#thorn chapel

[sthtoldmeiwy]

I know it's been years since Door of Bruises was published but I just really wish I'd seen Becket one last time. Just to make sure our priest was okay.

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

Speaking of cool churches

Honestly could fight some horrible nightmare beasts here

I don't respect christianity but they kinda popped off with cathedrals but ONLY for the purpose of having a cool backdrop for fighting horrible nightmare beasts

[milky-aeons]

— 'TIL DEATH DO US PART

ᯓ★ starring: dazai osamu, kunikida doppo, atsushi nakajima, chuuya nakahara and fyodor dostoevsky; what they would be like on their wedding day.

warnings: marriage, swearing, alcohol-intake, wife reader, w.c 3.5k

ᯓ★𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔

: ̗̀➛ Dazai, who never really acted like a conventional human being, also did not propose like one, either. After dating the enigmatic Armed Detective Agent for, by then, two years, you did not expect him to get down on one knee and produce a beautiful ring, like you had seen in the movies. But you also did not expect him to drop the question like it was a frivolous thing one random Tuesday evening while you both shared a drink at your favourite late-night bar.

Blinking, your glass frozen mid-way to your lips, you turned to him and said, "What did you... just say?" That mischievous smile you were so quick to fall for flashed across his face. "I said, why don't we get married, hmm~?"

: ̗̀➛ There was no other answer in your mind, your heart, than a resounding yes. For he was the thorn in your side as much as he was your other half. Through the whirlwind of months following, you found it hard to discern where one day ended and the next began. Time bled together until you didn't have nearly enough of it, and the day of the ceremony was here. It was a casual affair not bound too tightly by tradition. By the help of the agents, an old, abandoned manor sitting by the riverside had been fashioned into your very own cathedral.

: ̗̀➛ Yosano Akiko fussed over your dress, your hair, your makeup — to a point where you thought she was having way too much fun. And yet, she left no stones unturned, either. As you walked in through the building decorated with bouquets of flowers and rows upon rows of familiar faces, she hooked her arm into yours and walked by your side. Using Thou Shalt Not Die, the doctor instructed fluttering, iridescent butterflies to sit against your dress and your veil, the cornet of your hair, any place she could in order to make you glow.

: ̗̀➛ He stood to his towering height at the alter with his back turned to you in an immaculate suit of white. And when he spun to face you, you fell in love for a second time — with his brunet hair tucked behind his ear, the blue rose pinned to his suit lapel and his eyes; how they watched you. With a type of stunned disbelief that melted into adoration. When you came to stand by his side in front of the pastor, his hand reached down to twine with your fingers, and he whispered;

"You — are absolutely breath-taking."

: ̗̀➛ Kyouka Izumi played the role of ring-bearer, delivering a small white pillow with the two shining bands once it was time to say your vows. Dazai reached out tenderly, slowly, as if to preserve this moment for as long as he could, and lifted the veil from your face. His eyes shuttered. He reached for your hand and slid the smaller band onto your finger, his eyes downcast, his voice low and intimate.

"Through you I have found what it means to love, what it is to feel human, and while I am by your side — I endeavour to protect and earn that title. For as long as I shall live, I am yours. My soul, my name, they are all yours."

: ̗̀➛ As the ceremony reached its closure, when you had both been bound to each other in heart and in soul, Dazai could not wait another moment before he could reach for you. As soon as the words you may kiss the bride left the pastor's lips, Dazai had looped his arms around your waist and bent you back into a dramatic dip. Cheers and claps filled the riverside chapel, you smiled widely against his lips, expecting nothing less of him. Your soulmate. Your husband. Your Osamu, who's name you brandished as your own.

𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 . . .

"Kunikida-kun~!" Dazai's loud voice, a little accentuated with alcohol, swam over the crowd. "Play the thing we talked about!"

Curious, your head turned to the sounds of footsteps shuffling onto the dancefloor illuminated by pale spotlights. The afterparty was in full swing, you had been flanked by a group of well-wishing women when your husband's voice reached your ears. Each of you observed as Dazai, alongside Kunikida, Junichirou, Atsushi and little Kenji took centre stage. Excited murmurs fluttered through the throng.

"What on earth are they doing?" You wondered, and then the starting notes to All The Single Ladies began blaring from the party speakers. Your mouth dropped. Every single one of the Armed Detective Agents began to move in unison to the beat of the music.

And for the third time, you fell in love with him, again. Expecting that there would be many more to come.

ᯓ★𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐀 𝐃𝐎𝐏𝐏����

: ̗̀➛ Kunikida Doppo, who, at first, had not planned to marry you. After all, you only met twenty out of his proposed fifty-eight requirements that made the perfect wife. That was the thing about your relationship, however — you had come into the agent's life unplanned, uninvited, and turned every one of his rigid ideals up on their heads.

: ̗̀➛ Yet it was only telling of the Idealist and his old habits, how Kunikida went about asking for your hand in marriage. It had been early on a weekday afternoon when he had called you into one of the private meeting rooms of the Agency's office. He'd pushed his glasses up the strong bridge of his nose and laid out his terms. He'd even written a business contract for you to sign. The page had gone flying in the air when you had tackled him from across the table. Smattering a thousand kisses against his blushing, flustered face and breathing the words yes, yes, you silly man, yes!

: ̗̀➛ To concur with both your family's wishes and his own, a traditional wedding was set in motion. Kunikida Doppo was always a man to abide by rules and regulations, but it had occurred to you that perhaps he was taking this affair a little too seriously. For your parents, he gifted them the very traditional shiraga thread. During the sake ceremony, the blond sat ramrod straight, moving mechanically to take sips from the three cups. One for past, one for present, and one for your future. Together.

: ̗̀➛ He was so serious, in fact, that you had become nervous on the morning of your wedding — your most beloved of friends helping you into your garments, trying to soothe your thoughts. What if he doesn't want to marry me? You would whisper as they fashioned your hair up. What if I've forced him into this, what if he's unhappy? To one of your many anxieties, your friend had met your eyes in the mirror, and smiled.

"Oh, honey," She chuckled, leaning down to kiss you on the cheek. "You should see the way that man looks at you."

: ̗̀➛ Her words played in your mind as the traditional music was strung during your procession to meet him. The black colours he donned made his long ponytail appear golden, his body strong, his face even more handsome. As he watched you come down the shrine walkway to be by his side, the blond reached up with one hand to push his glasses away and covered his eyes. It had taken you a few months after to realise that in that moment, Kunikida Doppo had shed a tear.

: ̗̀➛ It was not tradition for vows to be spoken, and yet Kunikida asked to say a few words as the ceremony drew to a close. You watched him carefully as he picked up the microphone, curious at the intentions he had. It was in that moment that your newly wed husband faced the crowd and brought the mic to his lips.

"First, I would like to thank you all for gracing our marriage with both your presence and your blessings. It is something we will see not to squander." "Second, I would like to say some thoughts of mine, if you would all be so inclined. Marriage, to me, was initially an agreement of convenience. I had the perfect woman laid out seamlessly. And in my wife that stands with me today, I say that she is not that perfect woman I so wished to find. But she is everything more. She is my best friend, she is my support, she is the person I go to sleep thinking of and wake up searching for. To me, she is my home, and I will take care of her fiercely."

: ̗̀➛ At your small reception, Kunikida was stolen away from you by some affiliates of the Armed Detective Agency and had his sake cup topped up one too many times. He found you afterwards, and proclaimed both his love and adoration for his newly-betrothed to everyone and anyone that was within a five mile radius.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 . . .

"Come here," You whispered to him, now in the comfort of your own apartment walls. A considerably uncoordinated Kunikida was struggling out of his Haorihimo, cursing in drunken slurs and promises of retribution to the small sliver of fabric.

Your fingers eased the cloth out from underneath his arms and you began to loosen the knot. Your husband was staring up at you from behind his crooked glasses. He swayed a little, and you stood in front of him, ready to support him if he went toppling forward off the bed.

But then, two strong, solid arms came up to the small of your back and he crushed you against him. Burying his head into your chest, he murmured;

"From the very first day I met you... I loved you. D'ya know that?"

Your heart grew tiny wings in your chest and began to sore. Smiling, you reached up, carding your fingers through his blond locks and undoing the tight ponytail.

"The first day you met me, you told me I was inefficient and lazy, my dear husband." You mused.

He grunted. "Same... thing."

ᯓ★𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐀

: ̗̀➛ Your relationship with Atsushi was one that blossomed slow and tenderly. It was a natural progression, after three years of happy dating, for the agent to ask you to marry him. Everything Atsushi Nakajima did in regards to showing his affection for you was always timid and reserved — you never expected it; the elaborate surprise he had waiting in store for you that morning you came into the Agency's offices just like you always did.

: ̗̀➛ Well, perhaps he had a little help from the other agents, for the office was barren when you entered. Your eyebrows had creased at the very uncharacteristic quiet of the usually chaotic area you worked in. You had checked the time, wondering if you had showed up a little too early on accident. But then, there was a voice — the voice of agent Dazai Osamu, shouting at you to come to the nearest window and to do so urgently—!

Each of the agents stood at the sidewalk, all holding up a sign with different characters that made up a whole sentence. A question. And Atsushi — your sweet, kind, caring Atsushi, was perched in the middle, the biggest bouquet of roses in his sheepish hands. Will you marry me?

: ̗̀➛ Both you and Atsushi decide to get married somewhere far removed from the city skyline of Yokohama. You wanted somewhere special to remember this day, and perhaps, the great outdoors and stretching greens spoke to Atsushi's beastly side a little more, too. So you chose the heart of a nearby woodland where a great, ancient willow tree served as your alter.

: ̗̀➛ Atsushi wore a suit of sky-blue. You wore a simple slip dress decorated with accents of lace and flowers, Kenji had twined some wildflowers into your hair. The fauna of the forest acted as your choir when you walked down the small trail of brambles to your soon-to-be husband who waited at the base of the winding trunk.

: ̗̀➛ The reception was held in a greenhouse funded by the Agency's private books — you and Atsushi were members, after all, so Kunikida took a little less persuading than usual to move his ledgers around. For lunch, you served chazuke, and when you took the first dance, Atsushi's eyes appeared more gold than they were violet as they looked at you so lovingly the whole time.

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 . . .

"Atsushi, they'll notice that we're gone." You giggled, bunching your dress up so you could step over the little bush of thickets. When you both reached the winding roots of the willow tree you promised yourselves to each other underneath, Atsushi transformed his arms and legs into their tiger equivalents.

"Dazai-san said he'd keep everyone entertained." He whispered, and then stepped forward to wrap his soft arms around you. "Are you ready?"

"It may be a little late for second thoughts." You teased, but looped your arms around his slender neck and relaxed into his hold. The new golden band on your finger glinted in the moonlight.

And using that tiger-strength, Atsushi dug his claws into the ancient tree bark and began to climb. Higher and higher until you both broke through the canopy cover and could look to the millions of stars winking at you overhead.

"Oh, Atsushi." You breathed in awe, taking in the wonders above. "Oh, it's beautiful."

Your husband nuzzled into your hair and whispered, "Each one represents all the lifetimes I'd still find and fall in love with you in."

ᯓ★𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

: ̗̀➛ It had initially been you and your General lover's plan to keep your engagement quiet and have a small affair away from town. Just the two of you, because Chuuya thought some of his colleagues were insufferable pains in his ass, and all hell would break loose if they were to figure out they had a wedding plan on their hands. It was, however, unfortunate, that you two had been discussing what type of ceremony you'd like to have when Hirotsu was just about to turn one of the corners. It took exactly one hour for the entire Port Mafia to know. Two for it to reach the Armed Detective Agency.

: ̗̀➛ It was no longer a personal affair. This wedding became a spectacle within the Mafia's ranks. From the lowest levels all the way to the boss himself, everyone was abuzz with ideas and anticipation, excited that one of their top brass was getting married and they could all take advantage of the time off to have a grand party. Chuuya threatened to resign several times, you always laughed at how excited the entire criminal organisation became at the prospect of celebration.

: ̗̀➛ True to the boss' word, you and Chuuya's wedding was held in one of the grandest churches Yokohama had to offer — having mysteriously skipped the two year waiting list. The building was laved in gold and stain glass windows. Chuuya wore a fine suit of blood-red and a black tie that contrasted with his wild curls, his hard blue eyes. But when they saw you come down the aisle, they softened, and when he said his vows to you, you never thought anyone would look at you with such adoration ever again.

: ̗̀➛ The main event was held in the bowels of the Port Mafia — one of the largest show-rooms this organisation had to offer, with chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and a private band playing any songs they were requested. Chuuya, for the majority of your reception, could not seem to keep his hands off of you. If you were not by his hip, his eyes would instantly go searching for you within the throng of party-goers. When he did find you, he would place a hand to the small of your back, he'd lean in to kiss you and say;

"There you are, my wife."

: ̗̀➛ There was another reason as to why Chuuya Nakahara was originally so hellbent on taking your wedding somewhere more quiet and peaceful. And it came in the form of a brunet ex-partner waltzing into the organisation's party, a broad simper on his infuriating face. Dazai Osamu took your hand and kissed the back of it, extending his deepest sympathies and that if you ever needed to blow off steam, he could give you his number.

: ̗̀➛ The Port Mafia ballroom had originally started off with three grand chandeliers. After Dazai had purred those taunting words, there was then, only two.

: ̗̀➛ After the many shards had been swept from the floor by a cleaning crew, the private band struck an up-beat quartet. Both you and your newly-wed husband took to the floor for the first dance. Chuuya's hand splayed protectively against your back, his other gloved palm slotting into yours and guiding you to twirl, skip, spin.

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄 . . .

"Shit, sorry." He grumbled when your foreheads were touching, the proximity sending his breath fanning across your cheeks. His pointy canines were jutting against his bottom lip. "That motherfucker — he just makes me see red."

"Hey, it's okay." You said, catching his eyes. "Because I love you. You, Nakahara. I am all yours and no one else's."

Those words touched something deep within this man's chest. Of course, the proof that you were his sat in the form of two stacked rings on your left hand, but to hear it. To look into your beautiful eyes and see the amount of love there.

He surprised you by reaching down to your hips and lifting you up, twirling you around, around, around.

"And I'm forever yours, babydoll."

ᯓ★𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘

: ̗̀➛ The initial letter you received from Fyodor asking for your hand in marriage — originally, you believed it to be fake. A shallow joke from someone who knew of you and the mastermind's occasional on-and-off relationship whenever he returned to your homeland. But as you traced the delicate loops of the handwriting that looked so much like his own, in the intimate moonlight beams of late night — you'd let yourself imagine. Hope. Only for it to swell and dwindle like ashes of a flame. Because there was just no way he would ask to marry you. That he would marry, at all.

: ̗̀➛ It was fitting then; how palpable your shock was when the slender, pale man you had accidentally fallen in love with — like a fool — was standing on the other side of your door that early morning. You had blinked hard, rubbed your eyes, wondered if you were weary from too many sleepless nights. When the stars had cleared from your vision, he was still there. An amused little smile stretched against his lips.

"So? Are you ready to get married?" You stared at him. And stared. And then dropped your morning cup of coffee onto the tiles of your hallway.

: ̗̀➛ At the news of your sudden betrothal, your family were both elated with a healthy dose of scepticism. Who is this man you are intending to marry, they fluttered around you with questions when you broke the news. Fyodor? I've never heard you speak of him, why do you intend to marry this man, girl? At that, you had smiled, not bothering to hide the small heat of blush on your ears, and murmured;

"Because he's a thief, and he stole my heart a very long time ago."

: ̗̀➛ The wedding was held in an old cathedral of gothic architecture. You don't think you've ever seen Fyodor look so refined; standing there in his simple suit of stone-grey with a black shirt. He had his hair tucked behind his ears, his eyebags were a little less pronounced, his skin brighter — but perhaps that was just the early-morning light. When you stood before your husband to-be and handed your heart over to him, for him, there was a shift in his eyes. You could not explain it, but you knew it ran deep. You knew that in his own way, he was also handing himself over to you. And you would accept all of him, just like you accepted his name.

: ̗̀➛ Much to the dismay of your family, you did not hold a wedding reception after the ceremony, but that was only because Fyodor decided to walk with you through the freezing streets of Moscow. He held your hand, and even though on many nights where you lay together he was stone-cold, today, he felt warm.

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 . . .

"Fyodor?"

"Hmm?" He answered, noticing the sheepish tone in your voice. You looked up at him with those big doe eyes.

"Why did you ask to marry me?"

Fyodor held your gaze for a long, pregnant second. It was at that moment that a single flake of snow fluttered down from the grey sky and landed on his immaculate suit. Then another. Each one the same colour as your dress, each one different to the rest.

Fyodor held out his hand to catch them. "Why does the snow fall? Because it is natural. It is meant to be. I married you because it is the way I wish to fall. With you, by my side."

requested by the lovely [ @cocodrilofeliz! ]

[rainrot4me]

On Unholy Terms

Summary: You’re an exorcist sent by the church to investigate a graveyard deemed to be unholy. After stumbling upon a ‘demon’, your determination quickly falters.

Characters: Eyeless Jack x Exorcist! Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Probably definitely blasphemous, cunnilingus, big size difference, jack fucks you on a tombstone, vaginal, shaming, forceful entry, slight humiliation, biting, some blood, choking, degradation

Words: 3.6k

A/N: There’s slight symbolism of Christianity/Catholicism, please take it lightheartedly. I don’t mean to be rude :’)

This was stupid and you knew it.

You trudged through the overgrown grass, your skirt constantly getting caught on thorns and twigs littering the ground. The rosary you clutched close to your chest was cold, giving you some stability as your fear grew the deeper you went into the woods.

The church had sent you to investigate a series of murders near an old, abandoned chapel that had been left dormant after funding ran scarce. Several years ago, you had visited the church on different occasions, but as you entered the clearing, it looked anything but familiar.

Dense fog surrounded the area, the evening sky casting a dark orange glow through the forest. The rusty flashlight in your opposite hand did little to aid your vision as you stepped closer to the overgrown building. Vines and debris had overtaken the small church, and the beautiful stained glass windows shattered or faded from the lack of upkeep. It felt depressing, the ground looking anything but holy now.

You shuffled around the side of the building, the dark oak doors boarded together, police caution tape decorating the step’s railings. You sighed, shining your flashlight onto the rest of the building, but finding nothing worth interest. You thought the church was idiotic, this was a job for investigators, police or something, not some young exorcist who barely got work as it was. However, the church had deemed this case a holy one considering it was on sacred ground. Nonetheless, if you felt this was out of your pay grade, you would give the cops a call yourself.

You walked around the back of the building, a wide field revealing rows and rows of tombstones and crosses. A cemetery. A small gravel path led to an arched gate, a beautiful design etched onto the iron bars. You signed a cross, kissing your fingers before stepping through the threshold, showing respect to the grounds.

The sun was dipping behind the trees, a dark sky looming as the fog surrounded you making it harder to see. You stepped carefully through the assorted headstones, each reading off a different name you felt too busy to acknowledge. A crow called somewhere in the distance, startling you slightly as you shone your flashlight around frantically. Your nerves were getting to you, the stale air making it harder to breathe. So far, nothing had stood out to you, no signs of life or commotion, let alone dead bodies that were so frequently reported. You felt restless wanting to leave so quickly, but you had to report something back or you would be penalized.

Trudging the gravel path, you stumbled upon a rather large mausoleum. The beautifully designed pillars lead to its gated entrance. You shone your flashlight at the doors, goosebumps running up your arms as you decided to go inside. You stepped onto the marble steps, the rusted gate creaking loudly as you swung it open. You clutched your rosary tightly, sweat running across your forehead as you silently cursed yourself. The tomb was dark and stuffy, with plaques of the deceased marking where they lay in the marble coffins. You angled your flashlight, eyeing the old but stunning design of the interior. You stepped further into the tomb, several dark doorways gained your curiosity. You stepped toward one, shining your flashlight in but seeing nothing except bookshelves lined with what you presumed to be death records and documents of the deceased outside. You gulped, stepping to another one.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your flashlight landed on an assortment of blankets and pillows nestled into a corner, several water bottles and books askew across the floor nearby. Your heartbeat became uneasy, fear creeping into you as you took a step back, the rosary pinching your hand as you clutched it tighter. Maybe it was nothing, maybe some squatter had used the building to camp out for the night. You tried to calm yourself, wiping the sweat from your face with the back of your sleeve. A cool breeze wafted into the tomb, fluttering your skirt around your ankles as you continued searching the rooms. Suddenly, a loud screech filled your ears, sending your blood cold and you stumbling back onto your backside. You screamed as you threw your flashlight up quickly, frantically searching for the noise, panting heavily. Shining a flashlight on a crow desperately flapping his wings to escape the building, screeching again as he flew out and into the night.

You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths in you steadied yourself, blaming your imagination on your jumpiness. It seemed there was nothing but annoying birds and dusty graves, but no sign of any ghostly killer. You hoisted yourself up, reaching down to dust off your skirt before collecting yourself and shining your flashlight up again. That’s when you saw it, a tall figure resting his weight against the door frame of a darkened room. You held your breath, begging your body not to move as you could feel the tears well in your ears. The figure's ragged breaths echoed off the marble walls, his head angled to the side as if he was gawking at you. Your eyes flickered quickly, scanning his moves and praying he by some miracle moved on and let you leave. You prayed you would leave with no story to tell, but now you feared you wouldn’t leave at all.

The man pushed himself off the doorway, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket and leaning in to meet your gaze. He towered over you, a good bit too. You wanted to run, to turn around and sprint out the doorway and never look back, but he interrupted your thoughts. “You’re a pest,” he grunted, looking you up and down as he slid the hood of his hoodie off of his head. He seemed to be wearing some creepy mask, the dark eyes sending your heart pounding in your chest. But his voice was calm, soothing almost, if it wasn’t handing you an insult. You gulped, standing up straight and letting go of the rosary hanging from your neck as you gripped your flashlight tighter.

“Why are you here? Who are you?” You croaked, voice catching in your throat from fear. You didn’t know why you were interrogating him, but this newfound bravery was short-lived as he stepped closer to you abruptly. You gasped, clenching the flashlight closer to you as he towered over you, head cocked and pressed too close for comfort. You whined, tears emerging again as his ragged breaths filled your ears. The rotten stench coming from him was consuming the whole room and your senses alike, making you close your eyes before tears threatened to spill. 

“I think a better question,” he snarled, sending a shiver through you. “Is why are you here?”

You peeled your eyes open, bringing your hand up to grip your rosary again. “I was sent… sent by the church.” You squirmed, knees slowly buckling under you as his presence pressed down on you. “Oh..” He groaned, standing straight again, running a hand through his spikey brown hair. “A holy little thing, huh? Come to catch some ghosts?” You could hear the grin in his voice, his hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck until he caught sight of your rosary. He reached out sharply, taking the cross from your hands and pulling it to him, straining your neck to come towards him. You squealed, throwing your hands out and placing them against his chest as he examined the charm, trying your damnest to keep distance between the two of you. He chuckled, following the necklace up and squeezing the ends together, choking your neck slightly from the tension. “I’m afraid God won’t help you here, little thing.”

He tugged your necklace tighter, pulling you flush against him as his hands landed on either side of your face. He forced you to look up at him, tears pricking your eyes again and again. “Such a pretty thing, though. What a shame some old church sent you away to your death.” He lifted his hand to slide his mask up over his nose, revealing the jagged smile hiding behind. He separated his teeth, a long grotesque tongue slinking out and falling below his chin. It was inhumanly long, your eyes blowing wide at the horror as you began to tremble under his grasp. “Oh, God…”

He leaned closer, passing your face and finding the crook of your neck, sliding his long tongue against the bare skin with a growl. You tensed, a slight moan leaving your mouth at the chill running down your spine from the sensation. The man stopped, retracting his tongue from your neck and leaning back slowly, bringing his face to meet yours. His unsure face turned to a manic grin, his jagged teeth shining in the night light as his hands slid down from your face to wrap around your neck and slowly grip. He squeezed every so gently, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your breath hitch. “How unholy…” He chuckles, sliding his hands down further to sit at each side of your waist. You freeze, embarrassment hitting you as his gaze looks all over you now. “Now that I look at you, you ain’t half bad. Your little church get-up is… rather tempting for someone so ordained.” He purrs. You flush red, your mouth running dry at his lustful comments towards you as you squirm under his grasp. He leans down, mouth inches from yours as he stares directly into your eyes. “You’re not as godly as you let on, are you?” He whispers, tucking the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he taunts you.

Your face blows red, eyes refusing to look at his face and deciding his hoodie is much more interesting. He laughs, standing up straight and sliding his arms under your legs, hoisting you up over his shoulder with your butt sitting high in the air. You squeal, gripping the back of his sweatshirt and pulling desperately as he walks out into the night air, a cool breeze blowing your hair into your face. “I’ve decided to treat myself tonight,” He boasts loudly to you, walking you over to a rather large headstone and setting you on top softly. “Thank you, Lord, for this meal.” He taunts, sliding down to his knees in front of you and sliding his hands up and down your thighs. You begin to panic, gripping the cold concrete under your hands as you try to balance yourself and focus on the man’s movements at the same time. 

“W-Wait! Please!” You beg, bringing your knees to your chest as he tries to slide your skirt up your legs. “I don’t even know your name…” You croak, eyes wide as he stares into your fearful face. He grins, gripping your ankles and bringing them back down to dangle in front of him. “Jack. It’s Jack. And I promise, you won’t forget it by the end of tonight.” He chuckles, gripping the bottom of your skirt and sliding it up your legs, scrunching it up at your waist so he gets a full view of your lacy panties. You shove your thighs together, blocking his view as you shudder a breath. Jack slides his cold hands between your locked thighs, prying them open as he places each leg on his shoulders. He hooks his fingers under the hem of your panties, sliding them down and hooking them on your ankle as he slides closer, his face moving in closer to the apex of your thighs. You hold your breath, your core aching as you feel his hot breath pant against your soaked lips. “Hallelujah.”

Jack grips your thighs tightly as he licks a thick stripe between your folds, a ragged gasp shooting from your mouth as you slam your eyes shut. His tongue circles your entrance, flicking lightly against your clit as you arch your back against the feeling. He groans at the taste, pressing his tongue into you slowly, relishing in every flavor of your pussy he can taste. You moan out, his tongue lapping at the juices leaking out of you as your arousal grinds your hips against his face. Jack chuckles against you, sucking on your lips as he curls his tongue inside of you, making you whine. He grips your thighs tighter, your legs dangling off of his shoulders as his fingers hold onto you so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises. “Ahh- Jack…” You groan, sliding your hand into his hair and gripping tightly to stabilize yourself. You feel the white heat coming over you as you groan against him, hips bucking as his tongue continues to curl and throb inside of you. Your release comes quickly, an unfamiliar ecstasy overtaking you as you come on his tongue. 

Jack groans against you, continuing to slide his tongue in and out of you as his nose brushes against your clit. He’s not stopping, if anything he’s speeding up his movements and driving his tongue deeper into your cunt. You whimper loudly, the sensitivity overriding you as you begin to squirm away from his touch. He only grips tighter, pulling your hips up and off of the tombstone as he presses his face deeper into your folds. Your thighs spasm, gripping tightly around his head while he laps at your pleasure. You begin to sob, gripping his hair tighter and pulling forcefully as you try to pull his head from your core. “Please! Please, it hurts… God- Jack!” You grip your hands in his hair, accidentally knocking his mask back and off of his head as you stutter your hips against his tongue. All of a sudden his movements stop, his tongue slowly sliding out of you as you stop in horror. His face, rather, his eyes. The lack of them makes your stomach drop. His eye sockets are nothing but pools of black tar, dripping down his face and staining his gray-ish skin. It’s like you can’t move, your pulsing cunt still sitting inches away from his face as he glares, or seems to be glaring, into your eyes.

“W- What in hell’s name…” You croak, Jack slowly releasing your thighs and sliding his hands up your legs, pressing against them to stand himself up. He chuckles. “Hell exactly, little thing.” Your eyes hold wide, your fear unallowing you to move. “D- Demon…” You whimper, your legs dropping back down and dangling off the end of the tombstone. He smiles, reaching to unbutton his pants slowly, your eyes shooting between them and his terrifying face. “A demon who just made you cum,” He slides his zipper down, pulling his cock out and slowly stroking it as he looks down at you, the red angry head pulsing as he slowly chews his lip in between his teeth.

“What would God say…? Hm? His holy little thing lusting after a demon spawn?” Jack grins, stepping forward and hooking his hands under your knees, bringing them around his waist. He pushes your skirt back up, exposing your dripping cunt to his large cock as it twitches between your legs. He’s very large, actually, fear striking you as you wonder if something like that would even fit inside of you. Jack notices you eyeing him, sliding his hands around your back and gripping you tightly as he positions himself at your entrance. Jack leans forward, placing a soft kiss against your forehead while he reaches his thumb to slowly circle your clit, a breathy moan escaping your lips. 

You watch carefully as he pushes into you, his tip stretching your entrance open and stopping when you begin to whine, gripping the shoulder of his sweatshirt tightly. Jack presses kisses against your forehead, breathing deeply as he works your clit trying to get you to relax on his length. He’s barely even in yet and you’re already so tight.

Large tears threaten to spill as Jack slowly nudges his dick inside of you. He’s so big, the girth of him catching on your entrance as he’s forced to press deeper and deeper inside. You whine and squirm, his hold on your hips not allowing you to back away from the stretch and sensitivity. Jack’s thumb rubs your clit quicker, his breath becoming labored as he slowly begins to thrust into you. It won’t slide easily, so he becomes contempt with tugging and shallowly nudging his cock-head into your warm core. Tears spill from your eyes, your mouth hanging open as you try to babble your pleas. “S’bigmm.. Shit-” You hiss, whining as you sob through the stretch of your cunt. Jack presses kisses against your forehead, licking your tears up as they fall. He whispers to you, cooing his praise into your ear as he grunts and curses. “You can take it…” He mouths your neck, licking against your skin as his eyes begin to slowly roll. “We’ll make it fit.” He grunts, nudging your thighs open with his legs as he grabs your back. 

Jack shoves his cock inside of you, your cunt pulling him in and throbbing against the stretch and pain of it all. He can’t hold back, your cunt so warm and wet that he moans into your neck, lapping at it before he bites down on the skin, sinking his jagged teeth in and making you scream. He latches on, the taste of warm blood coating his mouth and sending him into a frenzy. He pulls his length out all the way to the tip before slamming in and reaching so deeply inside of you that it makes your breath catch in your throat. You moan loudly, tears streaming down your cheeks as your head lulls back, Jack’s thrusts sharp and deep as you grip his sweatshirt for stability. 

Jack retracts his teeth from your neck, lapping at the blood trickling down as he thrusts into you like an animal. He holds you tightly against him, his fingers gripping into your back as he groans his pleasure into the crook of your neck. “Ssgood.. Mm- fuck! You’re suckin’ me so good..” You grip his hair, hips stuttering against his thrusts and matching his pace. You hook your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as possible. The stretch of his cock feels so glorious with each press against your g-spot. 

He kisses against your neck, moving up to your cheek and then meeting your lips, pressing them roughly against yours as he makes out with you. You groan into his mouth, his tongue sliding in and muffling your sounds of pleasure. He slides his hands out, hooking them under your legs and hoisting you up. He holds you against him in the air, fucking up into you like his personal fleshlight. You moan loudly into his mouth, his tongue exploring every crevice of your mouth as you roll your eyes. He slides his hand out from under your leg, gripping the rosary around your neck and pulling it tightly, cutting off your airway. He smiles against your mouth, hearing your labored breathing gasping as he pulls the necklace tighter. “You just love this don'tcha? Little thing milking me so good.” He groans, his hips stuttering faster inside of you, his cock jabbing deeply inside of you.

“Mmcomin- Jack-” You moan, air escaping you as you feel your cunt squeezing tightly around Jack’s length. He grunts, mouth hanging open as he stares into your flushed face, his cock twitching inside of you. He presses his lips against yours again, breathing in your moans as he feels you constrict against him. You moan out, pleasure washing over you as you cum on his cock, squeezing tightly around him. Jack grunts, unable to thrust anymore, he ruts up into your cunt, groaning loudly into your mouth as he spills into you. His thrusts eventually stop, bottoming out into you as he releases your necklace, you gasp, catching your breath again. 

Jack holds you tightly against him, breathing deeply into your neck as you catch your own. He slowly pulls out of you, and you wince from the pull. His seed spills down your legs, a groan escaping your lips at the lack of fullness you regrettably loved. Jack sets you on your feet, reaching to swipe his finger between your folds and sending a jolt through your body. He brings his fingers to his mouth, lapping up his and your juices and sighing at the wonderful taste. He pulls your skirt down, pressing a kiss against your forehead before zipping his jeans back up himself.

You shift on your feet, relishing in the kisses he places on your skin. “Uhm- Tha-” Jack places his hand over your mouth, leaning down to look you in your eyes. “Run along, little thing. Get back to your stuffy old church.” He leans down, picking up his mask and sliding it back over his face, bringing his hood up to completely cover himself again. You clutch your rosary softly, the cool night air blowing your hair slowly as Jack waves you off. “Will I ever get to… see you again?” You cringe at the desperation in your voice, shuffling on your feet. Jack crooks his neck again, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If I ever see you again, I’m afraid I’ll be eating a whole lot more than just that little pussy of yours,” he chuckles. 

You smile at him, turning to walk back down the gravel path as you see Jack make his way back towards the mausoleum. As you pass under the gated archway, you smile to yourself, holding your rosary closely.

What the hell were you going to tell the church now?

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[shy-forceghost]

During S2E4, when Vincent kidnaps Ava with the crown of thorns and Bea looks for her through Madrid, the information she gets from the police is that "a man and woman were seen running towards La Elipa", which is a neighbourhood in Madrid.

La Elipa has a famous graveyard (Nuestra Señora de Almudena) and a chapel of the same name, which is where the "church battle" takes place.

Well, this is the distance Beatrice walked/ran looking for Ava. Girl was on a mission.

[pupsmailbox]

GOTH ID PACK

NAMES ⌇���abby. ace. addam. alister. amelia. amoret. ange. angel. angelo. anubis. arch. archette. ash. aslan. aspen. astor. astoria. astrophel. atticus. axelle. azazel. azrael. bael. bat. batsy. bella. bellatrix. blade. blair. blanchette. brahms. branwen. cain. callan. calliope. cannibelle. caskeite. casketta. caskette. caspian. celeste. celestia. chaos. charlotte. cherry. chira. chiraelle. chiro. chiroptairre. chiroptelle. chiropteranne. choir. christian. cofette. coffin. coffine. constantine. corbin. corpse. crimson. crow. crowley. damian. damien. demonesse. divina. dorian. draven. edgar. elatha. elijah. elix. elwin, elwin. elwood. ember. emmaline. etienne. evan. evangeline. eve. faith. forest. forrest. frill. frille. frilleine. frilliette. frilly. genesis. ghost. gothita. gothitelle. gothitess. gothitesse. grey. gwen. gypsy. hades. hawthorne. hecate. hemlock. imortalle. imortella. iris. israel. jakob. jet. jett. johnas. josiah. judas. kain. kane. kedi. keir. lacey. laciene. laciette. lazarus. leo. lilith. lilithe. lolita. lucid. lucien. lucifer. lucius. luscious. lynx. maeve. malice. mana. martyr. max. melancholy. merle. micah. michael. misery. mordred. morris. mors. morte. mortis. mourge. mourgette. myrette. nightshade. noah. noctre. nocturne. noir. obsidian. oleander. omen. onyx. orion. orpheus. ozul. ozzy. prince. prophet. raven. ravenie.���raveniette. rook. rowan. ruby. saber. saint. salem. samael. samuel. scarlet. secrette. seraph. serenity. shilo. shiloh. silas. silver. silvester. skelly. skulliene. skulliette. skully. sorrow. sylvester. syn. thorn. thorne. tobias. tommy. trix. umbriel. valkyrie. valo. vervain. vesper. victoria. ville. violetta. vito. vlad. woundie. zeon. zephyrine.

PRONOUNS ⌇　abby/abby. ae/aer. ash/ash. bat/bat. bleed/bleed. blood/blood. book/book. bug/bug. burn/burn. chain/chain. chap/chapel. chill/chill. claw/claw. cloud/cloud. cob/cobweb. cof/coffin. coffin/coffin. corps/corpse. creep/creep. cri/cross. cro/cros. cross/cross. cross/crosse. da/dark. dae/dae. dae/daem. dark/dark. decay/decay. dee/dark. des/despair. devout/devout. div/divine. dust/dust. echo/echo. edge/edgy. en/envie. fae/fang. fang/fang. fe/fear. fie/fiend. fog/fog. fri/frill. frill/frill. ghost/ghost. ghoul/ghoul. gore/gore. goth/goth. goth/gothic. gra/grave. grave/grave. ha/haunt. halo/halo. hie/hiem. ho/holy. holy/holy. horn/horn. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ink/ink. lace/lace. lae/lace. lost/lost. mist/mist. moon/moon. net/fishnet. ni/night. night/night. null/null. par/parasol. parasol/parasol. pray/pray. pray/prayer. proph/prophet. ro/rose. rose/rose. rot/rot. rust/rust. sac/sacrifice. saint/saint. scar/scar. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. si/sinister. sin/sin. sku/skull. skull/skull. snake/snake. spider/spider. spike/spike. sto/storm. stud/stud. thou/thorn. thron/thorn. thxy/thxm. vae/vaer. ve/ver. velvet/velvet. vo/void. whis/whisper. whisper/whisper. witch/witch. wood/wood. x/x. xae/xaer. × . ♠️ . ♣️ . ⚰️ . ⛓️ . 🌑 . 💀 . 🕯 . 🕷 . 🕸 . 🖤 . 🥀 . 🦇 .

[kissmenkillmen]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， "PROLOGUE."

⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， wordcount. 1,344 . . . ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， nav. series. here !!! ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， genres. psychological horror, thriller / suspense, dark fantasy. ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， cw. religious fears, cult mentality, violent urges, obsessive thoughts, haunting presence, compulsive behavior. (+) ⎯ ♥︎⚔️ ， summary. In a world gripped by fear and existential emptiness, the cult 'The Circle of Purification' promises salvation through total sacrifice and divine purpose. Led by the charismatic Suguru Geto, the cult's doctrine demands followers abandon morality and embrace a dark path toward "purity." Its members, each shaped by personal scars, carry out macabre rituals that slowly begin to unravel the group's seemingly perfect foundation.

Faith was once a sanctuary, a fortress that shielded humanity from the vast unknown. Within it lay a fragile promise: salvation, redemption, and purpose. But what happens when the hands that offer salvation are stained with blood? When redemption comes at the cost of the soul?

In the shadow of a crumbling chapel, where prayers twisted into screams and light dared not linger, a man spoke of purity—a purity that could only be achieved through sacrifice. His voice, silken and commanding, wove through the hearts of his followers, each word a thread in a tapestry of devotion and despair. They knelt at his feet, their faces bathed in the glow of flickering candles, their trembling hands reaching for a salvation they could never truly grasp.

There was no salvation here.

Only power. Only control.

The cult was born not out of faith but out of desperation. Out of loneliness. Out of hunger for something greater, something that could fill the emptiness carved into their souls. For each of them, the world had failed—families abandoned them, dreams withered, and hope died. And so they found him.

He called himself a shepherd, but his flock walked a path lined with thorns. Each step drew blood, each vow bound them tighter to a doctrine that blurred the lines between sacred and profane. There was beauty in the ritual, in the whispers of hymns twisted into cries, but beneath the surface lurked horrors they dared not name.

Some followed him out of love. Others out of fear. All were bound to him by the weight of their sins, by promises of absolution that grew darker with every passing day.

But the line between devotion and damnation is thin.

Fragile. Easily crossed.

And as the shadows deepened, as the rituals grew darker and the price of faith became steeper, they began to ask themselves a question:

Were they the sacred? Or were they the damned?

The answer lay in the bloodstains they carried, in the sacrifices they made, and in the truths they were too afraid to face. And when the final hymn was sung, when the altar was bathed in crimson, only one thing would remain certain:

The only gods here were the ones they created.

"Purity through sacrifice," he preached, his words woven with a charisma that left no room for doubt. His followers believed, not because they were foolish, but because they were desperate. In his doctrine, they found what they could not find elsewhere: purpose, belonging, and the illusion of control.

But devotion comes at a price.

For some, it was their blood spilled across cold stone altars, offered up to a god whose face they dared not imagine. For others, it was the slow erosion of their will, their identities stripped away piece by piece until they became vessels for the shepherd's vision.

Yet there were moments of hesitation. The tremble in a hand before a ritual dagger was raised. The fleeting glance of doubt exchanged between silent disciples. Beneath the surface of their unwavering faith, questions lingered: Was this salvation? Or was it something darker, something they were too afraid to name?

The shepherd, ever watchful, silenced dissent before it could take root. To doubt him was to doubt the path to purity. And so, with trembling hands and breaking hearts, they stayed.

They knelt. They obeyed.

The chapel, once a house of light, became a monument to their suffering. Its walls bore the echoes of their hymns, twisted into cries that no god would ever answer. Blood seeped into the floorboards, staining the very foundation of their faith.

And as the seasons passed, as the rituals grew more grotesque and the lines between sacred and profane blurred beyond recognition, one thing became clear:

This was not a path to salvation.

This was a descent into damnation.

Yet they could not turn back. The weight of their sacrifices chained them to the altar, their sins binding them tighter than any vow ever could. The shepherd's promises of purity were empty, but his power was real, and to defy him was to invite ruin upon themselves and the world they had forsaken.

Still, within the shadows of the chapel, something stirred. A seed of rebellion. A question whispered among the faithful: Could they ever truly be saved? Or were they destined to bear the burden of their bloodstained faith until the end?

When the final hymn is sung, when the last dagger falls, and the altar is bathed in crimson, only one truth will remain:

There is no salvation here. Only gods of their own making.

Only the sacred, and the damned.

But even in the depths of their despair, there was a kind of beauty—a haunting elegance to the rituals that bound them. The way the flames of a hundred candles would dance as hymns filled the air, voices rising in trembling unison. The intricate patterns painted in blood on the chapel walls, each one a symbol of their devotion. It was grotesque, yet mesmerizing, a reflection of the duality that defined their faith.

Each follower bore their own scars, both seen and unseen. The mother who had lost her child and sought redemption in the shepherd’s arms. The soldier whose hands were stained with the blood of countless battles, now wielding a dagger in service of a greater cause. The orphan who had never known love, clinging to the cult like a drowning man grasping for air. Their stories were as varied as the stars, yet all led them here—to this place, to this man, to this promise of purity.

And at the heart of it all stood the shepherd, Suguru Geto. His words were velvet, his presence magnetic. To look into his eyes was to feel seen, understood, even cherished. He was not a man; he was a force, an inevitability. He spoke not of punishment, but of liberation. Not of wrathful gods, but of a world reborn in fire and blood.

“To suffer is to be free,” he whispered to them, his voice carrying like the wind through the hollowed chapel. “To sacrifice is to transcend. Only through pain can we become divine.”

They believed him because they had nothing else. Because the world outside was harsher than the rituals within. Because his faith was infectious, and his promises irresistible.

But not all were blind.

They began to wonder: Was this really the path to purity? Or were they merely pawns in a game they couldn’t begin to understand?

Doubt was dangerous, and they knew it. To question the shepherd was to risk exile—or worse. Yet the whispers grew louder, until even the most devout among them could no longer ignore the cracks in their foundation.

Still, they stayed. Not out of faith, but out of fear. Fear of what lay beyond the chapel walls, in a world that had already rejected them. Fear of what the shepherd might do if he discovered their doubts. Fear of the truth that lingered just beyond their reach: that they had traded one form of suffering for another, and there was no escape.

And so they knelt, and they sang, and they bled. They played their roles in a grand tragedy orchestrated by a man who called himself their savior.

But salvation was a lie.

The rituals continued, growing darker with each passing season. The line between follower and victim blurred until it no longer existed. And in the depths of the chapel, the final act of their story began to unfold.

It would not end in redemption.

It would end in fire, in blood, in the shattering of every fragile truth they had clung to.

For the gods they worshipped were not benevolent. They were cruel, merciless, and born not of divinity, but of desperation. And when the end came, when the flames consumed the altar and the final hymn was sung, the truth would be laid bare:

Faith had not saved them. It had destroyed them.

Because here, in the shadow of the chapel, there was no sanctuary.

© kissmenkillmen 2024. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works.

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint King Louis IX of France 1214-1270 Feast day: August 25 Patronage: Architects and Monastic third orders

Saint Louis IX was crowned King of France at age 12 and reigned until his death. His mother ruled the kingdom until he reached maturity and instructed him in his education and religion. Louis married Margaret of Provence in 1234 and they had 11 children.  He saw himself as a “Lieutenant of God on earth” even obtaining Christ's crown of thorns from Baldwin II, Latin emperor at Constantinople.  He was an exemplary king, protecting the poor and clergy, founding hospitals and the Abbey of Royaumount and built Saint-Chapelle, an architectural gem. He led two crusades in 1238 and 1267, where he died of the plague.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[everythingisawayoflife]

Neil's Death & The Symbolism Within - An Essay

OKAY LIKE A FEW PEOPLE SAID I SHOULD SO LET ME TALK ABOUT THIS, its gonna sound like nonsense. this is a repost so it gets more visibility! Trigger Warning for discussions of Suicide, Self-Harm, Mental Health. Please read at caution cause I discuss a lot of sensitive stuff here.

So my scene analysis paper was exactly as it sounds, we watch a movie of our choice, and analyze it from our textbook, America on Film: 3rd edition. I chose Dead Poets bc it had been a minute since I’ve seen it and I also have seen it enough times to be able to analyze it. So I chose Neil’s suicide. a very chilling scene that when broken down, says a lot, for saying very little. so first lets get into the biblical allegory.

When we first see Neil, he opens his window and slowly puts his Puck crown on his head, like so:

This combines two major elements of the main biblical parallels at play: The Agony in the Garden and one of the major Instruments of the Passion, The Crown of Thorns. For those who have not grown up around Christianity/don't pay attention to it, here are some brief yet thorough definitions of the terms I just threw around:

Agony in the Garden: The night Jesus and his disciples spend in the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus spends the entire night praying and wrestling with his inevitable crucifixion. Some scriptures add that he was sweating blood during this but it depends on which translation you read. The Agony really shows Jesus' human side and can best be seen in the musical Jesus Christ Superstar's most pivotal number, Gethsemane, which I've linked here.

The Passion: A collective name for the events leading up to Jesus' crucifixion. Essentially all of what Easter is. Passion's archaic definition is suffering.

The Instruments of the Passion: Notable relics and icons from the Passion. These include the Crown of Thorns, the cross itself, Holy Lance, Veil of Veronica, and more.

Anyway, the entire first part of the scene shows Neil, who moves slowly and deliberately. No one else in the entire house is awake and he has become one with nature, by opening his window and feeling the winter breeze. Neil bows his head, presumably IN PRAYER, before we cut to the next part. While Christianity has become decentralized in households across America, it was still very crucial in 1950s America, especially in WASP-y domains. So, it would be correct to assume Neil's family is Christian, especially of how Welton is structured (i.e. the main meeting hall is basically a chapel, they sing hymns, etc.).

Jesus Christ was crowned with thorns as a way of mocking him. He was put on trial because according to the Romans, he claimed to be a God, which because the Romans adhered to their set pantheon, it was considered sacrilege and blasphemy. Jesus only ever responded (again, depending on the translation), "You say that I am." So they wanted to mock his authority and placed that crown on his head. Neil is essentially mocking his own authority because the entire movie he has tried and failed to have authority over his own life. His father continuously shoots him down and refuses to listen until the final break when he tells Neil he is sending him to military school. For Neil, he believes it was foolish to think he could even persuade his father just a tiny bit. He expresses this from the moment we first meet Mr. Perry to the final argument.

Where Jesus wears a crown of thorns, Neil's crown is woven with what appears to be fruits and maybe flowers. Flowers and fruit have had sensitive and romantic connotations throughout all of history and are often represented in classic art and literature. Neil is making this sacrifice in the name of art. If you notice throughout the entire movie, anytime death is mentioned, the camera is focused on Neil. It is brilliant subtle foreshadowing and it eats me alive every time it happens. Neil knows what he is about to do. Robert Sean Leonard played this scene beautifully and I so badly want to discuss all of this with him.

Continuing on, we watch Neil make a silent descent down the stairs and he is entirely shadowed. This gives the audience the implication that we already see a ghost:

Neil needed theater like he needed breathing and when theater was taken away from him, his life force was gone. The whole of Neil already died. We see this resignation with his final line:

"I was good. I was really good."

Neil already views himself as dead. He speaks of himself in the past tense. So Neil walking silently through his house as if he were already a ghost is so haunting. I mentioned earlier that Neil knows what he is doing. In Christianity, suicide is considered a sin. We see this in The Divine Comedy, an Italian narrative written by author Dante Alighieri in the 1300s CE. In the first and most famous section, Inferno, when Dante and Virgil arrive in the Seventh Circle and come across those who have committed suicide where they have been turned into trees. The only exception to this is Judas Iscariot, who is being feasted on by a three-headed Satan. Now again, Judas dies two different ways depending on which biblical translation you read but typically the narrative is this:

Judas turns Jesus into the Sanhedrin for 30 pieces of silver and when he discovers Jesus is to be crucified, Judas hangs himself.

In Biblical times, despite suicide being marked as a sin, in Judas' case, because he wanted redemption from his bad act, it was viewed as an acceptable death. So for Neil, this suicide is a redemption for betraying his father. A small parallel, maybe even a bit of stretch, but it is there for me nonetheless.

Back to Jesus, Neil's descent down the stairs also parallels to the walk along the Via Dolorosa or the Way of Suffering. It is the path Jesus walked to his crucifixion, a long and arduous journey. The walk is about 2,000 ft (600 Meters in Metric) yet this is a man who has been beaten, starved, tortured, who was also tasked with carrying his own large wooden cross, and Neil has his own cross to bear: The emotional weight of what he is about to do. It was a slow and painful walk for Jesus and its a slow and painful walk for Neil. Skipping ahead, Neil finally arrives to his destination. The choice to do it in his father's office was absolutely on purpose. Neil comes back to the spot he emotionally died, the moment he lost everything. We get just a brief bit of hesitation for Neil. He fiddles with the key to his father's desk. He holds it gingerly and turns it over in his fingers a few times before reaching down to unlock the drawer with the gun. This goes back to the Agony in the Garden, which again, is best expressed in Jesus Christ Superstar's Gethsemane:

Why I should die?

Eventually, Jesus resigns himself to die:

Alright, I'll die! Just watch me die! See how I die!

Neil does not go silently. I don't know if I'm hallucinating or have really keen hearing, but I swear you can hear the tail end of the gunshot simultaneously as the dirge-like music cuts and Mr. Perry gasps awake. I might just be making that up but I don't know tbh. But anyway, while Jesus resigns himself, the following lyrics express frustration with God and the life that was already planned for him when he has a selfish sense to live. This song and musical really delve into the debate of how much human and God was Jesus Christ and it really opens the door for his human side. He expresses selfishness and a want to abandon his mission. He is hesitant to die. He is hesitant to die painfully. Like I said earlier, Neil hesitates ever so slightly.

Then I was inspired

Now, I'm sad and tired

After all I've tried for three years

Cause not only is God, well, y'know, GOD, he is also Jesus' father. A father who had planned out a whole life for his son and while his son goes along with it, he has a desire to live outside of that. Sound familiar? And I really am trying not to be sacrilegious or anything! I grew up in a Christian household but outside of that, theology has always interested me and I've learned to view it from an academic standpoint. As for my beliefs now, I'm still unsure, and I don't think I ever will be sure and I think that's okay. We're getting off topic, so let me get back on track.

The final time we see Neil alive is him sitting at his Dad's desk, gun wrapped in cloth with Neil gripping it:

He looks sure, with maybe just a flicker of sadness. The entire scene Neil has looked serene. And not like the calm kind of serene, the morose kind. Solemn, I think is a better word for it. Neil's soul has died. Neil is about to crucify himself and become a Dead Poet. He has fulfilled the purpose of the poets they read about in the Society. He lived life as full as he could only for it to be cut down so short. That's the tragedy of it: Neil had so much life to live and so much more to contribute to the arts. But Neil's father killed that passion, killed that love. Earlier in the film, Keating recites the Whitman poem, O Me! O Life! In summary, the poem essentially states that life itself is what makes life worth living. It's a question and answer poem. The speaker wonders what about life is worth living when it is full of constant suffering. They get an answer: life itself is. You being here on Earth and having an identity is what makes it worth it. Neil doesn't see that worth anymore. Life without the arts, his friends, Keating, is not worth living for him anymore. I really recommend reading that full poem, linked here, it is so gorgeous despite it being so short. That sweaty-toothed madman had a gift.

I think that's pretty much everything. There have been a MILLION think pieces on Todd and Neil's whole relationship (TLDR: those boys are GAY) so I didn't get into it here, mainly cause I wanted to focus on Neil and the real meat of my rambling, which was the Biblical allegory. I feel like I said a whole bunch of nothing and it might not make sense to me in the morning but it feels good to get it all out. I love this movie and I love Neil and I love Biblical allegory.

I also hope that this post communicates that suicide is not the answer! Please reach out if you have feelings that make you feel unsafe or need someone to lean on. My DMs are always open and I will leave the major crisis hotlines if needed.

988 - Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, call for support

741741 - Crisis Text Line, text TALK to speak to someone for support.

[m1male2]

Sainte-Chapelle, the jewel of the Gothic.

Louis IX of France nicknamed the Saint, son of Blanca de Castilla (in turn daughter of Alfonso VIII and Eleanor de Plantagenet) and Louis VIII, has been considered the ideal of the medieval Christian monarch, a very devout king who dedicated his life to prayer, charity and asceticism... in addition to being the last European king to participate in the last two crusades: the Seventh between 1248 and 1254 and the Eighth in 1270, he took Saint Louis to Tunis and there he would die of the plague at the age of 56 and 40 of reign. In 1297 he will be canonized by Pope Boniface VIII.

His devotion and religiosity led him to acquire numerous relics and among them the coveted crown of thorns of Christ. Brought to France from Constantinople, Louis IX decided to organize a sacred place to keep and protect the holy collection. Thus in 1242 the construction of the Sainte-Chapelle would begin, which was consecrated in 1248. Little is known about the authorship of the chapel, it has been attributed to Pierre de Montreuil, master of the radiant Gothic and main architect of the reign of Saint Louis.

The enclosure was conceived as a reliquary or jewelry box where to deposit the precious and holy relics of the Passion of Christ. The chapel is 36 m long, 17 m wide and over 42 m high.

Its walls covered with precious stained glass windows, 15 in total, have representations, among other themes, of the Old Testament as well as the transfer of the crown of thorns to Paris.

These large openings filter the light, causing it to break down into different colors, symbolizing divine power and turning the place into a sacred and spiritual space. It is a large glass urn whose slender ribbed vaults, 20 m high, rise as if bringing us closer to God. In 1630 it went up in flames, a great fire destroyed it to a large extent and during the French Revolution its relics were stolen and many destroyed by the revolutionaries. Some were saved and are now kept in the treasury of Notre Dame Cathedral. In the S. XIX was the object of an extraordinary restoration, but preserving the spirit, fidelity and medieval beauty that it had in its origin.

[jhoneybees]

Contentment

I was listening to 'Crying in the Chapel' and thought about this specific scenario and decided to write it, a little deeper than my other fics but uhm like many others we get confused about things(in a religious way) it's not sad or depressing just a little pleasant blurb :) Also if there's anything that might be crossing some lines in this one, please let me know! The last thing I want is to disrespect any religion.

Enjoy it!

Warnings/triggers: Christianity, mentions of religion, religion

_____________________________________________

The creaking sounds of the chapel doors opening, you peek your head inside at a sight that one would find in a painting. A statue of Christ tied to a wooden cross that sits centred with tall stained glass windows behind allowing the beams of sunlight to cascade through, illuminating the light in various colours, reflecting on little trinkets that are placed beside the crucial statue and a human-like shape being Elvis on the floor in front of the remembrance, only getting to see the back of him.

Taking small quiet steps inside, you make sure to close the doors. Silently kneeling beside him, your eyes trailing to the wooden cross, taking slow breaths as you admire the details. The crown that grips onto the man's head with it's thorns and the white cloth wrapping around below his torso.

Clutching the fabric of your dress in your hands, you hum just above a whisper. Turning your head to see Elvis' eyes closed and both his hands clasped together. Muttering words of pray, another breath escapes through your slightly parted lips as you inspect his details. Brunette gelled hair glistening in the light and specks of dust floating in the air, the shining from the window behind outlining his face from the start of his forehead to the end of his chin. His plump, soft-looking pink lips joining and separating as he whispers and his eyelashes that rest dreamily upon the apples of his cheeks.

Finishing his words, Elvis' blue eyes that hold the entire ocean in just two orbs flutter open. Sighing, he turns his head and jumps slightly in surprise “Oh! Ya scared me sweetheart” he laughs, the laughter that holds the memory of whistling wind, the crashing of waves, the tweets of birds and the ominous hollow bellow of white noise coming from the highest of mountains. You smile softly, lowering your head as you let out a giggle. Doing the same, Elvis' mouth curls at one side. “You know…I remember when me and mama would come here every Sunday when I was little” his soft, smooth, southern accent rolling off his tongue. Grinning as he picks at the lint on his slacks. “Singin’ and cheerin’...” remembering his nostalgia. Your eyes trailing up to his beautifully sculpted face. He blinks “M-my mama always talked about him ever since I was born but… I feel like I searched and searched as a lost man for years and one day finally found peace of mind…here” he states and emphasises the word ‘here’ by tapping the floor with a finger.

Nodding as you listen, you watch his face. Lifting his eyes up to look up at you. He gives you a soft smile, shifting his posture slightly, he gestures for you to come closer. His arm warmly wrapping your back and his large hand pressuring your waist. You lean your head on his shoulder, he contently sighs and leans his head on top of yours.

“Lucky ya didn't see me crying in the chapel” the both of you erupt in quiet laughter.

[stevenrogered]

SHADOW AND BONE ↳book > screen

“Beauty was your armor. Fragile stuff, all show. But what's inside you? That's steel. It's brave and unbreakable. And it doesn't need fixing.” - Ruin and Rising

“We are soldiers,” David recited, low and shaky. He was unused to speaking in front of a crowd. “I will march with you in times of war. I will rest with you in times of peace. I will forever be the weapon in your hand, the fighter at your side, the friend who awaits your return.” His voice grew stronger and louder with every word. “I have seen your face in the making at the heart of the world and there is no one more beloved, Genya Safin, brave and unbreakable.”

The vow rang through the chapel. Genya’s face was shining, as if those words had kindled some secret light. Tolya, towering over the bride and groom, set a thorn-wood crown upon David’s head and then one upon Genya’s, as Vladim said the blessings. - Rule of Wolves

[malsfefanfics]

Gently asking for Sylvain/FByleth🤲✨

Apologies for the slight angst I cannot seem to escape it.

She'd lost track of how many times she'd talked through these halls. The clack of her boot heels against the stone. Sometimes the weight of the Archbishop's robes weighed heavily on her shoulders. Other times, it was a crown that pricked at her brow sharper than thorns. This was the first time in a while in which it was only her own clothes. The same ashen garb she'd adorned the very first time she stepped foot in the monastery.

And over and over again, she found herself drawn to his side.

Today, he stood on the bridge leading up to the chapel, looking up at the sky. The wind lightly tussling his hair. He'd grown it out a little, and partly tied it back with a deep blue ribbon. He'd only done this once before. It was nice to see it again.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

Sylvain looked away from the stars, practically beaming as Byleth came to stand beside him. "Just admiring the night sky. It feels strange thinking how these are the same stars they probably saw during the War of Heroes. Never changing. Yet, we keep moving forward."

Byleth tried not to wince. Sylvain wasn't exactly wrong. All their friends, if they survived the war, moved forward with their lives. This time, Mercedes and Ashe were travelling to Almyra. Ingrid was busy managing Galatea territory. They rarely got a moment's reprise. She glanced at her beloved's sword, and her stomach twisted as she saw the familiar Crest of a man now no longer with them. Sylvain didn't leave his room for a month after that battle.

Hesitantly, she reached out, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together.

"If you could do it all over again, would you? Rather than forwards, go back?"

Sylvain stared at her. "What brought this on?"

"Just wondering. That's all."

He pondered this for a moment, before letting go of her hand and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Nah. I don't think so. We can't change the past, so why dwell on it?"

You can't change the past, she thought. I can. I could have saved him. Saved them. I could have done something different. Run to him first. But instead, I-

"There's nothing you would change, if given the chance?"

He shrugged. "I mean, yeah, there are some things I'd change if I could. But only if I knew it wouldn't affect one thing."

"Which is?"

"Us." Sylvain smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You've been by my side, every step of the way. Every time I feel I'm about to fall, you always seem to catch me. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't. Ever."

"I hope not." He turned his eyes back up to the sky. “I don't usually believe in it, but...I think destiny wants us to be together, and you should never argue with destiny. Right?”

Destiny. Such a cruel way to describe it.

Yet Byleth found it fit too well.

[cursedbanalities]

A (Short) Monologue of Strahd von Zarovich

***Spoilers for The Curse of Strahd Fifth Edition D&D Module

[[I wrote this after the party infiltrated Castle Ravenloft to save their NPC companion, Ireena Kolyana (Or Tatyana, according to Strahd), from the clutches of Vampire Lord Strahd von Zarovich. I've been playing Strahd as a sort of incel version of Astarion from BG3, preferring to play with his food and ducking out once any form of trouble emerges. The party climbed to the top of the highest tower and destroyed Strahd's "Heart of Sorrow" in the process. Not only did this weaken The Dreadlord Strahd, but it allowed the party access to Ireena-- Strahd's bride to be. The fight with the Heart of Sorrow greatly weakened the party, causing the Paladin to use his remaining spell slots and charges of his vampire-slaying magical items.

[[They found their way to the castle's chapel and, not knowing exactly where they are, decided to break open the boarded-up stained glass windows. After ten-to-fifteen minutes of work, and with a loud crash of breaking glass, the party begins climbing out of the window, when...]]

"Leaving so soon?" you hear a snide, booming voice echo through the chapel. The bats that once hung from the ceiling all wake up, flying about the room like a black storm of wings, fur, and fangs. Amidst the chaos, a silhouette of a man begins to form in front of you. As suddenly as it began, it ends. There's a deathly silence in Castle Ravenloft's Chapel as Strahd von Zarovich gazes upon you all, with a slight scowl on his face. "So, I see you've found Tatyana," he begins, forcing a smile. "And you've found the Heart of Sorrows, have you? Do you think that this will change any of your fates?" He takes a step towards you, ''I can always get another glass heart to restore me. I have nothing but time and power in this world, and that is merely an annoyance. However, you are all finally and truly becoming a thorn in my side!" He whips his cape up, and points a gnarled, clawed hand at you. His face contorts as he bears his fangs. Yet, with a cool voice he says, "You may be walking away with my bride, but I know you'll be back soon. I know your desires to slay me and steal my land out from under me! However, I won't let you leave with Tatyana… not without taking one of you for my own! Now… will one of you give yourself up? Or will I have to choose one to purge from Barovia?"

[[I wrote this expecting them to fight back, but they immediately let one of their NPCs (a wereraven I made on the spot named "Cleetus") sacrifice his life, believing that Strahd would let them leave the castle. However, after tearing out the throat of Cleetus, Strahd gave a bloody grin and began his assault on the party anyways. This was a fantastic session that lead to the party barely scraping by with their lives. Strahd may have let them escape for now... but who knows what'll happen now that the party has left...?]]

[neospacegov]

Commission for @str4nge-4rt

[ID: Art of a priest, vivisected with his skin and clothes pinned back. Where his innards should be, is a chapel, with stained glass windows in place of lungs and a large cross made of bone. The priest stands with his hands spread out and a neutral expression on his face. He is haloed by thorns and stained glass windows depicting a skeleton and innards. /END ID]

[ghostofashina]

very LONG ramblings about godwyn and messmer because of the voices inside my head (they are everything to me)

godwyn didn't know a life without messmer. as in that known quote between electra and orestes "i was born knowing you", when he opened his eyes, messmer was one of the first things he saw. there isn't a perspective of him that messmer isn't present.

and how it must've been disturbing to know this was one sided. because messmer had a life before godwyn's existence. while he was born knowing messmer, godwyn is someone messmer got to met. how do you compete with that? how do you own a space in a life that, until then, didn't have you? how do you fit?

and this need. this obsession. this urge can be seen in what wasn't spoken. it never made much sense to me until messmer was here. and i no longer know how to look at godwyn, without seeing messmer. and vice versa.

godwyn had the necessary soft spot for dragons because of messmer. he had to. and this is not saying it wasn't genuine or erasing his capacity to diplomacy and kindness. it is all of those things that might have one single origin: the older brother. gods, a snake with wings is basically a dragon. there are inumerous ancient myths about snakes becoming dragons.

i could even talk about the whole references regarding vlad II and III, the order of the dragon and saint george devotees, but this is not the case here and i can get easily distracted with all the things surrounding these two.

and one of the most impressive to me, that never leaves my mind is death. the main theme haunting godwyn, also haunting messmer and where he lives. death has brought them together... or should i dare say that godwyn did?

once again the urge, the longing. not even after death. a death that found his way back to his older brother. that mimics his older brother.

i've spoken about it countless times, how godwyn as the prince of death assumes a mirror image to messmer. godwyn's thorns impales people. godwyn has his own flames. godwyn is half a sea creature. his body, as it grows like a parasite — like the abyssal serpent parasiting messmer — inherit similar features such as the crooked trunk, the decaying body, the longer limbs, even the thorns piercing the wounds on his chest, growing from inside out, are somewhat similar — especially when we know he was stabbed on the back — to the snakes piercing messmer's body as well.

and whatever lives inside him, it searched for messmer. it found a way back to messmer, across a veil, across a seal. and it wanted to be found by him.

i always wondered how those two corpses grew at the lands of shadows, considering it's a very similar case to what happens in stormveil castle. there's no deathroot around, but there's a pustule that godrick took from his face. a part from godwyn, that started growing independent of his original corpse. but we have no other parts of godwyn that was taken to the lands of shadow.

except that we have one. messmer.

and two of his divided corpses grew there. while everyone else struggles to access these lands, it ignores every obstacle, even a seal that was meant to keep these lands hidden. godwyn found a way back to messmer. because not even death was enough to keep him away.

and messmer found him. gods, not only he found his dead brother, he found comfort in his dead brother. he buried his brothers-in-arms inside the catacombs, knowing that they would find a guidance in death. his castle is flooded, to the point even a statue of his mother is dronwing inside a chapel. there are tibia mariners' boats as rite of passage to be guided in death for the dead was long left to wander and what they need is leadership of a prince.

he kept death close, so his brother was close. he kept it close enough, on his shoulder, something that it doesn't belong to the player when we receive his gear, a secret that he carried to his death. death that he was yearning. that, in the end, he sought. to embrace oblivion, as he should.

godwyn never knew a life without his older brother. he also made sure death would be no different.