#using religion for resistance

[olskuvallanpoe]

as a queer american with religious trauma and ALSO a bachelors degree in religion, what bishop mariann budde did moves me in ways i can’t even begin to explain fully. the sitting u.s. president has perverted religious beliefs to spread hate and vitriol, and bishop mariann edgar budde used true religious faith and values to call upon his conscience and ask him to give mercy towards the vulnerable people in this country.

so many anti-theist “leftists” will claim that religion has no place in revolution and yet not do anything while this brave, faithful, and revolutionary woman used that very thing to resist the fascist actions of the sitting u.s. president. she has more courage than i could ever imagine having, and i don’t think i’ll stop thinking about her anytime soon.

[virgil-upinthestars]

post ep 5 - SPOILERS

okay okay okay i think billy yeeted them out of the road. we see jen clawing up from the dirt in trailer footage, i think billy just chucked em back to westview. i don't think he's quite there at murder yet, seeing his last conversation with agatha, which? slay king. as a witch and practicing pagan, love him. "no, not for me" you take that negative energy and turn it right on its fuckin head sweetheart. but also please for the love of the gods don't get carried away, don't commit murder, your father would probably have a stroke even if your mother would sit there yelling you're doing great sweetie!!

also i think the reason why rio wasn't there in the last scene was bc she was collecting alice's body. now i'm imagining her walking out, seeing billy standing there alone with lighting coming from his hands and a scarlet witch crown like

[dailyanarchistposts]

...so sore mennes eyes were blinded Where covetousnesse of filthie gaine is more than reason minded. — Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Golding translation)

A friend of mine told me a story recently that makes a good introduction to a column about economics. It seems that my friend was in the men’s room at his place of business, voiding his bladder energetically, when the President of his firm walked in and took a stance at the next urinal. A strange thing thereupon happened to my friend: his urine ceased spurting, even though he could still feel the pressure of an incompletely emptied bladder.

The reader may want to accuse me of surrealist symbolism, a dirty mind or a perverted sense of humor, but I can think of no better place to begin an examination of Capitalism than the lavatory. We are all aware by now, or should be aware, that Protestantism has played a large part in creating and maintaining the Capitalist ideology, and Protestantism itself began in a privy.

This little-known fact is worth stressing, in the light of psychoanalytical theory. Luther’s own words are: “But once when in this tower I was meditating on those words, ‘the just lives by faith,’ ‘justice of God.’ I soon had the thought whether we ought to live justified by faith [the central doctrine of Protestantism — R.A.W.]. This knowledge the Holy Spirit gave me on the privy in the tower” (quoted in Luther by H. Grisar).

All Protestant theology begins from, and pays tribute to. this “experience in the tower” — Thurmerlehnis, as it is called. That this experience could hardly have happened anywhere else but in a toilet is well documented by the anal and excremental style of Luther’s fantasy: at least twice he had visions of the devil in which that Evil Spirit assaulted him by the time-honored gesture of contempt — “showing him his posterior,” in Grisar’s words.

More: this anal preoccupation colors Luther’s entire sensibility. The Pope and his Bishops are, Luther says, “urine, excrement and filth... the filth of squiredom, dung splattered on the sleeve,” etc. The devil wants to “stink us and stab us with his dung.” As for mankind, “we are but worms in ordure and filth.” Such quotes could be multiplied almost ad infinitum, certainly ad nauseam. Alfred North Whitehead was being accurate, not polemical, when he compared Luther’s rhetoric to Hitler’s, and said that Luther was “more foul-mouthed.” Even facing death Luther could think in no other imagery: “I am the ripe shard,” he said, “and the world is the gaping anus.”

It was, I believe, Erich Fromm who first explained the connection between the Protestant ethic and the rise of Capitalism — a connection long noted and well documented by such sociologists as Tawney and Weber — by pointing out that both Protestantism and Capitalism are creations of what Freud called “anal personalites.” Fromm, of course, has to dilute and obfuscate the basic Freudian insight in order to get it in line with his sociologicalization of psychology.

This dilution and obfuscation is what Fromm and other neo-Freudians celebrate as their “advance” over Freud’s “biological orientation.” What is primary to Fromm is not body-sensations but “attitudes toward the world” occasionally expressed “in the language of the body.” (I am paraphrasing and condensing from his Escape from Freedom.) Thus Freud’s clear and eminently scientific conception of the “anal personality” becomes vulgarized into the foggy and uselessly vague notion of the “authoritarian personality.”

I leave this de-materialized psychology to those professors who, finding it useful in mixed classrooms and inoffensive to the public at large, have embraced it. I take it that I have a body, and my reader has a body, and that we both had them long before we began developing “attitudes toward the world,” and that any psychology worth elbow-room at the counter of scientific consideration will have to be centered on these facts and on the pulsating rhythms of the living flesh.

Freud, like Marx — and, in a different way, like Cezanne — was gifted with a special kind of stupidity; a kind of stupidity which (I flatter myself) often appears in this column to the irritation of its readers. I mean the kind of stupidity that the little boy had in Anderson’s legend when he refused to see the Emperor’s new clothes. Marx was just dumb enough to ignore, or disbelieve, all the cultural prejudices of his infamous century and see with his own eyes that the relation of boss and worker is chiefly a physical relationship, an energy relationship, in which part of the worker’s energy is drained off much in the manner that a vampire’s victim has his blood sucked.

All ideological super-structure is built upon this simple energy process, and Marx was right in refusing to let any other fact or set of facts distract him from his unblinking examination of this central circumstance of our economic system. When the “natural sciences” and the “social sciences” are finally synthesized, this basic energy process will be their chief link, and will be formulated. I am convinced, in a Third Law of Thermodynamics.

Freud’s stupidity was of an equally brilliant kind: he was the first psychologist really to understand the implications for psychology of the simple fact that people have bodies. (Cezanne’s stupidity, similarly, was to look at the world as a child does and not as an art teacher tells one to.)

“...refresh my bowels in The Lord.” St. Paul, Philemon 1:20

But to return to my friend, standing there at the urinal in the grip of an unusual variety of impotence.

Readers are beginning to write in accusing me of being a Reichian. and I don’t want to lend support to so terrible an accusation, but I also don’t see, and can’t see, how we can account for what happened here except by saying, in Reich’s terms, that the presence of the President of the firm created an anxiety — and anxiety, to Dr. Reich, meant simply, physically, the withdrawal of life-energy from the periphery of the body to its core: a contraction. My friend’s genital-urinary apparatus went dead as the energy flowed back into his center.

(For some interesting data tending to indicate the increasing prevalence of this anxious energy-contraction in American culture, see Lawrence Barth’s column in the October 1960 Realist.)

An experience of my own comes to mind here. Recently, a guy I know got so damned mad at me that he refused to speak to me anymore. Readers of this column may figure he had good justification — and I would be the last one in the world to deny that, intent as I am on becoming known as the meanest literary bastard since Brann the Iconoclast — but the point is that my offense, in this case, was merely speaking against the Capitalist system. Being sent to Coventry for this, by a cat who has been only mildly peeved by my sexual and religious heresies, is what prompted the question asked in the title of this column: “Is Capitalism a Revealed Religion?” Has it now become so sacred that questioning it is more dangerous than, let us say, asking if Jesus ever pulled his pudding as a boy?

I am going to come on so strong as to say that, in a Freudian sense, Capitalism always has been a revealed religion. (“Religion,” old Papa Sigmund once succinctly said, “is a public neurosis; neurosis is a private religion.”) Capitalism, I would in all seriousness suggest, can best be understood as a public neurosis characteristic of societies in which the life energy has been driven out of the genital area into the anal area. Being a public neurosis, it is institutionalized, ritualized and mystificated with all the pomp and folderol of any other religion.

Let us look into the age that gave birth to Capitalism. The Late Middle Ages were a time of hysteria (always a result of prolonged anxiety states) and of witch-hunting (a symptom of hysteria) — and, finally, of impotence. The whole style of the age, as Spengler would call it, is well illustrated by Rull Summa desiderantes issued by Pope Innocent VIII:

“It has indeed lately come to Our ears,” wrote His Holiness, “that in some parts of Northern Germany... many persons of both sexes... have abandoned themselves to devils... and by their incantations, spells and conjurations... have slain infants yet in their mother’s womb, as also the offspring of cattle... These wretches further afflict and torment men and women... with terrible piteous pains and sore diseases; they hinder men from performing the sexual act and women from conceiving, whence husbands cannot know their wives, or wives receive their husbands...”

It seems evident that, as G. Rattray Taylor notes in his brilliant Sex in History, Innocent was concerned “solely with certain pathological sexual phenomena... particularly psychic impotence and frigidity.” Taylor produces considerable evidence that such Papal fears were well-grounded because the dictatorship of the Medieval Church was indeed so thoroughly destroying the normal sexual functioning of men and women as to create widespread impotence and infertility.

The witch-hunts of the period were almost all, Taylor demonstrates, brought on by people who, finding themselves impotent, accused some neighbor of “bewitching” them. The infamous Malleus Malificarum, the handbook used for centuries by witch-hunters and Inquisitors, reads like nothing so much as a modern textbook of sexual pathology.

It was out of the maelstrom that Protestantism and Capitalism emerged. As the genitals of the Western World died, its anus, so to speak, came to be its central living preoccupation — inspired and guided by the hysterical vision of one neurotic monk sitting on a john.

The psychoanalytical insight that money represents to the anal personality — the feces which it covets — is not really new or novel. Have we not always spoken of “filthy lucre?” Doesn’t Dante put the usurers and the buggers in one pocket of hell because both are “against natural increase?” Five hundred years after Dante, didn’t another great poet, who is markedly hostile to Freudian theory, intuitively make the same discovery:

Usury kills the child in the womb And breaks short the young man’s courting Usury brings age into youth; it lies between the bride and the bridegroom Usury is against Nature’s increase.

Yes, that is Ezra Pound, in his Canto 51. Elsewhere, Pound has indicated the same awareness of the pro- anal, anti-genital direction of the Capitalist (or, as he calls it, Usurocratic) temperament:

his condom full of black beetles, tattoo marks round the anus, and a circle of lady golfers about him. the courageous violent slashing themselves with knives the cowardly inciters to violence... the beast with a hundred legs, USURIA and the swill full of respectors bowing to the lords of the place, explaining its advantages, and the laudatores temporis acti claiming that the shit used to be blacker and richer (Canto 15)

At the end of Arthur Miller’s novel. The Misfits, the hero curses, not “money,” but, significantly, “shit, and money.” Another artistic expression of the anal orientation of the modern world occurs in Norman Mailer’s “The Time of Her Time,” in which the protagonist, trying to cure his girl of frigidity, finds he can bring her to orgasm by entering per anum.

Actually, the psychoanalytical theory of money as a symbolic turd is already implicit in the Judeo-Christian myth of work as Adam’s Curse. Dr. Karl Menninger’s The Human Mind recounts a case-history of a millionaire who was compulsively busy to escape anxieties connected with infantile anal guilts. Similar cases appear in the works of Freud, Ferenczi and Jones, among others. Abraham describes in his Selected Papers on Psychoanalysis a patient whose anxieties centered around the idea of being forced to eat excrement as a punishment for sin: the theme of two or three of the most popular jokes in capitalist society.

“Work,” says Durkheim briefly, “is still for most men a punishment and a scourge.” Freud, perhaps, put it even more simply, in his study of Dosteovski, saying that Dosteovski was under a compulsion to make his burden of guilt take tangible form as a burden of debt. Norman Brown’s brilliant Life Against Death (to which I am greatly indebted) sums it all up thusly: “Money is human guilt with the dross refined away till it is a pure crystal of self-punishment, but it remains filthy because it remains guilt.”

It may seem almost too pat if we now remind ourselves that the congenital problem of Capitalism, never yet solved, is the problem of dumping the surplus.

The psycho-dynamics of Capitalism, in short, seem to consist of what cyberneticists call a circular-causal process. Born of neurotic anxiety and desensitization (contraction of the life energies), it constantly generates more anxiety through its unpredictable boom-and-bust cycles and the wars incident upon its imperialistic necessity to dump the surplus. But this second-order anxiety (which afflicts the boss as well as the worker, for he, too, is the victim of the cycle) breeds that “busy-busy-busy” compensating activity which drives the whole system ever onward into contradictions, crashes and further anxieties.

Dr. Wilhelm Reich’s theory was that cancer is caused, partially, by the contraction of life energies, i.e., anxiety. (And anybody who doubts Reich’s theory of anxiety only needs to observe himself in a moment of stress to be convinced that Reich was absolutely right. Improper breathing and what A. S. Neill calls “the stiff stomach danger” make up the feeling we call “anxiety” or “tension,” and both are symptomatic of muscular contraction, such as we see on a very gross level in an infant cringing with fear.)

Consider, in the context of Reich’s idea, the following words of one of the most enthusiastic defenders of modern American Capitalism, Dr. Ernest Dichter, President of The Institute of Motivational Research: “Possibly more than half of all human diseases are psychogenic.” says Dr. Dichter in The Strategy of Desire; “worry, maladjustment and other emotional disturbances can be responsible for almost anything from heart attack to cancer.” Dr. Dichter’s job. as high-priest of Motivational Research, is using this “worry, maladjustment and other emotional disturbances” to influence people to allow themselves to be exploited still further by the Power Elite of Capitalism.

According to the University of California’s recent symposium on psychological factors in cancer, all the women with cancer of the breast examined by Dr. Franz Alexander in one study showed severe psychiatric disturbances, generally with some degree of sexual malfunctioning; another study, of women with cancer of the uterus, showed even more conspicuous sexual disturbances, especially of the sort called “frigidity” (Psychological Variables in Human Cancer, University of California Press).

Vihjalmur Stefansson’s Cancer: Disease of Civilization points out that this pathology is rare, or non-existent, among primitive tribes. Need we add to this that the physical bearing of primitive peoples is so different from that of our so-called “civilization” that almost every explorer on record comes back with bemused comments on the subject? Primitive man, free of the anxieties and armors-against-anxiety characteristic of our culture, stands and walks and sits as a human being should, gracefully and naturally. Look around you and notice how much visible tension you can see in people’s postures; and you will know why Dr. Reich called cancer a shrinking biopathy.

Our kindly editor has asked me to stop using the example of the guy walking into the park with a radio in his hand every time I want to say that people are dead in modern America. Okay. I will use another example. I once said to a young lady (who happened to be the wife of the guy who stopped talking to me when he found out I’m a socialist), “Dig that tree there — wow!” She replied, icily, “I dug it,” putting me down for being so corny as to talk that way. The point was that she hadn’t dug it; she had hardly glanced at it. Basho could flip over a sight as simple as a tom cat with the Yen, and write a poem about it:

Yawning. Then, fully awake, the cat goes out to a night of poontang.

This is not just “the poet’s eye”; Cezanne had it. Nor is it the “artist’s eye”; Darwin had it when he looked at the iguana and intuited the law of evolution. It is the special kind of stupidity I was talking about earlier in this column. It is the innocent childish eye of a man who is not completely blinded by the organized bullshit and desensitization of an unjust social system. It is obvious, or should be, that the prejudiced white never “sees” a Negro; he sees the social lies, stereotypes, in his own mind. (This is the point of the best novel ever written about the Negro in America, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.)

It should be equally obvious that, in a social system motivated by anxiety and a deadening of life energy, nobody even sees the street on which he lives anymore. We are walking dead men, as Lawrence tried so hard to show us in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, that great and mostly unread novel in which average readers hop around looking for symbolic sexual gratification and skipping the passages which give the book half its meaning — the passages about how Clifford’s impotence and paralysis drove him to becoming a successful businessman.

The whole world has been stunned for 17 years now by the opening, in 1944, of the Nazi annihilation camps. We still don’t know how to explain such things, how they could be possible. Let me bring this column toward a conclusion with a set of facts that may throw some light on what happened in Germany — and is happening here — facts which are all explained by my hypothesis that Capitalism derives from deadening of the genitals and centering of the interest in the anus, but which cannot be explained, so far as I know, by any other hypothesis.

The English of Shakespeare’s day were a bawdy, sexy, uninhibited bunch of hipsters. As Capitalism grew in England, this national character changed markedly, so much so that it is difficult for us to imagine Falstaff and his friends as truly English. The modern post-Capitalist Englishman is the epitome of the armored individual, rigid, compulsively “moral,” utterly lacking in spontaneity. Simultaneously, England was the first nation consciously to idealize the completely frigid woman.

Capitalism was born in Germany, chiefly, and chiefly in the age of Luther.

Calvin’s fanatically anti-sexual regime in Geneva was also one of the primary creators of the Capitalist spirit. Raleigh, observing the deadness of the Genevese, remarked that they had “nothing left but their usury.”

As Capitalism came to dominance in Germany, the German national character became more and more rigid, armored, “closed” and secretive, lacking in play and spontaneity, etc. Out of this came the automaton who is a living caricature of humanity, the goose-stepping tin soldier known as the Nazi.

America, the only surviving 100% Capitalist nation, is the most Puritanical nation in the world. It is the only nation, indeed, which has executed a man in the 20th Century, not for murder, but (in effect) for a Sexual offense.

Desensitization in America is growing more appalling all the time. Lawrence Barth recounted in the Realist a few months ago an incident at a racetrack in Illinois where a section of the grandstand collapsed, killing and injuring a great number of people; the people in the uncollapsed part of the grandstand were completely unmoved, according to reports — even those sitting only a few feet from the groaning bodies of the victims. It is this country also which twice dropped atomic bombs on two cities full of men, women and children, and which poured burning napalm on its enemies in Korea.

Recently, in Harmony, North Carolina, the American Legion staged a little rabbit hunt — for charitable purposes, of course. The rabbits were beaten to death with baseball bats.

The mysteries of Capitalist economics are held to be as sacred as those of any other religion — i.e., every other organized social neurosis. Only the “experts” are supposed to be able to understand “the rate of interest,” “the price of money,” the “dangers” of “inflation,” etc. The whole system — “the black magic of money,” as Pound once called it — simply rests upon breeding money as if it were alive. (“Is your gold ewes and rams?” — Shakespeare.) Or, as Paterson, the founder of the Bank of England, put it, “the bank hath interest on all moneys it creates out of nothing.” This creation out of nothing is just what the infant wants to do with its feces, according to Freud, Jones, Ferenczi, Abraham, Menninger and other psychoanalysts. (Rexroth once paraphrased Dante’s analysis of this system by saying that, to Dante, the usurer is a pederast who wants to make his turds his heirs.)

I could go on, but what’s the use? Those who have had a little experience in psychiatry will know what I’m getting at: others will just laugh, as they’ve been laughing since Freud published his first case histories. I ask only one thing of skeptics: don’t bring up Soviet Russia, please. That horrible example of State Capitalism has nothing to do with what I, and other libertarian socialists, would offer as an alternative to the present system.

Dante said of the damned in hell that they were persons who had lost il ben del’ intelletto, which I don’t think it’s at all extravagant to translate as: their ability to dig things. This is not a Marxist kind of social criticism I have been presenting in this column, but just a way of saying that there’s something pathological, literally so, about a system which increasingly blinds people to the joys of the senses and ties them down to a narrow groove of profit-seeking.

[eugenedebs1920]

Couple things.

So are we officially a white supremest nation now? You have the Ohio Klan sending out f*ckin mailers telling immigrants to leave and inviting whites to join, the leaders of the oath keepers and proud boys have been exonerated for their seditious acts, and neo-Nazis proudly marching in D.C.

The other thing. Has maga gone silent? I haven’t heard hardly anything from these once combative pricks on any platform really other than the paid Russian assets. Are they gloating or do they actually feel shame?

Idk the answer to either but it seems like the end is near. Fuck….

Also… it’s pathetic that I had to find out about this Nazi aspect by specifically typing the word Nazi into my search for the march for life or whatever fascist march this is. Then! The only coverage I could find on the Nazi accompaniment was in THE TIMES OF INDIA!!!

WTF IS OUR PRESS DOING???!

[timeisacephalopod]

The type of Christian who asks atheists how they don't like, murder people on the reg are so funny to me because they seem to think their religion makes them the Peak of Morality when statements like "if you don't believe in God how comes you don't do X thing" all but outright state they have no idea why shit like murder and rape is bad except that God doesn't like it lmao. Like way to admit you have no intrinsic sense of morality and need to be afraid of a higher power to be a decent person, but I promise if you're not a piece of shit it's actually very natural not to want to do heinous evil shit all the time potential punishment from a higher power or not 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

[takethistoyourstardust]

i really hate talking abt doing tarot here anymore bc i feel like people will think i’m some fucking “we are the daughters of the witches you couldn’t burn” kind of person, but the night before the election i did a one card reading for like… the vibes, i guess, and the card i pulled was Strength. and with everything that’s been going on, i keep coming back to that card, and it is helping me push forward.

[eugenedebs1920]

Here’s the business end of the Declaration of Independence.

When in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the Earth, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Natures God entitle them, a decent Respect to the Opinions of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the Separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive to these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such a Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence indeed will dictate that the Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Forms to which they are accustomed. It when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security.

IT IS THEIR RIGHT, IT IS THEIR DUTY

I’ve always loved that part.

Seriously though!… It’s an ominous precursor for Trump to figuratively, and in a way literally, remove the Constitution from the American people. One must ask themselves, why would he take the Constitution off the White House website? What would be the purpose of that? F*ckin, some 1984, totalitarian, scary sh*t!…

Strangely Trump has this way of, perhaps incidentally, perhaps intentionally, telling you what he plans to do before hand. He had said a few times that he would get rid of or rewrite the Constitution. This is not acceptable.

I don’t know if this is true but something I saw on the news a little bit ago, that in the Trump bible, the 14th Amendment is missing from the Constitution entirely. Seeing how he’s an insurrectionist, that’s convenient for him, and now he’s attempting to nullify the birthright citizenship of section one.

He is a tyrant, a traitor, a foreign asset and an asshole. We mustn’t be compliant. We have to fight back…

I don't know why the constitution isn't on the Whitehouse site anymore... other than he fact that it looks like Trump masturbated all over the website.

But if he doesn't want it on the Whitehouse website then that's enough reason for me to share it.

Here's the Bill of Rights for good measure

-fae

[tabslabs]

“I can see the rationale to localizing irréductibles to plucky even if I would’ve preferred indomitable” you can? You can see the rationale? Invincible. Unconquerable. You want to use an easier word American kids will know use one of those. Plucky doesn’t mean the same thing. I swear I’m going to write this fucking essay.

[redwolf17]

🙃 Regular reminder that while Hozier has amazing love songs, he is ALSO very outspoken about his leftist politics, specifically anti-fascism, anti-racism, reproductive rights, Palestinian rights and more.

Take Me To Church and Foreigner’s God are scathing critiques of organized religion, specifically the Catholic Church and the colonization of Ireland.

Moment’s Silence is about oral sex but it’s ALSO about how that specific sexual act is often distorted to a show of power rather than that of love.

Nina Cried Power is an homage to various (mostly Black) civil rights activists from the US and Ireland and a call to follow their path.

Be criticizes anti-migrant policies and Trump and his ilk.

Jackboot Jump is about the global wave of fascism and about protest and resistance.

Swan Upon Leda is about reproductive rights and the violent colonial oppression of Ireland and Palestine.

Eat Your Young is about the ruinous way the 1%/capitalism and arms dealers prioritize short-term profit over everything else to the detriment of the youth/99%

Butchered Tongue is about Irish and other indigenous languages being suppressed and erased by imperial powers.

If any of the above surprised you, please, please delve deeper into Hozier’s music, you’re missing such an important part of his work.

[thefirstsprout]

i’ve never rly like.. been in touch w my protestantism. i would only go to church when i stayed w my gran & on holidays w school lol. tho i do feel some sorta spiritual/religious yearning& belief in something more. but anyway ever since moving in w my ((non-practicing) catholic) bf it’s like Everywhwre. catholic wedding catholic christening omggggggg i just can’t

[timetravellingkitty]

everyday i see clueless westerners (especially white people) peddle thinly veiled hindutva propaganda which they wouldn't know cause they know absolutely nothing about what goes on in india. so here are some signs that that the person you're talking to is a hindu nationalist:

they either do not acknowledge casteism or claim that caste is a western construct. my personal favourite however is dismissing anyone bringing up caste discrimination by saying that the indian constitution outlaws untouchability. they may also bring up the fact that the prime minister belongs to an other backwards class (obc) so clearly india has moved on from caste and hindutva isn't only for the upper castes. they possess a shallow understanding of caste

harping on about "islamic colonisation" : no, the mughals did not colonise india. when you point this out, they will immediately assume that you think muslim invaders were innocent beings who did nothing wrong, which is very much not what anyone is claiming here

while we're on the topic of "islamic colonisation" they will also refer to the demolishing of muslim sites of heritage and worship and then building hindu temples over them as "decolonisation" (cough cough ram mandir) the hindu right also goes around pretending that they're the indigenous people of india

along a similar vein, they will dismiss islamophobia by bringing up instances of hindu oppression in countries like pakistan and bangladesh. it is true that hindus are persecuted in these two countries, however they are used to fuel their oppression complex, that their upper caste hindu self is under attack in india of all places (think a white christian in the united states). you should be in solidarity with minorities everywhere. it is neither transactional or conditional (note: they will never bring up sri lanka. persecution of hindus exists only when the oppressors are muslim)

claiming that hindu nationalism and hindutva are not the same because hindutva means "hindu-ness". that is only the literal translation of the term. like it or not, they're the same thing

they support the indian military occupation of kashmir. they will call it an integral part of kashmir, one reason which will be "hinduism is indigenous to kashmir." they will also bring up the last maharaja of kashmir signing the instrument of accession as further proof, as if the consent of the people was taken

they're zionists. do i even need to explain this. hindutva is just zionism for hindus

they refer to buddhism and jainism (sikhism too sometimes) as branches of hinduism rather than separate, distinct religions

they condemn any resistance to the indian govt as a burden or terrorism (like calling the farmers who are currently protesting a hindrance or terrorists. funny how sikhs are the same as hindus when they support hindu causes but terrorists when they resist oppression...)

they call you a pseudo liberal or a fake leftist. i'm telling you, they don't know jackshit. they can't even tell the difference between a liberal and a leftist and call US unread lmao. bonus points if they call you a liberandu or a sickular 💀

they call india "bharat" when they talk in english. there are in fact multiple indian languages that call india bharat or bharatam, but if they say bharat while talking in english, that is absolutely a hindu nationalist no questions asked

please do your due diligence. read up on hindutva. hindu nationalists have already started making gains in the united states, thanks to rich upper caste nris. do not fall for propaganda

[anneapocalypse]

"lol isn't it funny how there are hardly any dragons in the dragon age games! and how dragons are barely relevant to the story lol" Anyway isn't it funny how the true importance of dragons in Dragon Age has been such a slow-burn concept despite the final boss of the first game being a dragon? One of the most important recurring NPCs in the series transforms into a dragon and is associated with dragon imagery. The big repeated world-ravaging catastrophes are led by corrupted dragons. These dragons and said catastrophes are connected to at least three of the world's major religions. The current age was named the "Dragon Age" because of the resurgence of dragons after they were thought to be extinct. A daughter of the aforementioned recurring character is revealed to have been deliberately breeding dragons to bring them back, and tells us that "the blood of dragons is the blood of the world." A major character from ancient times finds the idea of all the old god dragons being killed really upsetting and hasn't told us why. We found out in the last game that dragons have an unusual resistance to that world-ravaging catastrophe. There are only a couple old god dragons left. Dragons aren't always in the foreground of the story, but they're always there, they've always been there, in the background or just offscreen, hiding, sleeping, deep under the surface, waiting.

[reignpage]

College student!Sukuna

9:35am: what's the rush?

warnings: 18+ mdni, possessiveness, masturbation, groping, coercion, panty sniffing/fucking, threats, teasing, edging, exhibitionism, established relationship

college student!sukuna is not a morning person. your boyfriend never has been; not even when he was just that guy who was a friend of a friend. and he reminds you of this fact every time you’re snapped from deep sleep by that obnoxious alarm clock. 

for reasons that elude you, that shrill beep beep beep never wakes him up. but the slightest movement from you, as you drag your drowsy body from the bed, has his arm darting across and wrapping itself around your waist, before you’re being pulled to his side. 

mornings are always a struggle with college student!sukuna who seems to have personal beef with the sun. his classes are all in the afternoon, he goes to the gym at night, and his refusal to attend any and all basketball training in the mornings led to training being moved to a time convenient to him. that’s how it works with your pink-haired boyfriend.

what he wants, he gets. 

and right now, what he wants is to sink his cock into you.

you’re trying to leave, gulping down as much coffee as you can whilst you pack your backpack and slip on your shoes, but college student!sukuna is making it so very difficult for you. 

“‘kunaaaa,” you whined, “i’m gonna be late. again.”

college student!sukuna has draped himself over you, clad only in black boxers, bare torso pressing warmth into your back, he nestles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your shampoo. you know what this meant; the man is only ever touchy and pathetic when he’s horny. to an outsider, the view might be innocent — a cuddly boyfriend loving up on his beloved girlfriend before she leaves. sharing sweet hugs and kisses in the morning and wishing you well. 

but that isn’t how college student!sukuna rolls. never has been. he isn’t ‘sappy’ (his words), isn’t a hormonal teenager who can’t regulate his urges —not anymore — and he certainly isn’t so pussy-whipped he’d ever beg for time and attention. he’s a big boy, after all. 

that’s what he wants you to think.

well, you know better. the only thing big about him is his body, tall and muscular with the biggest cock you’ve ever had the pleasure of being completely dominated by. 

and ccollege student!sukuna is grinding said cock into your ass, ignoring your hissing and cursing. he’s making you spill coffee over yourself with the way he’s wrapping his arms around your body like unforgiving vines, tightening and loosening in time with the pulsing between your legs, groping and pinching where ever he pleases.

he’s so good at the art of persuasion. you hate that you can’t resist him and you hate even more, practically loathe, that he knows that. 

“stay, baby, fuck that dumbass class. y’ hate that professor anyways.”

you stifle a moan when his large hand paws at your tit, kneading just how you like it, firm but gentle, unforgiving but loving. that’s how it always is with college student!sukuna. he fucks hard, fast and rough. he uses, dominates, and takes and takes for his own pleasure, finding a sick satisfaction in seeing you at your absolute weakest. 

college student!sukuna is never satisfied with a quickie, he isn’t crude; he views sex as an art form, places it on a higher plane, worships it as his own religion. he takes his time pushing you to the very edge and dragging you back till you’re out of breath, heaving for air, and fumbling for grip. doesn’t stop until your eyes are perpetually rolled back, till his back is stinging from your claw marks, and until everything is downright filthy and obscene.

and sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sadistic, he takes you both further. 

that’s precisely why you are wriggling your way out of his grip and fixing him with an unyielding glare. you can’t afford to miss any more classes and especially not because of dick (even if that dick is really really good, and definitely not when that dick is a cocky piece of shit). 

so, you stand your ground and ignore the warmth pooling in your panties. college student!sukuna is glaring right back, muscles in that tattooed torso rippling as he flexes like he’s torn between listening to you or to his dick. and when he throws a tsk at you, you know he’s doing the former. which shocks you to the point you’re stuttering. 

wow, he’s actually behaving. 

maybe it’s cause he sees that determination in your eyes, understands your passion for academia, and respects your ambitions. maybe it’s that very spirit that pulled, and continues to pull, him to you. that thought makes your heart flutter. he’s being such a good boy, and good boys must be rewarded, right?

college student!sukuna is boring a hole in the ceiling with his hatred for the education system and he’s muttering a sarcastic ‘see ya later’ when his vision is suddenly obscured and the most tantalising scent overwhelms him. it’s familiar and addictive, the kind of scent he had spent months wishing he could bottle. 

you had thrown your panties at him. 

“this shit gets you off, right?”

giggling at how he’s pressing that panty closer to his nose with one hand and rubbing a palm up and down his clothed cock without so much as another glance at your retreating form, you hike your bag over your shoulder and open the door. and before you leave, you can’t help but push your luck even more.

“be a good little puppy and lick it clean, ‘kay, ‘kunaaa?”

you know by the ‘fuck you’ that follows you out, and the deep groan echoing into the hallway, that college student!sukuna is gonna make you eat your words later. but you allow a sense of victory to carry you to class, and encourage that feeling to bloom when, as soon as you sit down, you receive a picture of ripped up panties painted with his promise for revenge and a text comes not even a second later. 

“you be a good little puppy and lick this clean.”

[dailyanarchistposts]

Promise Keepers (PK) puts forward a public relations image of bringing men together to support each other in taking on more responsibility for their families. In reality, however, PK is using religion to promote a “kinder, gentler” version of white male domination. Its leadership is fiercely homophobic, anti-choice, misogynistic and has close ties to far-right organizations and individuals.

PK is Anti-Woman

In the group’s founding text The Seven Promises of a Promise Keeper, Rev. Tony Evans advised men that, “The first thing you do is sit down with your wife and say something like this: ‘Honey, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ve given you my role. I gave up leading this family, and I forced you to take my place. Now I must reclaim this role.’ Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying here. I’m not suggesting that you ask for your role back. I’m urging you to take it back.” He went on to say, “If you simply ask for it back, your wife is likely to refuse...Unfortunately, there can be no compromise here.” This book also instructs women to submit to their husbands “for the sake of your family and the survival of our culture.”

At a PK event in 1996, speaker Gary Smalley advised the crowd to view their wives as “weaker vessels.” At yet another PK rally, Rev. Tony Evans stated, “Women were intended by God to be helpers to men.”

PK founder Bill McCarthy has made numerous statements in support of Operation Rescue. McCarthy and other PK leadership are opposed to abortion, in part because they espouse reproduction and care of children as the proper role of women.

PK is Anti-Gay

While lobbying extensively for a statewide anti-gay ballot measure in Colorado in 1992, PK founder Bill McCarthy stated that homosexuality is “an abomination of God.” He also stated that gays and lesbians do not deserve equal rights because they “do not reproduce.” PK received its initial funding from Gary Bauer’s far-right organization Focus on the Family, which is well-known for its homophobic politics.

PK is Pro-Theocracy

At all of its rallies, PK sells a book by Bill Bright, far-right leader of Campus Crusade for Christ. In this book, The Coming Revival: America’s Call to Fast, Pray and Seek God’s Face, Bright promotes the notion that Christians must take over country, including the government. He states, “Unless our nation returns to God from the top down, where our laws are made, permanent change will be extremely difficult.” In recent rallies, men have been exhorted to “prophesy” to their wives and children in preparation for the time they will take the country back for God. In 1995, McCarthy told a rally of clergy that they need to prepare to “take this nation for Jesus Christ!”

Rev. James Ryle, Bill McCarthy’s personal pastor and PK board member has expressed the belief that PK is part of a Biblical prophesy in which men will form an army to destroy nonbelievers. During an interview, he stated “Never have 300,000 men come together throughout human history except for the purposes of war.”

PK has Right-Wing Ties

In addition to receiving start-up funds from Focus on the Family, PK got start-up help from Bill Bright’s Campus Crusade for Christ. This organization practices shepherding, a type of religious mentoring in which the individual is heavily controlled by their spiritual leader and must submit all major decisions to their shepherd (mentor) for approval. Many college students have related incidents of abuse by their shepherds or likened the experience to being indoctrinated into a cult.

The Christian Coalition has been very active in promoting the events of PK. They are currently promoting a national level event in Washington, DC through a series of six shows on the 700 Club. When a magazine printed an unflattering article about PK, the Christian Coalition organized a massive letter-writing campaign to the magazine.

PK is Big Money

In 1996, PK took in over $117 million dollars in revenue. $14 million of this was in product sales alone. The organization had at that time 452 paid staff members. Bill McCarthy must be proud to have started an organization that rivals a mid-sized corporation in financial success. Yet when two men from a ministry that serves homeless people showed up at a recent PK rally with signs that pointed out their belief that Christians should help the poor, they were roughed up by PK staffers and forced to move far from the area of the rally.

PK Offers No Real Solutions, Only Oppression

What does the U.S. in the ‘90s look like? It remains the country with more people held in jail per 100,000 than any police state in the world. The criminalization of Black and Latino youth continues unabated. The death penalty has become an accepted “liberal” position. There is an escalating war on immigrants...and the declaration that millions are “illegal.” The actual ability of women to obtain abortion is methodically [being] stripped away...The mean spirited, openly racist, misogynist, homophobic, Christian-fundamentalist demands for ‘family values’ and preparation for Armageddon continue to fester in growing organized networks.

PK does not challenge the status quo. It exists to reinforce old stereotypes and sex roles. It scapegoats women and gays who have struggled for equality, blaming them for society’s problems. Their pledge of ‘racial reconciliation’ is paternalistic at best and fails to recognize or challenge institutional racism.

Rather than helping men to stand up against corporate greed, PK blames men for their economic woes. In The Seven Promises of a Promise Keeper, Rev. Tony Evans wrote that “Families today lack roots because they lack purpose and direction. They jump from place to place, job to job, looking for the good life. Their plans for the future are a muddle of self-centered whims.” Nowhere is there a mention of corporate downsizing or exporting jobs overseas as the reason families are forced to move to find work.

In short, PK promotes a return to a version of ’50s family life in which the man is the breadwinner and makes all of the decisions, the woman stays home and minds the kids, and the kids are servile and obedient, especially to the father.

This form of oppression has been tried before. During the Nazi period, women were rewarded with Honor Cross of German Motherhood medals for producing children for the fatherland. They were reminded constantly to be “good German wives” with the phrase “kinder, küche, kirche” (children, kitchen, church). Women who chose to practice reproductive freedom or who did not comply with their role were punished severely by the state. Is this what PK has planned for us if they “take over the nation for God?”

[allfearstofallto]

Devout

Yandere! Childe x Fem,Nun! Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

TW: 18+ MDNI, Noncon, lots and lots of mentioning of religion, reader is a virgin, yandere, obsession, unprotected sex, finishing inside

Heavenly. What an on the nose way to describe you. Dressed head to toe in loose fitting, religious garb, your hair covered. All he could see was the skin of your hands and that heavenly face.

Such a sweet, welcoming smile and gentle voice was befitting of a nun. He could only imagine how many men you'd lured into your trap of giving donations with those assets of yours. Kindly praising them for whatever they could give like an owner to a dog. And he was another willing victim.

Your eyes went wide when he dropped the large bag of mora into your little basket. Your grip wavered a bit as the heavy coins weighed your little arms down, and all he did was smirk. He'd made himself known to you.

“What a generous donation!” You exclaimed. That pretty smile of yours, the way your eyes lit up. He resisted the urge to lick his lips while thinking about what he could do with that mouth, a lewd gesture to be doing right in front of a nun, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He felt himself cock an eyebrow at your words. Pleasure? He supposed he gave pleasure to receive it. He eyed you up and down, he could see so little of you. The skirt down to your ankles left plenty to the imagination and imagine he did, “I suppose I'm trying to be new to the faith.”

A little white lie, but your smile growing wider made it worth it. If all nuns were as pretty and tempting as you were, he'd join the commune immediately.

“Lord Barbatos accepts all,” You said, holding the basket back out to him and implying that you wanted him to take his money back, “Don't give because you're new to worship. All that is given is accepted, but we will still take you with open arms.”

“I want to give you this much,” he said, a firm hand pushing the basket back, “and I want to give you so much more.”

Going to the city of freedom, a city known for its drinking and partying, just for the cathedral was quite the story amongst his subordinates. But Childe didn't care. The things he wanted to do with you weren't holy, but that was much better than a glass of wine and a song. If they knew the treat that stayed praying in the church day and night, they too would take to the faith.

Walking into the chapel, the first thing he was greeted with was the sight of you on your knees, praying to the statue of that absentee god. Filling that pretty mouth of yours felt like a better use of this time, you were already on your down there after all. But he decided against it. Not yet at least. Not when you were smiling at him so sweetly, motioning him closer to pray next to you.

Childe mentally asked the Tsaritsa for forgiveness, but still kneeled next to you. The Tsaritsa was a forgiving woman, he hoped that she would understand why he was praying to a false God. The way you were sitting on your knees, your round behind pressed against the heels of your feet, it made the fabric of your skirt press against your body. The curve of your ass, it was the first time he's seen it and he sucked air in through his teeth. He truly was being tempted, wasn't he?

“It's such an honor to see you, Ajax. Wasn't it?” Even the way you tilted your head in confusion was adorable. Typically he'd be upset if someone had forgotten his name, he didn't feel forgettable, but he was going to make you remember. Those plump lips of your would be calling his name over and over again, until it would be all you could say.

“Yes, it's Ajax,” he dropped the clasps of his hands and stood again, holding out an arm for you as well, “I was in the area again and decided to stop by for a prayer.”

A look of hesitance danced across that pretty face of yours as you debated whether or not to take his hand, before deciding against it. Instead, you chose to stand by yourself, a move that made him long for you even more. So he couldn't even feel the softness of your skin? Yet another ache in his groin, you were honestly trying to get him, weren't you?

“Forgive my rudeness, but we're discouraged from touching those of the opposite sex. Especially those who haven't taken vows, better to not tempt provocation,”

Vows? He'd assumed as much, but hearing you say it his pants grow even tighter. Temptation was you. You were such a pure soul, but you were sin. That body under all those clothes, he knew that it was erotic. He knew you felt lustful thoughts, that even you had ideas and thoughts that went against your virtue.

“I understand,” he spoke in a strained whisper, gripping the legs of his pants tight, “Do you think we can go somewhere private? I have a few confessions I need to make.”

You perked up once again, large eyes filled with enthusiasm, “Our father is holding a confessional if you'd like-”

“No,” he cut you off quickly, “I want to talk to you alone, do you think that's a possibility?”

There was a look of aversion in your eyes, clearly you were thinking about it. You looked like you wanted to tell him no, but your good natured heart and kind ways were fighting against what was right and what you felt like you needed to do as a nun.

“I'm…I'm not meant to take confessions, brother Ajax,” you said sweetly.

He stepped a bit closer to you, trying not to intimidate you, but also trying to press the importance. His length was hardening even more, his pants growing tighter. If you noticed, you didn't say anything, but of course, how would you?

“Please, it'll just be for a moment,”

Fearful eyes looked around the church before you motioned for him to follow you. Going against your God while in his home, you felt like you were committing a crime. But you couldn't leave a person in need behind. You're sure Barbatos would find it in his heart to forgive you.

“Please, make yourself at home here, dear brother,” you said while leading him through the door.

It was a simple room. An altar at the other end of the room, with a few candles and offerings and dim lighting. The room was scented with incense, a sweet smell that reminded him of the dandelion wine that Mondstadt was known for.

You lowered yourself onto your knees and motioned for Childe to follow you, “Please, kneel next to me, confess whatever you feel necessary,”

He sat down next to you, close enough to where his shoulder brushed against you. You flinched from this contact, but didn't say anything. A thought crossed your mind, so much space in the room and he chose to be right against you.

“Forgive me, I have sinned,” he said, but he never closed his eyes, never clasped his hands together, never lowered his head.

“Confess to me your woes,”

He sucked air in through his teeth, trying not to jump on you. Not yet. Not while you were looking at him so hopefully. So much trust. It only made him want you more.

“I've been having sinful thoughts,” he began, his eyes not leaving you, “Sinful to the point of being debilitating. They wreck my mind constantly.”

“Are these thoughts of harming others?” You asked, this didn't seem like the question of a clergy, but rather one of genuine curiosity.

He didn't look away from you, while his hand slithered down and he began palming his length through his pants, “They used to be. But now they're more deviant in nature.”

“Br-brother Ajax, such actions are- they are unbefitting for the church,” you said quickly, turning your head away to not see him as he defiled sacred ground with his actions.

“I need you, sister,” he leaned closer to you, whispering his words right into the shell of your ear. You squirmed at the feeling of his breath, such a cute reaction it was, and the yelp you let out when his hand gripped your ankle was even cuter. He tugged at your leg, pushing your back against the ground and leaning over you.

He'd seen fear like this before. Many times before. When he plunged a weapon into someone's chest, watching the life fade from their eyes, it was similar to the one you were making now. The tears, the muttered begging, even the way your lips quivered, it was all the same. So why now did it make his cock even harder in the confines of his pants?

Where would he even begin with you? Quite honestly, he didn't even know how to take your garb off. Instead, he took to ripping it, right at the neck. Pulling it apart straight down the middle until every inch of your torso became visible to him. Your breasts were covered in a basic bra. Normally he was the type to prefer more intricate lingerie to entice his urges, yet something about the simplicity of your undergarments made him hiss air in through his teeth. It was like you knew for certain that nothing was happening, yet he still was forcing you to show him.

“Stop! You can't do this!” You cried, trying to cover yourself in what scraps of your dress you could find.

He was gentle as he touched you this time, fingertips stroking your cheek, but his words following were harsh and deathly serious, “Don't fight me, I wouldn't want to hurt you,”

“Heavenly father, I ask that you forgive me…” you began to mutter to yourself in prayer. Laying there, hands clasped and teary eyes shut as you felt him trace up and down your thigh with his tongue. The feeling of his saliva, going up to your stomach, one of his hands cupping your breast before ripping the fabric of your bra away, it made you sick to your stomach. Your pebbled nipples hitting the cold air were quickly sucked into his mouth, a pleasure never experienced before washing over your body. You shuddered, much to his approval.

He wanted to go slower. He wanted to tease you for hours before taking you. He wanted to make you cum over and over, proudly showing how lewd you truly were to your false God, but even he has grown impatient. Trying to win you the right way just wasn't working and he needed to feel you, as deeply as possible, the girl he'd fantasized about night after night.

The way your eyes widened when he dropped his pants was cute. When you tried to look away from his hard cock that was dripping precum onto your cunt, still begging with those sweet lips, it was even cuter. But the way you went silent, the way the world seemed to stop from you the second you felt the head of his cock against your opening, that was the cutest. He loved the look in your eye. The look of visceral fear. It was a look of knowing. Knowing that after he was finished with you, you'd have nowhere to go, but to him.

You only began truly fighting him off when he began pushing the head of his cock into your warmth. So tight and soft, no matter how hard you hit him, you couldn't make him leave your insides. When he bottomed out inside you, feeling your walls clench around every inch of his cock, he hissed. Face to face with you now, nestled deep within you, he kissed your wet cheeks. Childe wasn't one for love making, but he couldn't help but to be tender with you. His thrusts were slow, but deep, making sure you tasted all of him.

“Hush, little angel,” he cooed softly to you, while wiping away more of your tears. Your little sobs were agonizing to his heart, yet his cock only twitched harder, “It'll be over soon.”

And you nodded. Such a sweet thing. You nodded and let yourself go to him. He didn't take this as a sign to be rougher though. No. He couldn't. Not to you. He continued his same pace, softly humming to you and shushing you when you got too loud. He wanted to pound your insides, to fuck you brutally, but that would be for later.

Little sobs left your lips as your nails dug into the carpeted floor beneath you. He was still going slow. Thrusting in and out skillfully, his hand tenderly gripping your face and making you look him in the eye, any time you tried to look away, he'd just force your head back.

“I'm cumming soon, okay?” He muttered against your lips, kissing you gently afterwards.

With your mouth engulfed in his, you couldn't beg him to please not finish inside you. Instead, your body flailed beneath him, trying to get him off as you felt the thrust of his hips speed up and become more greedy. You felt him grip you tighter, you felt his moans grow louder against your lips. And all you could do is sit in horror as you felt his hips falter, his pace slow down, and his cock twitch even more as it pumped hot cum deep inside your.

Childe pulled away from the sloppy kiss, your lips covered in saliva and he smiled. You'd never seen such evilness until you looked into his eyes, proudly looking down at your cunt where the cum was seeping out. I'm your mind, you were saying another prayer, but you weren't sure if anyone was listening.

“Guess I have to marry you now,” he chuckled with a playful pat against your thigh. But despite the smile on his face you knew he wasn't joking.

[kamaluhkhan]

IN THE CROOKS OF HER BODY, I FIND MY RELIGION.

pairing: vi x firelight!reader word count: 2.8k summary: part two of this fic ,, basically soft sex + body worship with vi and a tiny bit of angst in between ,, vi being kinda vulnerable and needy and also really hot bc of course / 18+

inspired by a sappho quote + "holy" and "pussy is god" by king princess

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this, stargirl.” 

the two of you haven’t quite made it to bed yet. as soon as you shut the door, you couldn’t resist pressing vi up against it, having already missed the feeling of her body against yours from the short walk to your room.

“if it’s as long as i’ve wanted it,” you breathe between kisses, “then i’d say we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

vi shudders as your lips travel down her neck, your tongue tracing her tattoo. you feel her pull at the hem of your shirt, but you’re too busy pushing the jacket off her shoulders. 

fuck, her arms made your mouth water — all toned and tattooed. something ignites in your stomach, anxious to discover what else she’s hiding underneath layers of fabric. your frenzied hands struggle to undo her belt, vi smiling sheepishly as she steps in to help. once she’s got her pants off, you pause.

you just have to admire the sight of her: hair an absolute mess, chest heaving, and standing in your room with nothing but a dirty white tank top and light gray boyshorts and — wait, what’s that tattoo? 

vi clears her throat, and you realize that you’ve probably been staring too long. 

“okay, before you say anything —”

before she can finish her sentence, you step back and take off your own shirt. vi drinks up your exposed, tattooed skin and she swallows.

“are those —”

“violets, yeah.” 

it doesn’t matter that you’d never confessed your love for each other, that you’d both spent years not knowing if the other was alive or dead, that the chances of a happily ever after together is painfully small — she’s got stars sparkling across her hips and you’ve got violets blooming between your ribs. 

you’re not a religious person, but there has to be some sacred promise in the way you each dedicated parts of your body to the other, despite it all.

vi pulls you in by the neck, crashes her lips against yours urgently. her hands squeeze into the skin underneath your breasts, so hard that it might bruise. one of your hands travels between her legs, rubbing ever so slightly over her underwear; she moans and when you apply just a bit more pressure, vi gasps against your mouth. you’re determined to keep those pretty lips of her parted and whining for you and you regret all the time wasted not being down on your knees for her, so you drop to the ground to atone for your mistake.

“i want to taste you,” you state, pressing a kiss to her thigh, then looking up at her through your lashes. “is that okay?”

as you wait for her to respond, she watches you from above, biting her lip so hard you’re worried she’ll draw blood.

“you don’t have to,” vi finally says, blinking slowly. 

“i want to. i want to take care of you.”

“it’s really fine. that’s not what i’m here for anyways.” she reaches her hand down; ignoring the flutter of disappointment, you let her intertwine her fingers with yours and pull you up, flush against her hips. “it’s my job to take care of you, yeah? it’ll be worth your while. i used to have girls begging to try my magic tongue or fingers. sometimes both, depending on their preference.”

her unbelievably cocky smile sends a jolt of electricity between your legs, and it’s very difficult not to get distracted by her hands squeezing your ass, but you try your best.

“look, uh, vi —” your breath hitches as she starts to nip at your collarbone. “as tempting as that is, i really do want to take care of you, too.”

“you don’t have to.”

“if you’re worried about me, you don’t have to be. i promise i really want to take care of—”

“i said it’s fine,” she snaps. you’re caught off guard by her reaction, and you can tell she is, too, instantly all wide eyed and regretful. vi untangles herself from you to go sit on the bed. “i-i’m sorry,” vi sighs, running a hand through her hair. 

gingerly, you take a seat next to her, careful to give her space if she needs it.

“are you okay? did i say something or —”

“it’s just – i don’t know, stargirl,” she whispers before taking a shaky breath. “when you put it like that….i don’t know. i don’t deserve to be taken care of, especially not by you. all i do is fuck up and hurt the people i care about.”

oh. 

oh. 

you get it now.

the vi you knew years ago was always willing to carry the weight of everything on her shoulders for those she cared about and refused to let anyone else help. you remember how stubborn she’d be to accept anything, even something as small as half an orange you’d offer her when you spied her eyeing your snack. when you spent your earnings one week to buy an extra orange just for her, she flipped out.

it was, honest to gods, one of your worst fights. neither of you spoke to each other for days, until you broke your arm running from an enforcer. vi was the one who found you and lugged you over to vander’s so he could set the bone. you’d later learn that vi had twisted her ankle earlier running from that same enforcer, but she risked further injury just to get you home.

you think about how, though the world has never been kind to her, these past few years at stillwater….well, vi always seems unshakeable, but you notice her new scars and bloodied knuckles and bruises that are probably more than skin deep, and you know that it couldn’t have been easy having to survive there on her own.

“you deserve to feel good, violet.”

you brush your thumb over the lip she keeps gnawing at, wiping away the blood. the way vi looks at you then, powder blue eyes a shade or two darker and slightly glazed over, prompts you to cup her face gently. she grabs your wrist and squeezes it.

“i mean it, okay?” you murmur, pulling your hand away after vi presses a soft kiss to your palm. “let me take care of you, pretty girl. it’ll be worth your while,” you tease, remembering her words from before.

vi hums, something intense flicking behind her eyes.

“okay, stargirl. you’ve convinced me.” she gently grabs your chin, brings your face as close  to hers as possible, so close that you can practically feel the heat of her smile on your lips. “only if you let me take care of you after. deal?”

you swallow thickly, and don’t even need to think for a second when you say —

“deal.” 

and she kisses you to seal it. 

soon enough, you’ve got vi pressed down on the mattress, her shirt off, your hips in between her legs. you’re taking your time — biting at her collarbones, sucking down her sternum. she’s got more tattoos, of course, and her nipples. you wrap your lips around one of them, letting the cool metal of her piercing burn through your tongue. when you pull away with a pop, she whines, and you just have to do the same to the other side. your teeth sink into her abs, your tongue traces over the stars on her hips, until you reach her navel. you trace a finger down the happy trail that disappears underneath the waistband of her panties, which, you can’t help but notice, now have a darker patch in the middle. you finally pull her underwear down her legs, exposing her to you in all her glory.

“hurry up,” vi whimpers when you busy yourself kissing the inside of her thighs, rather than where you know she wants you most.

“you always were impatient,” you chide. “i’ve barely touched you, and it seems like you’re already about to cum.”

you spit on her already glistening pussy before looking back up at her expectantly, eager to make her beg even more. vi’s blushing, a rare but beautiful sight.

she clears her throat, cheeks dusted red. 

“please, we don’t have all the time in the worl—”

vi’s cut off by you running your tongue through her folds. you just love how her thighs instinctively squeeze around your head — your lungs, not quite attuned to your desires, unfortunately require more than what’s between vi’s legs to keep going, so you have to pull them apart. you make up for it, though, and you gather some of her slick to sink two fingers into her heat.

“fuck. fuck,” vi moans. she tangles her hands in your hair, fingers tightening at the roots when you suck her clit harshly. “fuck, you’re so good to me. fuck.”

you hum against her cunt, and work in a third finger, reaching that spot deep inside her that has her crying out in pleasure. you add in your tongue, and vi locks her ankles behind your head to bring you impossibly closer. this time, you stay there until she reaches you feel her tighten around you. you don’t stop, and fuck her through another orgasm that has her body writhing and your lungs burning.

you just don’t want to leave, the velvet softness and saltiness of her more intoxicating than any drink you’ve ever had. but, vi’s tugging impatiently at your hair and whining —

“oh, god, please come up here.”

— so you kiss her cunt goodbye, just for now, and you journey back up her body. your lips, coated in vi’s own release, stick to her skin as you go. when you’re eye to eye with her once more, you kiss her, allow her to taste herself on your tongue. you pull away to quip: 

“that’s not my name, sweetheart, but i’m flattered.”

vi smiles, her lips shining with your saliva and her cum. it makes you want to dive back in for more, but she beats you to it.

“my goddess,” she mumbles against your lips, moving to bite underneath your jaw, down your neck. her nails scrape against your stomach and she teases the waistband of your pants. “get rid of these — it’s time for me to take care of you.”

and how could you say no to that? 

as you get up to remove the rest of your clothes, vi sits up, watching you with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. 

yeah, she’s impatient, reaching for you as soon as you're done and positioning your thighs on either side of her hips. you hiss when your bare cunt rubs up against her abdomen, and vi’s eyes are now the darkest you’ve ever seen them, pupils blown wide. 

“huh. you like that, gorgeous?” she taunts, kissing between your breasts.

and now she’s got you all whiny and desperate. you love how rough her bandaged hands feel as they grip your hips, guiding your movements, and how hot her mouth is against your skin as her teeth, tongue, and lips explore every inch of your body. she lingers on your tattoo, sucking harsh bruises among delicate flowers. her hands roam from your hips to your inner thighs, spreading you open while pressing you down. you’re completely blissed out as your pussy squelches against her strong, defined muscles. you love how her body reacts to your pleasure as if it’s her own — her abs clench between your legs and her heart beating fast against your chest. 

“that’s it,” vi groans, encouraging you. “how’d i get so lucky, huh? to have such a pretty girl make a mess all over me?”

it’s very hard to formulate a thought, and all you can do is breathe out vi’s name like a prayer. 

she thrusts up one more time and presses her mouth onto yours, swallowing your moans and guiding you harder, faster. 

after your orgasm crashes over you, vi rolls over so that she’s on top of you. she rests her forehead against yours, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. 

“you think you can handle one more?” 

you nod desperately, smiling up at her. vi’s body is firmly against yours, her stomach wet and sticky with you. 

“i thought so,” vi chuckles. she kisses down your cheek, along your jaw, to behind your ear where your star-shaped birthmark greets her. “what’ll it be, stargirl? tongue, fingers, both?”

you shiver. if you had more time, more energy, you’d beg for her it all, but for now you answer:

“just your fingers, please.” you brush your thumb over the tattoo on her cheek, looking into those eyes of hers that you’d like to imagine only soften this way for you. “i want – need – to see your beautiful face while you fuck me.”

and again, vi blushes. she kisses you, hard, before shoving her fingers into your cunt.

her fingers really do feel like magic, like bliss, long and thick, and curving into you perfectly. her thumb rubs tight circles into your clit, her bandaged palm scratching deliciously against your folds. vi’s strong and fast and she’s pretty much fucking her tongue down your throat. 

you feel so wonderfully full and you’re already so sensitive that the elastic in your stomach tightens and tightens and just snaps. you throw your head back, jaw falling slack as overwhelming pleasure rushes through you. you dig your nails into her shoulders to ground yourself, and she hisses into your mouth when you scrape them down her back. 

“fuck, you’re so hot.” vi practically growls, biting your bottom lip. “can’t get over you — like a goddamn vice. be a good girl for me and give me one more, yeah? please.” 

and how can you say no to that — vi on top and deep inside of you, eyes dark and sinful and waiting for your command, eager to have her way with your body because she just can’t get enough? 

you whimper when vi finally removes her fingers from your cunt and sucks them into her mouth.

“better than i imagined,” she grins and actually winks at you. then, she shoves her fingers down your throat as if she knew how empty you felt, and you greedily lap up whatever mess was left.

then, vi takes away her fingers and places the sweetest, softest kiss on your lips before adjusting to lay down on her side. 

“i…i wasn’t too rough, was i?” she whispers, idly tracing fingers on your damp skin. 

you shake your head, smiling. her body is something divine — littered with familiar and unknown scars, muscles strong from carrying the weight of the world. but there’s also proof of the soft curve of your mouth against her skin, the harsh indents of your nails. there’s a desire deep within you hoping those never fades, like that dull, delicious ache between your legs that she left behind. 

the remnants of everything you’ve tasted of hers tonight linger on your tongue as you promise:

“no. you were….are amazing.”

vi nestles into the curve between your neck and shoulder. her teeth graze your pulsepoint as you run your hand through her hair.

you’re both exhausted and sweaty and sticky, but, by god, if you didn’t just find heaven. 

and though you’re deeply satisfied, you’re hungry, too, so you get up to find what you had taken from the kitchen earlier. vi sits up and watches eagerly as you peel the fruit, the smell of citrus dancing between you. you break it in half, watch her hesitate before accepting and devouring it. you’re in comfortable silence while eating. some juice drips down her chin, and you reach over to brush it away with your thumb. vi lets you push your thumb into her mouth to lick it up and you’re biting your lip before she crashes her mouth against yours once more. your hands are sticky as you cup her cheeks, and her lips are sticky against yours, but you don’t care. you think this is the sweetest orange you’ve ever tasted. 

you look out the window. the sky has gone from black to a deep purple, the stars now starting to fade.

in a few hours, vi is heading topside and you’re staying down here to keep the fort down while ekko’s gone with her to the council. best case scenario, you see each other again, continue whatever has simmered between you over the years and boiled over tonight.

worst case scenario….

it doesn’t matter. 

for now:

vi rests her hand on your ribcage while you notch a leg over her hip. 

“g’night, stargirl.” 

you nudge your nose against hers.

“sweet dreams, vi.”

vi kisses your forehead.

“i’ve got you to thank for those.”

you melt against each other and drift off into the best sleep you’ve both had in a while.