#yes this is about progressive Christians

[themonkey2025]

if one more person tries to claim that the oh hellos are no longer christian i am going to lose my shit

[faunandfloraas]

looking at twt and seeing a tweet talk about a girl group and the way the post was worded i was thinking these girls had committed an atrocity, cut someones heart of on the hanteo red carpet or something, like the wording was just so serious and disgusted and then I look and ? they danced in a church for a music video. I'm meant to be offended by this?

[thespacesay]

ID: a tweet by @theLiamNissan from 26 Jun 23.

Republicans will tell you "the gays are coming for your children" and then immediately turn around and pass a law making it legal to marry 13 year old girls in Kentucky.

/ end ID

Republicans demand trauma and abuse.

[psychotrenny]

Calling atheism inherently reactionary because a specific Anglophone atheist movement from a decade or two ago was dominated by advocates for Imperialism is plainly ridiculous the second you stop to think about the broader context. It's like an even more absurd version of calling the theory of Evolution inherently reactionary because a lot of Imperialists and Fascists latched onto the idea of "Social Darwinism"; at least people tend to point to that thought forming a core pillar of several independent movements for almost 2 centuries. Most "progressive" anti-atheist sentiment cites nothing but New Atheism, whose greatest negative effect on the world was spending a decade or two at best as the secular appendage of a movement dominated by Christian reactionaries.

Because sure, atheism isn't synonymous with "good politics" or whatever but the obsession of tumblr users with the spectre of New Atheism is really obnoxious and embarrassing because its contemporaneous religious movements weren't any better. Yes, many high profile Anglo atheists supported the US invasion of Iraq; but that's something they shared with their christian counterparts. Imperialist atheists advocated for the US Empire because they were Imperialist, not because they were atheist

And the worst part is that a lot of "anti-atheist" tumblr users don't even actually cite the body of New Atheism. They'll just point to random reddit users being vaguely "edgy" or "cringe" and through pure association act like that's as bad as the Fascism itself. Like if you're going to criticise this sort of thinking it's good practice to target the strongest form, but don't act like the people mocking the "reddit atheist" obsession are actively downplaying New Atheism itself. Talk of "reddit atheism" is just meeting your average tumblr user where they're at

[grison-in-space]

Has Biden actually done anything at all? There's evidence going around and I think it's compelling, the alternate to voting is instead doing actual social work and participating in protests and organizing political action, which is a good idea i think

1) Yes. Inarguably this has been the most effective progressive domestic administration since I have been alive, and I'm in my thirties. What in the fuck are you talking about? It's not perfect, but it's better than we've seen in fifty years: Obama tried, but Democratic Congressional organization was just not yet used to working with a completely obstructionist GOP Congress in the wake of the tea party.

Even in terms of foreign policy, this is also pretty much as good as US involvement gets. Sorry. Our foreign policy has been shaped by monsters for decades, and that's even without dealing with our huge and active branch of Christian doom cultists. There ain't a candidate in the world that could stop the entire accumulated momentum of geopolitics with a snap of the finger, and I'm not really willing to pretend that Biden is particularly notable for not managing to fix Israel/Palestine relations.

2) In your own words, anon, what precisely does organizing political action entail without participating in the political process? Do you think that abstaining from the part of the gig where you, the citizen, get to say which official gets the job somehow makes your opinions matter more to your elected public officials? Have you ever organized to get so much as a municipal one-time library project budget expanded? Are you perhaps only skilled at political argument with people who already agree with you on the Internet?

What is your leverage, and could it reasonably be described as "extortion" or "blackmail" or "political corruption?" Because those are pretty much the only things on the table that can work more effectively to drive an elected official than a disciplined coalition of political allies (who can be purchased with, you guessed it, votes) or a reliable bloc of voter support. Your vote matters less than the ones you bring with you, sure. Do you think that not voting yourself somehow helps people organize to drive more votes? Have you perhaps replaced your complex reasoning skills with a rapidly dying jellyfish?

3) Holy passive vagueness, Batman! "Evidence is going around." What a masterpiece of a sentence! How it suggests everything while providing nothing! What evidence? Who collected it? Who is talking about the evidence "going around?" Who is listening? How many of them are there? What did they think before? The more I think, the more questions I have, and damn if they ain't predisposing me to be even less charitable.

Like, this is so catastrophically poorly supported that I have to confess that I not only believe this is probably an ask in bad faith (i.e. by someone who is expecting to piss me off or otherwise engage with me adversarially, probably spammed to a whole host of blogs at once with no expectation of response) but I actively hope that it is. The alternative is to have to grapple with the reality that some people are so uncomfortable with the responsibility of moral agency that they're willing to release useful levers of legal and social power just so that they never do anything problematic with that power. Much better, of course, to wash one's hands of anything that might have the stink of responsibility clinging to it. Might fall from the membership of the Elect if you actually get yourself all muddy by doing things, I reckon.

I don't even believe that voting is the only lever we have when it comes to our elected officials or that votes are necessary to secure change, and I am certainly not talking about the presidential ticket alone when I talk voting. What I do believe is two things: one, that voting is a potential lever of power on the emergent chaos of the society in which we live. And two, that anyone telling me to leave a lever of power on the ground without a damn good reason is either incompetent, malicious, or both.

[hcneymooners]

the odd soft launch of homophobia is starting to truly irk me.

there’s been a lot of conversation lately about paige and azzi and the nature of their relationship, and to be honest, it feels so clear to me that what they have goes beyond friendship. there’s something about their connection that feels deep, unspoken—like they’re soul-tied. but amid the speculation, i've also seen people call out the "deniers," saying things like, “at this point, y’all are just being homophobic.” and while i’ve hesitated to say anything, i do think this conversation is worth having—because, honestly, yes.

yes, a lot of the reactions to it are rooted in something deeper and more uncomfortable.

for a long time now, i’ve seen people deny anything could possibly be going on between the two of them. they say it’s to protect the girls or to respect their privacy—but under that, i think there’s a fear. a fear of what it would mean if they were together. because then they’d be “those” people. part of a group that still gets othered, questioned, and in many cases, rejected. and when you factor in paige’s strong christian faith—which has drawn in a lot of religious, often conservative fans—it gets even more complicated.

i think it’s easy to believe we live in a progressive world when you’ve tailored both your real life and your algorithm to reflect that, but the truth is that culture has shifted heavily to conservatism. people are bolder now in the ways they talk about marginalized people, even if they’re trying to dress it up as concern. i saw someone comment on a video calling paige a “real woman”—and it just reinforced this feeling i’ve had.

there’s this uncomfortable desire to fit them into a narrow, safe idea of womanhood and straightness. and to be even more honest, for a lot of people, it’s about wanting paige—blonde, blue-eyed, that “all-american” look—to not be with a mixed, black woman like azzi. no one says it out loud, but the silence is loud enough.

i think a lot about how society still doesn’t take relationships between women seriously. we see it over and over again—sapphic relationships being dismissed as “just a phase” or romantic friendships. there’s a safety in calling someone your best friend, especially when the world isn’t safe enough to call them your partner. and people eat that narrative up because it lets them ignore what’s right in front of them. and i see that happening constantly with paige and azzi. it’s almost like people need to believe it’s not real, just so they can stay comfortable.

at the end of the day, they’re free to conduct their relationship however they want—it’s theirs. they don’t owe us anything. but i do think some of you need to partake in some serious self-reflection: why does the idea of them being together make you uncomfortable? is it really about protecting them? or is it about protecting your idea of them? how much of your reaction is shaped by internalized homophobia or racial bias?

and i say this gently, but also truthfully: some of y’all are projecting strange fantasies onto these girls, especially paige. there’s a level of obsession, of placing her on this untouchable pedestal, that honestly starts to feel more about possession than admiration.

it’s worth questioning what’s really going on there because it’s uncomfortable to witness.

[astral-herald]

Viktor's (subverted) Aristotelian Tragedy

A common sentiment I’m seeing throughout post-finale Viktor discourse is an understandable concern or distaste for the element of choice lost throughout his story. I know a lot of us – myself included – expected more time spent on his transformation, along with emphasis on the anger/rage/betrayal fueling it. But seeing him allow Singed to “begin the process” in episode 8 reminded me of Arcane’s origins – tragedy. Bear with me for another long analysis :)

Aristotle wrote the following on the tragedy: “A tragedy is the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself…with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish a catharsis of these emotions.” He also emphasized that the true tragic hero couldn’t be perfect, and his downfall into such catharsis-inducing circumstances was reliant on a fatal flaw, oftentimes pride.

Viktor fits this mold, as do many Arcane characters, and it stands to reason that this was intentional since the writing team has reiterated that the show is a tragedy, at its core.

Regarding Viktor’s fatal flaw, I’d argue it’s pride, but it manifests very uniquely. He never makes any grand declarations about his success and doesn’t draw attention to himself in any clear way throughout season one (“Progress Day” comes to mind). Instead, his pride manifests as staunch independence and self-reliance that lead to his downfall; his unwillingness to break his stoic mold arguably led to his use of the Hexcore…so it goes.

Fascinating caveat: Viktor’s pride is a defense mechanism, a necessary tool he built in order to survive and succeed in a hostile environment to people of his station. His self-reliance is increasingly desperate as his illness worsens. He’s cornered by fate but banks on the sanctity of choice at every turn – in season one, Viktor is bound by the conviction that we all have a choice. It’s why he’s so distressed when Jayce makes the wrong one regarding weaponizing Hextech.

“There is always a choice.”

Viktor’s choice to fuse with the Hexcore is the classic Aristotelian fatal flaw moment, the singular incident that opens the flood gates for eventual catharsis. We watch Viktor make an irreparable choice, one that we know to be bad, and endure the repercussions. He then makes the choice to abandon the Hexcore, and end his life, but audiences can’t shake the feeling that those consequences aren’t leaving anytime soon.

So why is Viktor so anti-choice in his final season 2, act 3 form?

Choice is Viktor’s weapon. Pride is what leads him to abusing it. Despite how uncomfortable and depressing it is to watch, Viktor’s slow descent into the Herald is a perfect twist of fate. The Arcane is even so insidious that it meshes with his original intent, to help those suffering in the undercity, while convincing him that their subservience is healing. He becomes responsible for their choices. He knows what’s best because he’s relieving the Gloriously Evolved of their suffering, right? The utopia is for the greater good, yes?

Admittedly, it was really hard watching act 3 Viktor descend fully into his choiceless ethos. But we can still relate it to his tragic flaw – his pride has mushroomed into coldhearted omniscience; not only does he know what’s best for everyone, evolution, but he also has the sense to make the choice for them to supersede their “baser instincts.” The grief we feel upon seeing this perverted, violent version of himself, as far removed from Viktor as possible, is the culmination of Aristotle’s treatise on tragedy. The catharsis is the rock-bottom Machine Herald.

"Choice is false."

But then Arcane decided to basically make Jayvik canon (get out of here, Christian Linke) and destroyed the early drafts of this post. I’m going to rapid-fire this next bit:

Jayce forces Viktor back to life. Viktor has no agency in his season 2 inciting incident. Again, it’s distressing when we mourn his agency, but it remains in accordance with Aristotelian tragedy.

Viktor clings to humanity as long as he possibly can. When Jayce calls out Viktor’s trajectory, alleging that his old partner had died in the Council chamber, whatever is left of Viktor gives way to the Arcane because his last tether has been snapped.

Jayce knows the game – Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor told him so. Jayce becomes the linchpin in subverting Viktor’s tragedy. He knows what must happen. He understands now.

Machine Herald Viktor is given the chance to undo his fatal flaw, to reverse the catharsis, when he sees Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor. With Jayce’s help, he takes it.

Given that it’s a version of Viktor who ultimately frees him from himself by empowering Jayce, we can gather that Viktor has liberated himself from his tragedy.

Aristotle’s catharsis is rapidly transformed from something based in release to something healing – Viktor’s tether to humanity returns. He grasps it. The walls of his pride and self-reliance collapse. He accepts Jayce’s help, finally being seen as the full individual he is. Catharsis ensues, for sure, but I don’t think it’s based in the typical tragedy genre.

All this to say, I think Viktor’s arc was, in fact, carefully constructed. He represents the Aristotelian descent into a fatal flaw and that’s very distressing to see unfold, especially since he embodied the tragic hero archetype so well from day one. However, Jayce undoes this narrative and we’re given an incredibly subversive ending that I, personally, never saw coming.

I’m sure that Mage Viktor has a much larger bearing on this analysis than I’m accounting for. But for now, suffice to say that he is Viktor’s way out of the tragedy. TALK ABOUT CHOICE!

This doesn’t erase anyone’s discomfort for Viktor having less and less agency, but I’d like to emphasize the logic and literary precedent behind the story decisions.

PS: here's a quick source I looked at about Aristotelian tragedies. I hope to re-up on Greek tragedies so I can get more specific about the parallels Arcane draws from them.

[olderthannetfic]

I mean, I do feel like if someone was traumatized by their religious upbringing, helping them to recognize that as a bad thing and helping them to be free of it is arguably the right move? Yeah just telling them “god isn’t real, get over it” is most likely insensitive but arguably freeing them of their self hating beliefs is the ideal outcome?

--

Man... I was raised to despise religion, but a steady diet of nerdy youtube and really weirdly anti-intellectual takes on tumblr has forced me into repeatedly defending religion. I did not ask for this, but here we are.

Personally, I find most religion kind of dumb, but it is a key part of a great portion of humanity's search for meaning. It's the backbone of so many cultures in so many places and times. Knowing about it is useful for everything from being more politically informed to making up better fantasy world building in fiction.

When a person has religious trauma because they were told that their religion, in this context probably Christianity, hates them, telling them to ditch religion is like telling them they're not allowed to ever have a birthday party again because their abusive parents did something awful at their past ones. Ah yes, cut yourself off from major celebrations and cultural experiences, not to mention community. That's sure to fix things!

It would be far more effective at 1. making them feel better and 2. making them stop adhering to a shitty religion if we introduced them to better religion.

The history of Christianity is one of the most studied subjects on the fucking planet. There are a multitude of progressive scholars who have explored things like how the early church very possibly had major female figures that later asswipes tried to downplay and cover up. I think Religion for Breakfast has some interesting videos that at least touch on this.

There's a whole complex conversation to be had both about how the early church actually handled same-sex relationships and about why a given prescription is even in there from an anthropological perspective. Take the pork thing: it's probably about taxes. Some of the others are about differentiation from nearby groups at the time. Understanding the historical cultural context helps dismantle the idea that this or that specific prescription is a vital core part of the religion that must remain unchanging thousands of years later.

"A true Christian wouldn't have abused their gay kid" is a far better message than "Give up everything you know", and it has plenty of support from scholars who are deeply religious but not dumbass textual literalists who can't grasp that even if a holy text were the word of god, English language edition such-and-such is subject to human interference in the form of All Your Base-level translators.

If Christianity or whatever religion is the issue is a no go due to the traumatized person's past experiences, plenty of people would still be happier finding a different religion than going without.

I really, really cannot emphasize this enough: Religion is a key part of many people's lives the same way, say, sex is.

A lot of people around here seem to fundamentally not get this in the same way that you see people who haven't realized how ace they are going "But whyyyyy?" over the central role that horny plays in somebody else's life. You don't gotta get it, my dudes. Doesn't mean it's going away.

Even just understanding the parameters of what counts as religion and all the different flavors that exist out there will help put the trauma into context for many people. Your asshole parents are in a cult not because all religion is lies but because this Christianity has been perverted into a vehicle for abuse. Other religious people like the scientific method, research, logic, and evidence. It's just your church that's atrocious.

Shitty religion leads to self hate.

You can pick another religion.

[ef-1]

Red Bull's inability to keep a straight story, a study:

Marko told Motorsport that Daniel was made aware that Singapore would be his last race. “[The timing] was related to a variety of factors and obligations, He was informed, and the worthy farewell performance was, I think, the fastest lap.” [Source: Motorsport 26/09/24]. However, when Daniel was asked to address the rumours in Singapore during media day on 19/09/24 if contractually it was even possible that Singapore could be his last race, Daniel laughed and said: "I don't think so. But I also don't want to stand here and be the lawyer. Look, I would say ‘no.’” This was corroborated by Mekies the following day on the 20/09/24 to Sky Sport F1 when asked about purported Singapore deadline, confirming “We made it also quite public that we will sit down together after Singapore, that's where we are really. So, nothing decided so far".

Writing for Formula 1 on the 26/09/2024, Barretto says that “High-level sources” told him that Daniel was informed he would be dropped in Baku, round 17 of the calendar. However, Craig Slater who broke the news on Sky Sports F1 says his sources told him “Riccardo learned the news that he would not be continuing in that car on Sunday night in Singapore. It was confirmed officially to him in a face-to-face meeting with Christian Horner and it was a very emotional evening, I spoke to Daniel”. Slater added that he visited the VCARB hospitality and "there were a fair few tears in that VCARB hospitality area” [Source: Sky Sports F1 26/09/24]

Horner claims that Helmut wanted Daniel out by Barcelona: “Even around Barcelona, Helmut wanted him out of the car. There was already a lot of pressure on him there.” [Source: F1 Nation podcast, 30/09/24 ] Barcelona was round 10 of the calendar, yet in round 13 when Helmut was asked if there was a favourite among the three incumbent drivers Helmut was still open [Source: ORF 19/07/24]

Lawson stated that “I knew about it for the last probably two weeks,” to New Zealand’s Newstalk ZB after his F1 promotion became public [Source: Newstalk ZB, 26/09/24]. However, when SkyF1 Germany asked VCARB CEO Bayer if Singapore would be Daniel’s last race he said: “No”. And that the much speculated post Singapore deadline is to determine their 2025 lineup: “Singapore is certainly another milestone and there will now be these final discussions after Singapore to discuss our line-up for 2025” [Source: SkySportFormel1, 20/09/24]. However x2, Lawson does not even have a contract for 2025 "I've got until the end of the season," Lawson confirmed in an [Source: New Zealand Herald, 27/09/24]. "I'll find out more about how it looks as the season progresses. But for now, yes, it's these six races."

VCARB TP Mekies told Motorsport that the move is not about immediate results because Daniel still had the speed as per Miami, the move to drop Daniel was to address driver lineup concerns for 2026 however both Verstappen and Perez allegedly have contracts until 2026. [source: Motorsport 27/09/24]

When there are so many conflicting narratives in such a short period of time: someone is lying.

+The only side of the story we haven’t heard since this catastrophic breakdown in PR and internal communications is Daniel's side :)

[stephanidftba]

From Sharon Astyk on Facebook:

Folks, if you haven't been wearing a mask regularly or consistently, but who oppose this administration I want to encourage you to start (folks who have been wearing them all along, let this one go, because this isn't about you.)

I know, I know, you don't want to - you don't want to be harassed, you've had covid twice and it wasn't that bad, you aren't that worried, so why would you do that?

1. Wearing a mask in public means that people who are protesting masked are normalized. If there are many people wearing masks in public spaces, they can't identify who is resisting easily. If masks are a proxy for resistance, as governments are calling them, then it is rather like the story of King Christian of Denmark donning the yellow star. So if you want to protect and support resistors, you can mask.

2. We are on our own with disease protection. RFK jr has been very clear he plans to make vaccines incredibly inaccessible to most Americans. Right now there are circulating cases of measles, TB, mumps, covid and below the radar bird flu (yes, that too) as well as other stuff. No one is going to give you a vaccine to prevent disease. No one is going to tell you when you or your kids are exposed to measles or tuberculosis or bird flu. They are not testing, they are not recording data, they are not seeking to protect you. If you don't protect yourself, no one will.

While I strongly recommend everyone get any boosters or vaccines they need, in a society with low vaccination rates, and permeable vaccines that let some cases through and wane with time, a vaccine-only strategy is not viable. You cannot tell when you are exposed to these diseases, and you will just get sick, and some people will die.

No one is going to tell you when Bird flu starts spreading human to human on any scale. We will find out when a bunch of people get very sick and die - and I don't want you to be among them. No one is going to tell you when a kid has measles at your school in many states now, and you don't know if your vaccine from 30 years ago is still holding. 38% of cases in Ontario have been in vaccinated adults.

Vaccines and air cleaning and far UV light, and smaller classroom densities (yeah right) are all good tools, but the most reliable one is an N95 or equivalent mask.

3. The opinion of Trump, RFK jr and the rest of this administration is that disabled or medically vulnerable people should just die. They've been very clear, and we've seen it in how they cut support, research, to cancer, sickle cell disease, diabetes, alzheimers, etc... and how they talk about people with disabilities like autism.

They are rapidly and painfully stripping resources like SSDI, Medicaid, Special Education support programs and funding, research for rare cancers and diseases, testing that would let you know if your baby has a condition...you name it.

A 14 country study just showed that after 5 1/2 years of the pandemic, 25-30% of people who have covid have long covid. And we've known that was going to happen - that's almost exactly the same stats we've seen in other studies. By your third infection, your risk of long covid is up around 30%.

And while our support systems have been broken and fraying for a long time, they are simply DEAD now. You won't get SSDI. You won't get health care for your disability. You may not get treatment for your cancer. Your Alzheimers meds may not be covered. RFKjr thinks the answer to type 2 diabetes or mental health issues is a work camp.

We know that some viruses, including covid are oncogenic (the obvious one is the HPV virus, and the vaccine prevents cervical cancer perfectly), which means they up your risk of cancer. We know it increases your risk of dementia, and the rate at which dementia progresses. We know that covid can reactivate EBV and TB.

We also know that measles wipes your immune system for three years - including your vaccines. If you get measles, and you cannot get vaccinated again, you could die of diptheria, tetanus, mumps, etc...

You cannot afford to be newly disabled right now. They want people dead or unable to resist. DO NOT COMPLY IN ADVANCE. No one is protecting you from this. So protect yourself - this is as much a step as getting your passport or supporting your food pantry.

4. Because they are so clear that they have eugenicist intents towards disabled people, as well as non-white folks, wearing a mask is an act of solidarity with them.

Statistics have always shown that non-white people are more likely to wear masks than white folks, mostly because they know perfectly well that the safety net has a lot of huge holes in it. They are often worn by people who simply cannot afford to be sick.

Moreover immunocompromised and disabled people HAVE to mask. There are also people who physically CANNOT mask, who rely on others to mask to protect them. When you put on a mask, you do two things.

1. You stand with those who must or wish to mask, and practice community care. You make it clear those lives are more valuable than your convenience. Remember, they are counting on you not to believe that and let disabled people be first targets.

2. You make protest, activism and resistance safe and accessible for millions of people who otherwise cannot participate in standing up to our goverment. You help cross crucial thresholds for engagement by making resistance fully accessible.

My father, who is in his middle 70s and disabled, repeats the mantra regularly that these motherfuckers are not going to get to kill him, no matter how hard they try. That he has no intention of dying under Trump. He's going to stay alive and piss them off and fight back until he gets to piss on their graves.

If you want to do that, you have to wear mask. Its that simple. Masking is fighting back. Masking is solidarity. Masking protects you and everyone. Masking is resistance. Wear a mask in public.

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1FT62GK2av/

@covid-safer-hotties

[hawkins-batman]

god i wish you were wrong and zionism gets rooted out of hollywood, it gives religious people a bad name and makes it dangerous for them just because political extremists and ignorants are out there coopting a religion for hate

Yes, it is very dangerous for a group of people, who were very nearly wiped from the face of the earth and were displaced again and again, to want a place where they are protected by a government of their own making. What a terrible thing.

Hey, question!

Do the Islamic ethnostates that surround Israel also give religion a bad name? How about the Christian nationalists who are presently stripping away rights in the U.S.? You know — the one you guys let take over the country since the highly overqualified Black lady wouldn’t capitulate to your every demand?

Additional question — I note that you’re salivating over “rooting out” Zionism in Hollywood, leaving out that this would target almost entirely Jewish talent. But I’m sure you’d insists you’re not antisemitic, even though you never seem to go after Christian Zionists, which greatly out number Jewish people and make up the majority of said party ya’ll just allowed to take over the U.S., right?

Yeah.

Final question! Since I know this really about Noah Schnapp and how detestable you find him for doing… nothing. Um… how do you feel about “progressives,” like I’d assume you identify, threatening to kill him, rape him, and hurt his family? Or how about the ones that call him slurs? You okay with that?

Doesn’t that give PROGRESSIVES a bad name, maybe? Asking as someone with left-leaning views who is continually embarrassed to share my side of the political spectrum with you.

But sure. Jews wanting a homeland in their native land is the problem. Absolutely. You embarrassing, anon coward.

[n0vazsq]

Valentine | JMM3 x Reader

pairing . . . pepe marti x blind!date!reader

summary . . . Your best friend, Gaby, set you up with a blind date and is forcing you to go. Little did you know, it was with your celebrity crush, Pepe

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . N/A

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . christina nadin

alexavia yaps . . . HAPPY VALENTINES GANGALANG!!!!! so sorry if its short or lacks content but i have my scholarship exam tmrw and i need to study!! i might write a oneshot later today but until now ill only post this!! each post is kind of a monthly update of their relationship up until valentines!!

yourusername

liked by gabyprentice_, christian.mansell, yourbsf and 2.1K others

yourusername it's still november and my best friend is forcing me to go on a blind date so i can get a valentine Tagged: gabyprentice_

click to view all comments

gabyprentice_ you should thank me

yourusername no?

gabyprentice_ you really will after you see him

christian.mansell trust me y/n you will

yourusername WHO IS HE

gabyprentice_ it's called a blind date for a reason

christian.mansell i can't wait to see your reaction when you see who it is

gabyprentice_ neither can i

username1 so prettyyy

username2 the breakfast looks so good

username3 let us know who he is

yourusername i will once i know who he is myself

username3 the suspense is killing me omgg

username4 praying for y/n bc blind dates never end well

username5 i just know christian and gaby made y/n's life a living hell with this date

username6 WHAT IF ITS PEPE

username7 WAIT IT COULD BE

username8 woah

username9 y/n please post more updating us about the mystery date

yourbsf who's that gorgeous lady

yourusername me

yourbsf you can't be this beautiful also send me your reaction when you see the blind date

yourusername wow okay SO YOU KNOW WHO HE IS TOO??

gabyprentice_ we told her

yourusername AND NOT ME?

yourbsf its a BLIND date

yourusername i will ram your head into the wall 😊

username10 you shoud update us every month until valentines so we can see the relationship progress

username11 yess omg pls do that y/n

username12 man i love you for this

yourusername ill think about it

username13 how can someone be so prettyyyy

username14 this blind date lucky asf bc anyone is BLESSED if they just get one look at y/n

username15 meow

username16 real

username17 screaming crying throwing up why coyldnt it be me

username18 this is pinterest aesthetic coded

username19 SO PRETTYYYYYYYY

username18 queen

username19 fr fr

username20 MY HEART CANT TAKE THIS SHIT I NEED TO KNOW WHO MYSTERY MAN IS

yourusername

liked by gabyprentice_, christian.mansell, yourbsf and 2.2K others

yourusername best dinner date i've ever had (i'm not talking about the food) Tagged: pepemartiofficial

click to view all comments

username21 EH???

username22 HER CELEBITY CRUSH LMFAO

username23 i feel like she wont be hating christian and gavby so much anymore

username24 HOW ARE THEY BOTH SO PRETTYYYY

username25 my kind of love frrr

username26 no.1 couple argument closed

username27 sigh i wish i was a wag

pepemartiofficial i'm glad you enjoyed it!

yourusername i had so much fun!! thank you for not leaving me when i panicked

pepemartiofficial maybe we can both have a redemption? next week?

yourusername i'd love that!

gabyprentice_ i'll text you each others numbers <3

yourusername we already exchanged them

username28 MR MARTI i was NOT aware of your game

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NEW NOTIFICATION: pepemartiofficial has started following you !

pepemartiofficial

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pepemartiofficial barcelona in december 🤍

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username41 A SOFT LAUNCH??? EH????

username42 THE PICS??? EXCLUSIVE SUBSCRIPTION??? EXCUSE ME???

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NEW NOTIFICATION: user171, user89, user514 and 102K others have started following you !

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yourusername january 2025 life updates: 1. me and the 6 foot skyscraper are still together, 2. i might have a chance at getting a valentine, 3. my gallery is full of pictures of pepe, 4. me, gaby, pepe and christian have went on 17 double dates in 2024 Tagged: pepemartiofficial

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username61 how to kms no borax no glue

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yourusername

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yourusername i blinked and suddenly i had a valentine Tagged: pepemartiofficial

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caption: best valentines date 🫶🤍 te amo mucho my love mi hermoso 🤍

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username101 HAPPY VALENTINESSS

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pepemartiofficial forever

yourusername and always

fin.

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaaa ,, @httpsdana ,, @hwalllllllelujah ,, @parkerloves ,, @paucubarsisimp ,, @justaf1girl ,, @awritingtree ,, @freyathehuntress (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

[satoruhour]

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

[magicalmatcha]

SWEET LIFE: Million Dollar Baby

@/touyasfavoritetrophywife tweeted!

↳ eijirou kirishima spotted in a top that costs more than my rent

LONG WRITTEN PORTION UNDER THE CUT!

“Mind if we join you?”

Bakugou glanced up from his sake, a scowl already forming. Standing before him was Shoto Todoroki, attempting a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Beside him, Izuku Midoriya fidgeted in a suit that likely cost more than some people’s annual salaries, his nervous grin betraying his unease. Towering over both was Momo Yaoyorozu, poised elegantly in her Christian Louboutins, exuding an air of effortless sophistication.

The Brat Pack’s conversation halted as they appraised the trio. Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, irritation flickering across his features. Before he could voice his displeasure, Kyoka Jiro gently rested a hand on his arm, leaning in with a warm smile.

“Of course! Please, have a seat,” she chimed. “It’s been ages since finals; we’ve missed your company.”

The tension eased slightly as chairs were drawn, and the group settled into an uneasy camaraderie, the air thick with unspoken histories and fragile truces.

Shoto inclined his head courteously as he pulled out a chair for Momo, ensuring her graceful descent onto the plush seat. “Hanata, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he remarked, his tone reflecting genuine warmth. “I understand Yn had Anaïs secure your invitation.”

Sero, who had been adjusting the settings on his sleek vlog camera, looked up with a bright smile. “Yes, she really came through at the last minute. Speaking of which, where is Yn?”

Izuku lowered his head slightly, a subtle attempt to hide his amusement. Momo cleared her throat delicately. “She encountered some traffic delays but will be joining us shortly.”

“She’d better hurry,” Eijirou interjected, concern evident in his tone. “The venue’s closing soon.”

Denki scoffed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s Yn we’re talking about. They’d roll out the red carpet even if she waltzed in an hour late.”

Mina, meticulously applying a fresh layer of lip gloss while Eijirou obligingly held up a compact mirror, chimed in without missing a beat. “True, but the prime pieces are usually auctioned off early. I heard there’s a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Spur from 1986, once owned by the Swedish Royal Family, up for grabs tonight.”

At this revelation, Katsuki’s interest visibly piqued. “An ’86 Rolls-Royce Silver Spur?” he queried, his gruff demeanor momentarily softened by genuine curiosity.

Mina nodded, her attention still fixed on perfecting her reflection. “Yes, a 1986 model. Quite the collector’s item.”

A rare grin spread across Katsuki’s face, a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Looks like this event just got a whole lot more interesting.”

As the conversation shifted towards the upcoming auction items, a subtle tension infused the air. Katsuki’s rare display of enthusiasm was palpable, his eyes gleaming with anticipation at the prospect of acquiring the vintage 1986 Rolls-Royce Silver Spur. The allure of owning a piece once graced by royalty was undeniable.

Shoto, ever observant, noticed the spark in Katsuki’s demeanor. “Planning to add to your collection, Bakugou?” he inquired, a hint of amusement dancing in his voice.

Katsuki smirked, his confidence unwavering. “If the car’s as good as they say, it’s worth the investment.”

Momo interjected, her tone informative. “The Silver Spur from that era is renowned for its craftsmanship and elegance. Securing such a model would indeed be a notable acquisition.”

Denki, always the joker, couldn’t resist chiming in. “Just make sure you don’t blow your entire trust fund on it, Bakugou.”

Laughter rippled through the group, easing the earlier tension. Yet, amidst the camaraderie, an unspoken understanding lingered: the auction ahead promised competition, and friendships would momentarily be set aside in the pursuit of coveted treasures.

As the evening progressed, the grand hall began to fill with the city’s elite, each guest a testament to opulence and influence. The Brat Pack, though accustomed to the limelight, couldn’t help but feel the weight of the event’s significance.

Suddenly, the grand doors swung open, drawing the attention of many. Y/N entered, fashionably late, exuding an aura of effortless grace. Her entrance, though delayed, was nothing short of spectacular, capturing the gaze of attendees and ensuring all eyes were momentarily fixed upon her.

Katsuki’s gaze followed her, a complex mix of emotions flickering across his features—annoyance, admiration, and something else unspoken. She liked good. Her trip to Monaco treated her well, her skin rich and sun-kissed.

Her gaze swept across the room, sharp and discerning, until it landed on familiar faces. A slow, radiant smile spread across her lips as she strode toward them, unbothered by the eyes that trailed her arrival.

“Apologies for my tardiness,” she said smoothly, her tone light, effortless.

Shoto stood without hesitation, pulling out the chair nestled between Katsuki and Sero. With a gracious nod, she sank into the seat, crossing her legs.

“Yn, stunning as always,” Sero drawled with a smirk.

She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “And you clean up quite nicely yourself.” Her gaze flickered over him, amused. “I have to admit, I was surprised when you asked for an invitation. What convinced you to make an appearance?”

Sero shrugged nonchalantly, the lens of his video camera catching the light as he waved it around. “Gotta pay for college somehow,” he quipped with a grin.

Yn nodded thoughtfully, her attention shifting to the man sitting beside her. Her smile softened as she turned toward him, the faintest hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Bakugou,” she said, voice smooth but with a playful edge. “How’ve you been?”

Bakugou’s gaze flickered to her, his expression immediately hardening, but there was a glint in his eyes that didn’t go unnoticed. He leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of his sake, the amber liquid almost matching the fiery look he shot her way.

“Better now that you’ve graced us with your presence, princess,” he grunted, his tone rough, but the slight smirk tugging at his lips said otherwise.

Yn raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. “Oh, how charming, Bakugou. I didn’t know you cared so much.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a more teasing pitch. “You usually seem too busy glaring at people to show any real interest.”

“Unlike you, I don’t waste time on things that don’t matter,” he shot back, eyes narrowing. “Not like you, sitting here playing nice with all these rich idiots.”

Yn’s lips curled in a sly smile. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s just a game. Something you’d never understand, huh?” She tilted her head as if considering him. “You’re a bit of a lone wolf, aren’t you, Bakugou? Too busy sulking in your own little world.”

He scoffed, leaning forward slightly. “I’m not sulking. Just keeping my distance from fake people like you.”

“Fake? That’s rich coming from the king of acting like he doesn’t care about anyone,” she shot back. “Tell me, Bakugou, do you think this 'I hate everyone' act is working? When everyone can see how you clearly care so much?"

He growled low in his throat, clearly agitated but undeniably intrigued. “I don’t need to put on a show for anyone,” he muttered, eyes flickering with something between irritation and amusement. “At least I’m not pretending to be some perfect little angel.”

Yn leaned in just a bit more, her gaze never leaving his. “I’m far from perfect, Bakugou,” she said softly, her voice dangerously close to a whisper. “But I’m definitely better at keeping people on their toes. Especially you.”

The challenge hung between them, a dance of words that neither of them seemed willing to back down from. Bakugou clenched his jaw, but there was an undeniable tension in the air, one neither of them could ignore.

And neither could anyone else.

Momo cleared her throat, an amused glint dancing in her eyes as she subtly interrupted the unspoken tension between Yn and Bakugou. “So, what exactly are you planning on bidding on, Yn?” Her voice was casual, but there was a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

Yn’s gaze flickered momentarily toward the stage, her expression lighting up with excitement. “An ’86 Silver Spur Rolls Royce, owned by the Swedish Royal Family,” she said, clasping her hands together in eager anticipation. “I’ve had my eye on it for a while now. Can’t resist a classic, especially one with such a… storied past.” Her lips curled into a sly grin, a mixture of excitement and confidence in her tone. “I’ll have to send a thank-you note to mother for pulling some strings and getting me this invitation.”

“And what makes you so sure you’re going to get it?” Bakugou shot back, his voice thick with challenge.

Yn turned to him, a confident smirk playing on her lips. “I can only hope.”

“Well, your hopes are getting crushed tonight, Fushikage.” Bakugou leaned forward, his gaze intense. “That Rolls is as good as mine.”

Yn raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “And what makes you so sure? Hope, like me?” she teased, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

“No,” he said with a sharp grin, leaning even closer. “I know I’ll get it.”

Yn rolled her eyes, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Don’t get too cocky, Bakugou.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer’s voice cut through the banter, echoing in the room, bringing the playful exchange to a sudden halt. Everyone turned toward the stage as the bidding began.

“The auction will now commence,” the auctioneer announced, his voice reverberating through the room. “Our first lot: The 1986 Silver Spur Rolls Royce, previously owned by the Swedish Royal Family. The bidding will start at ¥25 million.”

“¥26 million,” a man called out from the front, raising his paddle confidently.

“¥26 million, do I hear ¥27 million?” The auctioneer’s voice rang out.

“¥27 million,” Yn’s voice chimed, her paddle raised in a fluid motion. A bright smile lit up her face as she watched the auctioneer acknowledge her bid.

“¥27 million, do I hear ¥28 million?”

“¥30 million,” Bakugou’s voice boomed, cutting through the room with his signature intensity. He raised his paddle, turning slightly toward Yn with a smug grin. She shot him a sideways glance, smoothing the fabric of her Givenchy dress with a slight frown.

She sighed, her smile returning as she raised her paddle. “¥35 million.”

“¥40 million.”

“¥50 million.”

“¥51 million,” Bakugou said firmly, the competitive fire in his eyes never wavering. The tension in the air thickened.

“¥51 million and 100,000,” Yn shot back, her lips curling into a defiant smirk.

“¥51 million and 200,000.”

“¥51 million and 300,000.”

The back-and-forth continued, each bid escalating in increments, but neither willing to back down.

“Are you going to let them keep going?” Izuku leaned in toward Momo, his eyes glued to the rapidly escalating bids.

Shoto chuckled, watching the battle unfold with a bemused expression. “God, please let them. This is the most entertainment I’ve had all month.”

The auctioneer’s gavel hovered above the podium, ready to strike at any moment. The bidding had become a near standstill, both Bakugou and Yn locked in their silent, competitive stare-down, each unwilling to break first. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and the crowd could feel the heat between them.

“¥51 million and 500,000,” Bakugou finally grunted, breaking the silence, his eyes never leaving Yn.

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a small, mischievous grin. “¥51 million and 600,000.”

“¥51 million and 700,000.”

“¥51 million and 800,000,” Yn retorted smoothly, her voice carrying the slightest edge of playful arrogance. The room grew quieter as the bidding soared, no one daring to challenge the pair.

“¥52 million,” Bakugou declared, his tone even more firm. He leaned back in his seat, his smirk widening as he glanced over at her. “You’re getting too cocky, Fushikage. This is as close as you’ll get.”

Yn’s eyes sparkled with challenge. “Not yet, Bakugou.” She raised her paddle once again. “¥53 million.”

At this, a few heads in the audience turned, some clearly aware that the two were no longer bidding solely on the car—it was a battle of wills now, each determined to claim victory. The auctioneer, barely able to keep up, shifted uncomfortably but pressed on.

“¥53 million. Do I hear ¥54 million?” he called, almost reflexively.

Bakugou leaned forward, a little too eagerly. “¥55 million.”

Yn’s gaze flickered to him, her grin widening. She raised her paddle one last time. “¥60 million.”

The room gasped. Even the auctioneer stopped for a moment, momentarily stunned by the audacity of her bid.

Bakugou, who had been so certain of his victory, paused. His hand hovered above his paddle, fingers twitching as if considering whether to keep going or concede.

There was no way she’d go higher. Right?

The silence between them stretched, a slow realization dawning in his mind. Bakugou was about to give up when he caught sight of Yn’s triumphant smirk, and his pride refused to allow him to back down.

“¥70 million,” he blurted out before he could stop himself, his voice gruff but determined.

Yn’s smile faltered for a split second. She’d pushed him far enough, but she knew she could go one more step.

“¥80 million.”

Bakugou’s face hardened, and his eyes narrowed. She was playing the game.

The auctioneer was getting impatient, his gavel almost falling.

“Going once… going twice…” The auctioneer began.

Yn leaned back in her seat, the smirk never leaving her lips. “Sorry, Bakugou. Looks like you’ve been outbid.”

Bakugou opened his mouth, ready to argue, but the auctioneer’s voice rang out, sealing the deal.

“Sold. ¥80 million to the lady in the front.”

Yn sat back in her seat, exhaling sharply, her heart racing with the high of victory. Bakugou stared at her, jaw clenched, clearly holding back the retort that was bubbling in his throat.

“Looks like I win, Bakugou,” Yn said, her voice smooth, teasing.

Bakugou growled, "Like always."

inside scoop!

kirishima rode the metro with mina in solidarity 

izuku is being groomed to be the successor to the Fortune 500 company, All Might Enterprises, by Toshinori Yagi since he never had children and wanted it to be someone he picked rather than just the next in line at the company 

Shoto finds their relationship concerning 

mina has never set an alarm or reminder in her life. thats what dorota (and eiji) (and kyoka) is for

bakugou is obsessed with cars. hates spending his parents money rashly but makes exceptions for vintage vehicles 

mina is more blair/serena coded than yn will be and you'll see that 

however yn and bakugou will have a relationship lightly inspired by blair and chuck

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[heavenlymorals]

Dutch Van Der Linde: An Outdated Progressive

(Warning: This post contains period typical attitudes such as racism and sexism as well as spoilers for RDR2. This retrospective is also pretty damn long too.)

I love Dutch Van Der Linde. Honestly, he is one of my favorite characters ever and just the whole concept of his character and the philosophy of his character as well is something that just sticks with you.

He is charming, intelligent, cultured, charismatic, a right Messiah, and a right bastard all the same time.

But the thing that I believe people most remember about Dutch Van Der Linde is his romantic image. What I mean by this is the things he stood for and the things he wanted to change.

This makes Dutch have a positive image pretty quickly from the very start. In the first scene with him, he's encouraging people, rallying them up, and giving them hope in such an awful situation. He saves Sadie from a terrible fate and asks Hosea to send someone to bury her husband. Arthur and Charles talk fondly of him. He makes it clear in the train robbery that he despises the systems that keep men rich whilst most people starve.

Whether or not Dutch was always cracked, to the characters in the game, he was a great man because of his beliefs and because of his empathy/sympathy.

But what gets me is that a lot of people in this fandom misconstrue Dutch's character into being what we see today as a progressive. I see people saying things like "Bill shouldn't be racist, he's with Dutch's gang" or "why is Micah in the gang" and other similar things as to where people get confused as to why characters with immoral belief systems are respected and active heavy hitters in the gang.

This isn't saying that Dutch isn't progressive because he IS. For his time period, he was VERY progressive.

However, before I get into that, I want to establish some context in terms of the time period that we are talking about.

Theodore Roosevelt was the 26th president of the United States from 1901 to 1909. He once had dinner with African American leader Booker T. Washington. This one singular act of simply eating with one another as a white man and black man was so scandalous that it became an outrage to many politicians that the PRESIDENT, the literal face of America, was having dinner with a black American leader.

Teddy later put out this response: “The only wise and honorable and Christian thing to do is to treat each Black man and each white man strictly on his merits as a man, giving him no more and no less than he shows himself worthy to have."

A lot of people would take this event and try to say that Teddy Roosevelt was a progressive equivalent to our time when that is simply not true. Roosevelt was racist to many groups in his personal writings and he believed in the racial hierarchy, even though he had respect for any self made man.

Was Roosevelt a progressive? Yes. For his time, he was a progressive. He was pro union, anti monopoly, and created many government departments like the FDA. He also believed in the merits of a man. But the thing about historical progressives is that their standard of progression doesn't fit in with our criteria anymore.

Dutch is the same. Is he a progressive? Yeah, of course he is. But is he a true progressive in our standards? No. Not really.

This is why the gang allows racist gang members. That is also why the only repercussion to such racism is if the victim of it is willing to dish something out like Charles slamming Micah on the ground or Javier pulling a knife on Bill. It is also why the gang is pretty traditional and rigid in their gender roles. It's also why queer people (ie. Bill) are casually mocked within the gang too.

Another thing too- Dutch is a romantic. People misconstrue that with being a progressive when that really isn't the case. Romantacism is a philosophy that was a rejection of the realism of the Enlightment. It focused on Idealism. The thing with Romantacism, though, is that it was a super white-washed philosophy. It was made to mould into white cultures and belief systems specifically for white men. Dutch could say all men are equal and he may believe that, but it's clear that he doesn't see equality in the same way that we see equality today.

What I mean by this is that any man is equal but if told otherwise, that man is the one who has to prove them wrong. It's his business and he should be the one to deal with it. That's why other gang members don't back up Charles or Javier if they find themselves in a situation with another gang member who is racist. It's their responsibility to deal with their own beefs. It wouldn't be like today where we all publically shun racism.

Remember when Dutch, Arthur, and Micah come back from Sadie's cabin? Micah says something about not wanting to share a room with Bill and POC, to which Dutch can hear and doesn't say anything and Hosea only says "Get yourself to bed" instead of calling Micah on what he said. Same goes for Arthur too. He may condemn and do something about violent racism, like how when he helps the doctor in Rhodes get his wagon back, but he doesn't really say anything when Micah or Bill say racist things to Charles, Javier, or Lenny. That's their business, so to speak, and they should be the ones handling it.

Also note the poc's characters relationship with Dutch. Javier likes Dutch because of the revolutionary ideals that he believes in. Charles likes Dutch because he treats him fair. Lenny likes Dutch because Dutch is far more progressive than other white men, but he also calls out Dutch's romantic philosophy because it doesn't really include POC or their struggles. Dutch sympathizes with their struggles, but he cannot emphasize, which is the problem with his romantic philosophy. It's a culture that is a house to white people, but POC are only guests in it in terms of its European and American tradition. Yes, Dutch hates what the Europeans did to the natives, but given the context beforehand and the things he says, he hates less the violence and more the upheaval of the lifestyle that he wants, which is one that is connected to nature and earth. I also find it interesting how the only person Dutch kinda defends from racism is Lenny, the same boy who calls him out for reading too much into Miller and not into reality. It could very much be Dutch unconsciously trying to prove Lenny wrong.

And the thing with Dutch is that he isn't squeaky clean when it comes to racism either. He's racist too, but he's racist to groups that we don't see as marginalized anymore and this goes for Hosea as well. The biggest example of this is with Italians, who weren't considered white at the time, same with the Irish.

We have this conversation between him and Hosea:

"Have you ever met an Italian strongman before?"

"Not outside the circus."

I shouldn't have to explain that.

And there is also when Bronte set them up.

"That greasy son of a bitch, he set us up!"

It doesn't sound strange at first but context matters a lot. Though 'greaser' is a slur that we see thrown at Javier for being a Mexican multiple times in the gang, that slur was also used against Italians. So Dutch saying that is him still purposing that slur but in a different way.

Another thing that I noticed is that whenever Dutch wants to speak with someone who isn't white or wasn't deemed white at the time, he would dumb down or slow down his speech first before the person he's speaking to shows that they know English, in which then he talks normally. He doesn't automatically consider that hey, these are people who are intelligent and understand English.

Here are two examples:

This is Dutch to Bronte.

"Why do you take his son?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said why DID you take his son."

He fixes the way he talks as soon as he realizes that Bronte speaks english.

And then to Eagle Flies.

"How do you DO?" (In the game, he slows down his speech and emphasizes the do.)

"Not well, sir."

"I can see that."

This is such a subtle detail but it shows that even subconsciously, Dutch isn't as admirable as we sometimes like to make him out to be in terms of OUR time period and that we shouldn't be surprised when other gang members or Dutch himself do or say things that aren't cool.

And of course, there is the sexism of the gang and that Dutch is shown to be sexist multiple times in the game.

"There are two theories about arguing with women and neither of them work."

"Good Lord, a few more like her and we can take over the whole world." (This was a sarcastic dig at Sadie)

And given the rigidness of the gender roles in camp and that the girls are barely in any missions and are mostly just doing house work, Dutch supports this system because just like how political Romantacism wasn't really for POC, it wasn't really for women either.

He can also be religiously prejudiced as well, though this shows up only once in the game. When you get into Saint Denis, Dutch says this:

"Here we are in this strange land of Papists and rapists."

Papists is another word for Catholic and given how he connects them with rapists, it makes it quite clear that he doesn't like them all that much, which makes sense given that Dutch is some form of Protestant and the general disgust regarding Catholics at the time. There is also the fact that a lot of reasons why Italians, Irish, and Hispanic people dealt with discrimination is because of the Catholic background in many of their cultures.

Again, it's a small detail, but when you look at the time period he says that in, it opens up many doors to many other social issues that were there at the time and how Dutch, despite being better than many, is also still a man of his time and this idea that the gang is this beacon of prosperity and progression is generally overemphasized to something that it is not.

Again, I love Dutch's character and he was a progressive but it isn't surprising to see these negative equalities come out from him and from the gang as an extension. They all have their flaws, even if those flaws are especially jarring at points.

Historical people almost always have historical attitudes, guys. It's just the unfortunate truth.

In any case, this is already way too damn long and I hate proof reading so bye 😃

[hero-israel]

The independent bookstore preparing to open in my corner of the Boston area is sharing fundraisers for the idiot Columbia kids on Instagram. The fiber arts group I'm a member of sharing memes about those dirty zionists. The comic artist I support on Patreon is having a whole lot of fun with Holocaust inversion rhetoric. The roar is getting so loud in every single alt-y, arty, left-ish, intellectual scene. I rely on Jewish community, I seek out other Jews to share these interests. But it's impossible to ignore that these are becoming my only options. It's like we're being excommunicated.....from these communities that we've fucking bled for, for decades.

Yes. The institutions and norms of American progressive and artistic life were founded or led or strongly influenced by Jewish creativity and philanthropy, and we are increasingly being purged from them as Palestine settler-colonizes Every. Single. Issue. The 2015 movie "Selma" showed Martin Luther King Jr. meeting with white Christian religious leaders but erased all Jewish involvement, erased Rabbi Heschel. The arts, the museum world, the comics industry, even Hollywood... we built these movements and industries, and we're suddenly not good enough to be included anymore.