#Baptized In Dirty Water

[peterspinkrobe]

Confession - priest!Miguel O’Hara x Reader [part 2]

Word count: 2,270 (oops)

Rating: mature for suggestive content. Mentions of masturbation. You have a dirty mind… tsk tsk. Religious content. Mentions of parental death (sorry for not tagging last time).

A/N: Thank you for your feral support in reading part 1! The art above is again by @Ejpuki on twt. They drew this moment from part one and JUST LOOK AT IT! They also did a pre-reading which I greatly appreciated. Go support them over there <3 I only tagged the people who explicitly stated bc I don’t want to overstep. Also, I guess I should watch Fleabag? Enjoy! part three is cookin’ in my noggin’

// Psalms 32:3-4

When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy on me;

Rumbling sounds drone from the engine in a constant hum as the bus wheels roll down the asphalt, occasionally shuffling the passengers inside. Yourself included.

The wheels in your mind are conjuring images of too much skin, friction, and want. The mental pictures… different positions and other things that you’ve only read about - all featuring the same tall deacon from your small church.

You curse yourself for both your overactive imagination and forgetfulness for having left your headphones at home. Some loud music would drown out the whir of the bus and push out the flashes of lewdness that plagued you.

Reverend O’Hara, you learned that’s what transitional deacons are usually called after inquiring about the proper title on Google the second you got home from that communion, occupied the majority of your mind. He took up residence in your thoughts without even asking permission and you didn’t know the proper way to absolve your sanity of him. It had only been two weeks since you’d met him, two Sunday services, but you were hooked. This trip into the city was supposed to get you out of the house and help clear your mind of its recent inhabitant.

The methods you were currently using were certainly of no help. Nearly every night, for the past two weeks, you’d given into temptation. Allowing the streaking images of what you could only envision his toned body looked like to remain longer in your mind’s eye. His thumb on your lip, the quick swipe across - became more inquisitive of the inside of your mouth in your imagination. You pressed into yourself and thought of those long, thick fingers. You carried yourself away on highs with only his hands in mind. You yearned to baptize him in your waters.

You buried fingernails into your palms to ground yourself as the scenery outside the bus began the change drastically, pulling you out of your daydream.

Your hometown along the Catskill Mountains was enveloped by the natural world - tucked into valleys of the vast countryside. In the three weeks you’d been back home, you had already gotten used to surrounding greenery. You’d forgotten the toll that city expansion was having on the rows of vegetable and orchard farms in the surrounding areas.

Your gaze out the window watched tree lines and grassy hills give way to glimmers of futuristic architecture as the bus entered Nueva York. The rhythm of wheels on tarmac became a backdrop to the din of honking horns, shouting pedestrians, and blaring sirens. You had only recently left a city not too different from this one, but the drastic change in landscape from the mountains made your head spin. The inertia of the bus braking and accelerating over and over on the intersecting streets only added to the motion sickness. You recognize the next stop as the usual one you and your mother used when coming into the city. You quickly get off the bus, blessing the steady ground underneath as your boots hit the pavement.

Towering structures of carbon fiber and glass dominated the skyline, some illuminated by bright neon light displays, others blending into the afternoon sunshine. Advertisements for fast foods, fast money, and fast cars flickered on screens everywhere. You look to where the bus carried you from and, in contrast, the countryside stretched out, calling you back. Despite the slight familiarity in the maze of metal, the sudden change in surroundings made you slightly anxious.

The steady stream of citizens didn’t help your nerves either. You take a moment to get yourself together before following the foot traffic flow up a familiar street.

Your eyes recognize a food spot from a bygone era and you can’t help but smile. You picked up the pace as you headed to the establishment your family used to frequent. Timeless Treats is still here?! You pull on the long handled door and a wave of music, chatter, and sugar hit you at once. Much more pleasant than the waves of anxiety from moments before.

Entering the quaint eatery, you’re transported into a cozy atmosphere reminiscent of an old fashioned diner. A cheerful man at the front waves you in and shouts for you to ‘sit where ya want!’.

You recognized the vintage decor: rusted signs with cartoon mascots and ads for ice cream floats that cost only $2. Imagine! You select one of the smaller retro tables with two stools and hear a jukebox play a song you don’t recognize but tap your foot along to.

There was more to this diner than what it seems at first glance. A few more glances noticed the subtle touches where the diner had embraced the future where it mattered, with high-tech kitchen appliances that helped the staff immensely. A holographic menu pops up across the portion of the table you're sitting at and you slide your finger along the options.

This bakery specialized in delicious treats with a futuristic flare, with many favorites being popular since the establishment opened generations ago. Your eyes fell onto the pastry menu and your curiosity piqued as you ordered the ‘Time Traveler’s Torta.’

All the hustle of the city had occupied your mind until you were sitting alone at the table. Your eyes scanned the other occupants and you wondered what they were all talking about with their sugary sweets. It made you think of him again.

Dammit. A whole ten minutes without thinking of Reverend O’Hara, that’s a record! You couldn’t help the images of Miguel that fluttered now. Only this time you pictured him sitting at the table with you. The two of you share a dessert and you smile at the thought. You visualize his thumb coming to your face to wipe whipped cream from your lips only to plop the finger into his own mouth. That moment as mass replayed in your mind with differing flavors of spice on repeat.

The torta arrives and you gawk at the presentation of the treat. A classic cake with layers of light vanilla sponge, intricately placed swirls of sweet cream cheese frosting, and decadent chocolate sauce. This sweet was the perfect balance of timeless and futuristic as it sat on an oblong, ornate plate.

You savored the flavors as you ate and continued to imagine a date with the deacon. You ask yourself if deacons can even date and the thought pulls you out of your delusions for a moment. Get it together…

As you scooped the last bits of the pastry into your mouth, you pondered your dilemma. Mom always said that confession cleared a clouded consciousness, but there was no way you’d divulge this information to her. Her hypothetical reaction to your crush on a clergy member makes you shiver.

An idea comes to mind that makes you think to yourself that you’ve really gone mad.

The madness pushes you from your seat after paying for the dessert. There’s a slim chance what you’re looking for is actually there considering the cities expansions. That doubt doesn’t stop you from following a semi-recognizable path down the busy streets.

Every tall figure you pass makes you do a double take. The idea of the deacon brushing alongside you making you smile. You turn a corner as your imagination creates sweet scenarios with Reverend O’Hara and stop in your tracks. You cause people behind you to push into your back and spit harsh murmurs at you.

It was still there.

You were surprised for good reason. You were headed towards a relic of past times, nestled between buildings of glass and metal. There was some scaffolding supporting it as the building you headed towards was centuries old. Other than that - the structure you now stood and stared at jutted towards the sky in the old brick and mortar style you were used to seeing in your hometown.

But the Cathedral of Nueva York wasn’t like the humble church in your hometown. The ornate bell tower and large cross atop the chapel in front of you proved that. The only thing to change about the building was the name as the state itself saw many changes a few decades ago - including the name of the actual city.

You find yourself reminiscing on the few times you’d been to the church as you walked inside. Your family used to attend the fancy Easter services and Christmas plays. Those trips stopped after your father passed, and your mother rarely came to the city at all anymore. You remember seeing pictures of them on their wedding day at this very church. Priesthood is a tight knit group and Father Steen knew the head priest, who extended their church for their wedding services.

Given it was a weekday afternoon, there weren’t many souls inside. Despite the numerous options for seating, you sat in your usual middle pew, aisle seat.

You eyed the part of the church that had brought you here in the first place. The confession booth. Its cherrywood exterior made you think of those eyes that bore into yours that day of communion. You shake your head but the visual remains.

The church in your hometown didn’t have a confessional booth. Even if they did - why the hell would you confess there? To the subject of your lustful desires? So many questions and doubts enter your mind.

Could you really do this? Confess to a priest that you pined over a man in his chaste brotherhood? Think of the judgment!

Another thought occurs to you: their whole shtick was that only one entity could do the judging. And it was confidential. If you received some good ol’ fashioned Catholic scolding and Hail Mary’s, maybe that would be enough to get you back to your senses. Reverend O’Hara is a man devoted to God and cannot be hindered by the whims of a degenerate like yourself.

Emboldened by the potential to relieve yourself of your corrupt thoughts, you stand and approach the far right front of the church. The confessional is smaller than it looked from how you remember as a child and teen but it doesn’t stop you from nearly yanking the door open. You don’t even knock.

Thankfully no one is on the confessing side as you burst into the tiny box. The confined space became even smaller as you closed the door behind you quickly. Your mind races towards impure thoughts of the deacon pressed against you in the tight booth space. His height would force him to bend slightly over you and the visual almost knocks you onto the bench which would probably be right at crotch level…

You remember the times you’d done this before and cry out the usual, “Forgive me, for I have sinned and it has been many years since my last confession…”. Who were you even asking for forgiveness? You think for a moment about the last time you were in this booth. You felt so guilty about stealing from the general store all those years back. This was a different kind of confession. This would hopefully absolve yourself of the sinful attraction to the forbidden.

You start light, fumbling over the words, “I’ve gotten drunk and high, uh, a good bit while in college. I lied to my mother and got into major trouble as a result. I’ve been selfish and lazy.”

The anonymity and the release of it all lit a fire under you and you kept going.

“While I’m in this confession booth, and I know it is a sacred and holy place”, you sigh and hear shuffling on the opposite side of the wall, the priest waiting patiently on the other side. “I’ve been struggling with my faith and don’t believe in god…”

You hear the clergyman start to interject but the voice that comes out of you has a fierce tone.

“I’m not done.” Now it was the priest’s turn to sigh and you see movement through the small slits in the partition, but hear nothing else. You continue. The most scandalous part to admit had yet to be said.

“Father, I’ve been lustful over the deacon at my church.” There’s silence on the other end and before embarrassment can take over you continue, “I’m constantly thinking of him and having impure thoughts that drive me to-“ oh god, here it is

“Touch myself. Daily. With this deacon on my mind.” You can’t stop the heat from painting your cheeks a deep red.

“I feel guilty because he isn’t for me to think that way about. From just the two times I’ve seen him, I know he is a good man who does good things. He’s on a path towards righteousness. He’s worthy.” To your shock, you feel tears form and they begin to fall.

“I’m a sinful nonbeliever. Definitely not someone he could be with, unworthy of devotion of any kind. And I’m not good.” Your breathing becomes shaky as the tears fall harder. Despite the fact that you feel your words are the truth, you can’t help but imagine him there now. Comforting you as you cry.

Now that you’ve finished confession, you expect to hear an outburst of disapproval or at least ‘50 Hail Mary’s’ to absolve you of your confessed transgressions.

But that’s not what you heard next.

You hear your name. You hear your name in that sweet music that’s been ringing in your ears the last week or so. This time the musical tone is cautious. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief as your eyes glue to the wall where the music came from.

To confirm your suspicions, you grab the knob on the partition and yank it back.

Through the small window you see a familiar pair of eyes analyzing your face, heavy with worry.

Reverend O’Hara had just taken your confession…

I pray you liked this, dear reader.

Tagged ppl - @friendlynbhdzero @ceoofghosts it won’t let me tag you @hoelychildofgod

#miguel o'hara #fanfic #miguel x reader #priest!miguel #priest au #au fic #across the spiderverse #miguel x you

[fatherenoch]

After today’s lengthy service, a young man stayed after to speak with me. I was quite ready to return to the rectory and rest, to prepare for the more blasphemous things I had planned for the evening, but he seemed timid and shy — always appealing. He said that he came too late for the baptisms, since he was made to keep working today. I told him what a shame that was, him being forced to work on such a day, and how I could make a special exception just for him. He looked so familiar, though I didn’t know him. Before I could ask, he told me he’d been coming to mass when he could, as if to prove himself. His big eyes almost pleaded, and I remembered him more completely upon seeing them grow so wide. Yes, he’d been lurking around, with little interest in the homilies but a clear interest in me. Perhaps he wanted the attention from an authority figure, perhaps more…

The church was growing darker, only lit by the candles still going, and only the two of us stood there, together by the altar. I took him to the font, where I told him to kneel. He obeyed me quickly, and I tilted his head up. Such a pretty little lamb… I could feel him shiver a bit at my touch when I anointed him. Due to so much improper use, the fragrant scent of the holy oils stirred up something in me as well. I could hardly get through the baptism with how badly I wanted to take his newly saved soul.

His face glistened with holy water, and some started to drop down onto his clothes. I told him he should change into one of the white garments, to get out of those dirty, wet rags, and I had him follow me to a smaller room to have him dress. I stepped out as he did, feigning modesty, but I sat before the keyhole to watch him, one hand sliding through the pockets of my cassock. Such a handsome young man, and I was fortunate to see him strip. I was surprised to see he had a pussy, but the sight only made me more desperate to fill him. As he finished dressing, I scrambled to get back up before he came to the door, still wanting to keep appearances of having some form of self-control.

When he opened the door, I asked him to come back out and to the altar with me. I told him that he would be getting a much more special baptism now, and for him to kneel again as I leaned against the altar. Though he was visibly confused, he once again obeyed. Some of the candles had gone out, so I couldn’t see his face as much as I would have liked. “Be good for me, little lamb. You know what you need to do, don’t you?” I said, unbuttoning my cassock just enough to pull out my cock. He nodded and took me in his mouth. I could tell he was inexperienced, but he put his whole being into it, taking me all the way down his throat, gagging, letting his face get covered in his own saliva. I grabbed the back of his head to push him further, making him gasp when I allowed him to pull away. Even in the dark, I saw him try to slip his hand underneath his robes, but pulled his head off when he did to slap his face with my cock.

“Naughty boy. You’re supposed to be good during your baptism.” I teased him, shoving myself back down his throat. Soon after, I knew I wouldn’t be able to last much longer, so I pulled away again to come on his face, saying as I stroked myself, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

He looked up at me, his face dirtied and eyes wet with tears from gagging. “Thank you, Father.”

#hierophilia #priest kink #happy easter hehe

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 —— 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐁𝐎𝐁 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐏. 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟒.𝟔𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 ��𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟏𝐒𝐓, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

It’s still quiet in the mess hall when you wring out the rag for the last time, bits of clotted blood and clumps of mud floating in the murky water.

Bob looks better--kind of. Without the mud and the blood obstructing his flesh, you see how peaked he is. There’s no color in his cheeks, in his chest. It’s all rushed to the stub of his left arm, which is red and swollen and angry. The bleeding has stopped, yes, but the burn is beginning to blister. 

Deep, deep down in your body, you know that it will get infected. Even if you’re cleaning it every half hour, even if you disinfect your hands as best as possible every time you touch him, you’re certain it will become infected. You’re just hoping that when the time comes, you won’t be at Camp Arcadia anymore.  

Phoenix is sitting with Bob’s head on her lap now, her palms against his cheeks. She glances at you from her lashes--watches you wipe your hands on your dungarees and then sit back on your haunches. When you tip your head back, eyes shut uneasily and throat tight and flexed, she can see that you’re bloodier than Bob. It’s matted over your skin, on your clothes, in your hair. She hasn’t noticed until just now.

“You could really give Carrie White a run for her money right now.” Her fingers are tangled in Bob’s hair. His scalp is hot to the touch--that’s good. At least she thinks that’s good. “Do you want me to wash you off?” Phoenix asks in earnest. 

Humming, you shake your head. Exhaustion is starting to lick the inside of your eyelids--it's saliva is like a paste, a paste that makes it harder and harder to keep your eyes open and on Phoenix. 

“You stay with Bob,” you tell her. You don’t move at first, your heavy head still tipped back. “I’ll wash up.” 

“Alone?” Phoenix asks. She furrows her brows. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” 

“I’m just gonna wade in the lake,” you tell her. You pause--an image of water kissing the bottom of your ribs thick behind your eyes. “Maybe I’ll ask Mable to wash away my sins. Think she’d jive with that?” 

Phoenix snorts, a smile tugging on her lips. 

“It would be the highlight of her summer.” 

You chuckle. 

“You know, if we were talking about anyone else, I’d say bullshit considering the--you know, the circumstances. But I know you’re right. Big time.” 

You and Phoenix laugh shortly--it’s tired and doesn’t take up much room in the warm kitchen. Bob doesn’t stir. And then, just as quickly as the laughter is born, it dies on the tiles shapeless and quiet. 

There is humor in terrible things and there are terrible things in humor. And as you and Phoenix settle back into your quiet lull, you wonder which this is. Holding Bob, who’s still pale from blood loss, sitting on the bloody tiles of the mess hall kitchen, joking about Mable baptizing you. 

Phoenix shifts. She’s baptized--her parents are Catholic. But Bob--she knows Bob isn’t baptized. Late one early May night, they talked for a long time about religion. Bob, a devout agnostic, explained his parent’s distaste for organized religion. He grew up Godless and will die Godless. 

“Are you baptized?” Phoenix asks you. 

You shake your head, sniffing. It’s like someone is holding dirty pennies underneath your nose. 

“No,” you tell her. “The ‘rents never got around to it.” 

“Never a priority, huh?” Phoenix asks. She curls a piece of Bob’s hair around her finger and then lets it go. “I get it.” 

Now you shift. It’s always made you uncomfortable to talk about religion in personal terms. Especially since people always assumed you were religious given your virginal status, which simply was not the truth. 

“I’m a lost cause,” you sigh quietly, finally. 

You scratch your head--dried blood flakes off. 

Standing up, you exhale so all the air is punched out of your lungs. Your legs are wobbly and the muscles in your thighs are burning, but you carefully maneuver yourself around Bob anyway. 

“Be careful,” Phoenix tells you. “Don’t get slashed.” 

“Brill idea,” you whisper. “Why didn’t I think of that?” 

And then you’re walking through the empty mess hall and your footsteps are heavy and echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Your heart is beating in your ears and your feet are so, so heavy. 

The exhaustion sitting heavy on your chest is so overwhelming that when the doors leading outside swing open before you even touch the handles, you almost fall back flat on your ass. You’re partly expecting to see the entity there in the doorway, wreaking of sulfur and covered in Bob’s blood, flesh stuck between its teeth. You think--maybe it’s finally come back to take me. Maybe it will take me and leave everyone else be. 

But it’s just Bradley standing there in the doorway, backlit by the golden sun.

And then all thoughts of the creature vanish. Jesus. You’re sleep-deprived. 

Bradley blinks in surprise, the tips of his ears still hot from his confrontation with Jake. He’s truly taken back by you for a moment--you’re so thoroughly covered in blood that you look hurt. Well, you look like someone dumped a bucket of pig blood over your head.  

You’re blinking at him, your eyes narrowed and your hands lamely by your side.

“Hey,” Bradley says. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…accost you.” 

Swallowing, you shake your head.  

“You good?” You ask finally, swallowing hard. 

Bradley nods. 

“Just dandy,” he tells you. 

He lets the door fall shut behind him and you’re able to open your eyes fully without the sun pouring in the room. 

It’s quiet for a moment. The sticky air is melting the blood on your body all over again--so much so that you can feel it dripping from your thighs down to your calves. It’s pooling in your socks again. 

But the quiet, muggy air doesn’t distract you from all the blood that’s gathered in Rooster’s face, his throat. He’s pissed, you realize. Like breathing hard, lip-twitching, eyes narrowed kind of pissed. 

“What’s grinding your gears?” You ask him. Then you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “If that isn’t too dumb of a question.” 

“Hangman,” Bradley answers, rolling his eyes. He pauses before adding, “He’s really gone for you.” 

Shifting uncomfortably and slapping a mosquito off your thigh, your eyes fall to the floor. Rooster’s just watching you, hands on his hips. Your brows are furrowed and your lips are flat. 

And suddenly, things feel stilted--awkward. 

You care a lot about Bradley. You care a lot about Jake. Jake made you cum and taught you how to shoot a gun and you had sex with Bradley after he told you about his parents then Bob’s arm got hacked off. All these feelings are still here in your body, amalgamating in the tips of your fingers and your littlest toes. 

Things are stilted. Things are weird. 

Bradley’s thinking about how blissful everything felt hours ago. He’d told you he loved you. You told him to kiss you. He can remember the way your lips felt, open and gasping, when he pressed into you all the way for the first time. How thoroughly his you felt. Finally his. Just you and your body and just him and his body. 

Then he thinks about how it crumbled. All of it--gone, just like that. 

“Birdie?” Bradley says softly. He takes a half-step closer to you. 

You don’t look up. 

“Yeah?” You whisper back. 

“Do you regret it?”

Still looking down, you shake your head. You know what he’s talking about.

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t.” 

He thinks, as he stands here before you, that this was never the way things were supposed to go. You were supposed to have sex for the first time and then it was supposed to just be you and him--that’s it. You and him. Sunlight, dewy grass, blue sky, fresh sheets, kissing each other’s throats, making goo-goo eyes at each other across the mess hall, holding hands at the bonfire, skinny dipping after midnight. 

And now it isn’t just fucked up, all of it, but he’s fucked up--he’s hardly asked how you were. He knows how some girls feel after their first times and he knows that it’s his job to make sure you feel good about what happened. But between Bob and blood and searing skin and morphine and all the confusion, he’s been lost. 

“Are you…Jesus…are you, like, okay?” He asks. His hip is jutted as he speaks, his brows furrowed and his eyes wide with earnest. “I know I was supposed to, like, bring you a muffin in bed and, like, pick you some flowers--!” 

“--Shut up,” you whisper, an exhausted smile tugging on your lips. “You’re such a cornball.” 

Just the sound of your voice, which is entirely exhausted but amused, makes him grin. It’s that easy for him. 

“I was gonna write a song, too,” he continues, grin growing wider and wider. “Perform it with just a sheet on.” 

“I would’ve left the cabin,” you tell him, finally meeting his gaze. 

And, oh--there it is, clear as day. His eyes are pouring into yours and they’re crinkled with joy amidst all this shit because he’s looking at you. All the love you’ve ever known, you’ve ever even come close to returning, is sitting pretty on his eyelashes. 

It nearly knocks the breath out of you. 

“Well, in my dream scenario, you’d be tied down,” Rooster says. 

His eye falls in a wink--quick and discreet. 

“Didn’t know you were bad like that,” you tell him. 

And then you take a moment to stretch out your body, reaching the tips of your fingers to the ceiling. His eyes drift to your thighs, which are slick and flexed.

“Depends on who I’m with,” Rooster says. He can feel all the rage in his body, the rage Jake put there, fading fast. “You bring out a different side of me, I guess.” 

“Giving me a big head over here,” you say with an exaggerated eye roll. “And you think Jake is gone for me, huh?”

Rooster grins. 

“Like when I lay it on thick?” 

Another eye roll. 

“Oh, you’re really giving it to me.” 

“Well, if we had it my way, I would still be giving it to you--!” 

Before he can finish his sentence, you’re hissing and shaking your head, nose wrinkled. You have half a mind to clamp your hand over his mouth, but you don’t want to stain his lips with blood. And really, if you do anything to his mouth, you want to kiss it. 

There’s a pause, both of you just watching the other. 

“You regret anything?” You ask softly, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head immediately. 

“Regret not doing it sooner,” he says. 

Heat floods your face. 

“Right,” you whisper. “You’re such a romantic.”

And just as you’re about to squeeze past him and walk to the water before you get too ditzy, Phoenix suddenly bursts through the doorway. Her knees are bowed and her eyes are wide and there’s tears running down her face.  

Rooster watches in real time as you shift. That slight slump in your shoulders, the heaviness in your eyes, that lazy smile, the earnestness in your irises--it disappears immediately. Your rigidness returns, stiffening your spine and pulling your lips down and turning your body away from him. 

“What?” You ask--that edge is back in your voice. 

“Bob,” Phoenix says. She swallows hard, shakes her head. “He’s waking up!”

And before you can respond, just as you’re about to start for Bob and Phoenix with all thoughts of wading in the lake entirely vanished, the mess hall doors swing open again. Everyone, in complete tandem, turns to see who’s coming. 

It’s Jake and it’s Javy, standing beside each other with their chests heaving and their faces drained of any color. They’re each holding something, blinking rapidly at everyone dispersed around the mess hall. 

“Gale,” Javy says, stepping into the hall and shaking his head. “I found the--I found the weapon.” 

“Weapon?” You say, shocked. 

“The weapon,” Jake utters. “Like, as in, this is what cut Bob’s arm off.”

Coyote drops it on the floor--the bloodied ax he and Jake found on their walk back over. Jake was the one who’d seen it from afar, shining underneath the sun, nestled in the rocks and mud outside their own cabin. 

It was not exactly hidden and it was not exactly in plain sight either. It was placed as if it’s user was playing a game--testing the intelligence, the observance of the counselors at Camp Arcadia. But when Coyote said as much to Jake, Jake doubled over and vomited on the rocks. 

“I’m freaking out, man,” Jake had admitted. 

And he is still freaking out now as he stands before you and Bradley in the mess hall, your face horrified and stony as you stare down at the ax.

You step back--Bradley puts his arm in front of you as if protecting you from them. Any other time, you’d shove through his makeshift barrier. But you’re shaken right now and that doesn't happen often.  

“Jesus,” Jake says. “Someone slashed the tires, too. With this.” 

He throws the Swiss army knife on the floor and it clatters just like the ax did, clagning to a stop right by your feet. Jake looks at you, an apology on his lips, but then you’re leaning down and grabbing it. 

A shrill chill slices through the middle of your chest--numbs your toes and your fingers. There’s ringing in your ears and your heart is in your chest and all these people are here and you’re so tired and oh God--Mable wasn’t lying. 

Everyone is stuck still watching you as you hold the knife in your sticky hand, gazing down at it as the blood drains from your body and pools in your lower belly. You’re so full of fear that you feel like it’s bile pushing up, up, up your throat. 

“What is it?” Jake asks finally, breaking the silence. He hasn’t been able to stop shaking since he found the ax--which is covered in blood and bits of Bob. “Gale, what is it, honey?” 

Bradley doesn’t move when Jake steps closer to you. Jake stares at him for a long, hard moment. But he doesn’t challenge Bradley--not when he can hardly look at you on account of the gore you’re covered in.

“What’s wrong?” Javy repeats. “You’re skeeving me out, Gale!”

“Mable told me the Devil…she told me someone cut her with a Swiss army knife,” you say. You say it only just loud enough for the room to hear. “She wasn’t bullshitting us. She wasn’t fucking bullshitting us.” 

You don’t give anyone a chance to respond. You hand the knife to Bradley and meet his eyes again--his brows are furrowed now, his cheeks are reddened again. 

“Put this in the nurse’s office,” you tell him. “Tuck it in the back of a drawer so no one can find it. I mean it, okay? Not a soul.” 

He nods once--suddenly very sober. 

“Why?” Javy asks. 

“We’re not gonna make it easy for them,” you say. 

Your throat is dry. So is everyone else's.

And then you’re jogging back to the kitchen. 

Bob’s blinking up at the ceiling in the kitchen, his eyelids like sheets of rock over his dry eyes. Everything is blurry--the water-stained planks, the wooden walls. At first he isn’t sure why and he can’t even wonder about it because of the pulsing of his entire body. The pain isn’t very bad and for some reason, he knows it isn’t natural. He knows that he’s supposed to be in a lot of pain right now. But it feels removed from him by one degree of separation, like he’s one on one side of plexiglass and the pain is on the other. 

“Bob,” he keeps hearing you say. “Can you feel this?”  

You’re coming in and out of his field of vision, a red blur, and he wants to respond to you but he can’t. He’s too out of it, too distracted from the severe numbness in his left arm. He wants to tell you that he can’t feel anything you’re doing. 

And then he’s freezing, fingers trembling, because someone is pressing an icy rag against his face. 

“Ow,” he whispers because it’s all he can manage to say. 

Phoenix leans in so her face is hovering Bob’s. She’s crying, smiling as she wipes his feverish face with the rag. 

“Bob,” Phoenix says--her voice is quivering. “You absolute dork. You really gave us a scare.” 

You’re making quick work checking his wound, disinfecting it. You’re half-listening to Phoenix talk to Bob as she tries to cool his fever, your heart racing. You’re laser-focused, carefully working around the stub. 

But then you roll his t-shirt back and it takes everything in your power to not faint, to not cry, to not scream. There it is, clear as the day is blue: red streaks moving away from his crimson, swollen wound. It’s angry and seared and pulsing and leaking. Infected. The wound is infected. Carefully, you keep rolling the shirt back and that’s when you see that it’s already spread to his shoulder.  

“What…what happened?” Bob asks, voice thin and strained. 

Phoenix sniffles. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“He’s been out for a while,” you remind her. Your voice is quiet, restrained. You roll his shirt down and stare down at your hands. “We don’t know if he hit his head.” 

Phoenix nods. 

“Bob,” she says softly. “You were…attacked.” 

And as soon as she says it, it all comes rushing back at hyperspeed. It hits him right behind the eyes--the memory of that night. 

Oh, yes. He was attacked. 

He was going to the latrine when he heard a noise by the water--yes, he remembers. It was an odd noise, one that he hadn’t ever heard before. It was a grinding--a quiet and severe grinding, like rubbing two rocks together at a hasty and constant speed. 

He had peered around the corner, the dim glow of the lantern his only source of light besides the paper moon. The noise was so constant that he had a hard time imagining it was man-made. But then he saw it--very faintly, just a silhouette: something by the water, hunched over, grinding something. 

Bob just watched for a long, long moment. He didn’t know what he was looking at, straining to see more in the dark. And as his eyes adjusted, the grinding growing louder and constant as ever, he realized what he was looking at. 

A man--a naked man.

Fear was like a noose around his neck, tightening and raising him up, up, up until he felt like he could only breathe when he stood on his tip-toes. Bob must’ve choked out a gasp, the reality of this horror dawning on him suddenly and overwhelmingly. 

The grinding halted--the naked man looked up and right at Bob. 

And even though Bob was horrified, even though he was stumbling backwards and away from the man with his heart in his throat, he had the distinct feeling that the man knew he was there the whole time. 

Something gnawed on his brain stem then and there: this was a game. This was about fear. This was about what he could get away with. This man wanted to be caught--knew Bob would hear the noise, knew Bob would come looking. 

“What the…” Bob had whispered in the dark. 

He started stumbling backwards, started to head back towards the cabin, his throat numb. 

And then the man suddenly stood--tall and broad, much bigger than Bob. And in his hands was a stone and an ax. That’s what the grinding had been, Bob realized. He was sharpening the ax.

Bob wanted to scream, but the petrification choked him so completely that he could only suck in a gasp, could only half-turn his body before he heard the thunderous footsteps closing the distance between him and the man. The rocks skittered and the cool night air plunged against his back as the naked man ran towards Bob. 

“Wait, I--!” 

And then the stone had come down on Bob’s head so hard that everything blinked into blackness. The last thing he remembered, the very last thing, was the taste of the earth on his tongue. 

Now he’s here, in the mess hall kitchen, and everyone is starting to crowd around him. 

“Do you remember anything, Bob?” Coyote asks. His face is a flat plane of concern, his lips twisted and his eyes narrowed. “Like, anything?”

“Give him a minute,” Phoenix hisses. “He just woke up.” 

Bob blinks and lets his head lull to the side. He sees you there, covered in blood, wearing your dungarees. Your face is hard as you pour something on a rag and start to press it down on Bob’s arm--

Bob chokes on the very breath in his throat. He pales all over, feels dizzy, almost keels over right then and there. 

“My-my arm!” Bob cries. “My goddamn arm!”

Phoenix turns her face when a sob ripples through her body. 

“I know,” you tell him. You’re working quicker now, more diligently. “I know it looks scary, Bob. I know. I know. But you’re okay. I’m--I’m really sorry, alright? It’s just--well, you’re alive, okay? And we’re gonna keep you that way.” 

Everyone around watches in real time as Bob comes to term with his missing limb. 

“This is so fucked,” Payback whispers to Fanboy. He shakes his head soberly, looks away from Bob when he starts to dry-heave. “We’re so fucked.” 

“Enough,” Hangman hisses. “You’re not helping.” 

He’s watching all the campers settle back into their groups, holding the shotgun in his hands. He’s scared enough already, so horrified that his fingers are quivering over the safety. 

“Shit,” Bradley whispers, glancing at Jake. He glances at Jake’s trembling hands. “Neither are you, butter-fingers. You can’t even look at him, can you? Or Gale.” 

Bradley knows what saying your name does to Jake. And Jake turns with a sneer on his face, ready to shove the butt of the shotgun against Bradley’s jaw, but then Coyote gasps in irritation. 

“Stop,” Coyote insists, voice hard. “Or I’m gonna tie both of you to the flagpole.” 

“Me?” Jake asks, incredulous. 

And somehow from your spot beside Bob, who’s writhing, you hear their conversation. 

“Yes you!” You hiss from your knees, bloody sweat dripping down your spine and staining your shirt. Everyone’s eyes go wide when you point to Bradley, too. “And you! The both of you need to--God, you need to grow the fuck up! There are real issues in the world--there are real issues here, right now. We don’t have a way out. We don’t have a phone. All we have is each other and that fucking shotgun. Lots of help that’ll be if the two of you keep trying to mark your territory. So--just--Christ, just fucking can it.” 

You’ve never spoken to Bradley or Jake like this before. Your heart is racing, your body is hot. You’re stuck on Bob’s spreading infection and suddenly, you feel like you’re on a time limit. And everyone is looking to you right now. 

Everyone is watching the floor, your words ringing in their ears. Fanboy’s skin prickles at your tone alone--God, he’s glad he’s not on the other end of it. Coyote just nods soberly at Jake and then shakes his head at Bradley. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Bradley asks. After the conversation the two of you just had--when you were so soft and so close--your words feel like acid rain pouring down on his sun-kissed skin. He glances at Jake, who’s staring at the floor. And that’s all it takes to push Bradley over the edge. “Here’s a grown-up thought that I bet no one else has had--have you even considered that the slasher is one of us? Has anyone considered it?” 

The room goes ice cold. No one says a word for a long moment before Payback meets Bradley’s eyes and shakes his head slowly.

“Don’t,” he warns. “Just…take it easy, man, okay?” 

Bradley’s skin is hot. The tips of his ears are red and plump as cherries. 

“No, no--fuck, if we’re really gonna get it all out in the open, if we’re all gonna hold hands and sing Kumbya while we wait around for someone to come fucking kill us…I’m gonna get this off my chest,” Bradley insists. He looks at you hard--you stare back just as stony. “Who the fuck is gonna hike their happy ass all the way out to Great Oaks, then hike all the way out to Camp Arcadia, just to kill us?” 

“Now isn’t the time!” Phoenix tries, still sobbing as she holds Bob’s tearful face in her hands. “Can’t you just get lost already?”

“No, this is important. I think we should all hear this if we’re gonna just sit around and wait, right? Entertain all the ideas! No bad questions, right? Right, Gale?” 

“Enough!” Fanboy snaps.  

“Let him finish,” you insist. Your lips are flat, your brows are blanched. “If it’s so dire.” 

He looks around the room--everyone’s staring at him. His fingertips burn with rage, his heart racing in his throat.  

“So, I’m the jerk now?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at you. “After everything I’ve done--all the shit I did for you and for Bob and--!” 

“My hero,” you interrupt. Your voice is very quiet, very solid. You do not stutter, you do not quiver. And you can see how it burns Bradley bad. “What would we do without you?” 

Bradley’s jaw is flexed. 

“C’mon, guys…” Payback insists. His throat is dry. “We need to keep our heads.” 

“You’re cut loose, man,” Coyote says to Bradley. “Go.”

Just as Bradley starts to plant his feet on the floor, just as he about spouts off again, you hand your head and look at Bob’s wandering eyes. His face is wet with tears and his cheeks are red and the infection is spreading. 

“No,” you whisper. “We need to draw straws.” 

Everyone looks at you confusion. 

“What are you talking about?” Phoenix asks, wiping her nose.

“We can’t keep sitting here,” you decide. You sniffle hard now, voice seeped in exhaustion. “We’re--fuck, he’s right. We’re sitting ducks.” 

“But what are we drawing straws for?” Payback asks. 

“Someone has to go,” Jake answers for you. 

You glance up at him and although he isn’t able to meet your gaze, you know that he wants to. 

“No,” Fanboy insists. “No fucking way.” 

“That’s like--shit, that’s like sending them with a target on their back!” Payback says. 

“We have weapons,” you say softly. “Axes, knives. Two people can go. It’s a couple days to town, right? And maybe we still have those old walkies--we can check in or something.” 

“We do,” Jake pipes up. “I saw ‘em in the bus barn.” 

“Well, this is just great,” Fanboy laughs humorlessly. “You two would want us to go ‘cause your names won’t even be in the drawing!” 

“Why wouldn’t they be?” You ask. 

“You’re the nurse! You have to stay!” Fanboy says. 

You swallow hard. 

“Look…” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Someone’s gotta go.”

“Why? What happened to waiting?” Payback insists. 

“Bob’s arm is infected,” Phoenix says before you can. She sniffles hard, glances down at the red streaks. “She can be in the drawing because if she doesn’t go--if no one goes, then it won’t…” 

“It won’t matter,” you whisper. 

Bob’s ears are ringing. He’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. You’re glad he can’t process anything that you’re saying now. 

“So, like…” 

“Bob’ll die,” Bradley says. He glances at you. You won’t look at him. He knows he fucked up and he doesn’t know what to do about it. Not now. “Simple as that. So, let’s fucking draw straws.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: BUT AT LEAST BOB IS ALIVE!!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

@thedroneranger

@fandom-life-12

@avaleineandafryingpan

@popsycles

@guacala

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@oliviah-25

@zalmael

@chicomonks

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@hangmans-wingman

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@anony1080

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@fandomxpreferences

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@roosters-girl

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@aemondssiut

@twsssmlmaa

@shawnsblue

@wolfiealina

@gothidecorem

@the-philthepill13

@hangmanscoming

@whoeverineedtobe

@lostinheavensworld

@laneyspaulding19

@averyhotchner

@peakascum

@jjlevin

@endofdays56

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@hypatia93

@sunlightmurdock

@tvjunkie08

@okyeeaaahhhh

@ijustwantedplums

@darkheartcherry

@sometimesanalice 

@angelbabyyy99

@bradshawseresinbabe

@unhinged-btch

@bradshawbabe

@topguncult

@kmc1989

#cruel summer #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #jake seresin x you #Bradley Bradshaw x you #horror au #80s slasher au #nightingale #summer camp au #dagger squad #tgm #tgm au #tgm fanfiction #natasha phoenix trace #javy coyote machado #mickey fanboy garcia #robert bob floyd #reuben payback fitch #Jake Seresin x you x Bradley Bradshaw #hangster love triangle #female reader

[direwombat]

5 songs, 3 outfits

tagged by @corvosattano, @carlosoliveiraa, @voidika, @g0dspeeed, and @socially-awkward-skeleton, @inafieldofdaisies, and @aceghosts to do this fun little game 🧡🧡🧡

sun bleached flies // ethel cain

"god loves you but not enough to save you," so, baby girl, good luck taking care of yourself; so i said fine, 'cause that's how my daddy raised me: if they strike once, then you just hit 'em twice as hard.

crossroads // tracy chapman

all you folks think you own my life, but you never made any sacrifice. demons, they are on my trail; i'm standing at the crossroads of hell

knockin' on heaven's door // bob dylan

mama take this badge off of me, i can't use it anymore. it's getting dark, too dark to see. i feel i'm knockin' on heaven's door

baptize me // x ambassadors, jacob banks

i been prayin' for redemption, learnin' my lessons, my pain is my therapy

eight // sleeping at last

i want to break these bones 'til they're better, i want to break them right and feel alive

dear reader // taylor swift

dear reader, bend when you can, snap when you have to

bastards // kesha

i got too many people i got left to prove wrong; all those motherfuckers been too mean for too long

them dirty bones // mike waters

here i go, i'm not shaky but i'm weak at the knees, and i don't even know if anybody's even listening to me, but i'll grow old; lead the way so i might as well risk it, I don't wanna die and never know

hercules // sara bareilles

i miss the days my mind would just rest quiet. my imagination hadn't turned on me yet. i used to let my words wax poetic, but it melted at a puddle at my feet

heroes & thieves // vanessa carlton

well, i'm stubborn and wrong, but at least i know it. i keep moving along and hope i can get through this

tagging: @marivenah, @cassietrn, @trench-rot, @harmonyowl, @fourlittleseedlings, @purplehairsecretlair, @locustandwildhoney, @testyfestyenthusiast, @strangefable, @sharkyboshaw, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @alexxmason, @deputyash, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else who wants to give it a go! (taglist opt in/out)

#syb's default fashion really is just: tight jeans. tanktop. (leather) jacket and stompy boots #i had such a hard time finding good pics for hers :'( like i had a few touchpoints/insp #but most of the images i found just didn't showcase the actual outfit enough. or the lighting was atrocious. #also there was a moment where i considered just making syb's mini-playlist entirely ethel cain. i could've. but i didn't. #no paola this time because she's remarkably difficult to find fitting songs for so you're getting saoirse instead #oc: deputy sybille la roux #oc: saoirse monaghan

[talkethtothehandeth]

In Mormonism when a Black person (who automatically has “the mark of Cain” to show that they are being punished for their father’s sins; part of that punishment is having dark skin) is considered unholy and will only be pure when they die, and when they die they will turn white and their curse will be lifted because they’re finally free from their sins (after they repent in spirit purgatory). And they were banned from the priesthood and marriage sealings (if you get married in the temple you and your spouse will be bound by the holy spirit to live with your forever family; if you have kids they will be baptized to ensure they are part of the Forever Family, and if you never ever stray from the Iron Rod throughout your life that is heavily controlled by a book written by a man who had literal child brides and was perpetuated and enforced by Brigham Young) who later spread to the prophets, you know, the guys who have a phone with god on speed dial and can talk directly to him and relay what he said to do and encourage enforce these commandments otherwise were either going to hell or spirit prison, then you should be fine.

I need you to understand I am not joking when I say something outlandish like that when it comes to the cult— if you know anything about LDS especially FLDS you’d understand why I’m not saying religion

Alma 3:6-9

6 And the skins of the Lamanites were dark, according to the mark which was set upon their fathers, which was a acurse upon them because of their transgression and their rebellion against their brethren

7 And their brethren sought to destroy them, therefore they were cursed; and the Lord God set a amark upon them

8) And this was done that their seed might be distinguished from the seed of their brethren, that thereby the Lord God might preserve his people, that they might not amix and believe in incorrect traditions which would prove their destruction.

9) And it came to pass that whosoever did mingle his seed with that of the Lamanites did bring the same curse upon his seed.

So if y’all are gonna search up this cult, don’t do it just based on the website that is meant to be welcoming to bring people in. You’re literally put on two year missions to talk about god and bring people to convert. You’re expected to be married young and have many children, the wife is the subordinate and submissive to the husband (which we had classes about) and the young women are set to babysit the leader’s children and learn how to be a mom, while the young men get to go outside and do things the ladies weren’t meant to do.

Research the dirty things that the church my name still unfortunately sits with, read the part of where disabled people are wrong and unholy, read the part where slavery is encouraged, read the fucking book of mormon that states blatantly how to be the perfect person who is ultimately confined to a set of rules that isn’t just “obey god and love one another”

“But just because you had a personal experience doesn’t mean all Mormons are bad” I’m not saying that. What I am saying is that the Mormon church was built, founded and run by horrible people and their beliefs that they wrote and still being followed by people now. The Mormon church isn’t the sole cause of these actions that are spread in religion, but as a collective? The church proves itself over and over that you’re meant to be obedient or else. You are never good enough for god, you have to prove it every day that you are worthy. There are different levels for heaven, three levels, depending on how good you are. It isn’t just a religion. The foundations of the LDS church were built surrounding these ideas and it needs to be talked about and not in the watered down way either.

#personal #ex mormon #mormonism #ex religious #cult survivor #lds church

[nightcourtseer]

Baptize Me in Your Love

Summary: A little hurt comfort AU, taking place after the battle with Hybern.

Warning: Explicit

Pairing: ElainxAzriel

……………

She had parted ways with Lucien by the shore of the stream just outside of camp. He had given her a small nod and a forced smile, before taking his leave to return to check on the soldiers that he had sailed in with on the fleet, along with his human companions.

Elain was grateful, and as soon as he was out of eyesight, having disappeared among the hustle of the camp, she was able to drop the forced smile on her own face. Her mouth had started to quiver at the strain of it, jaw shaking as one of her teeth caught the edge of her lip and broke the dry skin. The blood was metal in her mouth, and she tried not to gag at the taste of her own blood, even as the King of Hybern’s still coated her hands, Cassian’s drying all the way up to the skin on her elbows.

She needed to bathe, desperately. Needed to physically cleanse the horror of the day from her skin, wash away the horror that still held her heart like a vice grip, unwilling to relent even as her family was accounted for, mostly in one piece.

The cooling waters of the stream beckoned her as twilight cast long shadows across the ground. Dwindling sunlight lighting her way as she trekked farther away from the camp for privacy, until she could no longer scent the horrors of the battle that day, no longer hear the agonized moans of wounded soldiers or the victory cries of celebrations just beginning.

Nature welcomed her, until Elain was alone. The only sounds the rushing of the water in the stream next to her and a few bird calls in the distance.

Even as she found herself alone, plenty of privacy to be had. Something pulled her along, farther and farther upstream.

Until she found that she was no longer alone.

His silent figure towered at the edge of the water, head bent in exhaustion as he watched the rushing tide go by, clean water slipping over smooth stones. Clear of the blood and dirt that muddied the water at camp.

Shadows clung to his limbs, drifting slowly but closely to their master, their cooled whispers pausing over the deepest wounds to provide momentary relief. His cobalt siphons guttered, drained from the strain of patching soldier after soldier on the field, and then Cassian as he had helped to carry his brother to the healer’s tent.

Elain paused, watching the shadowed spymaster who had risked everything for her. But what a different position they would be in if not for him.

His fabled knife, Truthteller, rested heavy in the pocket of her winter cloak. The beautiful white fur of its trim now matted and torn. As for the dagger within, the king’s blood still dirtied the knife’s onyx blade, as Nesta had not bothered to clean it after severing the king’s head from his very body. Had seemed to relish in the sight of it in fact, and so Elain had not dared take that away from her.

Elain found herself reaching within the deep lining of the cloak to grasp the blade, and it seemed to whisper to her as she clutched it within the silk of the fabric.

Azriel looked up, as if it had spoken to him as well. Calling for its rightful owner.

His hazel eyes met hers, and Elain felt that hand around her heart squeeze at the emptiness in his expression. No reminder of the warmth that she usually found in them, as he kept her company in the garden sun.

Elain wondered what he saw in her, as she stared back at him, unblinking.

After a moment, the shadowsinger dropped his gaze once more, staring back down at the water below.

Elain took a small, hesitant step forward. And then another. Her shoulders hung low, aching from carting water jugs across her back from healer to healer. Callouses from the new boots she had been given made every step painful, and she could feel dried sweat coating her skin underneath her heavy garments.

But she no longer felt the sense of propriety, of modesty, that she had just the day before. Felt no embarrassment at how disheveled she was, how dirty. She had changed, the moment that her blade had broken the skin on the back of the king’s neck.

And she looked at the male standing across from her, she understood him. Understood the way that he still could not bear to lift his wings off the ground, or lift his head to greet her properly. She understood the weariness that he felt all the way through the toes of his muddy boots.

Without saying a word, Elain continued toward him, until she was almost chest to chest with the shadowsinger.

She reached into her pocket to pull out the dagger inside, handling it reverently as she presented it to him. His shadows erupted into a flutter of activity as they swarmed her hands, twisting around the blade she held.

“You were right, I suppose, to give me this.” She started, her voice hoarse from screaming, from running from fallen soldier to soldier on the battlefield, calling for a medic. “Thank you.”

Azriel lifted his head from staring at the blade to look at her. She did not flinch from the intensity of his gaze.

The air around them stilled, even the birds having gone quiet, more predators surely emerging from their tucked away dens to hunt under the moonlit sky as it rose above them, casting a blue light upon the water.

The spymaster took his blade silently, scarred fingertips gently brushing hers, awakening something that Elain thought she might never feel again after Graysen, after waking in an entirely new body.

He returned Truthteller to the scabbard at his thigh. Elain felt a warring sense of relief and oddly, loss, as it left her person.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, his own voice as low and strained as hers from overuse on the battlefield.

Elain looked him over hungrily. The first time she had seen him, since spotting him only once on the battlefield. Having left Thesan’s tent to rally the troops on the frontlines in Cassian’s absence on the ground. Wielding his longsword like an extension of his arm as he ran through Hybern soldier after soldier.

It had taken its toll. Elain noted each wound upon his person, each spot of blood that was his own. Each bruise already forming, his body still too weak to heal himself properly.

His hair was matted with dried blood and dirt, blood splatters dotting his face like freckles as they had sprayed from his victim, his helmet having been knocked off somewhere on the field and never retrieved.

Elain felt a suddenly overwhelming desire to clean every spot of blood from his face. To carefully clean the beautiful, scarred wings that now hung on the ground, but that had delivered her to safety only a day’s time ago.

“I was going to wash up. Let me help you.”

She gave him no time to respond, only saw his eyes widen in shock and a dark blush flare across his face as he looked at her in surprise. A flush that only deepened as she shred the Winter cloak from her shoulders.

Her eyes didn’t leave his, but her hands shook as she removed her modest tunic and pants, leaving only her torn chemise that had survived underneath. It clung now to her form, and she dared not look down to lose her courage as she walked to the shadowsinger, whose body had grown utterly still as he had watched her disrobe.

“Let me help you,” she pleaded with a whisper. Waiting for his acquiescence before she touched him, before crossing that line.

He nodded slowly, his eyes still guttered but darker than they had been only moments before.

Azriel tapped the siphons on the back of his hands, the ones pulsing so faintly blue that they were nearly black. The scales of his armor retracted, pulling back first from his fingertips and his feet until the onyx metal was no longer visible, disappearing behind him as it crept back from over his shoulders - leaving his fighting leathers underneath.

Elain began. Slowly and methodically began to unbuckle the complicated leathers. And as she worked, her hands grew steady.

Even the hand that had plunged the blade into that evil man’s neck calmed its tremors as she focused on taking care of the male in front of her.

Before long, he stood across from her in nothing but a thin pair of undershorts. His tattoos telling a winding story across the plane of his chest, climbing his shoulders and then disappearing down his back, wrapping around his neck.

Elain wanted to hear that story they told. But she would ask him at another time, when they were home, sipping tea in the garden in the early afternoon sun.

The night air was warm on her skin, but a weight had been lifted once she had shed the heavy, damp cloak and tunic. But it wasn’t enough, and so she hooked her fingers under the thin straps of her shift and pulled, letting the garment pool around her bare feet on the sandy shore.

She was surprised, that she felt no shame flush her chest like a choking ivy. Felt nothing besides the weight of the day that clung to her like a second skin, and the desire to start anew. To shed the horror of the past few weeks and begin again, and as she shed that last piece of clothing, standing bare under the moon rising in the sky above in the quiet night, she felt new life filling her lungs.

And as she stood as bare as she had ever been before a male, or man for that matter, as her and Graysen’s joining had been nondescript and mostly clothed, Elain was not afraid.

She reached out a hand. To the male that understood her better than anyone ever had.

Azriel shed the rest of his own clothing and grasped her hand in his much larger one, and she traced the pattern of scars with her thumb as she led him to the water. Wading until they were chest deep in creek that had been warmed by the day’s sun.

Elain motioned Azriel deeper, until the water reached the top of his chest. He only watched her in reverence as she carefully took handfuls of water and began to rinse his hair, his neck, the top of his back with the clear water. The dirtied water quickly drifting away, leaving only clean skin in its wake.

She did this again and again until she was satisfied. Massaging his scalp gently with her tips of his fingers, relishing in the low moans that he seemed to emit unwillingly as she took care of him.

And once he was clean, he turned his attention to Elain. Still not a word uttered between them, but a desperation and desire for another person’s touch spurring them on.

He carefully washing the blood from her hands, making sure to gently scrub in between each finger and around each nail, leaving no trace of what she had done, of what they had almost lost.

Swiped his thumbs across her dirtied cheeks, his hazel eyes brightening as they watched hers. Then he continued to wash her hair, so tender that she almost began to cry. It reminded her of a nursemaid from her youth, who had been so gentle and loving that in her mind, Elain had called her “Mother.” Had ached for her touch each time she had a nightmare and woke alone in their family’s large home, having wet herself in terror.

With a final hand run through her now clean curls, Azriel stepped away. Water droplets dripping down his cheeks like dew as he waited. As he looked at Elain in front of him, her pale skin luminescent in the blue light of the moon, nipples pebbled as she stood waist deep before him in the water.

Elain went molten at his stare. At the memory of his hands on her, already fading too fast in her memory, so desperate was she to feel him once more.

So, she walked closer to him, closing the distance between them, willing him not to step away.

He did not.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, lifting her arms from the water to wrap them around his neck. Every inch of her skin touching his alight as he brought her back to life, and she did the same for him.

A large hand threaded through her wet hair, cradling the back of her head as he breathed her in, and then kissed her. So, so slowly and gently. Both of them opening to each other like pages of a book, a story just beginning with each new breath between them.

Azriel stilled when Elain lifted her legs to wrap around his waist, where she could feel his need hard against her stomach.

She pulled back, meeting his dark stare, his pupils blown wide with need as he struggled to remain still, to not move a single muscle as he felt the evident slick of her want against his abdomen.

“Please.”

Elain’s voice broke as she pleaded to him, her words failing her as she searched for a way to tell him how she felt, how she had felt her old self die on that battlefield and how she was a new person now, having shed the weight of Graysen and her old responsibilities on the sandy shore with the rest of her clothes and a bloody dagger. Could not figure how to tell him that this new person wearing her skin, wanted, no, needed to feel him inside of her. Had finally woken to realize what had grown quietly in a sunlit garden had blossomed on a bloody battlefield and left a piece of hope in her too new, too fragile to ignore.

A bit of warmth flooded the darkness of his eyes, and the male who had sat beside her in that garden reemerged. The grip he held on her thighs tightened, and Azriel took a shuddering breath as he slowly lifted her until she could feel him at his entrance.

Elain felt a tear of desperation slip down her cheeks, fearful that even once they were joined he would not be close enough. But even more fearful that once he was inside of her, she would succumb. She would never be able to consider a future with her mate, after having tasted Azriel, having welcomed him into her body and feeling whole for the first time in her life.

Azriel kissed the falling tear away, and Elain only held onto his shoulders tighter, begging him with her body to continue.

“Hold on tight,” he murmured in her ear, his voice barely as tangible as a shadow.

As he pushed into her, she buried her face in the warmth of his neck, biting gently along his pulse at the stretch of him, the pleasant way that he filled her almost unreasonably so, until she could feel the fissures rendered by the past few months begin to close, to heal at his presence as he filled her.

He let out a strained breath of air as all of him filled all of her, and he was buried to the hilt in her warmth underneath the water. It rushed by them, the strength of the current wiping away any reminder of the day’s stains on their skin, so that they found each other brand new as he began to move in her.

As he whispered her name into the night air, the water’s breeze carried it away on a wind, and he prayed that it was taken to the Mother herself.

He moved her easily as he pumped slowly inside of her, both of them feeling the need to delay their joining, in case it was the only time. But Elain could not resist for long, could not resist the urge to rock her hips harder and harder, her clit catching on his pelvis as she clung to him, fingernails digging into his damp shoulder blades.

Azriel was quiet even in their coupling, brow furrowed with concentration as he pulled her closer and closer, burying himself deeper and deeper, as if they could well and truly become one body, one soul.

When his slow thrusts became faster, and more desperate, Elain knew he was close. Could feel herself building to that precipice that she had only found alone before, and she cried out as she dug her nails deeper into his skin, so hard that they would leave small bruises for days after.

Azriel’s wings flared of their own volition. Out, and then curled around himself and Elain as they came to that edge. Surrounding her so entirely that she could not feel any of that cold midnight air on her skin, could feel only him - his skin, his wings, his breath, him filling her again and again.

She relished in it, wanted to disappear into it and never emerge.

With one more thrust, and a scarred hand reaching between them with a careful brush of his thumb, Elain was falling. A bright light flooded the dark, and that hand squeezing her heart finally let go.

She reached out for him out of instinct, desperate for him in every way. She grabbed onto the edge of his wing and squeezed, satisfied as she felt his warmth fill her and his body curled around her entirely, gripping her so tightly to his chest that it was if he was holding a piece of his heart in his hands. He buried his face into her neck as he roared, his body dissolving into tremors as she stroked a reassuring hand through his hair, even as she came down from the same high herself.

As they caught their breath, Azriel letting his wings slowly unfurl, he began carrying them toward the shore. The night silent once more, the earth around them unchanged even as they had been forever more.

His shadows deposited a thick blanket at their feet, as Azriel sank to the ground, still cradling Elain to his chest. Exhaustion overtook her, as she turned her face toward him and let her limbs go numb.

She barely noticed Azriel wrapping the blanket around them as they sat at the water’s edge, him still holding her bare body to his own as their heartbeats evened, and then slowed.

It was warm, and dark, and she was safe in his arms. She began to fall asleep, slowly, and then all at once.

A short while later, when the moon had risen higher in the sky above them, Elain felt a comforting hand stroking her hand.

“Elain,” Azriel murmured. “We should get back, before they notice you’re gone.”

She didn’t particularly care if anyone found them like this. Only wanted to sleep the rest of the night in his arms, away from the world and the fallout and the devastation.

But they were alive. Alive, alive, alive.

It must be for a greater purpose, that they had both lived. Lived to see another sunrise, lived to see their family, drink another cup of tea in the garden.

“Okay,” she murmured, blinking the sleep away from her eyes as she looked up at him. She brushed a piece of hair from his face. “Let’s go.”

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel #acotar fanfiction #elriel fic #seer elain

[incorrectcapsicle]

incorrectcapsicle recommendation list

hello guys, i know this is not my typical incorrect post but i've been wanting to do this. here are my all time favorite Chris Evans characters x Reader fics. this masterlist is full of my all time favorite ficd and writers and i hope you'll give this a chance and praise these wonderful writers for their work. enjoy everyone! 💜

This AU is my forever all time favorite SR x Reader AU:

Baptized In Dirty Water by @itsanerdlife

chapter 1

please click this to view the rest of the chapter. don't forget to check the rest of her work.

Sweet Home Georgia Peach by @marvelcriminalhoe

masterlist

this series is one of my favorite fics. 11/10 would recommend. love this series so so much 💜

Desperate Affairs by @georgiapeach30513

masterlist

this fic not only intrigued the hell out of me but also gave me a emotional rollercoaster. there's so much going on but you'll get curious as you continue to read. 11/10 would recommend 👌

Gone, Baby by @wayward-blonde

masterlist

i never expect that i will need a dark chris evans character. like i didn't know i had this kink to a psycho son a bitch hottie. and god doing his very good work cos Llyod Hansen exist. amen to that and yes, 11/10 would recommend so read it! 🤣

(SHE MOVES WITH) SHAMELESS WONDER by @ussgallifrey

masterlist

one thing about me, is i LOVE long series. although this series still on chap 16, this series is on my reading list bc i love the story goes. and yes, definitely worth to recommend 👌

The Vampire Kings Religion by @marvelcriminalhoe

masterlist

vampire!steve is a yes for me! i haven't read it yet but the plot is good so would definitely recommend 👌

Stumblin' In by @swan-of-sunrise

book 1 (completed)

book 2 (completed)

book 3 (completed)

book 4 (completed)

book 5 (completed)

i still haven't read this but soon when i'm not busy. but i still added it here cos y'know, it's a long series with a good plot so yes, give it a try and check out the writer's other work 👌

The Demigod From Asgard by @secretswiftymarvelfan

masterlist (wip)

this still on going but this is one of my favorite fic. the storyline is so good that i'm re-reading it again soon coz i just can't get enough. and as always, definitely would recommend it yo you guys, so give it a try. kudos to the writer!

His New Partner by @star-spangled-steve

masterlist (wip)

another one with on going series and yes, i added it here coz i'm so obsessed with long series. like who doesn't right? i'll probably start reading this soon and yes, please give it a shot and give some love to the author 🫶

Welcome To The Pack by @sweater-daddiesdumbdork

masterlist (completed)

okay okay omg omg i finally found a wholeass series of alpha!steve! and yes ofc it went straight here coz why not?! omg i can't wait to read this akdhsajajd 🫣😍🥰🫶

Attack Of The Winter Wolf by @sweater-daddiesdumbdork

masterlist (completed)

thank heavens for having authors writing this wonderful stories. alpha!steve will always be the death of me, especially to be called 'Little One' by him 🫣😍 can't wait to read this too! and for forget to check it too~

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers #chris evans x reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans imagine #chris evans character x reader #chris evans characters #ari levinson #llyod hansen #curtis everett #frank adler #andy barber #johnny storm #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x reader #llyod hansen x reader #curtis everett x reader #frank adler x reader #frank adler x y/n #frank adler x you #andy barber x y/n #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x y/n #johnny storm x you #chris evans masterlist #steve rogers masterlist

[limpfisted]

thinking about how wyll is inspired by saving the tiefling boy from the harpies—but is so easily lured to their song. thinking about the son that his father took fishing that was so, so very bad at it—and the daughter who dived headfirst and fully clothed into the water when he thought he could get a glimpse of a mermaid

baptized by his father’s demons, the fiend and siren with seamist skin whispered praise and promises in his ear. she said dirty things, mean things, nice things, pretty things, like all the pretty women in rivington say pretty, dirty things to shameful men who do not listen. hellstouched, the power of the hellstorm and the pact of soul and blade and monster blood, dripping, warm, then cold, always wet.

he cannot stop imagining happily ever afters, and princesses. he cannot stop imagining fighting dragons, and the devils who prey, when he would rather be hunter. the hellstorm is his, and his power is his to wield and hurt. though never as he truly chooses.

it hurts, the fire hurts, the horns hurt, his eye hurts, his body hurts, his chest hurts, his soul. hurts.

how can he be so full drinking only water from the sea of fallen stars?

how hard did the stars fall? when they touched the surface—did it burn, did it crackle, did the surface eldritch blast and did whatever stars are made of smash open when it crashed to the bottom of the ocean floor?

some ships are too big to fail, too buoyant, giddy, full of hard work and dreams to drown their sailors.

oh, but even they can burn, and you’ll be surprised how hard god and lightning strikes you down.

#grooming tw #hc #ooc

[milo-is-rambling]

You tried to baptize me in your love, shoving my head under water and holding me until the bubbles stop. You think this will fix me. Will make me believe in something larger than me. And it’s working. The saddest part is that it’s working. You promise everlasting love and eternal forgiveness. You have nothing to prove this and yet I want to believe.

“This is him. God is doing this to you.” You hold me by my hair and dunk me back in the river. I kick and scream and flail until you pull me back. You wait for a response and before I can catch my breath you’re shoving me back under. My vision is hazy and I can feel my pulse ripping through my body. When I’m returned to the surface you force me to look to the sky. I am coughing up my dirty stained soul at your feet and you are telling me that I am strong. I don’t feel strong. I feel the gravel digging into my knees as you hold me to the ground. My palms prick red as you step on my hands. You squash me under your foot as if I am some small creature you could kill with one step.

I am a child with a dying baby bird in my hands. He landed in the pool with a broken wing and wanted to be saved. I find you with a pleading heart and the only response I get is disgust. “We can keep him in a box in the garage overnight and God will decide what to do.” I think back knowing what I know now. I think love could’ve saved him that night. Maybe love could have saved me back then too. Maybe love could still save me. I hear the birds on the beach under the words you speak. They are talking directly to me. They are laughing.

“He is doing this. Because you won’t repent. Because you are broken. He is doing this because of you.” He’s the one doing this but I feel your fingernails digging into my scalp. You hold the knife to my throat and avert your eyes. “He is doing this to you”

You told me that you buried that bird in our backyard. Days pass and I find him thrown haphazardly into the woods behind our house. I do not know gods plan, but I do wonder if I was meant to see that bird. I wonder if I hadn’t seen it that maybe I wouldn’t be the person I am now. I came inside with dirt under my fingernails that night. Digging a grave that young can change the way you think about anything, everything. My mother told me the bird was buried in the backyard and I made sure she never told a lie.

We have been through this a million times. The pain. The heartbreak. The revenge. The fear. You are splitting my throat as I sob out “I forgive you! I forgive you! I forgive you!” I am losing my blood and the rest of my vision. Everything sounds far away as holy water clogs my senses. You are holding me to the ground with your heel against my skull. I’m begging the pressure to finally snap. Push yourself fully into my mind, only then will I be set free.

I am thinking of love. Of forgiveness. Of the only safety being a cage. I am thinking about the day I came home from Sunday school with a doubt itching at the back of my mind and I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you would get mad at me if I didn’t believe you. Fear has been in my small fragile heart since I was very young.

I fear I’ve gone numb. Vision black, lungs screaming for air, covered in blood and holy water. I smell the burning flesh before I feel the singe. I am gasping and choking on my own blood. You are marking me as a child of god. Is holy blood worth a broken soul?

You stand beside me and ask so gently, “who did this to you?” I can feel your eyes on me, feigning sympathy. “He did this to me.” I am struggling to catch my breath as you use your foot to roll me onto my back. Gravel and sand entering the gaping cross on my spine. “I can’t hear you. Who did this to you?”

“You did this to me.”

There is a swift kick and I lay dead on the shore.

At least I died holy.

#poetry #words #religious imagery

[antihibikase-archive]

Blur / Blight : Character Songs

I can't find and edit the character songs post I made awhile back, so here's a new, updated one! Mainly because I want them to be more accurate + also fit with their past lives' themes and arcs!

I'll add N and Colress once I think of ones for them!

Hilbert - Shojo Rei

If we were able to love each other In that transparent world It repeats again; A flashback, the buzzing cicadas And you, who will never come back Our matching keychains Are being torn apart for all eternity The girl with that pale white skin That the summer got rid of I find myself wanting to be possessed by her so much it makes me sad

Cheren - Lower One's Eyes

Peace can dirty like water into wine Baptized and brought to light I'll make them see you're a witch in disguise Innocence has died Wilted by your lies Let's break you from this cage But you never came to set me free

Bianca - RGB

Don’t know where we lost connection within our stories Once again we return to what lies there beyond The things we talk about We wanna speak about The pages will someday fill and then you’ll see So now let’s keep on adding to the story Even the setting red sun will lift up at once And the blue days of youth we have spent together Our memories won’t forget They won’t fade away And like the way the greens will always sprout We can meet again sometime

Hilda - That's Why I Gave Up On Music

I’m suddenly taken back to that time Growing old was the only thing on my mind Knowing that someday I would die was like a stab in the chest, though I never understood why “Hey do you know what you’ll be doing one day?” Passing by the years I knew what I would do one day I’d be doing nothing at all

Nate - The Blessing

It's your life, your story, your way And it's not owned by anybody And it has no answer that is right Up to you to walk the route you point at Now the spell is broken And as we're now about to part with that fiction, defined It's time to fly out to take off right now

Hugh - Outsider

With this body, I take a weight of rocks What's something that only you can do? Don’t stay here I don't need your comfort So that it doesn’t end up becoming a barren wasteland I hid that name and appeared here After searching for, forcing out, and sneering at those who act as they please, I cry

Rosa - Rats Died

Here we reside, the right timeline, The context and content best of their kind Shunning the illness for the outbreak it caused, I stained my hands stealing the doleful folks’ trust That lying prophet was the way that we grew Chewing up junk food just to cover the truth And yes, the voices sure God was dead, They left one day, have paid no visits since then

#Pokemon #Pokemon Black and White #Pokemon Black and White 2 #BW/BW2 Rewrite - Blur / Blight

[sheisadykewomon]

Trans ideology is so effective at spreading because it utilizes familiar and widespread imagery which is biblical in nature. so that the story of a person transcending their body is taken almost automatically as proof of the validity of those myths & is not questioned because of the ubiquity of its themes. The myth justifies the actions justify the myth. Transcendence is the name of the game.

Males most often make themselves in the image of a messiah because it is what’s available in the xtian narrative. Females most often make themselves in the image of a martyr, because that’s what’s available. Public self-flagellation is a part of the sanctification ritual for both - denouncing the body and an emphasis on suffering as holy - self-inflicted scars (for example from elective mastectomy) are worn as stigmata. “I wouldn’t do something like this unless something was seriously wrong with me,” the making visible of internal suffering by harming the outside of the body, implies that the person transcending was guilty of previously being sinful but now is above sin, is cleansed, having admitted the body was dirty and stained (by femaleness), now purified by “transition”.

“Trans joy” carries implications of some sort of ineffable rapturous ecstasy received by adherents who have been baptized in the waters of body hatred, self-loathing — as if the act of transing will lead the adherent closer to union with God. But if under this ideology, the body is not sacred, what is? Pain. Suffering. Humiliation. Submission to authority (placing faith in male institutions, such as medical doctors and psychologists, that they “know what’s right” “my doctor told me” “I was diagnosed with …”). There is not only a a lack of connection with one’s own perspective, but a disowning of one’s individual perspective. The body is cut into and reshaped, forcefully reformed in another’s image. The body is experimented on. The individual is violently subsumed into the larger movement to transcend the body, the physical, the immediate, and disappears.

The antidote to these damaging myths requires nothing less than a personal and public redefinition of the sacred and holy; a conversation, that is, about what ought to be respected and valued, and how it ought to be honored. We must especially question the authority of the male “god” himself, and look closer at the myths and stories which justify and permit male rule and power absolute. We must pay closer attention to the stories and symbols which men use to manipulate and justify these “power over” dynamics.

#detrans

[leafatlaw]

rolan falls in the water alot, he dives in, hes grabbed, hes pulled in soo often. its like a sort of reverse baptism everytime. he is first baptized at his birth he is born in the water in the dirty swamp, to live on earth. Then he jumps back in, to find out  the truth of what he is. And he excepts and recognizes who or what he is. Finally he saves Rand by getting dragged underwater, pulled by a monster. He sees himself but he lives. Rolan as born in the water and lives by it.

#so normal #the line #this is where you were born #fucking haunts me #theres a religous metaphor here and ill be damned if i dont bring it up #it’s crazy #thinking about Rolan being scared of the water #but always being forced to enter into to he #p people

[luciaiscool7]

3% Response- Metaphoric Limbo

In Hopeful Dystopias? Figures of Hope in the Brazilian Science Fiction Series 3%, Godhe speaks to the idea of the Offshore as death, which I think is a really interesting way to watch the show. Especially with the religious undertones of 3%, I was thinking of the Offshore/Inland dichotomy as Heaven/Hell, but the life/death thing matches up really well with the scene where Ezequiel dumps his head in the water, which he later explains as a reminder that his work is life or death. If the Inland is life, and the Offshore is death, then the Process building is a weird liminal limbo space in between, which is comparable to being under water in between life and death. There's also the dichotomy of dirty as associated with the Inland (one of the interviewers asking when was the last time you washed your hair), and clean with the Offshore. As Ezequiel gets his pristine utopian clothes wet and messy through the process of baptizing himself with water, he also blurs that line as well.

@theuncannyprofessoro

#oxyspeculativetv

[naturalswimmingspirit]

activationvibration

We had just about 100 women fully naked bathing and baptizing themselves in the waters of a state that just tried to claim power of women’s choice over their own bodies. Of course. As divinely aligned.. we were called and guided to anchor in a grid of light, love and liberation— upon these specific lands. @sacredsisterscircle Some of these women have never even shown their bodies to their partners whom they are intimate with, and only change in the dark. Some refuse to look in the mirror. Some have felt their bodies were a sin, dirty, unworthy of loving, and meant to be kept hidden as if their sacred temple of life force creation and divine expression— is something to be ashamed of. All of the old stories were dissolved and rewritten for each woman within this moment. Together we set ourselves free and baptized ourselves with our own waters, and that of the land, held in love and celebration by our sisters. Seen fully. Loved thoroughly. We shed the layers of clothing and entrapment we have chosen and accepted to wear; any past versions and aspects of ourselves ready to be purified— we cleansed. And if you find that you are at all offended or triggered by this comfortability and freedom through nudity— I’d gently ask you to consider your perception towards a naked human body. Perhaps you are perceiving from the distortion that bodies in their natural state are only meant to be utilized for intimacy through some form of penetration, and are only objects to demonstrate sexual acts. When in fact bodies are sacred temples, masterpieces of art in which house our souls and emanate the spirit that resides within us all. They are a gift and a luxury and should be honored and celebrated for their multi-dimensionality and epic form of manifestation. This here: was an act of sacred sisterhood. All of us, able to see and experience each other fully raw— to be loved unconditionally and without judgement or illusory separation. Dismantling the false entrapment and enslavement of our bodies; physically, lawfully, and energetically— for lifetimes. This portal lives legend within us all eternally. Whatever your role, thank you for being a part of this Light mission. LOVE

[themousefromfantasyland]

The Creatures of Yuletide: Kallikantzaroi, the Christmas Gremlins

It never ceases to amaze me how much ancient people feared winter. Nowadays considered a time of cheer and joy, the Twelve Days of Christmas, from December 24th to January 6th the start of Winter, was often considered a time of darkness and death, when all sorts of evil and dangerous creatures could roam free. In Greece, these days are called “dodekaimero”, 12 days, a term used since Byzantine times to describe the “dirty days” before the Epiphany. From there comes the legend of the Kallikantzaroi, a race of evil goblins.

The Kallikantzaroi live underground for most of the year, with a single desire, to cut down the roots of the world tree that holds up Earth and kill all humanity. Legend says that when they are almost done sawing the tree, Christmas arrives, when the waters become “unbaptized” or “unclean”, allowing these creatures to go up to the surface where they will cause havoc to all poor souls in their way.

They come up to the world during this time because Christ has not yet been baptized and cannot protect humanity from evil yet.

On January 6, the Epiphany, which commemorates both the day the Magi visited Jesus, and the day that Jesus was later baptized, priests of the Greek Orthodox Church make their rounds to all homes with holy water, forcing them to run back to the nearest caves and tunnels, and reenter the underworld, where they find that the world tree healed itself and now they must restart their work all over again, with the circle starting again.

Similar to St. Nicholas, they are nocturnal creatures and can sneak into homes through chimneys. When they enter homes, the Kallikantzaroi are said to steal food, hide tools and personal items, ruin furniture, and cause other disasters. Sometimes they are described as just chaotic pranksters and other times as dangerous and harmful minions of the Devil. They are also said to be afraid of Holy Water, religious symbols, and fire.

There are several ways of keeping these creatures away, like hanging a pig jaw under the chimney, burning an old shoe, or making the mark of the cross on the door to prevent the Kallikantzaroi from becoming unwelcome visitors.

Additionally, leaving the fireplace burning and throwing some salt on it can create a crackling noise that can frighten them.

Placing a colander on the doorstep of your house also helps, as Kallikantzaroi cannot count above two since three is a holy number, symbolizing the Holy Trinity. Just pronouncing it would kill them, so they have no choice but to be stuck recounting the holes from one to two until they get bored enough to leave the residents alone or the sun rises.

The way they are depicted diverges from region to region, and is commonly seen as a mixture of different animals, often enormous, larger than humans, other times smaller, but always very hairy and with a terrible odor. The most common depiction is of a very small, hairy black demon with red eyes.

There are many theories about the origins of this legend. My favorite is that they are a distant cultural memory of Christians that encountered pagan celebrations, with people who often dressed up as animals and looked for trouble and that’s why they only appear during a certain time of the year. Others link them with the legend of the satyrs and others to legends about spirits from the underworld. For me, they are probably another offspring of the “spirits of winter” thing, and just represent the fears and anxieties that ancient people have when dealing with winter

#The Creatures of Yuletide #christmas #holiday season #greek culture

[chounaifu]

Reaches out into his dreams to sink its great claws in. Is there much to sink into? Does this thing dream?

Let's find out.

▒▏❐▔ ▓▎❘▄ ▓▎❘▄❘❘░▁▂ ▔▂░▓▓██████

He is on his knees, by himself in the master bedroom of an old, dilapidated house in Viridian City. In front of him, the neon sign of a business across the street flashes on, and then off, on, and then off, bathing the musty, dull yellow room with reds and blues through the window.

He is on his knees, nauseous from the smell that permeates the air, thick and putrid-- a miasma produce not from rot, not from emulsification of flesh, not of leaked gasoline nor dirty water. Every inhale he makes is heavy, labored, and makes his stomach concave beneath his uniform; he dry heaves.

He is on his knees, a hand clasped over his mouth, because every time he removes it, an awful, ear-piercing humming comes from his throat, reverberating off of the walls and right into his heart. He swears that his tongue feels artificial and lined with static.

▓▎❘▄❘❘░▁▂ ▔▂░▓▓██████𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛

He is on his knees in front of a wheel chair, the cushion of the seat sunken, its occupant no longer there, though, the blackness of the cushion's indentations suggests that the chair's owner had sat in it for some time before vanishing.

He is on his knees, leaning forward until his forehead is flush with the tatami mat. And when he sits back up, blood is dripping from cuts on his face, though the glass that had dug into his features was long gone; the crimson drips down to baptize the glove clamping over his mouth, the lacerations vanishing seconds later.

He is on his knees, because if he were to so much as move from this submissive spot, the creature in the mirror behind him would crawl out and attack.

An old man of uncanny proportions, distorted limbs, grey eyes and glassy skin, teeth made of yellowed drywall, hair thin, there, in the mirror, face sunken, skin pulled tight. He is familiar yet not, hand pressed against the opposite side of the mirror, watching. He is a figure of painful childhood memories melded with the visage of a poor man turned nightmare, possessed by the abomination of distortion that had dragged Proton away.

Yᴏᴜ·ʀᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ɢʟᴀss ░▔monster▁ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛ ᴍᴇ. Lᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ. . . Pʟᴇᴀsᴇ. . .

He dry heaves, prepared to be sick, and he has no choice but to uncover his mouth, the horrific, metallic grinding and shrieking audible as Proton vomits over himself, nothing but frosted glass shards, ocean water, and dirty plummage.

And with an agonizing shout, he lifts his head, body stiff, eyes wide, face distorted as he makes eye contact with the eldritch anomaly peering into his head.

❝ 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗢𝗨𝗧! 𝙾𝚄𝚃! OU░▔▁▀▀▀▀▀ ❞

#dreameat #➤ 《 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐌𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 》 Answered #➤ 《 𝟗𝟎 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭; 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐨 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 》 In Character #tw emetophobia