#that's a much shorter gospel

[everyryuujisuguro]

[simplygojo]

Under the Desk ⸺ Nanami

author's note ⸺ I may or may not have a crush on the handsome senior consultant on my team...so what. pairing ⸺ Kento Nanami x reader teaser ⸺ "It should have told you that eventually, you’d end up here: bent over his desk, legs spread wide for your mentor, who was more than happy to show you the ropes in a way that had nothing to do with consulting." content ⸺ 18+ SMUT, MDNI, hot office nanami, age gap implied, lowkey perv nanami, office siren vibessss, oral sex (reader recv.), reader got that WAP, reader has a vagina, reader uses female pronouns

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Kento Nanami didn’t particularly enjoy training new hires—especially the ones who were on a short contract like you were. They were often overzealous, unpolished, and too eager to prove themselves. But when you walked in on your first day, something in him shifted.

Nanami wasn’t proud of the thoughts that crossed his mind when you walked into the office on your first day—He blamed that little skirt. Too tight, too short, hugging your hips in a way that wasn’t at all appropriate for a junior consultant. And yet, it wasn’t the skirt’s fault he couldn’t stop staring.

He cleared his throat and looked away. 

This wasn’t him. He wasn’t that guy—the type to ogle a junior or let his mind wander to places it had no business going. 

You were new, eager to learn, and assigned to him as your mentor because of his reputation for professionalism. And so, despite his initial lapse in judgment, he resolved to keep his thoughts in check.

But you didn’t make it easy.

You had this way about you—bright-eyed and ambitious, always so eager to please. Every time you asked him a question, you’d lean in, wide-eyed and genuinely curious, your voice sweet and lilting. When you listened, you bit your lip in concentration, nodding along like his every word was gospel.

Nanami told himself he was imagining it, that you weren’t actually flirting with him. You were just... enthusiastic. 

But then there were the moments that felt too deliberate to ignore. Like the time you stayed after hours, your blazer draped over the back of your chair, leaving only the silky blouse underneath. It wasn’t see-through exactly, but in the low light of the office, he could see the faint outline of your bra.

He forced himself to look at his monitor, jaw tight, and tried to focus on the report in front of him. “Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath. This was a slippery slope, and he wasn’t about to fall.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Things escalated when you suggested the coffee chats. You’d said it so innocently, wanting to hear more about the job and his career path, but Nanami hesitated. 

Alone. With you. Outside of the office. It wasn’t a good idea.

Still, he agreed. He convinced himself it was harmless, part of his role as a mentor.

The first coffee chat was fine. He kept things strictly professional, answering your questions about client strategies and work-life balance. But then you started showing up in skirts shorter than usual, leaning forward a little too much when you laughed.

Your questions turned more personal—how he handled stress, what he did to unwind, if he’d always been this... dedicated.

He noticed your eyes drifting, lingering on his hands as he stirred his coffee, on the way his shirt sleeves strained against his forearms. And you—you—must have noticed the way his gaze followed the curve of your legs as you crossed them.

By the third ‘coffee chat’, Nanami couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He wanted you. Desperately.

He told himself it was harmless, that he could keep it professional even as his thoughts grew more explicit. But then came the late nights in his office. You’d stay back, asking for feedback on your work, standing close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off you.

“Thank you for your help, Nanami,” you said one night, looking up at him through your lashes.

He nodded stiffly, stepping back to create space between you. “It’s my job,” he replied, his voice gruffer than he intended.

He should have stopped it there. Should have set boundaries. But he didn’t.

All of this—the coffee chats, the lingering looks, the late nights—should have been a warning. 

It should have told you that eventually, you’d end up here: bent over his desk, legs spread wide for your mentor, who was more than happy to show you the ropes in a way that had nothing to do with consulting.

Nanami hadn’t intended to go this far. Truly, he hadn’t. But the moment your trembling voice broke into soft, pleading whimpers, any sense of guilt burst.

His mouth found its way to places he’d only imagined in quiet, shameful moments—places that had haunted his late nights and unguarded thoughts.

The slickness of your pretty pink folds coated his lips and chin, shining faintly in the dim light of his office. His name spilled from your mouth like a prayer, broken and reverent, as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

Nanami knew he was losing control. Knew he’d already crossed every line imaginable. But when he felt your thighs quiver on either side of his head, your fingers tugging helplessly at his hair, he could not have cared any less.

All of this—the coffee chats, the late nights, the way your body had grown so eager for his attention—should have given you an indicator—should have told you that you'd end up like this…breathless and undone in his office, his mouth working you open, claiming you in ways you couldn't have imagined.

And that, dear reader, is the story of how you were secured a permanent contract.

[devildomwriter]

A Christmas Song They Absolutely Hate

A request by an anon

Lucifer (That damn chipmunk song)

Enough said, he cannot tolerate it at all, the second he hears those squeaky voices he’ll react somewhat violently. Whatever he needs to do to get that music to stop the fastest, he will do, even launching Mammon into the speaker.

Mammon (Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer)

He hates the song. He’s not so big an idiot that he doesn’t realize everyone only suddenly likes Rudolph because they think he’s useful, he thinks it’s a bad song and the reindeer are big jerks.

Leviathan (Baby, it’s cold outside)

“Those fucking normies. They’re just all over each other, go to hell.”

Satan (God rest ye merry gentlemen.)

They literally diss him in the song, like what’d he do to those guys personally, it makes him very angry to hear carolers singing it especially.

Innocent Carolers: “To save us all from Satan’s power—“

Satan: *yelling from across the street* “I didn’t do anything to you!”

Asmodeus (That damn chipmunk song)

Like normally squeaky or soft voices are kinda cute but nuh-uh, not this one. It feels like nails on a chalkboard to him.

Beelzebub (Believe)

He doesn’t really care but the song Believe makes him kinda sad.

It’s a great song with a bittersweet message and it makes him tear up a little when he hears it so he’s come to not like it much.

Belphegor (Anything hard to fall asleep to)

It doesn’t matter the song, if it’s too uppitty he can’t fall asleep. Even Christmas gospel can send him to sleep but not something like All I Want For Christmas is You.

Solomon (That damn chipmunk song)

It needs no introduction. It’s a song he’d hoped would die out soon after its release but it’s been well over a decade and occasionally he hears it playing and sighs deeply at how disappointing human musical taste has become.

Thirteen (That damn chipmunk song)

She hates it and will only occasionally tolerate it by playing it whenever Solomon is nearby in hopes of seeing his face fall.

Simeon (Santa baby)

The song really drives him nuts, he doesn’t have a real reason he just really dislikes it. Maybe it’s the greed at Christmas time which isn’t even about gifts, but it just really irks him.

Luke

He loves them all, except super romantic ones because that’s not what Christmas is about!

Raphael (All I want for Christmas is you)

That’s not the point of Christmas at all and the song mentions nothing about the true meaning of Christmas everything about some random romantic interest really irritates him. He’s not above spearing the sound system if the song isn’t changed.

Michael (12 days of Christmas)

It's just so long and repetitive.

He’d rather listen to shorter songs than one that just doesn’t seem to end, like get to the next song already, turtledoves aren’t even an existing species anymore—don’t remind him of such a tragedy.

Mephistopheles (Basically all of them)

Mephistopheles isn’t a Christmas demon, he only tolerates it for Diavolo’s sake but he’ll be damned if a song plays around him and Diavolo isn’t there. He’ll contact whoever he needs to to change the music immediately.

Barbatos (Dominic the donkey)

He hates it because he believes it’s rather stupid but also because it cracks Diavolo up so Diavolo plays it a few times a day to amuse himself and Barb is really sick of hearing it.

Diavolo

He loves all of them, even the damn chipmunk song. Even the Christmas gospel doesn’t really bother him but he doesn’t pay as much attention to it as he does humming along to the other songs. He does laugh when he hears Satan’s name in God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, so he actually likes that one.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

I am afraid how silent Tikas is over Ingrid’s renewal. People always asking her but she doesn’t say anything. I guess she was also surprised than she is the rotate option and Irene is ahead of her because I remember in her article at the start of the season talking about how much minutes irene will play now

so i think maria tikas knows that everyone takes her word as the gospel and doesn't want to speculate or say anything until she is 100% sure and clear about the situation. she was the same way about alexia last season too. she did write an article back in october about the uncertainty in centerback position but that's the extent of it. but if things really were going in the wrong direction, i believe tikas would not be silent about it. 🙏

so let's remember that ingrid changed agencies and is with a new agency (that also happens to be mapi's agency!) so it takes time to get up to speed in that sense.

now let's talk about a footballer's contract. a contract can be a complicated legal document with a lot of features, and every one can be negotiated. generally speaking, the major factors for every footballers' contract include:

salary

length of the contract (longer contracts are more favourable to players because of the potential for injuries, whereas teams prefer shorter contracts)

image rights (what % of image rights will a club get)

bonuses (will there be bonuses per goal, per assist, per match, per minutes played, etc.)

clauses (such as those that prevent footballers from taking part in 'dangerous' activities like skiing, etc.)

additional terms and conditions (all contracts have their own specific terms)

ingrid is a seasoned veteran and this isn't her first club, so i'm sure she will be careful and considered in this process and will want some assurances about her position and playing time too because those impact a lot of the contract provisions outlined above. ✍️

[empthy1]

AFTER MIDNIGHT ꩜ .ᐟ quinn fabray x reader

character study (partially.) loved writing this. butch!reader implied, i hope my love for butches comes through. 1.75k words exactly.

Her momma always said that bad girls were the ones who ended up in nightclubs, indulging in alcohol and not God's teachings. The girls like that never found good husbands and never formed the families they were meant to. That's what she always said.

It was frequently hissed in her ear, the unfamiliar curl of the word "heretics" confusing her yet nestling unpleasantly in her mind.

Her momma made her promise she'd never become one of those girls. Would be pious, follow the Gospel, and find a God-fearing husband.

So, little Lucy Quinn Fabray, all of seven and sat on her momma's knee, did the only obvious thing when confronted with her seemingly imminent future.

She murmured a soft "yes, momma," and clutched tighter at her momma's modest yellow cardigan.

She was immediately chastised for that. There wasn't much she wasn't reprimanded for.

"Don't call me 'momma'." Her momma mother had huffed, pretty face tightening with annoyance and the hypocritical smell of alcohol on her breath. The line of her mouth thins contemplatively. "You make me feel old enough already. And don't wrinkle my clothes. I'll have to steam this. Again."

Now, some sixteen years later, here she was—going against the words she'd held as gospel for so long.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She nervously smooths down her too-short dress, trying to tug it past her upper thigh. She's not very successful. The amount of sequins sewn onto the garment would make her father red-faced and Kurt proud. She'd know—he picked it out for her.

"Please, Quinn. You have to get this one! It'd look so good on you." Is all she remembered before having the pink silk thrown at her. She had squawked indignantly at the impact, the hanger hitting her temple and catching in her hair.

Despite her (and Santana's) protests—"Oh, you are not letting Jesus Girl wear my nice dress from Sacs!"—she ended up in the form-fitting fabric regardless.

They hadn't even bothered to accompany her, leaving her to traverse her first club alone.

Sure. She was Quinn Fabray. HBIC, Head Cheerio, ex-Skank and a generally competent person. But she was competent in Nowhere, Ohio. Or in the friendly town of college students and old people that was New Haven. Sure, it was the third biggest city in Connecticut, but it was Connecticut.

This was New York City. This was shady alleys, dark, dank corners and the widest variety of people she'd ever seen.

The people in front of her in line were two obviously gay and already intoxicated men. At eleven at night.

The person behind her? A woman so tall and in heels so high she's sure if she turned around she'd make eye contact with her stomach.

She's not used to these types of people. This type of place.

The bouncer is burlier than ninety-nine percent of guys she sees at Yale—nice Polos and slim, toned arms replaced by a regular black tee, a... leather harness and arms like boulders. He scowls where they smile, but his hands are gentler when he takes her ID than they'd been with her. Hm.

She's visually assaulted by bright lights of every color. They flash against the wall and in her eyes, periodically illuminating the people around her.

Some taller than her, some shorter. Some slim like a willow with curling limbs, others sturdy with strong hands and a solid stance. Men, women, people who's gender she can't discern, with long hair, cropped cuts or anything in between in any color she could imagine.

She doesn’t have long to take in any of this. There’s a swell of people at her back and a melting pot at her front. She’s been here before, knows the rules—acclimate or die. Same as high school.

She’s seen the movies. She knows what’s supposed to happen. She’ll walk up to the bar, order a drink, and a handsome, tall man will hop out of nowhere and pay for it. A couple months of nondescript dating, they’ll be married.

Not exactly how her mother hoped it’d happen, but she won’t be too disappointed. She’ll just be glad Quinn is married and she can finally talk about her in church without the pitying coos of other moms.

All she can think is "yeah, scratch that." when the person who saddles up next to her is not a charming, dark-haired man with dimples and is, instead, the most handsome woman she's ever seen grinning at the bartender over her shoulder.

"Yeah, Mike. She's on my tab. Thanks, man." A regular, clearly. And... not the man she expected. Not a man at all.

She'd always thought wry smiles and crooked grins were inherently smug. They'd always been on the faces of boys trying to trick their way into her skirt, thinking themselves clever.

But this grin, the one you direct at her? She likes it more than she should.

"I haven't seen you around here before." Your voice is loud, elevated over the pulsing music. You'd turned to face her, elbow on the bar and strong-looking hand under your chin.

"You're either new to the city or new to the queer scene."

...they sent her to a gay bar. She's going to wring Kurt's neck. And then apologize so he lets her stay in his apartment while she nurses this humiliation.

Is that why the bouncer was in leather?

"...yeah. I'm new to both. I'm here visiting friends." She's not used to raising her voice—it's unladylike, her mother would say. Women were to be seen, not heard. Her volume is low, too low to be heard over the deafening music.

You have to lean closer, shift and tilt your head so she can repeat herself straight into your ear. The music booms, but she swears she can hear you inhale when her hot breath brushes the cartilage. Or when she cups a bare bicep, leaning into the warmed skin.

She had to catch herself, she justifies. She definitely lost her balance.

Except for the fact that she can dance in six-inch platforms and these are only four. There's no way she'd be tripping into you, especially only one drink deep.

Speaking of dancing.

It might be the shot (or three) she'd downed while you two were conversing and laughing and flirting but she wanted to dance. She'd missed it. There isn't many places to go dancing in New Haven, and not many people she'd go with.

So she tugs your elbow, says something that's not much more than an enthusiastic, unintelligible giggle and tears off towards the floor. You stubble behind her, chuckling under your breath when she bumps into some guy. Evidently, you're better at holding your alcohol.

She knows the lessons from bible camp. She'd gone there seven years—they're practically ingrained in her psyche. The most important one, plastered on posters and said by any adult in hearing range at the Summer's End Dance?

Leave room for Jesus.

But alcohol's a funny thing. And her head's all wrong—she feels mushy.

She likes your biceps. And your hair. The ease at which she wraps in your arms, her own fingers curling around the back of your neck, is atypical of her.

And there's definitely no room for Jesus when the sturdy line of you presses right up against her.

She'd like to say it was the press of people keeping you together, but even through the intoxication she knows she's lying to herself. She likes you. It's weird. Even among cheerleaders, with teasing skirts and flouncy hair, she'd never felt... this.

The short crop of your hair is increasingly more appealing. The strength in your muscles, and the charming black slacks that hug you nicely draw her more than long, batting lashes.

There weren't people like you in Lima. A voice in her mind traitorously murmurs, sounding too much like Santana. Maybe that's why this took you so long, Q.

The beat's fast, but you're both too drunk to articulate anything more than a stationary sway.

That's fine with her. She gets to feel your arms around her waist and rest her head on your homely shoulder. The swaying motions keep her steady, stop the stumbling she's bound to do once she's out of your grip.

As songs go by, she starts to go down, down, down. Sobering up, yes, but not expecting the wave of drowsiness that comes with it. She clings to you ever tighter.

"I think I need to go home..." Is mumbled into your ear, her lilting, quiet tone laced with breathiness. It makes you shiver, and she bites back a grin. Your body shifts, supporting more of her weight to help her out of the club—hand splaying over her lower back. So she did find a gentleman tonight.

Once you both slip out of the club—though a backdoor you were totally allowed to use, ignoring the Employees Only sign—she smiles. The city air is cool, brushing over her skin and making her sigh. As you release her, she looses her footing, but is able to recover with a (still slightly tipsy) laugh.

"Get home safe, Quinn." She hears you murmur. A pleased sigh escapes her at the kiss you press to her cheek. Naturally leaning into the touch, she almost misses how you grasp her forearm—deftly scrawling a phone number in Sharpie, big enough to span the whole area.

"Call me." And then you're off. The bouncer gives you a wave as you stroll past, shooting you a grin once he catches sight of her.

Whew.

...should she call a taxi?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She stumbles up to Kurt's apartment door, firmly feeling the effects of the alcohol. Bracing against the doorframe, she can't help but huff as she drunkenly fumbles with the key. Not quite sober yet.

Opening the door causes her friends to freeze—Santana and Kurt being in the middle of putting up a... rainbow balloon arch?

"Oh, there's no way I was wrong. You weren't supposed to be here before morning! Why aren't you with a lady friend, Q?" Santana says, eyes narrowing with discontent at her arrival (typical) and at her... lack of a lady friend.

Santana sent her out to hookup with someone. With a woman. She tried to orchestrate her gay awakening.

She's too drunk to think about that. Or the fact that she did, in fact, have a gay awakening. She doesn't even say anything. She doesn't need to.

She just raises her forearm—dark with the digits of your phone number—and grins at the cheers she gets in response.

[seoulstorms]

PRAY FOR ME

Father Charlie Mayhew x reader

a/n: this might be a part one… I don’t know how to write for father charlie… dr. mayhew however 😏 anyways I’m mid writing for dr charlie so… ;) enjoy!

word count: 972

YOUR MOTHER had always taught you to seek God in all times of need. In the face of the devil’s temptation, sin, helplessness or anything that would stray one’s path from God. You’d go to mass every Sunday, following along with the words of the priest and often staying a little longer to pray. That was, until Father Mayhew became the new priest in your small town church.

He was immediately known for his looks and his young age, taking the attention of many young girls in your town. To their dismay, he was already devoted to someone, God. He was a man of the cloth, holy in his intentions and words, preaching the gospel as if his life depended on it.

You and Sister Megan were acquaintances to say the least, knowing her as she’d hang around in town, seemingly lingering in all the places you wouldn’t expect a nun to be near. Her quick mind and sharp tongue had her helping a detective- detective Lois, that was, in the shocking murders that were snaking through the town. It’d shocked you to your core, such violent acts in near your home leading your mother to believe the devil was returning himself to earth. A ‘warning’ , she’d said, panicked and confused.

“It is a warning from God and a message from the devil. It is the manifestation of all that is wrong with the world mustered up into an act of pure sin.”

Your mother had advised you to spend more hours in the church, in God’s house, in the presence of holiness. So you took her advice and made your way to the church after school hours, unsure of what to do other than pray.

As you made your way into the church, you made the sign of the cross, smoothing out your skirt and sighing at the warmth of it. There was no one in the pews, excluding Father Mayhew, who sat silently near the front seemingly lost in thought. It was only when the soft click of your shoes caught his attention that he turned and smiled, standing and greeting you warmly.

“Ah, apologies I didn’t hear you come in. Your mother came by earlier to let me know to expect you here”

He spoke softly, his eyes darting over your body as he noted your damp clothes from the rain outside. You nodded and shrugged, a quiet giggle leaving your lips as you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well yes, father, my mother told me I should come here instead of directly home as it’s closer and well, the days are getting shorter and much darker”

You avoided his gaze as you spoke, not wanting to bear the weight of it as his dark eyes almost bore into yours, however lacking of boredom, more filled with understanding and concern.

“Your mother is right in doing so, it’s not entirely safe for young girls to be walking home alone in darkness. Especially now with these.. acts of violence, consuming our town”

His words were smooth as he ghosted a hand by your lower back, guiding you to the front of the church to the altar. You were familiar with how it all worked, having been to mass every Sunday since you were young. You’d watched Father Mayhew deliver sermons weekly and gotten used to his powerful voice, almost caught in a daze as he spoke. You were no stranger to the allure of him to other women, but being a strict follower of God you never acted inappropriately, immediately asking God for forgiveness.

His voice was smooth as honey, his eyes dark and almost dangerous, his mannerisms pure and holy. This man was a sin in himself, ironically. A man claiming to be so devoted to God but he was just like any other man. He was no stranger to sin, he wasn’t always a priest. You noticed the way he spoke, his eyes betraying his words as his gaze lingered just a second too long on places forbidden to a priest.

“father-“ you turned to face him but he was quick to interrupt, correcting you

“no need, please, call me charlie”

You uttered a small ‘oh’ and nodded, turning back around and keeping your hands busy with the strap on your backpack, avoiding Charlie’s eyes. He ushered you to continue, sitting opposite you but still close.

“fa- I mean, charlie.. I feel as though I have strayed from God..”

Your voice was small as you picked at loose strings and crossed your legs at your ankles. Charlie nodded and leaned forward, placing a comforting hand on your knee and tilting his head.

“how so? I am sure God will forgive you, you are a good Catholic, no? I do see you attend mass every week, sometimes more than once per week”

His words were light as he smiled at you, leaning back and resting his hands crossed in his lap, focusing back on you as his lightheartedness seemed to have no uplifting effect on your mood.

“I feel as if I am doubting Him, Father.. I know He will protect me but in our town, such violent murders… I am very afraid, I must admit.”

“well, sweetheart, you can find comfort here, until your mother can drive you home. until then, why don’t you relax in my office hm?”

You nodded meekly and followed behind him, the soft click of your heels once again echoing in the church. You kept your head low and followed him to his office, your mind filling with questions and wonders that God would bring shame upon. So it brought shame to you, clearing your mind and cleansing your thoughts with thoughts of God. Perhaps it would be a very long few hours in Father Charlie’s company until your mother picked you up.

[twochildreninamoteldemo]

what’s on your personal list of “must reads” for wincest? i have a feeling you’ve got good taste

- @spn2006

i wouldn't necessarily say i have a must-read list as in everyone has to read something, because everybody has different taste, especially when it comes to sam and dean's dynamics (both sexual and otherwise), but the fics that i would heartily recommend that fall into my reading of supernatural (or adjacent to it) go as such, keeping in mind that I am a samgirl, pretty much only care about early seasons, and enjoyer of the family horror of the show:

The Ballad of the Invisible Boy + Two Headed Boy by @dollyluxed

If i had to pick any fic as a must-read for a samgirl cestie, this would be the one. the yearning and desperation speak deeply to the isolation of samdean's youth, especially how sam feels it, and dollylux isn't afraid to get inside the beast of teen angst, which makes it feel really lush and visceral. the 90s nostalgia is excellent (disclaimer: i was born after the 90s, but it made me feel like i was there without being corny), and the way the story is told through several vignettes feels a lot like the show itself. these kind of snapshot short films of how samdean's codependency develops through this unspoken tension over the years. the stanford era portion has a scene i think about every time i listen to joni mitchell (check out the soundtrack for this duology too; it's excellent), and the season 1 section ties together the story in a way that fits well with the show. a slow burn, really beautiful story, and i love the illustrations. i would also recommend dollylux's shorter works for amazing smut:)

@applecrumbledore 's fanficography

The first of Roni's fics I read were "Dream fuckery" and "Drywall dust" (the latter the first of a 4-part preseries story), and the balance of angst, sexual tension, and humor blew me away. It keeps the tone of supernatural, which a lot of fics don't (which is fine), but this was super cool in that it felt extremely natural, and very fun to read. I haven't been updated in all my fanfic reading lately, but I loved the beginning of Pine Sweat, their time travel fic, and "try asking," their pov outsider fic, is fucking hilarious and exhilarating. they have lots of creative ideas from preseries to late seasons and it never gets old!

Gospel Truth by @cowboyified

A case fic with an accute sense of shame embedded within angst, a really great sense of description, and perfectly inspired by art by @thegoodthebadandtheart for the reverse bang a couple years ago. the aesthetic of both frauke's work and the fic itself feel real, both the openness of the great plains and the claustrophobia of incestuous pining. definitely a modern classic.

"Buy You a Mockingbird" by candle_beck

the dark pov outsider fic to crown all others. candle_beck is an amazing writer and i also recommend all their work, but this one in particular stands out because of the horror of the dramatic irony of the story--what the reader knows, but the pov character does not. it's incredible to see everything unfold, and a realistic if bleak interpretation of another classic trope (which i won't name for spoiler's sake).

"Other Brothers" by @homo-pink

another incredible pov outsider fic with this beautiful sense of empathy and also a hint of adrenaline thrill. sam's cheeky and sassy and smart, and dean's cute and so in love. pov outsider weecest has the potential to be disturbing or sweet, and while this teeters the line, i think it falls into the latter category in a way that doesn't feel too saccharine.

"Three Days on the Rack" by keerawa, read by Reena Jenkins

I'd highly recommend listening to this via podfic! reena is great and there's a lovely cello cover of fade to black by metallica that plays in the interlude. anyway, the fic is an orpheus and eurydice-adjacent story about sam trying to get dean out of hell--but it's a torture fic. i love the way it describes hell, i love the way we see dean in the depths of alistair's apprenticeship, i love sam's strength. another gorgeously dark gem.

"Skin Like Fear" [orphaned]

I can't speak much on this one because I don't remember it super well, but it's a take on samdean after sam's hell trauma, something not very touched on by the fandom, and the horror is super well done, it's a great fic. obviously dark, deals with rape aftermath, proceed accordingly.

"show me again, shame takes hold" by objectlesson

if you can't tell yet, i really love preseries fics. this one is a lesbian femchesters AU, butch dean i love u foreverrrrrr. as you can tell by the title, more angst, more shame, etc etc. i was catholic what can i say. there's a lot about the ambiguity of sexuality and gender in this fic too.

and that's it! some of my other favorites are "Tomcat," the Caged Desires series, "The Truth in His Bones," and Brothers, but those i wouldn't necessarily rec on a wide basis because the first one is specifically about transmasculinity, and the second 3 deal with dom!dean/sub!sam dynamics in a pretty sharp way that everyone may not sit with right. that being said they're wonderful and sexy (and the last two, rather sad). let me know what u thought of this list!

[loveerran]

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is Very Gendered (TM). In fact, we are sometimes Super Gendered (TM) (/negative).

We are so deep in this that we actually have cultural names for some hypothetical Gender Ideal (TM). And if you think that’s a little too much (TM)i, then you should try living the reality! Consider:

Molly Mormon, and Peter Priesthood are terms we apply to the ‘perfect’ female and male individuals who fit a quintessential cultural paradigm.

Think about that! We actively, as a culture, push the idea that it isn’t enough to be a Man or Woman, you also must fit some impossible ideal of your gender that carries connotations of advanced obedience to particular interpretations of a hyper-specific religious culture (as opposed to the actual requirements of Christ’s gospel).

Guess how many people fit that paradigm? If you guessed a number approaching zero, then you’re on the right track.

(It’s a non-zero number and I want to emphasize that it’s ok to be a Molly or a Peter! Even admirable!)

But if those aren’t the shoes that fit you, if you want to be a Man who wears long hair and a non-white shirt to church and maybe not even a tie or a little bit of jewelry, that is also ok! And if you are a Woman who has a career and puts a little color in her shorter-than-average-hair or maybe has a tattoo and wears pants to church, you are valid and amazing!

From a religious perspective, what matters is that you are seeking the light and sharing it with those around you. That you are engaged in the wrestle. That you are loving God, your neighbor and yourself.

Personal opinion:

Almost no one in the world can identify with these gender stereotypes. The risk in maintaining them is that we are giving the adversary of our souls an opening. When individuals feel measured or judged by their performance relative to a cultural mandate (worse yet, one with an imprimatur of divine endorsement), we make it easier to believe harmful things.

'See? You don't really belong. You will never be one of the good ones.'

And we risk leading some to confuse cultural conformity with being righteous or being loved by our Heavenly Parents.

Supplanting gospel standards with cultural standards hurts children and families.

[vellichorom]

what would thierry think about rosemary

It started out as a simple thing.

His love for Stanley was like that of any creator's; chest swollen with pride as grand & everlasting as the sun, even for having made him with every intent to be as mind-numbingly simple as possible. But beyond that; beyond their roles as creator & creation, beyond The Protagonist & The Narrator, Thierry couldn't help but consider him as something... more, something akin to a friend - where there was no one else to take up that spot, someone to talk to- at, rather, someone he felt connected to - if only by time.

& with the kind of solitude that would drive a man to favor his own doll in such a way, to the point where he mattered more than anyone or anything else, & telling his story & sharing him with the world was all that was left to repay his listening ear, something more than a mere friendship was BOUND to develop.

This wasn't helped the day Stanley suddenly got a couple hundred pounds heavier, some degrees shorter & curvaceous, & developed a voice which was just loud enough to tell him that her name was " Rosemary. " He never batted an eye, & his heart didn't discriminate.

It wasn't helped the day he realized that Stanley had left him long ago, & Rosemary was someone else entirely, a stranger to him; stifled, to be sure - the rush of warmth in his chest replaced with the hollow & disgusting feelings of cold grief as his crimes were realized, but as the sting began to fade, as time passed & wounds began to heal, he realized - to his gut-wrenching chagrin, this attachment never left him.

Simply transitioned to this poor woman, of whom he didn't even KNOW, of whom he'd since put through Hell, of whom miraculously didn't hate his guts - but would no doubt find him as abhorrent as he did if he ever so much as breathed a word of endearment after this all, he was so certain of it. Years of fondness, now thrust onto this random person after his doll & his only other company fell from his grasp; surely because he was just so sickeningly LONELY that any company would draw his pathetic heart in.

But it only got worse the longer they spent together.

He learned; she was far more talented & intelligent than his unwarranted pride would allow him to credit others for. Her capable hands bore a poison touch that handled him as though he were one of her own handiworks - so tender & kindly, searing & so stomach churningly intimate, even as only their fingers touched - but especially as her hands met his face. Her voice, like it was the only other voice in the world, buzzing in his ears & making his heart radiate warmth like a roaring fire whenever she spoke, & GOD- the way she spoke; like the world was a holy gospel & she was the Lord who made it so.

Thierry paid so much attention that it felt obscene & wrong.

Her body, how gorgeous & real; as sweet as her hands, as shameless as breathing - her lips, her skin, the dimples of her cheeks & hips, the imperfections of her makeup, her nails that clicked on desks & taunted his yearning skin, the salt of her blood, the unplucked hairs on her chin & unshaven nooks... Her chocolate doe eyes that beckoned him closer, tilted too softly, glittered in the office lights, & shone her every thought as blatantly as a painting; only through her eyes, in a glint of gold, has he ever found his own as remotely appealing. Her heart was so impossibly open, too; treating him unlike the mangy mutt of a rabid wolf he knew he was, & instead with dignity, respect, care, patience, understanding, Love...

Thierry loved her like no one should ever love another person.

& that was mere months into treating her like one.

It wasn't helped the day Thierry turned a shade too red at her touch & spilled his heart onto the floor for her to see... & she returned it with a kiss that seemed too overdue to believe.

It wasn't helped the day things escalated into their first exploration of each other, their skin & beneath it, which ended with them sharing a bed for the first time, terrifying as it was.

It wasn't helped the day Rosemary kissed him with reckless abandon & he felt his brain dissolve into mush, & she overwhelmed him until there was nothing less.

It wasn't helped the day she asked he gut her like a lamb, & her response after her rebirth was to raise him into divinity.

& by the time Rosemary first grabbed him in a cold sweat & tears, begging & offering anything to him to never ever leave her, which ended in the two being clawed apart by the other just to mark them as each other's, it was far too late for either of them.

Truth be told, it was already too late as soon as Rosemary fell into this world.

& now, nothing else matters. Nothing.

Stanley was mourned, but ultimately abandoned, as was his story. The complex to house the game is kept only to house the two of them now. Thierry's crimes are revered as a couple's activity for them both, Rosemary too carrying his wealth in her own hands. He's obsessed with her, sickeningly so, criminally so, DISGUSTINGLY so, embarrassingly so - & she mirrors & enables this in full. They both do. They regularly beg & plead with the other to live for them as though they would die without.

& they would. At least, Thierry would try to.

Nothing else brings him the kind of unfathomable joy that Rosemary does when she so much as walks into his view or appears in his thoughts. Nothing else makes him more ill than when she's not there for long enough. Nothing else makes him more painfully miserable than when her ire is pointed vaguely in his direction. Everyone else is a waste of space by comparison. Anything else isn't anywhere near as important.

He needs her to function & is all-too-happy to let himself waste away until there IS nothing left but her to fill him up & make him alive, his every thought & action dependent only on her, with only the slightest bit of shame left to apologize to her that it must be this way.

But as she asks for the nth time for him to drink her lifeforce away, as his bile is cleaned with a soothing stroke to his cheek, as his history is slowly wiped & replaced with only their memories...

Woe, it started out as a simple thing.

But Rosemary is all Thierry is now.

That's what he thinks.

[allegraforchrist]

Hi, my (middle) name is Allegra, and it means jovial and lively- as the Italian musical term “Allegro”.

♡ I’m 18

♡ female

♡ favorite verses is Lamentations 3:25-27.

♡ Favorite colors are pink, red, black and white.

♡ BLESS and FREE ISRAEL 🇮🇱

♡ God bless America! 🇺🇸

This is my blog, and I’m very excited to be on here and share God’s gospel and the teachings of Jesus Christ.

I want to make a note that, if you do not like my blog, you can ignore it and scroll on. There’s no need to be hateful or aggressive.

My blog is a non-judgemental, safe space for all Christians, youth and older, tall or shorter, all ethnicities and cultural backgrounds, all persons and those who are newer followers of Christ.

My blogs purpose is not to:

-> ‘indoctrinate’ or force opinions

-> be exclusionary or bigoted

-> express hateful or ‘guilt-trippy’ beliefs

-> suppress or oppress any minorities or marginalized communities/religions/cultures

💕 I’m sharing my love of God on a platform, and will not exercise hypocritical judgement on those who aren’t followers of Christ, and I hope the same attitude and respect can be shown towards me. I value all with respect, humility, and kindness.

🙏 Curiosity, questions, and all topics are welcome, however arrogance, and prejudice are not. I will stand strongly for my faith but I do not need to validate it to those who do not share it.

🩰 I post scriptures, Bible Study Notes, songs, art, podcasts and vents about Jesus and God, to elevate, praise and worship them. None of what I talk about is to be taken as criticism for whomever’s lifestyle choices, beliefs or practices- it is not about you.

🌸 A lot of what I post about comes from personal struggles with my sexuality, my connection to the Church, my mental health, religious affliction, and all ways that Jesus saved me. I don’t identify as bisexual or use they/them pronouns anymore, as my identity is in Christ, and I’m a woman of God. However, that doesn’t mean my page is welcome to homophobia, transphobia, queerphobia; or xenophobia, antisemitism, Islamophobia, or hate toward other Christian denominations. Nor will I tolerate allegations of hatefulness towards other communities.

🪖 Edit: I don’t politically identify as conservative, liberal nor democratic. My politics are biblical-based. I do say I support MAGA and Trump’s party based on their policies, not their personality. I’m also open to the failures and weaknesses of every political party, MAGA included. However, my blog is not a space to discuss wokeness, MAGA support, MAGA hate, and any political rhetoric. I don’t support hate, or virtue-signaling. If such is commented under my posts, I will give one warning. Done again, I will block you. Because I will not be guilted, or threatened nor tolerate political violence or discrimination against myself, or demographics of voting people.

🤍 Lastly, I do not aimed to be liked or respected by the masses, as I live for the approval and wisdom of God. If you don’t like that, please, as much as any opinion is valued, keep your condescension to yourself. Christian or not, there are boundaries I have.

🪽 Please Note: I cannot make any monetary donations, online or internationally via PayPal or such apps. I do not reside in the US, and I do not have independent access to funds that I could give. I want to donate and assist the best I can, however I can only petition, reblog and pray for you- as far as my current liberty goes.

Thank you so much.

Jesus loves you!!!

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

The Fall of the House of Lamentation

All seven brothers (and reader, but neither romantically or platonically specified)

Summary: Inspired by "The Fall of the House of Usher" by Edgar Allan Poe, the reader reflects how different the brothers and the House of Lamentation are from the present to the past.

AN: Uh, hi! This is a bit obscure, I'm sure, but I liked "The Fall of the House of Usher" and was inspired to write this, but with the House of Lamentation. Literally have two finals projects due tomorrow that I put off while writing this, so...go me!

Warnings: Light spoilers for the beginning of Nightbringer, but nothing specific, it's angsty...so there's that.

After being thrown back into the past, you’ve found the Devildom to not be much different from the present version. Sure, there were some shops that had gone out of business in the present that you can visit now in the past, RAD hasn’t been established yet, and hey, there’s seven new demons who are one year into figuring out the demon life. But right now, they aren’t quite demons - they’re seven fallen angels.

These aren’t the demons you’ve come to know and love throughout several years of your significantly shorter lifespan, these were beings of confusion and hatred of who they’ve become and where they’ve fallen. 

One such place - the wonderful and terrible House of Lamentation. 

In the present, it’s the den of seven mighty, powerful, and influential demon lords. Upon first glance when you had first arrived in the Devildom, you noticed the haunting vibe the house gave off. A glorious, gothic - perhaps even medieval, mansion. It’s large. The paneling is dark and worn from time and the harsh Devildom elements, and a select few roof tiles seem to be missing. The four towering steeples that reach towards the sky have piercing points that remind you of a front of a church, but there is no gospel to be found in a place such as the Devildom - where many demons practice hedonistic lifestyles without care. And, the many ominous headstones that line the yard give a less than inviting impression. 

Several millennia forward, it stands tall like the demons who occupy it. A little worn, but seemingly everlasting. The house emanates every sin that lives within it in a determined stance, in learned harmony…and chaos. It holds and shelters the beings of old sin, true sin. And for every sin, the gothic house stands arrogantly, possessively, resentfully, cholerically; it stands lasciviously, insatiably, and lackadaisically. 

The vision to anyone who unknowingly stumbles upon it would be chilled to the bone and filled with a feeling of dread - and possibly a longing to indulge in every sin that permeates their senses from behind the iron wrought gate. 

However, in the past, the house looks relatively the same, but the feeling, the aura, is different. No, this past version contradicts what you’ve come to know of it, as a home that was once yours as well.

Standing before it now, the House of Lamentation is consumed by sorrow. An aura of contempt, confusion, and regret fill the everlit windows. The house that once felt welcoming to you in the present, doesn’t even feel welcoming for the brothers who live within it in this unfamiliar timeline. 

The first step through the grand front door is a shock, to say the least. Like the exterior, the interior is relatively the same. But now the feelings of chaos and hurt seem to suffocate your very being. There is no love or life in a house like this, there’s only hate and decay of lives that once seemed perfect. The air is thick with hidden truths and spoken lies. Truths about the memories and emotions that reflect the brothers’ involvement in the Great Celestial war, the defeat in their cause, and the fall from their home kept locked in their hearts and minds, only for the four walls in their respective rooms to watch tumble out of them in the form of hot tears or muffled curses into feather stuffed pillows. Lies spoken between the seven in a frantic dance to not show weakness or insecurity of who they are now. 

Who are they now? 

Seven angels with eyes and bodies tainted with the muck of sin? Or seven demons who still reach for a paradise lost? 

It’s here that whispers can be heard if you were a fly on the wall –

Where Lucifer sighs behind his desk with his head in his hands, mussing up his graying hair, his elbows becoming sore from the long duration upon the sturdy oak, “my pride hurt my brothers…” 

Where Mammon sits on his bed as he stares at the floor, biting his lip until the taste of blood mixes with his saliva, his arms resting lazily in his lap as he attempts to reason with himself, “we chose to follow Lucifer here. We all had reasons for doin’ what we did.”

Where Leviathan lays in his bathtub, the tail he despises curling around him for comfort as he sobs, “I never wanted to come to this awful place to begin with!” 

Where Satan seethes in his room, pacing as irritation builds beneath his chest, “I can barely stand being around them…it’s torture.” 

Where Asmodeus stares at the reflection in the mirror with mascara running down his cheeks, gently touching the rough texture of his demonic horns, “I want to return back to the Celestial realm…! I want to be an angel again!” 

Where Beelzebub lays on his back in his bed on his side of the twins’ room, glancing over to Belphie’s dark sheets with a sigh of frustration as he tries to suppress the stomach growls like that of a grizzly bear, “I have a big secret that I’ve never been able to tell…not even Belphie.”

Where Belphegor lays like his twin on the floor of the planetarium with his arms behind his head for support as he gazes at the Devildom stars in contemplation, “who deserves to be punished the most?” 

The Great Celestial war has been fought and long concluded, but not short of a year, seven different wars have been waged behind closed doors - behind closed eyes. The angels who have fallen from grace, are falling even harder as demons…within the House of Lamentation.

[cipher-legal-and-ethics-dept]

ok, I have to know, now that you've mentioned it.

What are your headcanon heights for all the admins?

Hehehe. Alright, let's try to put my incoherent thoughts and guesstimates into something comprehensive x)

To preface this rq: I know some people have calculated "canon" heights for various characters and I find those numbers quite interesting and entertaining, so shout out to them for their efforts; however some results are a bit... extreme and not practical to work with for fics and worldbuilding, so I chalk those up to "exaggerated cartoon proportions" and take them as guidelines, not gospel.

To outline the "method" I've been using: I take Wes and his "canon" height as a point of reference, which is 5'7''/~170cm, and look at other characters when they're on screen with him, basically just guessing a range based on what's been calculated for them (usually as either the extreme upper or lower limit), how tall/short they are in relation to Wes and what I think makes sense for the character and is convenient for my verse.

One side effect is, as you can probably already guess, that I can't say much about XD-exclusive characters until I find a similarly agreeable (to me) reference for that game; hope it's alright if I stick to the Colo Cipher Admins for now.

With all of that out of the way - here we go:

❖ Dakim: We all know Dakim is massive and an absolute unit. Apparently he's bigger than AZ and up to twice as tall as Wes. But in order to not make it too extreme, I'm just guessing like... maybe he could be the same height as a basketball player? Just so it's, you know, theoretically humanly possible? According to Wikipedia, there are a bunch of players standing at 7'3''/~221cm or taller, so I'll take that as a rough estimate for the time being.

❖ Nascour: So Nascour is definitely pretty tall, no doubt about that, just not quite Dakim-sized (height-wise and otherwise). I'm thinking he should definitely be around the 2m/200cm mark or taller, so at least 6'7'', maybe up to 7'0''. That's a bit below the number people calculated for him.

❖ Miror B.: Honestly Miror B. is the hardest for me to get a halfway decent guesstimate on because of his hair, heels and movement. I'll just go ahead and say 185-200cm/6'1''-6'7''.

❖ Ein: It appears that Ein is up to a head taller than Wes, which would be ~7-8 inches (according to a quick Google search, that's the number most agreed on). With that in mind, Ein could be somewhere between 6'0''/~183cm 6'3''/~191cm.

❖ Venus: Venus is slightly shorter than Ein, as seen when they're in a cutscene together. I'm not sure right now if it's canon that she wears heels; fanart usually depicts her in them and given her overall outfit it's likely, so her exact height would depend on that. According to Google, the average heel height is 3 inches/~7.5cm. Assuming she does wear heels, she could be somewhere between 5'8''/~173cm and 5'11''/~180cm.

❖ Justy: I know you didn't ask for him, but since this may be of interest to you I'll add that it appeared to me that Justy is (roughly) the same height as Wes, and I ran with that in fics and headcanons so far ;)

So yeah, those are my rough guesstimates and tbh this is the first time I attempted to put numbers on it. I may make changes here and there, but overall this looks just fine for my verse for the time being. Thanks for the ask, this was a fun late night puzzle :D

[khepiari]

Does it matter if it’s LawLu or LuLaw?

Top/Bottom heated discussions feels so irritating! Especially when it’s about fictional people who have less than 0.00001% chance of being an end couple in canon.

Heteronormative projection on “queer-sex” aside, the whole thing feels like people have a very juvenile understanding of what sex is! When we evaluate and present sex and participation in sexual activities from the tinted lenses of penetration we are limiting sex to one category: intercourse! But the End goal of sex is mutual pleasure and excitement.

Some people can get orgasm with nipple stimulation. Some people love thigh fucking! Some can get wet by kissing alone! Sex is diverse!

I am especially venting because of my OTP fandom LawLu. Why is top/bottom talk lurking in LawLu fandom again?

Just draw, write and read whatever you want you idiots. LuLaw is not real! Everything about the ship is our projection! Anything we add to a ship pairing is fiction! So being adamant that shorter one has to be bottom and taller one top is so so so so limiting! What about a bottom who always rides? What about a top who likes to being guided in bed! We need to break our perception of sex from the notion a mortar and pestle! Intimacy is not limited to the pov of dominance and submission, nor is top/bottom parallel to passive and active participation!

Like dealing with anti-LawLu was not enough! Now we have to again see top/bottom “discourse” resurfacing! It’s fiction; our OTP will never be canon, and cribbing about preferred position or and insisting sexual role as gospel truth is just laughable.

Yes you are allowed to enjoy a specific dynamic. So are others. Some love LawLu and some LuLaw: both are valid because it’s fiction and shipping is fun hobby! Creating ruckus about who gets to spread whose legs is very juvenile!

And I am not free of criticism! Initially when I started as a fanfic writer, I wrote top Law and bottom Lu; the LawLu fandom was young then and I didn’t know about sex much either especially the implications behind the top/bottom dictums! As a closeted teen I was typing away my fantasies and I went with LawLu flow because everyone I knew and interacted with was writing LawLu then, without thinking I went along.

But over the years as I read more, talked with others and wrote more I began to understand sex is not rigid! It is about fluidity and when I am shipping I want enjoy and present that fluidity to my readers!

Now I can’t see top/bottom role being fixed between Luffy and Law or any slash ship I indulge in. Hence now by default every LawLu fic of mine has Switch dynamics! Because they are people who will like to see and experience every aspect of sex and pleasure!

And Luffy is Greedy he will like it both ways and every other ways one can enjoy intimacy. And Law definitely is a Giver so he will give both ways and more too!

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

30th December >> Fr. Martin's Reflections/Homilies on Today's Mass Readings for Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas (Inc. Luke 2:36-40): ‘She spoke of the child to all’.

Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas

Gospel (Except GB & USA) Luke 2:36-40 Anna speaks of the child to all who looked forward to the deliverance of Jerusalem.

There was a prophetess, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was well on in years. Her days of girlhood over, she had been married for seven years before becoming a widow. She was now eighty-four years old and never left the Temple, serving God night and day with fasting and prayer. She came by just at that moment and began to praise God; and she spoke of the child to all who looked forward to the deliverance of Jerusalem. When they had done everything the Law of the Lord required, they went back to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. Meanwhile the child grew to maturity, and he was filled with wisdom; and God’s favour was with him.

Gospel (GB) Luke 2:36-40 ‘She spoke of him to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem.’

At that time: There was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived with her husband seven years from when she was a virgin, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She did not depart from the Temple, worshipping with fasting and prayer night and day. And coming up at that very hour she began to give thanks to God and to speak of him to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem. And when Joseph and Mary had performed everything according to the Law of the Lord, they returned into Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. And the child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom. And the favour of God was upon him.

Gospel (USA) Luke 2:36-40 She spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem.

There was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived seven years with her husband after her marriage, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple, but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer. And coming forward at that very time, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem. When they had fulfilled all the prescriptions of the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.

Reflections (7)

(i) Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas

It is said of Anna in the gospel reading that was eighty four years old and had become a widow after only seven years of marriage. The average life span at that time was much shorter than it is today, so, by the standards of the time, Anna was a very old woman indeed. Yet, she seems to be living a very fruitful life, from a spiritual point of view. She never left the Temple, serving God night and day with fasting and prayer, and she spoke about the child Jesus to all who were looking forward to the deliverance of Jerusalem. She had a rich prayer life and was a preacher of the gospel, proclaiming the birth of the Saviour to all. She is described as a prophet, someone who was prayerfully attentive to God’s word and who proclaimed that word to others. She reminds us that as we grow older physically we can grow more vibrant spiritually. There are many things we can no longer do as the years take their toll on our bodies. However, our relationship with the Lord can deepen and grow as we decline physically. Our prayer life can deepen with the passing of the years, as can our freedom to witness to the Lord with whom we are in prayerful communion. Anna shows us that the Lord can have important work for us to do in our old age. We often have more time and space as we get older, and that can be an opportunity for the Lord both to draw us into a deeper relationship with himself through prayer and to send us out from prayer to witness to our relationship with him by our service of others. Perhaps that is why there are so many people like Anna, male and female, prayerfully present in our parish churches and rendering all sorts of services for the Lord quietly and humbly. Saint Paul in one of his letters says that the Lord’s power is often made perfect in weakness. Anna is a living witness to that truth, as are many of our elderly parishioners today.

And/Or

(ii) Sixth day in the Octave of Christmas

The widow Anna in today’s gospel reading is one of those lovely characters that feature in the opening two chapters of Luke’s gospels. Zechariah, Elizabeth, Simeon and of course Mary and Joseph are other such characters. What distinguishes Anna from the others is her age, eighty four years old, and the fact that she never left the Temple, but stayed on there, serving God night and day with prayer and fasting. When we think of ways of serving God, we tend to think of various forms of activity that we could engage in. Anna was a woman who served God by staying put in the Temple, praying and fasting. You could say that she lived a contemplative life. Yet her life of prayer and fasting in the Temple led to her being a powerful witness of God’s activity to others. The gospel reading tells us that when Mary and Joseph came to the Temple to present the child, she began to praise God and she spoke of the child to all who looked forward to the deliverance of Jerusalem. Her prayer and fasting made her a powerful witness to what God was doing. Anna reminds us that there are many ways of serving God, and one of the most important ways of serving God is by our prayer. To pray is to serve God; it is to give ourselves to God. Such service of God will empower us, as it empowered Anna, to be witnesses to God’s presence and activity to all who are still longing for God’s coming.

And/Or

(iii) Sixth day in the Octave of Christmas

In yesterday’s gospel reading, Simeon was prompted by the Holy Spirit to go to the Temple just as Mary and Joseph were bringing their child to the Temple. In this morning’s gospel reading, it is said of Anna that she never left the Temple. She lived in the Temple, serving God night and day with fasting and prayer. We could speak of her as a contemplative. When she saw the child Jesus, she broke into the prayer of praise, and spoke about the child to all who were waiting for God’s deliverance. It is striking that Luke says of her that she served God night and day with fasting and prayer. Normally when we hear the term ‘serving God’ we think instinctively of various forms of good works. This morning’s gospel reading suggests that prayer and fasting are also forms of service to God. We may not always think of prayer as an act of serving God. This morning’s gospel reading suggests that to pray is to serve God. Anna spent her time in the Temple praying, and yet she was as much a servant of God as those who served God by doing all kinds of good works. Mary who sat at the Jesus’ feet and listened to his word was serving him as much as Martha was. To pray is to serve the Lord, because when we pray we give the Lord our time, our focus, our attention; we give him ourselves.

And/Or

(iv) Sixth day in the Octave of Christmas

At the centre of this morning’s gospel reading is an 84 year old widow, Anna, who was constantly in the temple fasting and praying. She was probably in the last decade of her long life, and by then she had become something of a contemplative. She was at home in God’s house; prayer came natural to her. She needed and wanted to be in prayerful communion with God. You come across people a little like Anna in our parish churches today. They are a regular and prayerful presence in our churches. They are in prayerful communion with the Lord at all times and that prayerful communion spills over into a gracious and generous way of relating to others. Anna’s prayerfulness gave her the spiritual vision to recognize the child of Joseph and Mary as the long awaited Jewish Messiah. Having recognized the child for all that he was, she then spoke about the child to all who were waiting for God’s anointed one. She becomes one of the first preachers of the good news in the gospel of Luke. This eighty four year widow is the first real evangelist in Luke’s two volume work, the gospel and the Acts of the Apostles. She shows us that faithfulness to prayer invariably bears rich fruit. Those who are prayerful become witnesses to the Lord in what they say and do. Our opening to the Lord in prayer enables the Lord to work through us for the spread of the gospel.

And/Or

(v) Sixth day in the Octave of Christmas

It is striking that widows tend to have a very positive profile in the gospels. In one of the parables that Jesus spoke, a widow keeps coming to a corrupt judge for the justice she is entitled to, until she finally gets him to take her seriously. Jesus told this parable as an encouragement to us to keep praying always and not lose heart. On another occasion, as Jesus was in the Temple in Jerusalem, he saw a widow put two copper coins into the Temple treasure, all she had to live on. Jesus draws his disciples’ attention to her as a model of complete self-giving to God. In this morning’s gospel reading we find a widow named Anna who never left the Temple, serving God night and day with fasting and prayer. Widows were vulnerable in the time of Jesus. They didn’t have a husband to provide for them and if they didn’t have children, they were especially vulnerable. It may have been their very vulnerable status which led them to entrust themselves to God. If they had no one to rely on, they could rely on God. Being somewhat alone in the world, there was a space in their lives which was filled with God. Anna was in constant prayerful communion with God. It was only fitting that she should happen to come by just at the time that Mary and Joseph brought their child into the Temple and Simeon was announcing who this child would become. Later on, the adult Jesus would say, ‘Ask and it will be given to you; search and you will find’. Anna was someone who sought the Lord in prayer, and one day she found the one whom she sought. Having found him, she shared him with others. The gospel reading says she spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the deliverance of Jerusalem. We have much to learn from this widow. She reminds us that the Lord comes to those who prayerfully seek him and she encourages us to share with others the Lord who has come to us.

And/Or

(vi) Sixth day in the Octave of Christmas

According to Luke’s gospel, when Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to the Temple in Jerusalem to present him to God, there were two people there who were advanced in years, a man and a woman, Simeon and Anna. It is Anna who features in today’s gospel reading. She was eighty four years old and had been a widow most of her life, as she was only seven years married when her husband died. It is said of her that ‘she never left the Temple, serving God night and day with fasting and prayer’. The house of God was her home; she seems to have lived there. Our parish church is our spiritual home; it is a place where we can spend time with the Lord, where we can be at home with the Lord and with each other, where we can linger in the Lord’s presence. I am struck by the phrase that Anna was serving God night and day with fasting and prayer. When we think of serving God, some form of active service tends to come to mind first. We serve God by serving each other, especially the most vulnerable among us. Yet, Anna served God in another way, by fasting and prayer. We may not always think of prayer as a service of God. Yet, we are serving God when we pray. In prayer we give ourselves to God, our time, our attention, our heart and mind. We are serving God when we pray, and the fasting that is mentioned in connection with Anna can help us to enter more deeply into prayer. Anna’s service of God in prayer did not remove her from others. On the contrary, the gospel reading tells us that she spoke of the child, Jesus, to all who looked forward to the deliverance of Jerusalem. Her prayer enabled her to recognize the child of Mary and Joseph as the one Israel had been waiting for, and her prayer inspired her to tell others about this child. For us too, whenever we serve God in genuine prayer, it will always flow over into the service of others, the service of God in others.

And/Or

(vii) Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas

There are several women in Luke’s gospel who welcome the coming of God through the person of Jesus. Mary, the mother of Jesus, and her cousin Elizabeth are especially noteworthy, and then there are the sisters, Mary and Martha, the woman who washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair, Mary Magdalene and the other women who accompanied Jesus and his disciples on their travels and provided for them out of their means. Anna in today’s gospel reading belongs in their company. She had been a widow for most of her adult life, her husband having died after only seven years of marriage and Anna herself now being eighty four years old. Her devotion to God through prayer and fasting made her sensitive to the coming of God’s special messenger, the child of Mary and Joseph. When she saw Simeon with the child in his arms, she immediately recognized the child for who he was, and began praising God and speaking about the child to others. Her response to recognizing the true identity of this child was two-fold, towards God in prayer, and towards others in proclaiming to them the good news that God had come to deliver his people through this child. The portrayal of Anna in the gospel reading reminds us that prayer makes us sensitive to the Lord’s presence. Prayer attunes us to the various ways the Lord comes to us. Anna also show us how to respond to the Lord’s coming to us, his presence with us. Like her, we respond firstly by giving praise to God. We also respond by proclaiming the good news of the Lord’s presence to others. We do this above all by allowing the Lord to be present to others through us.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[kariachi]

Okay, looking at the history of Alan's page on the wiki, look into age shit. Going to try to keep my "I was literally there" commentary to myself.

~~

First mention of his age comes on April 28 2010, claiming it was stated by McDuffie but with nothing backing the claim.

It then back and forths a bit between his age being listed as 10, being listed as in his teens, or not listed at all based essentially on 'you don't have proof he's that young' 'you don't have proof he's not' and presumably 'guys he's like an inch shorter than Ben and built like a teen' it seems, eventually being left on 'he's 10'.

On January 2 2011 McDuffie is asked if the wiki is accurate as far as Alan's age and answers with "No, he's 11". This claim isn't added to the wiki, it seems nobody was citing any sources at the time.

On January 15 2011 the wiki is altered to show Alan as being 14 in AF, though the same page also lists him as 11.

January 16 2011 sees the 11 removed and replaced with fifteen.

An January 20 2011 the page is again altered to list him as 10 in AF and remove the mention of his age from the main body of the page.

On June 20 2011 somebody alters the wiki to state that he's 12 during AF, again with no citation.

This is changed back on June 24 2011.

On October 8 2011 the page is again changed to state that Alan is 14 in AF.

The page stays this way, including through multiple edits by the seeming originator of the 'Alan is 10' concept, until July 6 2014, when his age is removed entirely from the page.

The next time we see his age listed is after a long stint of the page being partially broken, on November 23 2014, listing him as 14 in AF.

His age is then removed again on January 18 2015.

And it stays like that until February 13 2019, when his age in AF is listed as 10 again, this time at least with a damn citation. The first, by the way, up until that day nobody was citing shit.

And that's how shit remains to this day.

~~

Now, doing this for 2 reasons. One- to back up my claims that 'he's 10' is inaccurate, there's a reason it was changed in the first place after that first comment from McDuffie ended up staying up nearly three years. And these weren't inactive years either, there were plenty of people going in and editing shit. Two- to give me a time to start looking to see if I can find where McDuffie clarified his age- somewhere between Jan 2 and Jan 15, probably closer to the latter.

Probably I won't be able to find it, it's been ages since the forum was taken down, and surely if it hadn't been lost to time somebody would have tracked it down by now, but I have to try. It just, burns at me so damn much, I have to make as strong an attempt as I can.

So, here I am off to search...

~~

And back several hours later with nothing to show for my trawling of archives, and I did fucking trawl. I've got 80 tons of shellfish and not a sign of this damn post because there's a massive chunk gone between the thread page fuckers managed to find and the next one I could get my mitts on.

Also the fucking site this thread page can be found on. It has like 70-odd pages from the old McDuffie site saved, all of them random single pages. How did this happen? Who set this up? The Internet Archive has shit in small batches, but this shit is just individual pages with whole chunks unaccounted for between them. Fucking weird. If nothing else these fuckers need to get in touch with each other and share what they've got.

~~

In the end though, I think this is if nothing else a solid reminder to archive shit. And to cite your goddamn sources when you're editing a wiki! Seriously, how the fuck did it take over twenty years to get a single citation on Alan's page? If people had been doing that from the start we would have had far fewer problems because we could just go 'this is what was said'! But no, now we're here, with me having to submit to the fact everybody is going to take a sarcastic remark as gospel despite contradictory evidence on the fucking screen until all knowledge of this fandom fizzles away!

Sorry, sorry, was trying to stay off that soapbox.

But, as important if not more so than the citations on wikis thing is still, back shit up people. Archive crap if you can. The Internet Archive has a Firefox extension, you can literally set it to automatically archive pages you go to. Because if this whole situation brings anything into the spotlight, it should be the fact that it's real easy for information to be lost to time. One man died, and because so much wasn't backed up, hundreds of pages, we've lost entire huge chunks of WoG and worldbuilding that now exists only in the heads of the people who were there to read it.

'The internet is forever' only holds true if we put in the effort, because otherwise everything from fandom crap to news articles to instruction manuals can vanish in a poof of lost funds and lost attention. If we wanna know shit later, we've got to store it now.

[bylightofdawn]

WIP Sunday

Alas, I don't think I'm going to finish this fic today, my attention span has been shit for most of the day though I did manage to write this. It's kinda longer than is prolly necessary but I could not find a good place to break it up. Cahir is having a minor philosophical crisis and Gallatin continues to be a ride or die bestie who is probably the only thing keeping him sane at this point. Aside from that, no REAL story spoilers. I guess for context, Cahir had broken off from him in the forest to seek out a mage/hedge witch in hopes she might be able to assist him in breaking the curse. In order to facilitate that, she cut off a slice of his arm and got some blood from him. NGL I know nothing about magic in the Witcher universe but everything I've seen seems to have very much a something must be sacrificed in order to power the spell with a lot of entropy magic tossed in. And at least one of the curses we see in the show is based off of blood magic sooooo I'm just making shit up as go along.

EDIT: And I'm at 9K already so nope, definitely NOT going to keep this under 10K. I've also made th decision I am going to break this up into chapters if only because the Witcher fandom in general seems to have shorter fanfics and chapters. Posting a 5K or 6K chapter in Star Wars is nothing but I think I'll need to come up with making this a bit more palatable in shorter doses which honestly, thanks to the structure of this fic being intertwined scenes, I think will be pretty easy. -crosses fingers-

This was one of the poorer parts of the Cintran capital and people who had even a sliver of roof space were prone to keeping pigeons for meat animals. They took up less space than chickens or other barnyard animals, and the scent of them was prominent in the air.

Cahir was faced with the dilemma of whether or not he wanted to risk potential food poisoning by visiting one of the local ale houses or if it would just be smarter to go to a better-heeled part of the city. After some trial and error, he had found a vendor two streets over that sold reputable pigeon pies. The problem is, they were often busy and sold out by this time, but Cahir opted to take his chances.

The Great Sun was in his favor today because he managed to snag one of the remaining hand pies and a relatively quiet place to eat in peace. When he’d been a small boy, before the Usurper ruined his childhood by arresting and locking away his father and older brothers, Cahir would have never had something so pedestrian as a pigeon hand pie.

Still, since the fall of his family during the reign of the Usurper, Cahir had eaten far worse things than pigeon pie. There’d been a time when he’d been literally starving where he’d have done anything for even the burnt crust of a leftover pie.

That was before the White Flame had found and rescued him from the worst pits of Hell and had given him a purpose. He’d anointed him, molded him into the perfect soldier and finally a commander of his army and Cahir had repaid that kindness with a devotion that bordered on zealotry.

He’d learned to stop asking questions, deeming all violent mayhem and bloodshed even if it seemed utterly unnecessary was required. As a boy who had lived through one Usurper’s reign and grown up to hate and eventually overthrow that regime he knew how dangerous it was to leave a crop of angry youths the room to grow into angry men and eventually kill you.

Or at least, that was what Emhyr had told him and Cahir had accepted it as gospel truth.

For nearly fifteen years, he had eaten up everything the White Flame had told him without question. He had committed some truly heinous actions, like the wholesale slaughter of towns that dared to resist the might of the Nilfgaardian Empire.

Yet at time went on, the voice of conscience had steadily gone quieter. There were times when it still bothered him but those times had become less frequent. Older soldiers he met had claimed that was signs of a seasoned campaigner. And that good soldiers followed orders because they only have a micro-view of the battle.

Making sense of the bloody arithmetic of war was up to the generals and commanding officers. They had the vision to recognize that the slaughter of ten dissenters would prevent a hundred more from getting any ideas of rebellion. And in doing so, a thousand lives might be saved.

When Cahir had risen through the ranks, those choices had fallen into his shoulders and he’d made them with the same bloodless dispassion he’d witnessed from the White Flame and it has mostly served him well.

Still, he’d found himself becoming more and more disillusioned throughout this seemingly endless campaign and even more so since he’d been stuck in this hellish reality of being forced to replay the same day over and over again.

For the first time since he’d been a starving whelp, he’d begun to question his place in it all. He still wanted to find Princess Cirilla, believed in the pit of his bones he was destined to find and rescue her.

At first, it had been with the intention of delivering her to her rightful father, but lately…lately he was no so sure of that. The nightmares and dreams he had of her foretold of a terrible fate if she was delivered to the White Flame’s hands.

He didn’t know why he accepted that so readily but it felt so real and more like a prophetic vision than the troubled nightmares of a troubled mind that now Cahir did not know what he would do when he found Cirilla.

Of course, until he figured out how to break this damned curse, there wasn’t much he could do.

“Do you know how fucking long I have been searching for you? And here you are just eating and wiling away the day like it is nothing.” That familiar pissed off voice dragged him from his maudlin thoughts and Cahir was not surprised. Gallatin had found him in this place more than once.

Maybe a part of him had subconsciously sought out this space because he knew the elf would find him here. Cahir broke half of the pie and held it out to Gallatin without a word.

The black-haired elf’s nostrils flared with irritation and he reached out to grab Cahir’s arm in a tight grip. “Chaos take you, Cahir!”

Cahir could not contain the hiss of pain that escaped him when Gallatin managed to grasp him right over the bandages mostly hidden by his sleeve as pain licked up his arm like fire.

Gallatin was many things, but unobservant wasn’t one of them, and he immediately moved his grip down so that he could catch the man’s wrist in a much gentler touch. It was a minor miracle Cahir managed to keep his grip on the pie. “Do you mind?”

“What have you gotten into now?” The other man demanded as he shoved the man’s sleeve back to reveal the pink-tinged bandage.

“It’s nothing to be concerned with.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much.” The elf said tartly and frowned at the bandages.

“It’s a minor injury, and as you can see, it has been addressed adequately.

“What happened Cahir?” There was a strange note in Gallatin’s voice, one which Cahir could not quite parse.

“I’m cursed, I sought out the help of a witch in order to find a way to break said curse.” The brunette finally confessed quietly. “Grab a seat and I’ll explain as best I can.”

By this point, he’d made it an almost artform, explaining to Gallatin the various vagaries and sordid tales of this walking nightmare. By now, he knew what to avoid if he didn’t want to lose control of the situation and what might set the elf off into a questioning tangent.

The first time had taken him the better part of an hour to read Gallatin in, now he’d gotten it down to a tight fifteen minutes. It never ceased to confound him why the elf was willing to accept the truth so easily when those closest to Cahir such as the White Flame doubted it.

He’d asked the elf about it once and got a vague answer about how magic had played such a centralized component in their lives that you just came to accept the impossible as real possibility. And while his people did not general dabble in curses and the darker side of Chaos and that the Aen Elle had been known to dabble in the darker arts.

By the time Cahir was done, Gallatin had finished his half of the pigeon pie without a word and looked vaguely poleaxed by the whole tale.

“And you think this witch is going to be able to conjure a cure for your curse?”

“I hope so, I’ve been doing this for almost six fortnights and have made little progress.”

Gallatin reached out and caught him by the shoulder in a companionable grip. “I’m sorry you have had to go through this, my friend. I hope this witch can help you but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned for you. Trusting your blood and flesh to some unknown witch…do you know the things she could do to you?”

He asked with concern bright in his eyes.

“I do, but even if she curses me with some kind of death curse…chances are I will simply wake up tomorrow free of the curse, and she will have no memory of me or hold any piece of myself she can use to curse me again,” Cahir admitted softly.

“It’s a dangerous game you are playing, Cahir. I will go with you to make sure she does not get any stupid ideas.”

That surprised him because he usually had to warn Gallatin of his impending death to divert the elf from his quest to reach the palace and his inevitable doom. And even then, it was a coin toss on whether or not he could convince him to put aside his overgrown sense of responsibility towards his people to listen to the human.

But Cahir would not look a gift horse in the mouth and nodded gratefully.

“I appreciate your assistance, Gallatin.” Cahir said with honest sincerity before climbing to his feet.