#there is religious conflict

[glossystardust]

maybe you are angry at me, for refusing to give in to you, or maybe you think it’s simply amusing. whether this is the situation or not, you and I both know how cowardly it is to aim for the back. to exploit weakness at the cost of others. so i’m here begging, wishing, hoping, that you’ll do yourself justice.

i’m not ashamed. it is not contradictory. i still have my beliefs, still feel secure in my position. and yet here i am, hoping, looking up, holding onto the last parts of me. does it sound hypocritical? i don’t think it is. because even if i don’t have belief or faith, i have hope, and that’s something ingrained in my soul. it doesn’t matter what is your name or whether you Are. it is all that is left of me, when we are face to face. you cannot take it from me.

i’ll fight and bite and scream and hold onto it with bloody hands and a fire in my chest so strong it makes my eyes tear up. i’ll hold onto it until the moment comes, and you make your move, and my throat seizes up, and my knees hit the ground either in relief, or in despair.

[cy-lindric]

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

[luvrgreyy]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not until it speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“is that really the reason, father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you are so beautiful,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“amen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[tyrianludaship]

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

[aventurineswife]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Art credit to @oversaltedcat on Twitter/X)

[cxlandine]

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

[apollo18]

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

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

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

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

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

[queerprayers]

actually third base is saying the rosary in your partner's room while they shower

[feelingtheaster99]

I have had Bobby Dawn for approximately two minutes and I would already like to return him, please and thank you

[jewkbox]

Palestinians deserve better than Hamas.

But Trumpamzees and their orange puppet master don't seem to distinguish between Palestinians and Hamas, or Muslims and extremists.

[idontlikejazzsonowitsmyname]

There's this one ULTRAKILL fic where Gabriel (SPOILERS BTW) is at the end of his life and the machine tries to save him by feeding him.blood, and if works, but Gabriel's starts to change, cause the bloods from hell and bad.

But there's thus one scene where's in a church or an alternative I can't really remember, but he's in a holy house, and he's thinking about his father, and he says something along the lines of:

"I hope God sees how beautiful I've become without him and W H E E P S."

And I need to remember where I read it because I wanna give the author a big moost freshly chapsticked smooch for giving me a new life motto.

[an-eldritch-peredhel]

The Icon of Eönwë- TRSB Process Post

See the promo post here!

Above the cut is a relatively brief explanation of symbolism, design choices, and everything re: the text. Under the cut is the full (long) story of how I managed to create my magnum opus, + process pics!

Very early in my days as a Silm fan I read a silly summary of the Silmarillion and in the summary of the maiar I somehow completely misread it as saying Eönwë had indigo skin and my Eönwë has been blue ever since. The bird characteristics followed naturally from his service to Manwë, though I kept him fairly humanoid because I imagine as herald he interacts more with Incarnates than other Maiar.

His hair and the color of his wings mostly stemmed from my vague annoyance that he's rarely depicted in a "traditionally (religiously) angelic" way, so I gave him the features of the angels in my church. Floofy hair and golden brown-red-blue wings. The armor and clothing followed from this, with the bonus of the scale armor continuing the feather motif.

The ruby on the sword pommel is there because there was no other red in the composition besides the wings and it looked unbalanced. This icon was painted prior to the War of Wrath, so it isn't necessarily Manwë's sword that he uses during it.

The position his hand is in is a priest's blessing, though people in the @tolkienrsb discord mentioned it reminded them of Buddhist hand forms as well. Interpret it however you will within the meaning of "Peace be unto all".

The Sarati was deliberately chosen as the older form of writing, to be more traditional, and the words are Valarin as I think suits a religious artifact. The transcription reads:

Mayâz Manal Iȝônowêz (Maia-holy Eönwë -> Holy Maia Eönwë) Akesa Baradâš Mânawenûz-iyôz (Voice-raised/high Manwë-of -> High Voice [Herald] of Manwë)

It all started last March, when (instead of doing all the overdue assignments I should have been working on) I decided to draw Eönwë for no particular reason. I further decided that I was going to draw him in the style of Eastern Orthodox/Byzantine icons, because the style is unique, thematically relevant, and frankly very underutilized in fanart (I would soon learn why that is).

(I also found it funny to draw a character made by Tolkien- devoted Catholic- in the Orthodox style.)

I kinda-good-enough finished it over spring break, desperately ignoring the sword and the wings, and was reminded of the existence of TRSB. I wanted to participate, knew I wouldn't have the energy to write, and had no other art in a good enough state to submit. I've long wanted to explore the weirdness of religion in Arda, and this was the perfect opportunity.

The lovely @goschatewabn claimed my sketch and I was off! And then I wasn't.

I decided that there was no way to do my vision justice without painting it, that my cheap sketchbook would not hold up to that, and that I would rather stab myself than transfer the drawing to a canvas.

"Hmm" I thought, "Icons are traditionally painted on wood. Maybe I should get a piece of wood from the neighborhood workshop, cut out the sketch, and glue it on there to paint."

"That's a brilliant idea, me," I thought, "But what about the wings (which you haven't drawn) and the sword (which you haven't drawn)?"

"I'm in denial," I thought, "So please shut up. That's a problem for future me."

("Fuck you," thinks future me, repeatedly and with great vigor, ever increasing in wrath as I must spend ~20 hours sketching out and then painting the wings before I do anything I actually want to do because I need to glue Eönwë down over them.)

The wood is successfully found, cut to size (shout out my father for his help), sanded, and conditioned over the course of an afternoon. White acrylic paint and modpodge are obtained from the craft store (shout out my mother for going, I asked for gesso but they didn't have any), and the wood is generously modpodged to seal it because I didn't want to shell out the money for sealant.

See above for my suffering re: wings. I wanted to violently destroy every art supply in the house rather than go through sketching the individual feathers. I bravely restrained myself, and allowed myself the brief reprieve of figuring out how to do the halo.

Not wanting to buy gold acrylic paint, and with my metallic markers working poorly on the wood, I came to the solution of mixing mica powder (that my sister had in excess from her slime-making phase) mixed with modpodge. The result is very very golden and shiny and exactly what I was looking for, though it's difficult to get an even and smooth consistency.

"Hmm," I thought, as I cut out my sketch and glued it down, "maybe it would be a good idea to sketch out the sword now, before I start painting,"

"I'm in denial", I thought, "And besides, we just suffered through doing the wings. We deserve a little break. That's a problem for future me."

("Fuck you," thinks future me, repeatedly and with increasing desperation and devastation as I must sketch out a decent looking sword, fold it to cut it out to be symmetrical, and line it up with his hand so I can perfectly cut out a section of the handle, and the two pieces must then be glued on perfectly.")

It's now relevant to mention that traditionally, icons are painted dark to light. Symbolically this represents the triumph of good over sin, etc, but practically this is a key to the style, as the previous layers build up undertones and also allows for the signature shading style. It also takes much more work to build up a good color, even using fairly decent paint.

(What brand, you ask? Well it came in an art kit I got when I was like 15 and forgot about until the start of the summer. So no idea.)

Was it worth the work? Yes. The final piece looks cool as hell (Valinor?). Am I mad about it? Also yes.

Painting the individual scales of the armor was an exercise in patience and withstanding torture for extended periods of time. It was done over the course of three days, totaling around 10 hours. I mixed mica into the paints and then sealed it with a less intense mica-modpodge mixture, which is very difficult to appreciate in photo but looks fantastic irl.

The clothes were difficult because I had to work with a different style than I had been. Feathers are typically rendered in a more graphic style, as in my piece, and while hair is usually shaded more typically I found a few examples of this style, and the armor was similar. But now I had to do folds and actual shading, which is very difficult when you have a large area and very fast-drying acrylic. On the other hand, I was finally free of all the golds, browns, and yellows. I was so sick of them by then.

(The way I got around the fast-drying on the palette was by DIYing a wet palette. They're magical. You just stick wet paper towels in a tupperware and cover them with a layer or two of parchment paper (or wax paper in a pinch, although I poked some holes on the bottom layer because it's more water-resistant) and it will keep the paint wet for ages- even for a few weeks in my case with the lid on.)

It's at this point that progress halted because I had to pack for returning to college, and get a tattoo, and get horribly sick with a headcold, not in that order. My event partner was very patient with me, which I appreciate more than I can say. Once I was settled in to my new environment, though, I got right back to working

The skin was not extremely difficult to paint in and of itself (the shading and color mixing was fairly straightforward), but all the tiny, finicky details were very stress inducing. I used a teeny tiny nail art brush for details, and even that felt too big at some points (cough EARS AI VALAR THE EARS WERE SO HARD cough). Going around all the tiny feathers on the face and ears was an exercise in holding my breath and using every possible technique to steady my hands. Getting the hand right was also difficult, but fortunately they already look weird in the style, so it was just a matter of making them look weird in a deliberate-looking way.

Besides the text (and last-minute inclusion of the ruby in the pommel- I woke up and decided it needed the contrast) the eyes were the last thing I painted. It felt fitting. I poured my blood (achey back+hands+legs) sweat (I sanded the wood outside on a very hot afternoon) and tears (stress) into him, and in return on this 9"x13"x1/3" sheet of wood he came alive for me, and hopefully for you too. He isn't perfect, there are a few things that in retrospect I would've done differently, but he's the best I've got. I hope I did the High-Voice of Manwë justice.

[d00dle-buggy]

the girlie

[beanghostprincess]

I can't fight this feeling anymore

For (late) @sanusoweek || Day 7: Reunion (posting it late but posting it nevertheless!)

Relationship: Sanji/Usopp

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Post-Enies Lobby Arc / Sanji-centric / Pining Sanji / Fluff / Reunions / Light Angst / Mutual Pining / Not Actually Unrequited Love / Teen Crush (Tagging as such bc this one gives awkward teenagers so much) / Awkward Crush / Internalized Homophobia / Nosebleed / Religious Conflict (Kind of??? Sanji's POV should be studied)

Words: 5,038

Summary:

Sanji needs to get his shit together. He knows he should. He is being childish. Maybe Sanji is just young. And stupid. And he is a teenager. And being nineteen makes him want and want and want things he should not crave or long for. Like guys. Like Usopp. So it will go away. He tells himself it will, with time. The boiling pot will stop burning and the air will come back to his lungs without needing to have Usopp near. He is back, though. And Sanji can breathe. Just not properly. Never properly when he is near enough to cut his breath away. But he can breathe. He has missed Usopp so much that his body reacts instinctively. Because Usopp is easy to love. Easy to miss. Easy to want. Easy to hold. So, so easy to hold, it seems.

Read on Ao3

More of my works!!

This fanfic was inspired by @the-orion-inexpirience's art for day 7!!

I tried to write a time travel thing but my brain just couldn't work??? Like at all?? And then I saw this masterpiece and the inspiration hit me so hard in the face I had to start writing!!!! So thank you Orion for this <333

[merrimentsmight]

Saw the ask for Cicero-themed prompts.

Wondering if you'd be interested in writing a Cicero x Listener, with a Cicero who hates the Listener but is to loyal to the Tenets to admit that to himself?

“Come here, my Cicero, my dear,” they say. They order. So condescending. My dear. My my mine my mine. Of course, though, it is true. He is theirs. He has made monuments of that truth in actions, in fluids, the shapes he writes, his own blood on their thighs. The way he kills on their order, sleeps on their order, breathes on their order. It is their prerogative. And in the same fashion they, who outstrips him in everything, who sups at the Night Mother’s dry husk of a breast, who could have killed him once and should have taken the chance when they had it, do not belong to Cicero. They belong to no one. Are accountable to no one. Least of all the poor Keeper. 

Sometimes he worries that the Dread Lord will become tired of it and strike them down. Other days he simply prays that their Father will see his loyalty and spare him that repercussion. Other days still he knows that he has fallen prey, and lost himself, and deserves everything coming to them and more. And then on each of those days he comes to his senses, and prays to be released from his own heretical thoughts. He reminds himself that he loves the Listener. He reminds himself so often. 

He rises from where he had knelt at their feet, follows their gestures, sits in their lap. They smell good; clean and like wind and autumn fruit. They kiss him and they taste of full, sweet wine, and they grip his side, and he moans. He could reach out now and strangle them. He could bash their skull against the stone wall until it busted open, their brain red and wet and soft like jam. He could sink inside of them and claw his way out; rip them open from the depths. He could he could he could he could. He could not! He would never. Mother chose them. After all. Out of all, out of anyone, Mother chose them. And they chose him. And that was. That was an honor. 

Is he lying? Is he lying to the Listener? To Mother? Oh no no. Oh no. Oh never. He would never. But when they run their hand through his hair he knows he's a pet. Feels what he has been reduced to. Knows that every moment he falls into it, enjoys it, the praise and attention, is a little lie he's telling to himself. He tries to fall into it anyway, enjoy it anyway. If this is what Sithis laid out for him he has no recourse but to obey. But each day the ties that bind him to the stone altar of devotion abrade against its unpolished edges. They grow thinner. They will snap. 

And what will loyal Cicero be then?

[kollapsar]

The Hanged Man

This tarot commission was an utter delight- challenging, rewarding, compelling, and vampiric! Thank you to crazycorgwyn on Tw/Insta for trusting me with Kyle and this delightful concept!