figure and coming up short. 

He said he was going to come. He was the one who had pressed you for the information in the first place. 

You looked down at your phone screen. 6:53. He still had seven minutes to make it. 

You exhaled a deep breath and shook your hands out, trying to calm your nerves. 

“Want to pray?” came Isaac’s deep voice to your right. You looked over to find him standing quite close to you. His usual v-neck and beanie had been swapped out for a white button-down and black tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was tied neatly in a bun atop his head. 

“Sure,” you breathed, figuring you could use some prayer. 

He grasped your hands in his. His were warm. Steady. They helped to soothe your nerves. 

“God,” he began, “please watch over us and guide us as we work to spread the good news of Jesus’s birth. Let us not falter. Allow our voices to ring true and fall on ears willing to hear. In your name. Amen.” 

“Amen,” you repeated, working hard not to roll your eyes. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the prayer. It was just that Isaac talked as if he were living a hundred years ago, trying his best to sound profound, and you weren’t entirely convinced it was solely for God’s listening pleasure. He was a performer, after all. 

He squeezed your hands, smiling. “Almost time. Are you nervous?” he asked. 

“A little bit,” you said, noticing the discomfort in your gut. 

“Don’t be. You’ve got this. It’s just the one solo and then you’re in the choir for the rest of it.” His thumbs rubbed over the backs of your hands, and you were about to pull your hands away from him, but it actually was quite soothing. He seemed like he genuinely cared about you. And he smelled nice. Some sort of expensive-smelling cologne that was the complete opposite of whatever spiced oil Noah wore, but in a really good, clean way. 

“You look great, by the way,” he added, taking a step back and giving you a once-over. “I like the dress.” 

The dress in question was a high-necked A-line in a bright shade of red to match the holiday theme (Christmas theme, your father would correct you, because apparently no other holidays existed to him). 

You wore a dark green cardigan overtop, along with a gold necklace and black heels. Your lips were painted to match the dress. It was the most dressed-up you’d been since last Christmas. When you chose the outfit, you were still under the impression that a certain tattooed someone would see it. 

“Thanks,” you said. 

You could tell by the way Isaac lingered that he wanted to continue the conversation, but you didn’t feel much like talking. Needing an exit, you excused yourself to go get a drink of water. 

Weaving through other soloists and members of the church choir, you made your way down one of the two hallways that flanked either side of the main sanctuary. You rounded the corner, where one of the members of your church’s worship band—Darian—was passing out programs for the event. 

“Hey! You ready for your solo?” he asked when he saw you. 

You smiled, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” you said, scanning the stragglers still arriving for any sign of Noah. 

“I’d be nervous if I was on first,” he said. You took your eyes off the latecomers and looked to find him smiling encouragingly at you. 

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Isaac insisted for some reason that I open.” 

Your stomach sank even more. You couldn’t see Noah anywhere. 

“He mentioned it was because your song would set the tone for the evening,” said Darian, but you were only half-listening. “Do you want one of these?” 

You looked back at him. “What?”

He held out a program for you to take. “In case you wanted to keep it. For posterity, or scrapbooking or whatever.” 

“Yeah, sure,” you said, grabbing it without really thinking. 

Your emotional bandwidth had been all but used up, chest tight and head foggy. You felt bad that you weren’t really engaging in conversation, or even paying attention to it for that matter, but hoped Darian would forgive you. 

Sensing that you weren’t in the headspace to talk, Darian wished you luck and went back to handing out programs. You thanked him and continued walking across the foyer and down the opposite hallway with no real destination in mind. You were to go on in less than a minute. 

You shook your head, trying to get out of it and into your body. You needed to connect with your voice in order to perform, but you couldn’t seem to steady your breathing. 

The sanctuary was laid out in a rectangle, with the foyer lining the back, hallways with classrooms running the length of either side, and then a room behind the main stage, so from where you stood at the end of the hall, you could see through the windows of the doors to the stage that the lights had dimmed. 

Isaac walked out to the center of the stage from the hallway opposite you. A spotlight appeared on him, and with an abundance of charismatic charm, he thanked the audience that had gathered, before leading them in yet another prayer to bless the evening’s performance and to let God’s will be done. 

Throughout the entirety of his introduction, you’d zoned in and out. Your nerves ate at you, consuming your focus and leaving you feeling detached from your surroundings. 

You’d performed this song a dozen times at least, and in front of much of the same audience, too. You performed every week in front of the congregation on Sundays. Perhaps you’d struggled with stage fright at one point in your life, a decade ago when you were still fairly new to performing, but these days you were at-home in front of a microphone. 

And yet. 

Your knees shook. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of your neck, and your stomach clenched and released several times in quick succession. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy O Holy Night, performed by my dear personal friend, and co-leader of our praise and worship team,” Isaac began. 

You heard your name being called, snapping you out of the haze. 

The audience applauded. Isaac gestured to the doorway opposite you, where he assumed you would be entering from. 

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and walked to the center of the stage. Isaac turned when he heard the doors open, looking caught off-guard for a moment, but he recovered quickly, gesturing to you and clapping to signal to the audience that they should keep their applause going. 

He slowly backed away and gave you a double thumbs-up before exiting the stage. 

Recognizing you were still holding the program Darian had handed you, you clasped your hands behind your back and stepped up to the microphone. 

The soft piano intro played out over the loud speakers. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply. 

O holy night,  

The stars are brightly shining,  

It is the night of our dear savior’s birth.  

The first note came out shaky. You’d pushed too hard with your diaphragm, allowing more air than was needed to pass through your vocal folds. You closed your eyes and focused on breath control, feeling the spotlight heat your skin. 

Long lay the world 

In sin and error pining  

‘till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.  

Back in the late 1843, a church in the south of France had its organ renovated. After the renovations were complete, the church reached out to a French poet by the name of Placide Cappeau, asking him to write a poem that could be used as a hymn. In response, Cappeau penned the first iteration of O Holy Night.  

Placide Cappeau was a known atheist.  

A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices  

When the Catholic Church got wind of an atheist creating a Christmas carol, they did their best to bury the song. They claimed it lacked musical flavor. At the time, the idea of all men and women owning souls was highly radical. 

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.  

O Holy Night has since become one of the most popular Christmas carols known to western society, thanks in part to John Sullivan Dwight translating it to English in 1855. 

You knew this, because you’d written a history of the carol for an end-of-semester project back when you went to high school at Calvary Baptist. 

Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices,  

At the time, you’d wondered how an atheist—someone who, in your mind, stood against everything you stood for, could write such a beautiful song that touched the hearts of you and so many others. 

O night, divine. O night, when Christ was born.  

How could someone with no connection to God write something that so clearly captures the essence of the Holy Spirit?

You chanced a look out at the crowd, once more searching for the familiar face you so wanted to see. The atheist who understood more about Christ’s love than so many in the church ever would, and found no sign of him. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the high note that signaled the climax of the song. 

O night, O holy night. 

Your voice rang out, loud and with a pleasing vibrato you’d finally learned to control three years ago. You paused for effect. The music cut out, and you sang the last line. 

O night divine!  

It was over. You’d done it. The piano melody came back in for the closing notes, and you curtseyed elegantly as the crowd applauded. 

You exited through the same doors you entered, heading straight for the restroom so you could take a moment to yourself before you had to be back on stage in the choir for O Come All Ye Faithful.  

Placing your program on the sink counter, you ran your hands under cool water, intending to splash some on your face when a small blurb on the bottom of the pamphlet caught your eye. 

Collection plates will be passed around. Please help us save countless unborn lives by making a donation. 

Unborn lives. 

Isaac was donating the proceeds to a pro-life organization. 

You’d been unknowingly roped in to an anti-choice fundraiser. 

A wave of anger erupted from deep within you, washing over your entire body and pulsating through it. 

You snatched the program from the counter, storming out the bathroom, across the foyer, and to the adjacent hallway Isaac stood at the end of. 

“What the Hell, Isaac!?” you near-shouted, bounding toward him. 

Isaac’s eyes widened upon your approach. He took several steps back, running into two of the other choir members, but it wasn’t enough. You slammed the program into his sternum. 

“Whoa!” he said, grasping the program you’d thrust at him with one hand and holding the other out to keep you from coming any closer. “Where’s the fire?” 

“What is this?!” you said, stabbing the program on his chest with your finger where the blurb appeared. 

He looked at you bewildered, then down to where your index finger pushed into his chest, and then back to you like you were a mad woman. “We said we wanted to give the proceeds to charity.” 

“Yeah,” you said, ripping the program out of his hand and throwing it down at his feet. “Like a soup kitchen or a toy drive. Not to Life Alliance!” 

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together in blatant confusion. “What’s better than saving innocent lives?” he said. 

“Oh my God,” you scoffed, not caring whether or not it counted as taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

 Suddenly all the air in the room felt like it had been vacuumed out and you found yourself struggling to breathe. 

Taking a step backwards, it dawned on you that this was your limit. The church had compressed you your entire life, and you’d finally reached your breaking point. “I can’t participate in this.” You said it not to Isaac, but to yourself. “I have to go.” 

“Hey! Hold on,” Isaac said. “You can’t leave. You’re our first soprano. We need you for the high G.” 

You shook your head, turning on your heel. You wouldn’t have been able to hit that note even if you wanted to with how your throat was constricting. 

“We can talk about this. Maybe we can do more than one charity,” he said, but you were already halfway down the hall, tears threatening to spill over. 

The heels you wore made it hard to run down the icy sidewalk, but run you did. Down the sidewalk, down the street. You didn’t stop running until you’d put several blocks between you and the church. 

You’d once thought of it as a sacred place—a home away from home. 

Now, the only time you felt at home in it was on Saturday mornings, sharing the space with two delinquents who didn’t even believe in God. 

Nowhere felt sacred anymore. 

Nowhere except the shed in the backyard of Jolly’s house. But you were cut off from that now, too. 

Where did you belong now?  __________ How are we all feeling after that? Also, if anyone has any artistic skills and would like to help me make a moldboard or a banner or something for this story, I would be forever grateful!

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[city-of-ladies]

Guda: a medieval self-portrait

Self-portrait of Guda, homilary, Frankfurt, second half of 12th century.

"The first category of figures we have considered shows the artist present in the work or in the process of creating it. To that category, we add a second type of portrait or self-portrait, in which the artist beseeches a favorable judgment for him-/herself after the work is completed.

Such is the case with the famous signed self-portrait of Guda, who represents herself within a collection of homilies in an initial D[ominus] for the octave of the Pentecost. The inscription reads: “guda peccatrix mulier scripsit q[ue] pinxit h[un]c librum (Guda, a sinful woman, wrote and painted this book).” Of the seven initials in the manuscript, this D is one of only two that contain figures. The other historiated initial comes at folio 196, the opening of the Assumptio Mariae, and contains a portrait of the virgin identified as Maria Virgo. The other five initials display dragons, interlaces, ribbons, or spirals.

Guda represented herself firmly grasping the initial with her left hand and raising her right in a gesture of salutation and expectation. I would argue that Guda carefully and consciously chose to be here. The initial opens the ninth homily of St. John chrysostom, the Sermo beati iohannes episcopi de david ubi goliad immanem hostem devicit (Sermon of the blessed Bishop John, on when David overcame the monstrous enemy Goliath), which explains the election of David. The homily also offers an occasion to meditate on the gifts of the Holy Spirit and its role in comforting the soul. In short, Guda has chosen the perfect spot in which to await the Second Coming of Christ, and this is why she represents herself as a sinner, whose activity as an artist should count in her favor at the end of time.

Guda’s self-representation in this way is analogous to the scene the scribe Swicher has staged (for the reader?) in the frontispiece of his copy of isidore of Seville’s Etymologies. Swicher’s author portrait is most original. In the upper register, Isidore of Seville is depicted in conversation with Bishop Braulio of Zaragoza, the patron of the Etymologies. In the lower register, Christ in propria persona presides at the scribe’s last judgment. Two angels busy themselves at a balance in which is weighed the very manuscript Swicher copied. The work of the scribe counts as a work of virtue: a third angel takes Swicher’s soul away through a thick cloud, whereas the devil turns around empty-handed. The Titulus attests to this: "O god, deign to have mercy on this wretched scribe. Do not consider the weight of my faults. Small though the good things may be, let them be exalted over the bad. Let night give way to light; let death itself give ground to life.”

Guda and Swicher make use of the same patterns of visibility and those patterns are not gender-specific. In both cases, the artists stage their humility and represent their belief that they might reach the heavenly kingdom through the artistic work they have done."

Mariaux Pierre Alain, "Women in the making: early medieval Signatures and artists’ portraits (9th–12th c.)", in: Reassessing the Roles of Women as 'makers' of Medieval Art and Architecture

[stormofdefiance]

I wanted to share some wee thoughts about Ratio’s E6 art & why I believe it is a symbolic parallel to Michelangelo’s David. This speaks to both Ratio’s humanist beliefs and possible future plot points.

Ratio’s E6 is Vincit Omnia Veritas or Truth Conquers All. I’ve heard it claimed (although I have no idea if it’s explicitly stated anywhere?) that the character’s E6 art represents them at their innermost core, an honest and deeply vulnerable shard of themselves. Evoking David here is an interesting choice; the biblical figure who, using nothing but a stone and sling, took down the tyrannical Goliath. The parallel is perhaps as simple as this: Ratio views himself - and by extension the truth - as the underdog, someone never accepted into the Genius society, forever to be kept from Nous and THEIR gaze, but nonetheless will, in the end, prove himself the final victor. Truth will topple the seemingly unconquerable, whatever that might be.

But I also think Michelangelo’s David is a specifically interesting parallel to draw on from a historical perspective. Ratio is pretty much the textbook definition of a renaissance man - he is a philosopher, a scholar, interested in medicine and science and the vast array of human achievement. He speaks in Latin (the language of education during the renaissance in Europe that allowed the transmission of information without having to rely on translation) while heavily styling himself on Ancient Greek symbols and drawing from Greek philosophy (often seen at the time as more ‘sophisticated’ and interested in ‘wisdom’ than the contemporary ‘militaristic’ Romans).

Michelangelo’s David was the first colossal marble statue to be carved since antiquity, and it came to be a symbol of the renaissance itself. This is interesting to me for Ratio and what I believe are his humanist beliefs. Humanism was an ideal that propagated during the renaissance that championed the belief that man had beauty, dignity and worth that deserved as much respect and adoration as any deity. Keep in mind this philosophy was emerging following the Middle Ages and at a time where religious institutions across Europe held exorbitant and sometimes absolute power. David as a statue is an ode to the sublime beauty of the human body, completely unashamed and uninhibited in his gigantic nakedness (Doctor! You’re huge!) retaliating against the idea that prominent idea at the time that man’s body is inherently sinful. The humanists sought to recenter humanity, and David became a symbol of man’s independence against the seemingly unconquerable might of the Church.

Consider how Ratio centres humanity in his Simulated Universe project, how he values every life, how interested he is in constant self-improvement. How this symbol - of not just the renaissance but of the re-centring of humanity itself - becomes an echo of an effigy fixed in the centre of his soul.

Ratio has never - as far as I’m aware? - stated or hinted at any desire to overthrow the Aeons or even disparage or rubbish them, but it is clear to me that he believes in the strength man can draw on despite them, through sheer force of intelligence and clever planning and fiercely independent thought, the weak can ultimately overcome, or at least stand shoulder to shoulder with, the strong. Perhaps this will become a more pertinent plot point in the future - who knows? - but this was fun to chew through nonetheless 🫶

[cadenreigns]

Sins of Goliath has two more chapters up on AO3, magic classroom shenanigans and set up abounds.

[sparkbeast20]

aside from obm lucifer, whb kings would sweep the floor with their obm counterparts

I love my demon brothers... But if I have to say...

Most of them sadly, maybe cause Solmare isn't using the demon brothers powers or they just slap *they cast a spell that solve the problem*

Note: Even though I believe that power scaling is a big components in battle/fights. I'm a truly believe in David and Goliath style of fighting. Where strength isn't everything you can outwit your opponent it just leans on how experience they are.

Let start, I'm open to debate with these.

WHB!Mammon has defense and OM!Mammon has speed. WHB!M can create a building around him or use his shield to protect him, OM!M has to be quick about it. Cause once shield is up or his protection, OM!M hope that WHB!M ran out of his power. Cause WHB!M has one of the best defenses.

WHB!Leviathan and OM!Leviathan is the closest I could see matching, both can summon monsters and both can survive being underwater.

WHB!Belphegor and OM!Belphegor, Hm... Sorry, Belphie. But have you seen Beleth's event where WHB!Belph place everyone what is close to a infinite tsukuyomi/Genjutsu and he turned into a three eye skeleton that shoot lasers. Though, WHB!Belph had said that he might be powerful but because of his sin. He won't fight as much. OM!Belphie has a chance if he attacks first.

WHB!Satan and OM!Satan, you might think that is a brain and brawns fight. But WHB!S knows his ways around a battle field, hell he lives to the fight and violent. I kinda think that OM!S has a chance if he can outsmart him with traps and curses. But OM!S has to deal with WHB!S devil form.

WHB!Asmodeus and WHB!Asmodeus... *Leaving out the they'll just fuck joke here* Both seem to have mind altering powers, however again WHB!A has experience in battles... *insert that one official pic of him fighting with his dick out.* OM!A might have fought in the celestial war, and I doubt that Asmo would fight him.

WHB!Beelzebub and OM!Beelzebub, OM!B has the strength and durability that can last a fight, so WHB!B has to outsmart him by using all his ability to tire him out.

These are my thought and I'll happy to hear from people's thought on the brothers vs Kings.

I've been think of these demons/devils fighting ever since Asmodeus from WHB was revealed, I want to do a second part of my om x whb fic.

[tache-noire]

for @thlayli-ra :)

punkintyre whump with dodgy religious symbolism yippee

Drew is still seeing red when he stalks down the ramp, backstage, his ears ring, echoes of cheers and boos rattling in his head like the labored breath in his lungs, and there’s no medics to fawn over him and hold his hand, he’s not their christ gingerly lowered from the cross to be interred in an eternal viral tomb of replays and highlights. The highlight of his career is his lowest point. He won’t be Judas, he won’t be Brutus, he couldn’t end a tyrant or even create a martyr. He is Goliath, towering, humiliated, over David and his sling. What is there for him? Just his feet carrying him. The blood dripping between them every other step. A smeared handprint left on the door when he pushes it open and barks “out!” at its occupants.

And there is CM Punk. There is still CM Punk. 

They surround him, still, looking up at Drew now but still touching his skin. Dabbing at scrapes. Prodding bruises. 

“Out,” Drew repeats.

Punk waves his attendants away.

“You should get that stapled,” he rasps. “You’re bleeding too much.”

Drew shakes his head, dislodging clots from his hair that stick to his skin. Silence hangs between them. There’s the unspoken question– “what do you want?”-- that Punk won’t ask, and Drew won’t answer. He doesn’t know. But he knows that Punk can give it to him. He ought to be higher, on a throne, not a folding chair so far below Drew. He has to sink down to his knees to make it right, to pray for… For what? Forgiveness? Mercy? Permission to keep living, as pitiful and wormlike as he is? He’s bleeding too much, it’s starting to make him dizzy.

Punk carefully pulls matted strings of hair away from Drew’s wound. Some of them stick and pull. He grooms him in silence, until he’s pure. Until his flesh is bared and he can feel Punk peering through the chasm in his scalp and straight into his skull, and his tears cut through the blood and grime on his cheeks because he knows. Nothing in there is worthy. The dark thoughts, the hatred, the rage, the obsession, the things that Punk brought out of him were there all along, and they’re still there. They cause his fingers to clench into fists and bile to rise in his chest. He still hates. He’s still caged. Punk holds his foul crown in both hands and strokes the edges of his wound (unholy, not like the wounds Punk’s attendants are blessed to touch). His thumbs push the two sides together.

His lips bless him and come away stained with sin.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s over.”

Drew is absolved. His trembling hands raise to Punk’s knees, and he sobs in his lap in relief.

[poseidons-getting-milk]

“I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE” by Måneskin exept its duet sung by rosekiller bc I SAID SO

Barty: I wanna be your slave

Evan:I wanna be your master

Barty: I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters

Evan: I wanna be a good boy,

Barty: I wanna be a gangster. 'Cause you could be the beauty and I could be the monster

Evan: I love you since this morning, not just for aesthetic. I wanna touch your body, so f***ing electric

Barty: I know you're scared of me, you say that I'm too eccentric

Evan: I'm crying all my tears and that's f***ing pathetic

Barty: I wanna make you hungry, then I wanna feed ya

Evan: I wanna paint your face like you're my Mona Lisa. I wanna be a champion,

Barty: I wanna be a loser. I'll even be a clown 'cause I just wanna amuse ya. I wanna be your s*x t*y,

Evan: I wanna be your teacher

Barty: I wanna be your sin,

Evan: I wanna be your preacher

Barty: I wanna make you love me, then I wanna leave ya. 'Cause, baby, I'm your David and you're my Goliath.

Barty: Because I'm the devil who's searching for redemption

Evan: And I'm a lawyer who's searching for redemption

Barty: And I'm a killer who's searching for redemption.

Evan: A m*therf***ing monster who's searching for redemption.

Barty: And I'm a bad guy who's searching for redemption

Evan: And I'm a blonde girl who's searching for redemption

Barty: And I'm a freak that is searching for redemption.

Evan: A m*therf***ing monster who's searching for redemption.

Barty: I wanna be your slave,

Evan: I wanna be your master

Barty: I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters

Evan: I wanna be a good boy,

Barty: I wanna be a gangster'. Cause you can be the beauty and I could be the monster

Evan: I wanna make you quiet,

Barty: I wanna make you nervous

Evan: I wanna set you free but I'm too f***ing jealous. I wanna pull your strings like you're my Telecaster

Barty: And if you want to use me, I could be your puppet

[kdmiller55]

Shepherd Turned Savior

51 Then David ran and stood over the Philistine and took his sword and drew it out of its sheath and killed him and cut off his head with it. When the Philistines saw that their champion was dead, they fled. 52 And the men of Israel and Judah rose with a shout and pursued the Philistines as far as Gath and the gates of Ekron, so that the wounded Philistines fell on the way from Shaaraim as far as…

[apilgrimpassingby]

Demons of the Hebrew Bible

Since today is also the day for Lord of Spiritsposting, I've decided to make a post I considered yesterday - the demons of the Hebrew Bible. This will be a long post, so I'm inserting a "Keep Reading".

Azazel: Appears only once in Leviticus 16, as the being in the wilderness to whom the goat with the people's sins laid on it in the Day of Atonement ritual is given (this isn't sacrifice, because the animal isn't killed or offered on an altar, among other things). Becomes a Devil figure in some later Jewish literature like the Book of Enoch, and is associated with deserts, sin and goats - the name literally means "the goat that goes away" (an archaic translation gives us the word "scapegoat"), and the seemingly-random reference to goat demons in Leviticus 17:7 comes just after Azazel's appearance.

Deber: The most prominent of the gang, appearing (usually in conjunction with other figures on this list) in Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Hosea, Amos, Habakkuk and the Pentateuch a total of 49 times, usually unleashed as punishment for some sin by Israel (compare "handing people over to Satan" in St. Paul's letters - 1 Corinthians 5:5, 1 Timothy 1:20). A nocturnal demon of pestilence and destruction associated with the underworld in Canaanite mythology.

Hereb: Rendered as "the sword" in English; the next most prominent one, appearing 29 times and, like Deber, in conjunction with the others. A demon of violence and destruction associated with blood-drinking (Isaiah 34:5, Jeremiah 46:10) and flesh-eating (Deuteronomy 32:42, Jeremiah 12:12) and probably the rider on a red horse from Revelation 6:3-4.

Lilit: Appears just once, Isaiah 34:14, where she's dwelling in some ruins. Usually translated as "screech owl" or "night bird", but some use "Lilith". In Mesopotamian mythology, the lili are a class of nocturnal female demons associated who kill babies and are associated with owls, so the translation as "screech owl" is acceptable. The Songs of the Sage from the Dead Sea Scrolls refer to liliyot (feminine plural) as a class of demons: "And I, the Instructor, proclaim His glorious splendour so as to frighten and to te[rrify] all the spirits of the destroying angels, spirits of the bastards, demons, liliths, howlers...

Livyatan: Usually anglicised as Leviathan, and appears five times: Job 3:8 and chapter 41, Psalms 74:12-14 and 104:26 and Isaiah 27:1. Based on those appearances, he's a multi-headed fire-breathing sea serpent immune to weapons who battles with Yahweh and (of course) always loses. The myth of a god fighting a sea serpent is a staple of world mythology. Likely correlates to the beast from the sea of Revelation 13:1-10, since Leviathan is paired with a beast from the earth (Behemoth; Job 40:15-24) - also compare Revelation 13:4 ("Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?”) to Job 41:33-34 ("On earth there is not his like, a creature without fear. He sees everything that is high; he is king over all the sons of pride").

Nephilim: Famously appear in Genesis 6:1-4 as the warriors born of the sons of God and the daughters of men, understood in Second Temple Jewish texts such as the Book of Enoch and the Septuagint to be giants born of fallen angels and human women. They appear by the name Anakim or Rephaim in Genesis 14:5, 15:20, Deuteronomy 1:28, 2:10-11, 2:20-21, 3:11, 3;13, 9:2 and Joshua 11:21-22, 12:4, 13:12, 14:12, 14:15 and 15:8 and war with giants appears in 2 Samuel 21:16-22, 1 Chronicles 20:4-8 and, of course, 1 Samuel 17 (the David and Goliath story).

Qeteb: Appears just 4 times (Deuteronomy 32:24; Psalm 91:6; Isaiah 28:2; Hosea 13:14), together with Deber in the Psalms and Hosea appearances and together with Resheph in Deuteronomy; if there's any lesson from this post so far, it's that plague demons hunt in packs. A diurnal plague demon whose name is rendered in English as "destruction"; nothing more to be said.

Ra'av: The third most prominent one, appearing 35 times; a famine demon whose name is rendered in English as "famine" or "hunger" who is unleashed on Israel as punishment together with (surprise!) Hereb and either Deber or Resheph. Probably the rider on a black horse from Revelation 6:5-6.

Rephaim: The spirits of dead kings who dwell in the underworld not doing much, translated in the ESV as shades and appearing in Isaiah 14:9 and 26:14; the same imagery and concept is being used by Ezekiel 32:20-30.

Resheph: A demon of plague and conquest worshipped as a god in Canaanite and Egyptian culture, depicted as a bearded archer on a white horse. Appears just 6 times in the Hebrew Bible (Deuteronomy 32:24; Habakkuk 3:5 Psalm 78:48; Job 5:7, Song of Songs 8:6); the name is rendered as "plague" or "pestilence" or occasionally "fire" or "sparks" because the name literally means "burning". Probably the rider on a white horse from Revelation 6:2.

Sources and Further Reading

"Before Him Went Pestilence (Hab. 3:5) - Biblical Lexis and Semantic Field of Epidemics" by Jozef Jankovic for The Old Testament Society of South Africa

"A Land of Giants" by Frs. Andrew Stephen Damick and Stephen DeYoung on The Lord of Spirits

"War, Famine, Disease, Death and Hades" by Fr. Stephen DeYoung on The Whole Counsel of God

"Who is Azazel?" by Fr. Stephen DeYoung on The Whole Counsel of God

Who is Lilith - Ancient Development and Origins of the Demon Queen by Dr. Justin Sledge on ESOTERICA

Or in short - stop making it all about Lilith. Use some other Hebrew Bible demons.