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monstrousgourmandizingcats · 22 days ago

Note

in one of your previous replies, you mentioned cardinals whom the media overlooks that will likely play a pivotal role in choosing the next pope. could you talk a bit more about some of those particular people?

Hi!

Yes, so a lot of these guys are less "overlooked" and more "misrepresented." As you might be aware, Anglophone Catholic media is a very right-wing space, and this extends to wishcasting about this conclave and the cardinals participating in it; even if a relatively conservative Pope does emerge from it, they are going to exaggerate how conservative, possibly in the sort of tones one associates with an old-school phone sex line. It's just how these people are. Think outlets like CNA, The Pillar, even some journalists who cover the Catholic Church for the secular press. So the issue with the cardinals I'm about to profile is that most reporting in the developed-world Anglosphere thinks, or hopes, that they'll be based trads who retvrn to the days of Benedict XVI (himself an absurd caricature in these idiots' minds) and fully repudiate that meanie Francis and his persecution of Latin Mass people, affluent donors, and career Curia ghouls. Well, in the real world, they won't.

Fridolin Ambongo Besungu, Archbishop of Kinshasa and current President of the Symposium of Episcopal Conferences of Africa and Madagascar. Age 65. Papabile. Probably the currently most powerful African cardinal. Was a senior advisor of Pope Francis and generally closely aligned with him, but is best-known in the West for the one issue area where that wasn't true: homosexuality. Cardinal Ambongo has the extreme aversion to gay people that is widespread in Africa, and he was the force behind getting the whole continent a(n ostensibly temporary) carveout from Fiducia supplicans, the document that kinda-sorta-if-you-squint allowed blessings of same-sex couples. He also had a "hot mic" moment in connection with this where he accused Westerners of having "decadent morals" and "not liking children" (true to an extent tbh but bringing it up in this context is a red flag).

However, this is not one of Ambongo's main issues if one looks at his overall career and theological work. His actual priorities are climate action and opposition to the Congolese government. Moreover, one of his big projects within Africa is a pastoral rapprochement with polygamists (a serious issue there), and while "I can excuse polygamy but I draw the line at homosexuality" is a viable position as President of SECAM, it's possible that as Pope he'll be more self-aware of how that looks in other parts of the world and leave the current state of play with Fiducia alone.

Charles Maung Bo, Archbishop of Yangon. Age 76. Second-string papabile. First Burmese cardinal and former President of the Federation of Asian Bishops' Conferences, which is to Asia what SECAM is to Africa. His most Francis-y position is, like with Ambongo, environmental theology; he has compared climate change to the atomic bomb and said it has already "devastated communities and the lives of millions" (which is, of course, true). His least Francis-y position is his anti-Chinese stance and discomfort with the Vatican-China accords that Pope Francis and Cardinal Parolin negotiated. He's spoken very highly of Francis in the days since his death. He's a cipher on LGBT issues and women in the Church, but Asian bishops do tend to have a more open position on the former than do African ones.

Virgílio do Carmo da Silva, Archbishop of Dili. Age 57. The only archbishop in Timor-Leste, the most heavily Catholic country in the world. Not papabile but has been unusually forthright in the ideological positioning he thinks the next Pope should have--neither left nor right of Pope Francis but "neutral" to "keep the Church going in that direction".

There are, however, disquieting indications that Cardinal do Carmo da Silva might be creepily reactionary specifically on "gender theory"; he's said to have gone to a conference on the subject in Prague hosted by right-wing American dark money and featuring a presentation by a hyperconservative Dutch cardinal, Wim Eijk. But it's noteworthy that do Carmo da Silva expressly endorses a continued glide path in a "bergoglian" direction despite that.

Robert Sarah, former Prefect of the Congregation (now Dicastery) for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments. Age 79. Was less than two months shy of aging out of the conclave at the time of Pope Francis's death. Probably the African cardinal most familiar to Catholics in the West, because he is a "based trad" or whatever who moved away from the typical Third Worldist "conservative on the Western culture wars, more 'open' on everything else" stance towards boilerplate reactionary positions over the course of his 70s. Committed elder abuse against then-Pope Emeritus Benedict in order to derail the Amazon synod in 2019. Is a "mass migration" fearmonger despite being a Guinean living and working in Western Europe himself. I do not like him and he has almost certainly burned too many bridges to emerge from this conclave as Pope, although if Francis had died in 2018 or so he would have been much more viable. Currently overinflated in conclave betting markets in countries where that's legal due to the generally rightoid tendencies of the online gambling community. Nevertheless, he still commands a lot of respect among other African bishops and cardinals and might be problematical as a power broker even though I don't think he's a serious papabile. If he does emerge from this conclave as Pope, it's probably best interpreted as a divine scourging for, you know, something or other. Lord knows the Church has done enough to be divinely scourged for.

Mykola Bychok, Eparch of Saints Peter and Paul of Melbourne of the Ukrainians. Age 45 (yes, really). Youngest cardinal in many decades, a "Uniate" Ukrainian Catholic who's spent most of his ministry in the Ukrainian diaspora in the United States and Australia, probably appointed because Francis wanted a Ukrainian and wanted an Australian and didn't like the other church leaders from those places. Bychok himself reportedly hated Francis's guts, but for personal reasons, not ideological ones; he may have also thought Francis was too soft on Russia (not totally unreasonable tbh). He supports synodality and decentralization, like most Eastern Catholics, but is a cypher on culture war issues. He is almost certainly not papabile but because of his unique and interesting situation he might end up with some sway among other "peripheries" cardinals, especially other young (for cardinals) ones.

Jean-Pierre Kutwa, Vice President of the Regional Episcopal Conference of Francophone West Africa and former Archbishop of Abidjan. Age 79. A prototypical "very hostile to 'Western ideological colonization' on homosexuality, gender roles, and family structures, otherwise sympathetic to Pope Francis's social teachings" African prelate. Probably not papabile but seems to command a lot of respect among other Global South cardinals.

Antoine Kambanda, Archbishop of Kigali. Age 66. A Rwandan genocide survivor who has expressly endorsed a continuation of Francis's overall direction for the Church despite sharing the culturally-engrained homophobia of Ambongo, Sarah, and Kutwa.

Stephen Brislin, Archbishop of Johannesburg. Age 68. A second-string papabile according to some sources. A white South African of the Alan Paton/Breyten Breytenbach "one of the good ones" variety (as far as I can tell) who fully supported Pope Francis's direction, even on homosexuality. One of the few African prelates to expressly say that SECAM's position on Fiducia did not reflect his own.

Chibly Langlois, Bishop of Les Cayes and President of the Episcopal Conference of Haiti. Age 66. Has survived two earthquakes and a car crash. Francis loyalist, cypher on Western culture war issues.

Ignace Bessi Dogbo, Archbishop of Abidjan. Age 63. I think he might be a dark horse papabile and so do some news organs within Africa. Ideologically similar to his predecessor in the see of Abidjan, Kutwa, but temperamentally more of a "Francis bishop". One African news organ, Felastory Media out of Nigeria, expressly describes Dogbo as "aligned with Francis's pastoral, synodal vision".

Abidjan, which is the cultural and commercial capital of Ivory Coast, is one of only a few metropolitan areas in the world outside Rome to currently have more than one voting cardinal, along with New York, Toronto, Madrid, Washington, and Lisbon. It has over six million people and one of the largest and fastest-growing Catholic populations in the world. I think Dogbo would be a good option for a more Francis-aligned African Pope; he seems to share other African prelates' homophobia, but without emphasizing it.

William Goh, Archbishop of Singapore. Age 67. A Francis cardinal and seems broadly positive about the late Pope's legacy, but on the conservative side. Might be able to scout out a candidate acceptable to conservatives but less extreme than Sarah. Was at the same creepy "gender ideology" conference as do Carmo da Silva, but, like do Carmo da Silva, does not seem to be primarily interested in the subject.

Soane Patita Paini Mafi, Bishop of Tonga and former President of the Episcopal Conference of the Pacific. Age 63. Hates him some climate change, hates him some Western influence on Polynesian culture. Relatively pro-LGBT for that kind of cardinal, largely because of differences on this point between attitudes widespread in Polynesia and attitudes widespread in Africa. Probably not papabile but an interesting figure.

Lazarus You Heung-sik, Prefect of the Dicastery for the Clergy. Age 73. First Curial cardinal from Korea. Is emerging in reportage on the pre-conclave events as a moderate, consensus-oriented power broker who would like to shield some of these other Global South cardinals from the more extreme and divisive aspects of Sarah's influence.

Dieudonné Nzapalainga, Archbishop of Bangui and President of the Central African Episcopal Conference. Age 58. Discussed as papabile by some sources within Africa. Very young for this process; is the same age as John Paul II was when he became Pope. Could rival or beat Pius IX's record for longest-reigning Pope since St. Peter. Avowedly and explicitly believes that Africa in general and his country (the Central African Republic) in particular have bigger problems than being muh ideologically colonized by the gayz or whatever. Is all but explicitly santo subito-ing Pope Francis.

Nzapalainga has a similar formation and spirituality to Sarah; they were both educated by the Spiritan religious order, which had a "traddy" vibe and was very present in Francophone Africa at mid-century. (Marcel Lefebvre was the superior general of the order for much of the 1960s, if that rings a bell.) But he is much, much, much more moderate than Sarah; he has, again, showered the late Pope Francis with praise, and was one of the few senior figures in the Church with this kind of trad-adjacent formation to continue to work productively with him throughout his pontificate.

Louis Raphaël I Sako, Patriarch of Baghdad of the Chaldeans and head of the Chaldean Catholic Church. Age 76. Like Bychok, is from an Eastern Catholic church, i.e. an organized body of Christians with its own liturgy and spirituality but in full communion with Rome. Is in the extremely unusual and arguably illegal position of having his home government's explicit endorsement for the papacy; the (Shia Muslim) Prime Minister of Iraq thinks very highly of him and openly supports him as Francis's successor. Not considered papabile by seemingly anyone outside the Iraqi government, but who knows? Has effusively praised Francis since his death, especially for his efforts at interfaith solidarity and rapprochement with the Islamic world.

Baselios Cleemis, Major Archbishop of Trivandrum and head of the Syro-Malankara Catholic Church. Age 65. "Il cardinale glocal" (as in global+local) according to Italian news. Like many Indian prelates, has been strongly supportive of Pope Francis. Seems to command esteem among both other South and Southeast Asian cardinals and other cardinals from the Eastern Churches, such as Bychok and Sako.

There are many, many more of these people, but I hope this gives some idea of the dynamics at play with this conclave specifically in Catholicism outside the traditional heartlands of Western/Central Europe and the Americas. These people are "gettable," many of them are neither conservatives nor progressives/bergogliani the way we normally think about those concepts, and they do have an immediate sense of the suffering of the world that the more genteel rich-country cardinals broadly lack.

#catholic #conclave 2025 #deadfrank 2k25 #lilybarthes

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thefalloutwiki · 5 months ago

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❓ Question of the Week ❓

#fallout #fallout wiki #independent fallout wiki #fallout series #fallout new vegas #fallout 4 #fallout 3 #fallout 76 #fallout 2

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simplegenius042 · 2 days ago

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Music Monday & WIP Wednesday

Tagging @direwombat @josephseedismyfather @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @raresvtm @imogenkol @noodlecupcakes @socially-awkward-skeleton @adelaidedrubman @josephslittledeputy @cassietrn @g0dspeeed @aceghosts @cloudofbutterflies92 @derelictheretic @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @carlosoliveiraa @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @alypink @shellibisshe @skoll-sun-eater @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @florbelles @minilev @justasmolbard @yokobai and @saynogrumpy + anyone else who'd like to join.

Music Monday for A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore, The UnTitledverse and The Silver Chronicles, with WIP snippets for the FC5 Harbinger AU catching up on what Saint Matilda is doing and a snippet for Life, Despair & Monsters WIP Sonya's Push, checking up on our murderous sapphics. Listen down below the cut:

First song for Marissa "Ress" Bishop from my Fallout series A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore. Ress has had quite the adventures in the span of a few years for her lifespan; Leslie Anne Bishop's youngest daughter in the Bishop Crime family after an affair with Arcane Urias (whom was impersonating the Chosen One, Finidy Mona, at the time), grew up in a Bishop controlled New Reno, she was involved in the Enclave's fall in the Capitol Wasteland, as well as the destruction of the slave industry, swayed the tide of the Second Battle of Hoover Dam to Vega's advantage in the Mojave and was a key ally for the re-establishment of the Minutemen, the reworking of the Railroad, and was involved in the defeat of Maxson's Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, the downfall of the Institute and the disassembling of the Raiders (as well as the Church of the Children of Atom), and avenging her dead friends and family by killing her father, Arcane Urias, in the Commonwealth. Even though Ress now has a few places to return home to (whether it be with her family in New Reno, friends in the Capitol Wasteland, Mojave and Commonwealth, or just Piper (and Nat) in the Commonwealth), Ress is first and foremost a wanderer and explorer, and isn't satisfied to sit around and settle down, especially after she fulfilled her vengeance over Urias. Though that's not to say it's a goodbye to her friends, family and lover, as though she's naturally inclined to go off to see the sights, she'll always come back to where her home truly lies.

Note: Honestly this song goes hand in hand with the other series (The UnTitledverse and The Silver Chronicles in particular), but those are usually in more grim or sinister tones, which this song is often used in, and Ress' is supposed to be more "yeah I'm leaving now, but I'll be back, I promise" hopeful sort of way, you know?

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"We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know that we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away

So will you please say, "Hello" To the folks that I know Tell them that I won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singing this song

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day!"

Next song is for my Subnautica: Below Zero WIP, Subnautica: Deeper Depths, which is a kind of reworking of the base game but with combinations of the demo/pre-final release storyline as well as the things to expect from The UnTitledverse. Essentially the story is that, five years after the events of Subnautica and Planet 4546B now liberated from the Kharaa bacterium, Robin Goodall and Sam Ayou, who are half-sisters, worked for Alterra on Planet 4546B's arctic region (Robin as a fauna and flora researcher/expedition overseer on the planet's surface, with Sam as a supervisor on the Vesper Station, seeking to climb the corporate ladder), however, after an avalanche buries her base and leads Robin to seek shelter while injured, she discovers the Frozen Leviathan (and the preserved Kharaa infecting it), which subsequently gains Alterra's interest when Robin reports back and gets taken back aboard the Vesper. Robin quits after a disagreement with Sam (Robin, knowing the story of Ryley Robinson, thinks the infected Frozen Leviathan should be destroyed, while Sam believes the preserved Kharaa infection has the research potential to create medicinal properties that could help bolster Alterra's market and give them an advantage against competition). Three years later, Robin receives news that Sam has "died" on Planet 4546B, and her body was not able to be recovered. Robin, believing this to be bullshit, dedicates a plan to sneak back onto Planet 4546B, getting familiar with the dangerous terrain once more, almost like she's returned to her element. While ensuring she's not spotted by Alterra's Vesper satellite orbiting the planet, Robin only has two goals in mind: find Sam, and discover what shady business Alterra is up to. None of that included getting the consciousness of what is possibly the last living Precursor Architect stuck in her head... and his name is ALAN (or rather Al-An). This WIP also features the originally scrapped Ice Dragon, the possibly not dead Frozen Leviathan and my own creature, the Dweller, an underwater worm-like creature that appears to be made of some kind of Precursor metal, although Al-An himself claims that him and his kin had no hand in this creatures making. On a more horrifying not, the Dweller resides in the Dead Zone, currently circling the arctic region as its "nest" and has the potential to grow in size and length larger and longer than it already is (and it's pretty massive). Anyway, while this song is dedicated to the first Subnautica, I believe it fits Deeper Depths.

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"It was hard to wave my home goodbye Looks like the waves are my home tonight As a kid, I dreamed of space Now I'm finally awake in the wake of the waves!"

"We make plans, think we know where we're going to go But fate's hand deals more than the cards it shows You could dream about the stars, you could crash and fall apart What's important is what you do with your time below

So you're out of your depth? So you're lost at sea? If you want to learn to swim, then you've got to be You may think that it's enough just to keep your head above But you've got to swim down if you want to breathe

It's a strange new world and you must survive Who says you need a map to thrive? Scan the wreckage for the parts, use the parts to build a path Doesn't matter how you fall if you land the dive

Habitat creating, it can be habit making So shake it up, you've got to do a little cavitating Can't build a shuttle if you're huddled in the rubble Yeah, you've got to make some bubbles, get a lungful 'cause the task is waiting!"

"It was hard to wave my home goodbye Looks like the waves are my home tonight As a kid, I dreamed of space Now I'm finally awake in the wake of the waves Never thought I'd have to find my place alone But now I know there's no waves like home As a kid, I dreamed of space Now I'm finally awake in the wake of the waves!"

"You know, I always thought I lived a pretty wild life And now I'm living here with all this pretty wildlife It's survival of the fishes and it's high tide And on the food chain, now my link is a mile wide

Crafting from my raft is an impractical reality With every asset I amass subtracted from my salary I know this package holiday was packaged with some tragedy But actually, I'm cracking on my back at the fatalities

I never thought I was born an explorer But now I'm one with the fauna and flora I never thought much of seafood before But tonight, we're having steamed clams under the aurora ("You know the universe has a plan for you!")

So just relax and maybe stack upon some lantern fruit I'm a naturalist you couldn't hold a candle to 'Cause underwater, candles really aren't the lamp to use!"

"Everyone has a Leviathan coming But you can't live your life in silent running You know it's gonna get cold outside Break the ice, let the Sun in

As the path gets darker and deeper You might find there are sharks 'stead of peepers You may just wish to huddle with your cuddlefish But everybody has to dance with a reaper!"

"I need to keep my grip somehow I'm in some really deep ship right now I need to keep my grip somehow I'm in some really deep ship right now I need to keep my grip somehow I'm in some really deep ship right now I need to keep my grip somehow I'm in some really deep ship right now!"

Last song is for SIlva's Hope from The Silver Chronicles. Resisting oppression is... certainly not a subtle theme that is conveyed in Silva's Hope (nor its prequel and sequel, La Última En Pie and Old Dusk respectively), and Silva herself is a character who is both the unstoppable force and immovable object when it comes to resistance: unstoppable force because she fights back against her foes, and immovable object as she never doubts resistance is not only the right decision, but the necessary one. Silva has a lot of experience in rebellions... more than she'd probably like to be involved in especially for her desire for a "normal life" that doesn't involve getting into such violent circumstances. And Silva, time and time again, makes the reminder that she's the "face of the Resistance" (in the sense that she's the most experienced fighter and tactician that gets deep into the front lines) and not the leader of the Resistance (as Jerome, Eli and Whitehorse are). This is especially apparent come Silva's Rogue Arc, an arc that occurs after Silva's PTSD renders her unable to fight in missions, and while the Resistance certainly have respect for her and consider her input while she's not in a state to fight, she knows the bad blood with Eden's Gate has left little room for Hope County's residents to desire putting efforts into a peaceful resolution that can end further suffering and death on both sides (not that Silva feels the Resistance are obligated to or even believes they themselves should be the ones to do so, considering Eden's Gate are the aggressors, and have been for a long time, however, in order for the plan she concocted with Faith's help to succeed, it requires the hope that, if Eden's Gate wave the white flag, then the Resistance would be willing to hear them out). She really doesn't like Joseph, though begrudgingly had begun to like John (who's "captive" in her bunker) and she really likes Faith at this point (plus Silva doesn't want to put Eden's Gate non-combatants - regardless if they're indoctrinated innocents or prisoners - further into harms way, like Kamski was willing to do when he nearly succeeds in gassing John's Bunker with toxins, which is a shockingly dark decision for him to make so easily considering in their past, harming innocents/non-combatants on the opposition's side was easily out of the question, though Silva likely doesn't realize that Kamski's experiences in their shared past shaped him very differently from how it shaped her). Without realizing it, in her Rogue Arc, Silva begins to rely on the old rebellion tactics she learned from Paul and the Tumultites who such tactics against the Congregation of Adam's Guard, from disruption to vandalism to destroying supply lines and property to taking certain figureheads either out of commission or hostage, and more, to not only gain the attention of sympathizers but the opposition leaders themselves and force them into a compromise to negotiate for peace. Silva has an understanding that the use of violence, especially in resistances, is not only an inevitability but also a justified necessity, but she seeks opportunities to resolve the conflict peacefully, especially between groups that used to be neighbors and friends.

The only time she doesn't consider peace an option is when it's against Adam Omar's congregation and his guard of enforcers, because she knows her biological father is, predictably, still an overzealous, narcissistic and prejudiced piece of shit who, predictably after literally a decade, willingly remains a spiteful asshole that surrounds himself with the worst inner circle of sycophantic psychopaths she's ever had the displeasure to even know (which is a high achievement, considering she's met her adoptive father's Apostle's of Zachariah, who were made up of slavers and war criminals). While beforehand, she and the Tumultites had to worry about avoiding non-combatants (especially since the Congregation regularly used their own civilians as a guarantee the Tumultites wouldn't do anything), when she does meet him again, Adam and his army of cronies don't have their civilians to hide behind, just prisoners and deserters. Anyway, ending my nonsensical rambling here, enjoy the song:

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"I am a nation, I am a million faces Formed together, made for elevation I am a soldier, I won't surrender Faith is like a fire that never burns to embers ("Who's gonna stand up, who's gonna fight?") The voice of the unheard ("Who's gonna break these chains and lies?") Love is the answer!" "I gotta speak it, believe it, that's how I feel inside!" "("I"), I ("can't"), can't sit here quiet!"

"You can take my heart, you can take my breath When you pry it from my cold, dead chest!"

"This is how we rise up Heavy as a hurricane, louder than a freight train This is how we rise up Heart is beating faster, feels like thunder Magic, static, call me a fanatic It's our world, they can never have it This is how we rise up It's our resistance, you can't resist us

("Hey!") Can you hear me? ("Hey!") Are you listening? Sleeping in the shadows, could be making history Walk through the fire, walk on the water Used to be a slave, but now you are a conqueror!"

"They can take my heart, they can take my breath When they pry it from my cold, dead chest!"

First WIP snippet is revisiting my Far Cry 5 Harbinger AU and catching up with Saint Matilda while she's in the custody of the Cougars in the Henbane, after surrendering to them outside their gates (stained in blood of course), with Tracey and Whitehorse discussing about her. Read below:

"Do you recognize her, Tracey?"

Tracey kept her gaze trained on the eerily calm woman in the upper cell across the other side of the railing where she stood. Her arms were folded across her chest as she leaned on the railing, brown eyes narrowing at the prisoner clad in deeply crimson stained white dress and black apron.

She almost looked like an Angel, with how unfocused the woman appeared, overdosed on Bliss and unaware of the reality around her. But angels didn't have hair, and their foggy eyes never retained such sharpness, not like how the woman's only visible amber eye was.

Tracey wanted to compare the feeling of how Faith could act in the Bliss, but she couldn't. As much as her former friend had changed for the worst, and as uneasy and angry as she made her feel, Faith wasn't covered in blood (even if she washed her hands of it), and she could at least see the herald's whole face.

Every tic, every dart of eyes, every quirk of her lips. Every contemplation that was happening behind those pretty green eyes that flashed in her mind like a pleasant dream that slowly soured into a nightmare.

Faith was a skilled liar, but she couldn't fool Tracey. Not again, at least. And liars had patterns. They had habits, especially when nervous.

But she could see none of that on their first detainee's visible face. Just observing her surroundings, sat on the bed against her cell wall, as she waited in stillness. Something about it screamed wrong.

She just couldn't put her finger on it.

"No," Tracey huffed as she answered, turning her attention to the old sheriff beside her, "Doubt she was around when I was with the Peggies. Or at least anywhere close to where I was stationed. And she's not hard to miss, considering...."

The mask, the eye, the dress and apron, the unnerving feeling that something about her was off, were all echoed in her head, but left unsaid from her lips.

"Is that your certainty that she's aligned with Eden's Gate?" Whitehorse asked next, hoping to get a confirmation.

Tracey, however, shrugged, shaking her head, "Never said that. My answer was merely based on the presumption that she is a Peggie. But honestly, I find it hard to believe she even is, despite only having her word."

Whitehorse exhaled lowly, glancing over to their person of interest with a concern. Tracey followed his gaze; finding that he was staring at the woman's palm, which still slowly bled from the cut she inflicted on herself before surrendering.

The fact she refuted all opportunities for first aid didn't set well with Tracey, especially now that the woman sat idly on her bed staring at the wall, occasionally glancing out her cell, hands clutched tightly together on her lap.

They hadn't taken the mask off her yet, especially since it only covered half her face and her most visible features should have been more than enough to identify her.

She was curious what their prisoner was hiding underneath it, if there was anything to hide in the first place.

"Did she give her name at all?" Tracey asked the Sheriff, frowning when the woman's sole gaze lazily shifted towards her and Whitehorse across the other side.

The dead, unfeeling stare gave her the chills. It felt like she wasn't even considered a person in this woman's eye. It felt worse than how the angels stared at her, honestly.

Nothing alive and without a dosage of Bliss in them should be capable of that.

"She claimed her name to be Matilda when I visited her," Whitehorse answered, though added as he recalled, "Well, "Saint Matilda" is what she called herself. Asked around the prison if anyone knew her by that name in particular, but only got negatives. If she's lying, we may have a Jane Doe on our hands. Though we don't even have the comfort of knowing if she even is lying or telling the truth."

Their captive, Saint Matilda, returned her gaze back to the wall, barely blinking as she waited. White dress still covered in splotches of red.

"Not that it matters as much," Whitehorse admitted, noting the most prominent description about the woman as Tracey had, "Affiliated with the cult or not, she's evidently dangerous. Best she stay in that cell for our safety."

Tracey only nodded in agreement. Though she mused on the woman's name.

Saint Matilda.

Back in the short time she was a Peggie herself, Tracey had only heard the cultists be referred to as "brother" and "sister", including Joseph's siblings, with the cult leader dubbing himself as "the Father" of course. She rarely heard of any other titles, with even the priestesses and chosen only referred to fraternally and sororally. So the mention of this Matilda referring herself with the title of "Saint" waved red flags in her head.

And considering the "Saint" in question hadn't given an explanation of whose blood she was splattered in, Tracey has doubts the title holds much weight in reality, much like the cult's preaching.

Here's Jennifer and Sonya once more from Sonya's Push, where Jennifer informs all of Dicko's business partners and important employees that there's been a change in management, and to ensure all signs of discontent are heavily discouraged with the presence of her newest "partner". Sonya is present but she's only been alluded to in this snippet. Not my most perfect writing but I'll refine it when I have the time. Read below: [CW: Mild derogatory words thrown at Jennifer]

Jennifer stood at the front of the long and wide table, her new golden dress glittering to draw all attention onto her. She was furthest away from the two-sided door, looking across the filled seats full of familiar board members and business partners who were all affiliated with the late Dicko.

They all stared at her with a mix of confusion and curiosity, though she expected that - after all, Dicko usually headed these emergency meetings, not her. Although, Jennifer was not blind to the underlying shameless lust present amongst those younger than their senile cohorts. Said cohorts did nothing to hide their ogling on her form either.

Worse yet, she's previously fucked a few of them before under Dicko's orders - a reward of some sorts, sometimes even blackmail, for those that worked with him. A rather inconvenient disadvantage when making a grab for power before anyone else does once they realize the truth.

Unlike them, she at least had the comfort of her trump card present in the room with them, unbeknownst to the crass and greedy bastards before her.

All she needed to do was cow the majority into submission with the threat of losing profits (and their lives) should they try to take charge themselves rather than hand over Dicko's authority to her, with accessibility to their assets intact.

It should go swimmingly, however Jennifer knew life wasn't fair; it hadn't been fair two nights ago, just like it hasn't been fair in decades.

Jennifer's main point of worry were rather two individuals in the room; Chairman Ross and Maxwell Carmen, the former a long-time business partner of Dicko's, a leading officer of the board in Crawford Pharmaceuticals with ties and much sway over Crawford Klaus himself, and the latter was Dicko's finance director who oversaw and managed much of the mans financial assets, and acted as a representative for the business with other corporations overseas.

Ross sat at the other end of the table, while Carmen sat on the end closest to her. Whereas Ross was bald, face sagging from age and was rather wide and stout, though that aspect of him gave him a size and strength advantage as Jennifer had found out her first time with him, Carmen on the other hand was younger than the chairman, with neatly combed hair, a conventionally charming face even if he was of average build. She's never had to service Carmen, thankfully, the man was usually too busy handling business overseas to stay for long.

While Ross was dressed in the most proper of professionalism with a face that always appeared sour, Carmen was simply dressed to impress with a small, and likely, false smile.

Knowing Ross, he'd call her a whore and dismiss her words altogether... the man was the closest person to a friend to Dicko, and was unlikely to take it even considerably well that she of all people was taking over the man's businesses.

As long as she used her blackmail on him wisely and with sufficient motivation from her newly acquired attack dog, Jennifer was hopeful that she could retain a level of cooperation from the geezer to allow her to funnel the best drugs into their markets. As for Carmen, she hoped that pandering to his notorious greed could work in her favor.

"As long as the green flows into his bank account, Maxwell will remain loyal to the highest bidder there is," she recalled Dicko's words when Carmen started gaining a reputation.

With attention on her, Jennifer glanced to the ceiling before closing her eyes and letting a low exhale out. May as well get formalities out the way.

"Thank you all for attending this emergency meeting under such short notice," Jennifer began, earning her even more confused and concerned gazes from the members present, "I'm sure you have questions-"

Ross scoffed a noise on the far end of his table, grumbling something derisive under his breath as he kept looking back to the doors in the room. Probably waiting for Dicko himself.

"-as for the reason behind it," Jennifer continued, a little tightly from Ross' dismissive display, addressing the other members, "I'm here to answer that and more. As I'm sure you have heard, there was an incident a few nights prior during one of our Beastie tournaments-"

However, she was cut short by Carmen raising his hand as he leaned forward, asking the obvious question only she knew the answer to, "Sorry for the interjection Miss Jennifer, but shouldn't Dicko be heading this meeting instead of you? If I'm not correct, an incident on the scale of a malfunctioning beastie and a significant loss in profits should be addressed by Dicko himself, shouldn't it?"

Jennifer recovered her voice in spite of Carmen's interruption, hoping to ease up to the news, "Yes, Mr. Carmen, usually Dicko would be present to address an incident of this magnitude. That is something I'm getting to in this report."

Carmen tilted his head curiously at her, almost like he was studying her, but thankfully said nothing else, politely conceding and gestured her to continue. And so, Jennifer continued to explain, "During the tournament in question, Dicko and I went to intercept a champion with a 17 win streak-"

She was interrupted once more, this time directly by Ross, "I've heard enough of this irrelevancy. Why isn't Dicko here?"

Patience thinning from hearing the man's grating voice, not helped by the addition the room's focus being turned from her to Ross or each other as they murmured amongst one another, a few outright looking bored.

"That's what I'm getting to-"

However, Ross didn't seem to really care what she had to say, "Oh, sure you are. Just as I'm sure Dicko's too busy to not greet us at his front doors the moment this meeting was called, like he usually does. Just cut the shit and either get to the point or go drag Dicko here yourself, woman."

While the other members of board waited expectantly with Carmen rubbing at his temples at Ross' crass behaviour, Jennifer's nostrils flared with irritation, blue eyes coldly glaring at Ross.

On second though, fuck formalities, Jennifer decided.

"Dicko's dead."

For a moment, no reaction erupted from the members in the room. A few continued to ignore her in favor of talking with one another, Ross still waited expectantly. Only Carmen froze upon hearing those words, his attention on her.

However, once the news registered across the table, the small conversations tapered off into a shocked silence as the members focused back onto her, and Ross' furrowed his brows as he finally processed the information. His face contorted into a sneer as he leaned forward, between outrage and disbelief.

"Dead? Dicko?!" Ross sputtered, staring between the faces of the other business partners and board members. To say Jennifer didn't take a particular joy out of his reaction wouldn't be quite honest of her.

As Ross jumbled his words together in a vain attempt at making a sentence, Carmen interjected once again, "Ross, just remain in your seat. Miss Jennifer, could you elaborate what happened?"

"As I had been trying to explain, Dicko and I had intercepted this champion to convince them to consider throwing the match in exchange of a fair compensation, in order to avoid losing a large sum of profits. Upon meeting this individual, Dicko had identified him as a former business partner of his from years back, by the name of Sir Enigma Malvolio."

Jennifer paused as she let the name slip, watching the men's reactions, hoping for at least familiarity with the name.

However, such reactions fell short; Carmen just waited for her to continue, while Ross and the other members merely scrunched their faces in bafflement at the name.

Seeing no one hear had intel on the - for lack of a proper term - "man", Jennifer proceeded, "Malvolio held no interest in the alternate deal, and proceeded uninterrupted towards the latest match with his beastie in tow. A beastie, referred to as the Apex, that's design was unlike the regular ones. He would win this match, and Dicko had wanted to privately make an example out of him."

Jennifer left out her involvement in the attempted disposal of that freak, as well as her brutal failure against him and his security, not wishing to let these fools know of the danger she had always been capable of.

Additionally, she decided to not let slip that Dicko had reached an agreement with Malvolio which involved being trafficked to only god knows where with that under that disturbing bastard, and the subsequent reason behind the beastie's release.

Instead, she opted for a white lie, "It's assumed this Malvolio had unleashed his beastie in some kind of rampage with a certain sentience that did not require a link, as a means to cover his escape. It massacred many of the staff and the betters still present, with Dicko counted amongst the casualties, before it was eventually stopped."

The shocked silence would have been deafening if Jennifer had not expected this, and was emboldened to take advantage of such response, "Which is why I call this meeting. As to date, Dicko had left no will that would pass down his assets and position to a worthy successor should something have happened to him, and I doubt he ever intended to. Now, on one hand, you can all fight amongst yourselves for whatever claim you can milk out of Dicko's fortune and resources, leaving his operations to either fall to dust or be found out by local authorities during the time wasted over such arguments."

"Or," she said, grabbing many of the board's attention, including Carmen himself, "You hand over such management for me to handle. And we can continue with business as usual. You'll still receive the profit you earned for your contributions, and perhaps more under me. Dicko's death should not detriment our market, and he wouldn't want us to render his legacy to oblivion."

It was reaching, but Jennifer had hoped that the fear of losing the flow of green and being offered a convenient solution that would cost much time and effort would swing them over to her side.

Carmen certainly didn't seem disinterested, and there were a few who considered her offer and those that were somewhat relieved by an easy option.

However, there were still those whose greed wouldn't be satisfied until they had more power, with Ross amongst the most gluttonous of such lust and hunger.

"Out of the question," Ross spat out, baring his less than pristine teeth at Jennifer, causing her to restrain herself from unsheathing the claws underneath her finger tips, "What makes you think that you can just up and take Dicko's seat, hm? I know the man himself would never allow such dishonesty to slide. Especially from his whore of all people."

Jennifer leveled Ross with a cold glare as she countered, "I've been by Dicko's side for almost six years now. I've been there to overlook every and all of his projects thus far. I know information he personally shared with me that he certainly wouldn't share with any of you - including yourself, Ross."

At the older man's offended scowl, Jennifer smirked internally, before continuing, "I may not have a history of experience to prove myself to you, but I do hold sole knowledge over documents and pass codes that will take you years to figure out but would only leave me a few hours to scour through. Amongst everyone in this board, I am the closest person to a successor that Dicko has. We cannot let business run dry. You want to keep your money? That security- the luxury he gifted you? The only way you'll retain that is with me."

That seemed to earn her more consideration and reluctant acceptance from a few of the doubters, though at least Carmen seemed onboard, or relatively fine with the new arrangement. But Ross still held firm.

"I don't think you understand, girl," Ross growled out, "Regardless of what knowledge you supposedly hold, you aren't the one who makes such a decision. I won't stand for this, and I'm sure many of my fellows here would agree that you're not fit for this. I'd rather have someone I trust to keep his word rather than a bipedal lapdog that's only ever stood by and looked pretty when not catering to the needs of her master, including some of us here."

Ross stood up from his seat, settling his hands on the table as he leveled a surly gaze on her, "What stops this board from calling our security to boot you off the premises altogether while we sort through this mess ourselves?"

Instead of feeling threatened, or responding indignantly, Jennifer allowed herself to smirk openly, much to Ross confusion. There's the perfect opportunity for her cue.

"I'm glad you asked, Chairman Ross," Jennifer stated with an insincere politeness, "Shall I show you?"

She gave a nod to the ceiling, the signal they both agreed on, and true to her word, the beastie unveiled her camouflage, the sleek metal and red optic, quills and odd protrusions, along with the uniquely alien design altogether, both familiar and hard to miss.

The Apex's three tail talons shot out along the walls behind Jennifer, who stood unflinching, and onto the middle of the table, alarming all the board partners to the presence of the beastie. Carmen was stiff in his seat, and Ross collapsed in his upon seeing the creature

With such magnificent flexibility, the Apex twisted and turned as she expertly slunk behind Jennifer. The blonde opened her palm out beside her, near the Apex's head. The beastie did not immediately get the cue, at least, that's what Jennifer thought, but eventually she must have understood the gesture, and humored Jennifer's display by resting her sharp chin on the dainty hand. Whirred out a sound - not speech as they both agreed before the meeting - similar to a purr just to sell the lie further.

"This is Malvolio's beastie; the Apex," Jennifer introduced the cowering men to the creature, "This is the very beastie responsible for the incident nights prior, the one that claimed the lives of several of our staffs, patrons and Dicko himself, and if it weren't for my actions, would have resulted in more irreparable collateral that would have gained unwanted attention."

"As you can clearly see," Jennifer caressed the sharp jawline of the Apex, the beastie playing along and leaning in to the touch, "I am its master now. Which means it follows any command I give it, and only my command, which includes prioritizing my life either by defense or offense. Meaning, it will protect me from any and all perceived threats. Now..."

Jennifer leveled a heavy gaze on Ross' shrinking form, who seemed even more terrified as the Apex's sole red optic glared towards him as well.

"...are we all at an understanding and agreement in regards to my management over our dear late Dicko's enterprise?" Jennifer asks with a raised brow as her deadly blue eyes Or shall I leave all of you alone to think it over with our newest friend? I must warn you; I can't guarantee how well it'll react over a long period without its master."

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novie-luv · 1 year ago

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The Alters at Which We Worship

#fallout scenery #fallout gifs #fallout banner #fallout wallpaper #fo4 #fallout 4 #children of atom #COA #the church of the children of atom

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cherubnthechaoschoir · 1 year ago

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BARK! BITE! BLEED! (INTERLUDE) - FWB!Frankie Morales x AFAB!Reader

summary: the sting of biting one’s tongue is a lesser of two evils compared to the sting of rejection.

a note from Lucy: Not really a full part but still important to the storyline. Just a little bit of a deeper look into the reader and Frankie’s relationship, their characters and their ideas of each other.

playlist | moodboard

wc: 3046

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n, obsessive behaviour, frankie is obsessed and it is very unhealthy, toxic relationships, age gap (reader is 21, Frankie is 27) - though not mentioned in this part, graphic smut, oral (f receiving), face sitting, p in v sex, creampie, biting, softdom!frankie, scratching, references to suicide, references to racial discrimination and othering in American school systems.

series m.list | m.list

“Is it your smile I enjoy…or the parts of me still stuck in your teeth?”

Some days Frankie liked to pretend you were a map. Easy to read. The landmarks recognisable on top of your skin. The world growing with you, shifting over bone. Breathing with life. The valley of your breasts. The bridge of your hips. The high street that was your spine. At the top of the high street, just over the fleshy part at the nape of your neck, was a library. It was locked. Always. Sometimes he would look through the window to see if anyone was still there. Peer in through grimy glass to expect someone thumbing through pages of a book, folding the corners to mark a quote, or a passage that held particular resonance. Alas, they were plastered with dated newspapers and rotting boards nailed to the over closed shutters. So he wandered back down, past the railway tracks of one rib, the empty children’s playground of another. The church on your sternum. The graveyard had no flowers by headstones. Half were smothered by a thick blanket of browning moss. Others were merely so caked in grime and crumbling that names were illegible. And passed over the bridge to the empty bandstand of your navel. Where music would play if someone gave the time of day. Behind him were footprints of marks he left with his teeth. A need to show himself he had been here. I have been here.

Behind the bandstand, deeper in, on a small mound of a hill, lay a wooden gate. And beyond the gate was an orchard fenced off from the rest. Here, Frankie would indulge his selfish tongue in the sweet fruit. Between two trunks of apple trees. Bite after ripened bite. The juice was full with a sweet flavour and sticky as it dribbled down his chin. Stained his fingers with their residue when he wiped his mouth. But there was a sharp aftertaste. And before he knew it the apple rotted in his hand. Dropped to the dew dappled grass and damp dirt.

It was always quiet in that town he roamed. No train on the tracks to go clickety-clack. No child on the swings giggling ‘higher dad!’. No busker at the bandstand humming the hymn of god loving us back. Just him. Eerie and silent with only his footsteps to accompany the low murmur of the tree conversing with the blackbird. And the gutters slugged with stagnant rain. He avoided pavement cracks. His mother would save her back. He rounded ladders. It cut himself seven years of slack. Nothing bad would come of it either way. That map was his mind's creation. So he kissed you hard enough to invert you. Fucked you hard enough to invert you. Maybe then he would see what was inside. What wallowed under your skin and festered hot in the gaps between? Each atom of each cell was a stone he wished to turn over. Because there must be something. You had your walls for a reason. Maybe it was written on you like a book? Carved into flesh, a signature he could run a finger over after reading. Behind the backs of your lids, under the tips of your nails. The crook of a knee or elbow. Or he’d trace the freckles on your skin like constellations. Using them like sailors in the archaic times to pass through uncharted waters. Scylla would come and feast on his weathered ship soon enough. Drag him to Davy Jones’s locker. No vessel of good intent crossed your choppy waters before.

You both agreed that you were not a mother. A wife. A bride. Or anything else he might want you to be other than human. You were happy with your independence. You didn't want to throw anything away just yet. Not at all. Not for a long, long while. You set ground rules. Had a straightforward argument that you bought up without the need for him to ask what this consisted off.

“We tell each other when we have had sex with someone else.” Seemed easy enough to Frankie. “And wear protection with them too.” Another valid request. “But most of all, no feelings. I don’t care who you sleep with, or what you do with them, and if you meet someone who you really hit it off with then we call it quits. But if you start to feel even a shred of something more, Frankie, that's it. We call it.”

That had poor Francisco swallowing back a lump in his throat before it could choke the reply back down him. His stomach felt hot, and burned all of a sudden as he tried to digest what you had said. A knot consisting of a livewire thrummed in his gut and made his skin flush. And it irked him to no end.

Frankie remembered his years as an outsider. In a school where the white outnumbered the other. A child of immigrants, lucky enough to have skin that passed. He heard stories of a boy who sat two rows down from him in his American history class. A boy with dark skin and textured hair. Who was teased about his colour. Who threw himself from a bridge because every time he looked down at his hands, darker than those of other students, he felt like he didn’t belong. Frankie felt it too. He could memorise the names of presidents. He could recite that the capital of Texas was Austin. That the United States of America were at war with the United Kingdom from the twelfth of April 1861 to the thirteenth of May1865. But no matter how much of a textbook he would splurge out from between his lips he was always from the outside looking in. It made him wonder in silence to his pillow if he would ever belong. If any fact, or word, or story would make him fit in. He’d have even the gaps between two. He’d squeeze into it, no matter how small, and make it his to belong in. He thought the army would be his ticket in. That if he served a country he would earn his place in it. A foolish thought. For even now, looking at you, he felt the chill from the other side of the window pane. The side in the cold.

While you lay draped in bed, strewn out like the sheets, smoking a cigarette in languid drags, he thought to himself how little he truly knew. Yes he knew about America. But not a sentence about you. Your past. Yes, he knew you did your laundry on Sundays. You came home from the bar you worked in at 1:00. But nothing of note. Nothing important. Part of him liked it. Mystery left room for the mind to entertain. Often fantasy was far more intriguing than reality and it made you seem all the more interesting. A comfort to know he wasn't wasting his time on no one; But rather devoting it to someone. However, the other part— the part of him that watched smoke serpentine from the glowing end of your cigarette— hated it. The way it felt in his gut. Anxiety. He felt it before. But never in this situation. In combat he knew he didn't have time for it. It didn't ululate or linger. It was there, then he swallowed, and it wasn't. Now? Well…he had these moments between. Moments where you would light a cigarette, inhale, exhale. And he would watch as your chest rose, then fell in a pattern enough to hypnotise him. Something so simple as your breathing engaged him. Frankie wondered what it would be like; to live under your skin and have the steady up and down lull him to sleep at night. A rocking back and forth. To and fro. Up and down. Belonging. Moments where he would trace the line of your spine with his eyes. Too scared to touch what wasn’t his until he would bite his tongue and press a single finger to the dip and back down its soft curve. Earlier in the evening, when the sky started to stain tangerine, you had been canting your hips into his, dragging up and down on his length and singing his praises in a breathy chorus. Lost on the feeling of the stretch. The welcome invasion. Then you did the same with his face. Clit brushing zealously over the hooked, aquiline bridge of his nose. Your slick devoured by his wanting mouth. Frankie was the river that ran and unravelled in valleys to feed into your ocean. He hated being in the dark. Only when he fucked you did he have a chance at turning on a light.

“Read it.” He mumbled, nodding to the book in your hands, and rolling over between your thighs to part them. A classic of some century long past. One he never cared much for. But he wanted something. Needed something to tell you to do. Or just something to say. Because the silence was torture for his lonely mind.

You were halfway through stubbing your cigarette into the chipped ceramic dish on your bedside table when he spoke. “What?�� You asked, tilting your head in curiosity, eyes searching his. As if the answer lay in their storm-brewing shade of chestnut. Although in the dark, under nothing but halogen street lamp glow, they looked a lot more like black. A nothingness that promised the existence of something.

“I said,” Frankie mumbled again, his voice firm, low and with a gravely finish to it that was just like him. Rough around the edges. Hard to part with. “Read it.” and then, Out loud.”

The words were smudged into the skin of your thigh as he trailed his lips over the inside of the right. His hands skimmed down the outside and squeezed plush flesh. Plump and smooth. Small divots of silver stretch marks on your flesh like ink carved into flesh. Hand painted by some deity in the sky that paid no mind to him now. When he traced his mouth higher he stuck out his tongue. You were wet and hot with his breath and his spit, his come too, still sticky between your thighs at the apex of them. Your very centre. Where his prominent, aquiline nose traced through your folds before his tongue flicked your clit once. “Frankie…” you whined, toes curling. Because you were so sensitive. So worn and stretched and aching. He hushed you, taking liberty over the time where he called the shots. When he was able to bend you to his will and have your head spinning dizzy instead. He didn't feel so motion sick when that was the case.

“Shhh…” he soothed, and pressed the flat of his tongue to your aching sex where heat melted and spread out through your limbs, seeping into muscle and unwinding tension. “Just read…”

Silence. And he thought he may have taken it too far. Finally sent you over some indiscernible edge that appeared too quickly for him to press the brakes. But then your honeyed voice filled his ears;

“Orpheus wished and prayed, in vain, to cross the Styx again, but the ferryman fended him off. Still, for seven days, he sat there by the shore, neglecting himself and not taking nourishment. Sorrow, troubled thought, and tears were his food.” You started, eyes blurring under the hazy weight of pleasure. His tongue delved a little deeper, circled your clit, flicking over the hood of it once, twice, thrice in quick laps. The tip of it pressed to a point and rolled it in careful, full circles. Your nerves thrummed like livewires, humming the same way telephone lines would in a hot summer rainstorm. Where heat lightning flashed ahead.

“Pretty pussy all used and fuckin’ soaked still.” He murmured into you slick, now in a generous shine across his chin. You whined, keening your hips up so his nose pressed to your mound and the smattering of curls there. He lay belly flat to the mattress, hips rutting slowly in tandem with the torturous, bold, and thick laps of your cunt. “C’mon, baby. Léeme a mí. Keep going.”

You read on, lips quivering, words dying by the dragging slice of a moan, a whimper, or simpering whine. Toes curling as his tongue lapped at you. “Three times the sun had ended the year, in watery Pisces, and Orpheus had abstained from the love of women, either because things ended badly for him, or because he had sworn to do so. Yet, many felt a desire to be joined with the poet, and many grieved at rejection.”

His mouth made a sinful soaking sound, wet and generous and full of your taste. “Que cosa mas linda.” He crooned into your cunt, lips smearing into your drenched sex while you stumbled over the words on your page. “Coño— tan mojado, bebita.” You whimpered again, a pathetic sound, fingers daring to curl into the thick head of brown hair at the crown of his head and press him deeper— because, god, you had never wanted something so carnally in your life. “Son deliciosas.” The glint of wanting in his eyes was like the blade of a knife catching the light. A flash of warning before it sliced tender flesh and let blood bleed red. You watched in quivering liquid smooth heat while he tasted, and favoured, and lusted over the seam between your thighs. It was such a pretty sight. Such a wonderful feeling of freedom that sat aching and twisting in your belly. The feeling of impending relief— release. A little death.

“I cant–” You gasped, legs jolting before the malleable, soft and round swell of your thighs clamped over his ears. Your core bearing down on the plane of his nose at your clit and his tongue that dipped in and out of your slick, drooling hole. Large hands, rough to touch, unforgiving and telling, pressed them back to the mattress again. He had you spread completely, open and melting into a pathetic resolve of messy sounds. He dragged his nose through your folds once more, before his lips enclosed around your bud and drew it between them in a sharp suck that had you seeing stars. Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Orpheus, they were put back between the pages of a closed book. Shimmering away into mere dust of thought. A coiling pressure replaced them. One of pleasure, and a slight pain of overstimulation. Hot like a wire in a ready-to-blow fuse. “Fuck– Frankie…” You yelped, and he replied with nothing more than a guttural groan into your centre. A lewd slurp of the slit of your cunt as if it was his last meal. Like it was divine to him. Tasted sweeter than a slice of heaven. Here he could blur into you and forget he was separate. Ignore that you ended somewhere and he started some place after. No gap between could exist with his face pressed into your pussy. Gushing all over his lips and tongue and cheeks just for him. Drenching his face in the thick shine of your slick.

And then there was the slow release of the ache; The coiling heat blooming in your lower belly. Growing with each circle of his tongue over your swollen clit. Your legs twitched from a moment, breathing heavily and staggered as you squeezed your eyes tightly shut. Your vision fizzled behind your eyelids for a moment, making opening your eyes to look down at him retreating would probably have you passing out.

“Bien hecho, chica.” he mumbled as he smeared his lips over your goose pimpled skin, hair stood on end from the tone of his crooning voice, the rough scrape of his moustache over flesh. “Good girl.”

He climbed back up the bed to lie next to you, and the two of you lay still for a while. Your mind felt dormant under the heavy guise of something dragging, your eyelids like paperweights, stinging with the need to just sleep.

“Been meaning to ask you something…” Frankie spoke up, smoothing a hand over your stomach atop the bedsheets you had slipped back under.

“Mhm?’ You asked in a voice that was hazed by the want to sleep, eyes still closed, but awake.

“I’ve got this…thing.” He started, and he watched art you opened one eye to peer at him sceptically, lips pursed ever so slightly. “And all my mates have dates because they're either married, or engaged, or have been planning to get round to proposing…” You scoffed before he had the chance to pick up the trail off of his own sentence. He couldn’t quite meet the scrutinising eyes of yours. The ones that narrowed a fraction as they watched him smooth over the top of your sheets, over a thread that had snagged there when being washed in the machine.

“What thing are you bateing me into going to, Morales?”

“Just a military thing.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, but the way his thick fingers found and pulled at the same stray thread of your duvet cover said otherwise. “A formal.” There was a hint of fear settling like silt at the bottom of a river in his eyes. A flicker. If that. Maybe you could call it a glimmer from afar. Whatever you might call it, it was better left unsaid. You sighed to save him the embarrassment, rolling onto your side and propping your head up with your arm.

“And there isn’t a single soul on this planet that you know of who can accompany you other than me, hm?”

“Please?” He practically begged, rolling on top of you to speak to the skin of your hot neck, skin still slightly salty from the sweat that had previously lain there. “Just as a friend. Nothing more, I promise you.” It would would be nice to have someone there he wished to add, but but his tongue to hold it back. He hated the idea of seeming soppy. Either way, the sting of biting one’s tongue is a lesser of two evils compared to the sting of rejection.

“I suppose I better find a dress then.”

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elsalouisa · 7 months ago

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"One of the few occasions when I ever saw the Czarina really happy was when she went back with her husband to her old home in Darmstadt for the marriage of my brother Andrew to Princess Alice, daughter of Prince Louis of Battenberg (who later took the title of Marquis of Milford Haven). She was like a girl released from school then, her face lost its look of sadness. She and Queen Alexandra were the two most beautiful women at the wedding, the Empress in misty delphinium blue and the Queen of England in a dress of amethyst sequins and wearing an amethyst necklace and tiara. There was, of course, a tremendous family reunion for the marriage and the festivities lasted through several days of dinners, balls and gala performances at the opera. That was in 1903. The other day I came across a photograph of some of the guests and realised that nearly half of the group died by violence not very much later. The Emperor, the Empress, their children, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth and several Russian Grand Dukes were put to death during the Revolution. My father was assassinated, some of the English guests and one or two of the German princes were killed in the Great War. Perhaps it was as well for us that we could not read the future, for I think it would have cast a shadow over the tejoicings.

Andrew and Alice had two wedding ceremonies, the first in the Protestant Church and the second in the Russian Church with Greek Orthodox rites. During the service the Russian priest asks the bride two questions . . . whether she consents of her own free will to matry her husband and whether she has already promised her hand to any one else. As my sister-in-law is slightly deaf she was carefully tehearsed the day before, but, even so, at the last moment she was so nervous that she confused the questions and made the responses in the wrong order, to the horror of the officiating priests and the intense amusement of the guests.

My mothet’s sister, the Duchess Vera of Wuttemberg, was at the wedding and, as usual, my brothers and 1 teased her unmercifully. Her appearance was irresistibly funny in our eyes, for she was small and dumpty, with a fat, round, spectacled face and, in the days when the shingle was unknown, she wore her hair cut short. Her hats and even her tiaras were always secured to her head by bands of elastic. At the family dinner after the wedding my brother George sat next to her and, at a pause in the proceedings, snatched off her tiara and put it on his own head. Everybody laughed, Aunt Vera included, though she vowed vengeance on the culprit. Her turn came, as she thought, 2 little later, when the bride and bridegroom started on the honeymoon. We were all gathered at the door throwing rice after them, when someone knocked off poor Aunt Vera’s glasses, which were smashed to atoms on the stone steps. She turned round quickly and, guessing, although she was unable to see clearly without her spectacles, that George was to blame again, dealt a mighty box on the ear of the petson standing immediately behind her. Unfortunately, it was not George, for he had taken care to slip out of range, but the British Admiral, Mark Kerr, who was the recipient of it!"

Memoirs of H R H Prince Christopher of Greece

#memories #romanov #princess alice of battenberg #royal family of greece #house of hesse

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atomsmessenger · 1 year ago

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It took us an hour, but we've finally got all the bodies of my old coworkers piled up in the corner here. We must've also done something appealing to Atom, as well. I mean, just look at how those plasma rifles float ominously above them.

#apostle matomar #character roleplay #children of atom #fallout new vegas #fallout #fallout nv #original character #the atomite church

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aemiron-main · 1 year ago

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Father And Son: TFS, Brenner, Cat Stevens, The Cycles, Cat’s Cradle, 8:15gate, Radiationgate and Cat’s In The Cradle

So, during TFS, Brenner says the following to Henry, specifically saying “father and son” to him at the end:

Which, that made me think of the 1970 Cat Stevens song, Father and Son, because Brenner’s dialogue is worded the EXACT same same way as the song title:

And you might be thinking “this is a stretch, Brenner just saying ‘Father and Son’ doesn’t mean it’s connected to the Cat Stevens song, ‘father and son,’ is a common phrase, right?” and usually, I’d agree- however, Cat Stevens, and specifically, the EXACT ALBUM that Father and Son is on has ALREADY BEEN REFERENCED in ST specifically in the context of Brenner.

Where?

In the newspaper (because of COURSE it’s the newspapers again)- look at Brenner’s crossword here:

It says “tillerman’s beverage,” as one of the hints- and the answer is tea. As in Tea for the Tillerman. As in the exact album by Cat Stevens that Father and Son is on:

And not only does it appear in Brenner’s crossword, but they specifically showing him crossing that one off:

And there’s him having written the answer in, down vertically from 60- “tea”:

And what is the song “Father and Son” about? Well, it’s basically about what the title says- a father and his son. But specifically, it's about a the difference in perspective between father and son re: his son leaving/it's about the generational divide between father and son, and was written about the idea of a son wanting to leave to join the Russian Revolution.

This is also all interesting regarding the idea of anachronistic song references in TFS, specifically, songs from the 70s, such as Chuck E’s In Love being referenced in TFS versus Father and Son being from 1970:

And while I don’t think Brenner himself was necessarily referencing the song (although it’s possible because as evidenced by him knowing the answer to that crossword, he’s clearly aware of the album Tea for the Tillerman), it’s still yet another reference to a 70s song in TFS.

And speaking of TFS, Father and Son was originally supposed to be a musical (and of COURSE there's an Edward involved LMAO):

Versus the musical number in the church in TFS and the musical Oklahoma being reference repeatedly in TFS/Ted Wheeler sings a song from it.

However, there’s also more to this whole ST referencing Cat Stevens thing- because it’s something I talked about on discord quite awhile ago-

-but basically, summarizing those screenshots, this all connects to “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight,” playing over a scene of Karen in s3, because that song has these lyrics:

And that “curtains are closed, cat’s in the cradle,” lyric is interesting for the following reasons:

a.) the whole “behind the curtain” thing in ST plus the whole TFS play/curtain thing

B.) “Cat’s in the cradle,” versus the book Cat’s Cradle from 1963 by Kurt Vonnegut- which has some VERY interesting connections to ST.

So, in Cat’s Cradle, the narrator is a writer that introduces himself as Jonah (but his name is really John and he’s never named again), and he sets up the plot as a flashback. The plot centers around when Jonah was planning to write a book called The Day the World Ended about what people were doing on the day of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima.

Which, the connection to Hiroshima is interesting considering what I talked about in this post regarding how 8:15 gate connects to Hiroshima & to James’ radiationgate posts.

And in the book, John also includes snippets from religious texts called The Books of Bokonon. Most of the events of the novel occur before the narrator was converted to his current religion, Bokononism.

And while researching for his book, Jonah heads to Ilium, New York, the hometown of the late Felix Hoenikker, who was a co-creator of the atomic bomb, because Jonah wants to interview Hoenikker's children, coworkers etc.

When he gets there, Jonah finds out about a substance called ice-nine, created for military use by Hoenikker and now likely in the possession of his three adult children. Ice-nine is an alternative structure of water that is solid at room temperature and acts as a seed crystal upon contact with ordinary liquid water, causing that liquid water to instantly freeze and transform into more ice-nine. Among several odd unfoldings in Ilium, the narrator meets Hoenniker's younger son, Newt, who recounts that his father was doing nothing more than playing the string game "cat's cradle" when the first bomb was dropped.

Which, all of the ice-nine stuff has me staring at the lack of water in the UD, and the song “Cold As Ice” playing during S3, during a scene where Mike has a Lynx behind his head (which, the Lynx thing is something I’ll come back to in this post bc it ties into all of the “cat’s in the cradle,” stuff, esp being in the same season/possibly the same ep as that Karen “cat’s in the cradle scene” and Victor’s burning cradle scene vs the taxidermy lynx in the Creel house).

And also, the book even has its own Papa- the dictator called “Papa” Monzano, who is introduced when Jonah goes to the fictional Caribbean island San Lorenzo, which is also where Jonah gets introduced to Bokononism.

Bokononism was founded by Bokonon, who was a former leader of the island, and who created Bokononism as part of a project to give people hope and community in the face of the island's poverty. As a deliberate attempt to give Bokononism an alluring sense of forbidden glamor, the religion is outlawed, which forced Bokonon to live in "hiding" in the jungle.

Which, Bokonon hiding in the jungle reminds me of all of the stuff re: Henry supposedly hiding in the darkness versus Will hiding in S1.

And also, Papa Monzano, threatens all Bokononists with impalement on a large hook (despite the fact that Monzano himself secretly practices the religion, and the hook punishment doesnt really get used)- which this makes me think of all of the impalement imagery in ST, such as Billy being impaled by the fleshflayer-

(which is extra interesting considering the visual parallels between this shot of Billy’s impalement pose versus Vecna’s attic pose & how Vecna also gets impaled by the tentacles when they plug into him)

-plus Phineas Gage having been impaled by a rod-

(which is ALSO extra interesting considering how the Phineas Gage scene/“No Longer Gage” ties into TFS with Alice saying that “Henry” is “Not Henry,” and how right before that Alice-Henry exchange, Henry had these weird appendages grow out of his back, which is extremely visually similar to the Vecna attic scene I just mentioned, and therefore also ties all of this back to Billy’s impalement, especially considering the parallels between Billy and Max versus Henry and Alice, although Henry doesn’t treat Alice the way Billy treats Max, there’s still parallels + Max has unending Henry parallels, especially re: sibling death & Billy’s death vs Alice’s death)

And also, Monzano has an adopted daughter, Mona- which, that immediately makes me think of Patty being Mr Newby’s adopted daughter, especially considering Mr Newby’s Brenner parallels, such as Mr Newby having stolen Patty versus Brenner stealing kids-

-AND Mr Newby being very authoritarian/dictator-esque when it comes to how he runs the school & how he runs his family.

And also, Monzano is ill from cancer- which, as we know, there’s SO many references to cancer in ST, considering what I’ve talked about re: the connections between regen healing and cancer plus the idea that Peter Owens may have had cancer.

And also, Monzano wants his successor to be Frank Hoenikker, who was both Monzano's personal bodyguard and, coincidentally, Felix Hoenikker's other son. Frank achieved this position by giving "Papa" Monzano a piece of ice-nine.

However, Frank doesnt want to be the new leaser and somewhat randomly offers Jonah the presidency. Although Jonah is surprised at at first, he accepts after he finds out that this means he’ll get go marry Monah. Soon after, the bedridden "Papa" Monzano commits suicide by swallowing ice-nine, whereupon his corpse instantly turns into solid ice-nine.

Papa Monzano being bedridden has me staring directly at Brenner Sr (who Brenner Jr also calls Papa), who was bedridden and dying after his return from Dimension X.

Frank Hoenikker admits to giving Monzano ice-nine, and the Hoenikkers explain that when they were young their father would give them hints about the existence of ice-nine while experimenting with it in the kitchen. After their father's death, they gathered chunks of the substance into thermos flasks and have kept them ever since.

Which, this has me staring at the scene of the Bingham kids in the kitchen, and how Peter Bingham puts in “too much salt,” versus the salt and ice used for sensory deprivation tanks, versus ice-nine, PLUS “Peter” Bingham versus what I mentioned earlier about Peter Owens and cancer, PLUS what I mentioned about Mr Newby versus all of the parallels between Mr Bingham and Mr Newby and Suzie versus Patty etc etc.

And after Monzano dies, celebrations for Jonah’s presidential inauguration begin, but during an air show performed by fighter planes, one of the planes malfunctions and crashes into the seaside palace, causing Monzano's still-frozen body to fall into the sea.

Instantly, all the water in the world's seas, rivers, and groundwater transforms into solid ice-nine. The freezing of the oceans immediately makes tornadoes ravage the earth, but Jonah manages to escape with Mona to a secret bunker beneath the palace. When the initial storms subside, they emerge and search the island for survivors, and discover a mass grave where all the surviving San Lorenzans committed suicide by touching ice-nine. Grieving for her people, Mona follows suit and dies.

This makes me think of a.) the complete lack of water and complete lack of people in the UD, and b.) all of the bunker stuff in ST, specifically, the NINA bunker + Murray’s bunker, and how Murray has a bunch of Creel references in his bunker, like his his Billie Holiday record + his WW2 posters which then also connect to the Peter Pan and Skull Rock and Eddie-Edward stuff but that’s a post on its own- but that also makes me think of what I said earlier re: Phineas Gage getting impaled because Scott uses that skull graphic that reminds me a lot of Murray's poster:

I also now have to wonder- if the UD was once a normal timeline that got devastated in some apocalyptic manner, could there still be PEOPLE there?? In bunkers?? After all, we’ve only seen UD Hawkins, but if the UD extends to other parts of the world, then what if there’s an UD NINA bunkers that still has living people inside of it??? Or hell, what about Murray’s bunker in the UD?? They’ve never shown it to us, but for all we know, there could be living people/alternate timeline versions of people in there, having survived however long it’s been since the disaster.

And at the end of the book, Jonah lives with some other survivors in a cave- versus TFS Henry having ended up lost in a cave in Nevada, and ending up contracting the shadow as a result, and Brenner says that Henry “changed, like my Papa,” due to Henry’s time in the cave, which brings us back to what I said earlier about Brenner Sr.

And anyway, setting all that aside and going back to the other reason why that “cat’s in the cradle,” line fron I Just Died In Your Wems Tonight is interesting, there’s also C.) “cat’s in the cradle,” versus the song Cat’s Cradle by Harry Chapin.

Which, “Cat’s in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin is about a father not being able to find time for his son and then his son growing up without him and not being able to find time for his father- basically, the son becomes just like his father, ironically, as a result of his lack of interaction with his father, which, the whole “becoming his father,” thing has me staring DIRECTLY at the lines in TFS re: “you have to BE your dad”:

And the “Cat’s In The Cradle,” thing is extra interesting because that song CONSTANTLY gets misattributed to Cat Stevens, who has an album called Cats Cradle:

Which, that reminds of all of the mistaken identity stuff in ST, especially regarding Brenner and Richard vs Martin/the identity mixups there and Eddie Munson delivering subtext for Edward & Eddie Munson being wrongfully accused of murder & Victor also being wrongfully accused by Wayne versus “the man who did this,” and how that connects to Brenner.

And speaking of “cat’s in the cradle,” there’s also all of the cradle imagery with Victor:

And there’s also all of the cat imagery in ST, specifically the silver cat/lynx stuff in S3 versus the stuffed silver cat/lynx in the Creel house and Victor talking about a wildcat:

Not to mention that again, that lyric is from “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight,” versus Henry literally “dying” in Victor’s arms:

And it’s also interesting that this seems to be a REALLY specific song choice for S3/they really wanted “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight,” because the use of this song is anachronistic, as S3 is set in 1985, and I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight was released in 1986- which is also interesting considering what I talked about earlier re: TFS and song anachronisms.

Point is, I think that Brenner’s TFS dialogue re: “father and son,” is meant to reference the Cat Stevens song “Father and Son,” and that there’s a bunch of other connections re: “cat’s in the cradle ,” and Vonnegut’s “Cat’s Cradle,” and Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle,” and all of Victor’s cat and cradle imagery.

And I also won’t be surprised if we get the song Father and Son on the s5 soundtrack.

#stranger things #the first shadow #henry creel #martin brenner #st music #st analysis #brenner's weird song lyric stuff

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