#mercy what every catholic needs to know

[beloved-nyx]

𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐁 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑

The Lamb is devoid of sin, full of purity and devotion to the Divine. So why is the Lamb always the one to die at the end?

ft. Yan Priest/Cult Leader x GN! Reader

content. Suggestive themes, Religious Imagery, Reader has Religious Trauma, Reader is Called "My Lamb", Reader is In A Cult, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Blood, Reader Dies at the End, General Yandere Themes, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

notes. Ummm Yikes bro this was kinda fun to write ngl. Anyway this is still like my second time writing Yandere but I didn't really push on the romance, more like I focused on the horror aspect of this. Anyway uhhh I am NOT catholic so please forgive me pookies I wrote this using my limited knowledge that I learned from a catholic school I attended when I was like in middle school.

The Lamb is a symbol of childlike innocence, of purity and selfless sacrifice. 

You had heard these words whispered every time you stepped out of your small, cramped room as your savior smiled down at you and proclaimed those sacred words.

You were sacred, he told you. 

A gift to the world, he told you.

The only good thing in this cruel, wretched place, he told you. 

You clung onto his words like they were Divine Word. You clung onto him like he was Divine Word.

You wanted to retch, to slap your naive, innocent self as you looked into the mirror.

You were dressed like royalty, white silk covering your body and jewels of ruby draped around your neck like a noose. Gold bracelets decorated your arms, and you wonder if this is what listening to Divine Words–no, what listening to the words of a mad man brings you too. 

“You look divine, my little lamb. Fit for the gods.” 

You shake out of your stupor, eyes widening as your gaze meets black, lifeless eyes. Black eyes the color of nothingness. Black eyes the color of a starless sky. 

You wonder if the Devil’s eyes are as black as his. 

His steps are light, graceful and elegant as he makes his way towards you. His white hair-a stark contrast to his dark eyes, is braided, hanging loosely on his shoulder. His lips are curled, and he’s probably happy. No–of course he’s happy, he never looked as happy as he is today. 

Cold fingers curl around your neck, and you can feel his lips next to your ear as he whispers, “White looks good on you, my lamb.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Your fingers curl, halfmoon marks etched into your palm from digging your nails into the soft flesh. You want to claw his hand off your neck. 

He doesn’t deign to give you a response, and you can feel his hands roaming downwards towards your chest, your stomach, lower and lower and you squeeze your eyes shut.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The Ram is a symbol of sacrifice as well. But the Ram is not as sweet as a sheep. They do not represent innocence but violence. They represent not of sweet submission but of cruel rebellion.

You tried escaping once, when you realized that you were nothing but fodder for the Divine. 

It was meaningless, sure. They were going to find you, take you away and strip the measly rights of freedom they had given you before.

But that didn’t matter when freedom was so close to becoming yours. 

You had planned for your escape for days. As your captor smiled down at you with his lifeless eyes, proclaiming your sanctity, you drew up drafts of escape plans and dreamt of seeing the stars. 

You were so, so naive. 

“How careless of you, my lamb. Don’t you know what may have befallen you outside of this sacred ground?”

You glare up at him. “Nothing worse than being locked up here like an animal!” His eyes darken at those words, but he chooses silence as his weapon. Fine, you think bitterly. I don’t need his words anyway.

That night, your dreams of freedom crumbled like chalk. 

He had taken you away to a more separate wing of the place he called a “church”, and had looked at you in a way a mother would look disapprovingly at a child. 

“Atone, and maybe the Gods will cast their mercy onto you, my lamb.” 

Fuck the Gods. If you ever came out of this place alive, you would make them beg for your mercy. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

They say that sacrifice is a symbolism for what life has to offer. About the sacredness of life. Of the sanctity of the divine. Of how little we all are compared to the world around us.

They had to drag you towards the altar as you kicked and screamed and shouted profanities. 

You didn’t want this. You never wanted this. But it didn’t matter, did it? All that mattered was the word of the Divine, and your captor who looked down at you with a sort of giddy look in his eyes that made you wish you had sunk a dagger into your neck instead of giving him the sweet satisfaction of…this. 

As you reached towards the altar, your captors hand reached to cup your chin, and you thrashed in his grip. 

“Open your mouth.” 

He didn’t even give you a moment for you to refuse before he pried your mouth open and made you choke on wine that looked too much for blood to your liking and stained your white clothing red in the process. 

You didn’t want this. You never wanted this. 

But when did your choice ever matter?

You think they drugged you. They probably did. As they lift you up to the altar, they’re cloaked silhouettes hiding their faces and humanity, you look up to your captor with pleading eyes. 

His lifeless eyes meet yours. 

And he grins like the Devil. 

“You were always too pure for this world anyway, my lamb.” His voice is like silk, lulling you to sleep as his eyes never blink, never look away from yours. 

“At least now you will be protected from the sin of this world. At least now, in the afterlife, you will be mine forever.” 

You wonder if God deserted you just like you deserted him. 

You wonder if God was ever there for you in the first place. 

The tip of a blade pierces flesh, and you think dully if you're now actually free. If you can now look at the stars finally. 

“You will never be free from me.”

#yandere male #yandere oc #yandere priest #yandere cult #yandere male x reader #yandere male x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x y/n #yandere oc x you #yandere male x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere priest x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabble #❛❛𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒.𝐎𝐅.𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋.𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄—ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹❞ #um ehe

[pettyprocrastination]

The Deathly Devout

Pairing: Executioner!König x Nun!Reader (Medieval au) 

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Religious themes and settings, talk of death, religious guilt, nothing much this is pretty tame. I have very little knowledge of how catholic confessionals actually go especially in a medieval setting forgive me. probably many spelling errors im sorry. 

Author’s Note: was talking to @thesadvampire about @hffhifjou fucking amazing art of the 141 as knights and now we have Executioner!König. This is mostly just a word burst from this morning but I really like this concept and wanted to share with you all 

Tagging some mutuals I think might enjoy this: @sprout-fics @humanransome-note @moondirti @fnny-bnny @yeehaw-djarin @captainsamwlsn

_______________--

     It was quite amusing to see the executioner in the confessional booth. 

     That isn’t to say that he doesn’t visit often, no. If anything it’s the exact opposite, Father Montomgery sees him more than any pious banker or self-hating gambler in the city. But the man was monstrous, broad in his shoulders with thick arms and legs to match, resulting in him having to twist and fold his body to properly fit into the little wooden booth. He could see the silhouette of the poor man’s shoulders hunched in and head tucked low. 

     It almost made up for how absolutely aggravating he was to listen to. 

     “Forgive me father for I have sinned.” 

     “May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you know your sins and trust in his mercy.” 

     König swallows. 

     “I killed a man this week.” 

     The priest, knowing this voice better than others and the hulking silhouette it belongs to, sighs. 

     “The thief, then?” He asks, voice dripping with indifference. “The little painter who was caught stealing?” 

     “Yes father.” 

     The “little thief” has been a blossoming apprentice under a most respected artist within the city, only for the truth to come out that he had been stealing funds from his mentor for months on end.  The king had suggested König simply cut off the painter’s hands and let him live out the rest of his days in poverty. “What better punishment for an artist than a life where he cannot create?” 

     But the end ruling was for the artist to lose his head in the town-square and König’s hands delivered the blade to his neck. 

     “That was simply an act of your work, my child.” 

     “But-” 

     There is a deep sigh from the opposite side of the booth and König falls silent, like a scolded child. 

     The irony isn't lost on the priest, that a man who must associate himself with the macabre so often is incredibly devout in his worship. But the humor was drowned out by how astonishingly self-loathing the poor bastard was. 

     “My child, do you believe our king is the one true king?”

     “Of course father.” 

     “And do you believe our God is the one, true, God?” 

     There’s a garbled noise that comes from the larger man, an incredulous sputtering at how the priest would ever assume he would say otherwise. 

     It makes the man chuckle. 

     “Of course father!” 

     “Then acting out the King’s law is acting out God’s law, is it not?” 

     There’s a pause, the priest can see the man shrink down into his seat even further, if that was even possible with how he contorted the bulk of his body to squeeze into the wooden booth. 

     “I’m not saying you cannot feel-” He waves his hand in the air, despite the fact that König cannot truly see him. “-conflicted, about your career. It’s not one that comes easily, I’m sure. But it is not one that makes you a monster, despite how many people would try to have you believe that.” 

     “Yes father.” 

     The man’s voice is a shred of what it should be- all but a trembling whisper that makes even the exhausted priest frown. 

     “Being an executioner isn’t an easy job. But it’s one that is needed nonetheless.” 

     König says something softly to himself, but the priest cannot be bothered to ask what. 

     “For your sins I-” 

     “Actually, father-” the wooden step creaked under his weight as he shifted on his knees. “There’s something else.” 

     “Oh?” 

     “I’ve been having impure thoughts about a woman.” 

     “Oh.” 

     The priest blinks. He had never heard the man speak of any sin aside from the violence he acted out on the King’s word. Truth be told he had begun to think the lad was so devout such a concept was all but foreign to him. 

     But this?

     “I’m listening, my child.” 

     This was far more interesting than listening to him bemoan about a town square beheading. 

     “She is-” König chews on the inside of his cheek, chipped teeth digging into the formed scars he has had since childhood from the nervous habit. “Promised to somebody else.” 

     The priest hides a snicker behind a well placed cough. 

     “Married?”

     “In a manner of speaking, yes.” 

      “I haven’t…acted upon them.” The man who has killed week after week fiddles with his hands, face turning bright red as simply speaking of his attraction toward the woman. The priest couldn't help but wonder who she was. Whether it be a kind tavern girl who ignored his gaze each day he walked by or a local prostitute that urged on his affection as long as he could afford her time. 

     It’s no secret that few women would concern themselves with the local executioner, if not even look him in the eyes. 

     “She’s a good woman of proper virtue, I would not sully her name in such a way.” 

     This poor bastard. 

     “Is she beautiful?” 

     “I’m sorry?” 

     “The woman you speak of, do you find her attractive?” 

     König swallows. “Yes, incredibly. Her smile rivals that of the sun and-” 

     “That’s more than enough.” The priest grins into his hand as the airy tone the executioner’s voice took on, like a poet reciting his latest venture. The man was properly lovesick, how charming. “I do not believe you have committed any sin in appreciating a woman’s beauty.” 

     “I haven’t?” 

     “Admiring a woman’s beauty is like admiring a piece of art, is it not?” The priest offers. “You are simply taking in the art that God has created with his own hands, my child.” 

     Before König has a chance to respond, through the lattice he sees a flash of white through the corner of his eye. A soft voice humming a tune fills the air, echoing through the church hall like a well-respected hymn. In a panic, König begins to stand his full height before he is halted in his tracks as the top of his head slams into the confessional roof. 

     “My son?” 

     “Ah, apologies father! But I have to leave because of-” 

     The priest nods. “Yes, yes of course.You are absolved of your sins, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.” 

     The final word is drowned out by the slam of the confessional door opening the man’s thundering footsteps receding from the booth. 

     The executioner stands to his full height as he exits the church. He shields his eyes as he steps outside, suddenly overwhelmed by the burst of sunlight. 

     In his haste, he did not see the figure at his side. 

     “Good morning to you, König.”

     The man jumps, twisting around to face you where you stand at the bottom church steps, broom in hand and a smile on your face. 

     “Ah! Yes! Good morning to you as well, sister.” 

     “A lovely day, is it not?” 

     Heat creeps up the back of his neck and he struggles to find the words he wished to speak to you. But you, ever patient and kind, wait without judgment. 

     “Yes, quite lovely.” 

     As König stares down at you, his heart beating as he watches the sun shine on your figure and your smile, he finds himself thinking of the Holy Father’s words.

     “You are simply taking in the art that God has created with his own hands”

     What beautiful art indeed. 

#executioner!König #könig x reader #König x you #König x female reader #the priest is like. super chill because König comes in EVERY WEEK and hes like YES i KNOW YOU KILLED SOMEBODY WHATEVER MAN #but also said priest is most likely corrupt and gambles and takes bribes and shit. so he doesnt really give a fuck #but anyways. konig big soft for nun gal #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x female reader

[clownfishbites]

Ok it’s time for the St Augustine Joker meta. Sorry if it got a bit long I just have a lot of thoughts.

I find it so interesting that he would bring up St Augustine in that moment. I wasn’t a huge fan of the run in general but I thought it had its merits and this bit was one of them because I’m a sucker for batjokes that is also religious fanaticism.

For St Augustine, ‘grace’ in this sense is not something that needs to be found or earned, the Catholic doctrine states that it is given freely, a gift from God to mankind.

Batman gives Joker grace when nobody in the entire world will, I mentioned it a bit in my last meta but think Batman: Cacophony, Batman: It's Joker time, Batman: Devil's Advocate and literally every time he doesn't kill him, or protects him from harm when nobody else would. He is giving him grace that does not have to be earned, it's a benevolent gift from the divine. Or at least that's how Joker is seeing it, a rationalisation for why Batman spares him when nobody else would.

St Augustine tells God that "it is only by Your grace and mercy that You have melted away the ice of my evil". St Augustine needs God in the same way Joker needs Batman, to act in opposition to his 'evil', to be worshipped with the intention of being the gravity that keeps him on Earth, or in his own words, the compass pointing true north.

I'm not going to get too carried away but I think it's a pretty interesting comparison that's existing here between St Augustine and God, and Joker and Batman.

"head towards God and remember, everything else is chaos"

If Batman is the entity that is salvation, the thing to be drawn to- he isn't just the opposite force, but the only other thing in existence, because Joker defines himself as chaos. There is Divinity and Chaos and that is all. It's a nice lens on Joker's perspective that every other living thing is a prop in his pursuit of Batman's love and attention.

Religion is a choice, but how could Joker pick any other divinity, when he freely acknowledges that Batman is his creator. One of St Augustine's concepts surrounding human creation is that of original sin- that being that everybody is born with sin, born tainted ever since Adam and Eve were expelled from the garden of Eden.

But if everyone is born tainted, lives tainted and there is no real assurance of redemption, what actually is the point in trying to be good, to be a virtuous person, if someone like the Joker can just come into the church and take your life. Or from the pov of the Joker what is the point in any of it if we are born ruined.

We return to the idea that Joker sees himself as beyond salvation in the traditional sense, he's in a sunk cost fallacy but with being evil. But just to push this to it's limit, his very existence shakes faith in a creator that is all good,

Where is the grace of God in a world that allowed him to exist?

In the absence of divine light and a creator that loves him, he desperately seeks the opposite, divine darkness and a creator that hates him. But Joker loves him no less for it because Batman is all that exists in his world.

"head towards love and everything else is chaos"

Here he's changed the words of St Augustine, altering it from following God to following love, and he says this while heading towards Batman which is...basically the entire point of this, Batman is his love, Batman is his divinity.

But even Batman has to devote himself to an idea bigger than himself, and he can only stand in opposition, his crusade would be over if he truly cleansed Gotham of all evil- OR, as Joker suggests in this comic, if he became happy. If he didn't have to exist in opposition, if the misery that fuelled his crusade was taken away

Joker can only stand in opposition too- we know this because we see how completely he crumbles apart when his opposition is removed.

Batman functionally exists as half of a whole, in his own way Joker's speech is confronting this reality, albeit in a much more roundabout way than he explains it to Selina.

And this is why neither of them can ever truly escape this cycle, their aspect of devotion would die the moment the other was removed from the equation, and with it divinity and chaos would cease to exist, and so would the world.

I love cosmic batjokes.

#batjokes #batjokes meta

[chellestrash]

Mercy for the Sinner

Paul Hill/John Pruitt x GN!Reader

Summary: Description of one of the many nights you spent at the little wooden house next to the town church.

Warnings: 18+, uh oh, smut, explicit in some places but pretty basic stuff, priest kink, hierophilia, catholic guilt, prayers, corruption 

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Alright sooo...I know this won't be everyone's cup of tea so if it’s not yours just...move on thank youuu. First Paul fic so might be shit but I couldn't let it just sit in my head I wouldn't be able to do anything, so yeah. Enjoy! Thank you @chelseasdagger​ for proofreading like alwaaays!

You let a loud moan slip past your lips as you feel yourself loosing balance. Grabbing the headboard behind Paul, you steady yourself on top of him. With your fingers gripping the wooden frame, you feel your body tightening around him.

His fingers press into your body as you rock slowly on top of him. His grip makes you feel wanted, makes you feel needed in that place, that moment, like he doesn't want you to leave. Maybe he will, later. Once this is over, once he’ll rethink what happened between you two again. Once the deep desire and longing present at this moment wears out. Maybe then he’ll ask you to leave, tell you that you should, you have to, you can't stay here, you… he, he can't risk people seeing you here. The house is too close to the church, too close to the main road, it's too close to… people.

So maybe then, but not now. Not right now, not at this moment when no matter what he keeps telling himself, with every single fiber of his body he could feel how much he needed and wanted this. Needed and wanted you.

Rolling your hips back on top of him, you feel your lips part.  Your head falls back and his hand traces up your back, almost to your neck. A gasp and another loud moan falls from you, and his fingers dig deeper into your skin as he pulls you in closer.

Paul watches you move on top of him, his head tilted back slightly, his eyes fixed on you. His mouth falls open as if he was to say something, but he decides against it. Fighting with his own thoughts, he turns away, glancing up at the ceiling the moment your eyes open and search for his gaze.

“It's okay, no one knows.”

Your words are quiet and gentle. Your hand now rests on his cheek as you turn his face to look at you again. You see his eyes dance around your face, lingering at your lips but never quite making it up to your eyes. You slowly lift your hips up on top of him, feeling his length slowly dragging out of you. You bite down on your lower lip, attempting to muffle the moan now stuck in your throat. Paul lets out a shaky breath, pushing his hips up slightly, chasing the feeling of your body around him, silently affirming you that he still wants this. His fingers dig into your hips as he pulls you back down on top of him, slowly helping you get back to the previous pace. The gentle hands of the priest reassuringly guide you to keep fucking yourself on his cock. Cupping his face in your hands, you catch the glimpse of his gaze, you catch the second his dark brown eyes fix on yours and for a moment, for a short second you’re his, you hope, you pray? You pray for the kiss, knowing it won't happen, you still wish for it.

The priest battles his own thoughts, fighting the urge to kiss you, the normal, human need for affection. The longing for closeness of another being, and the knowledge, the awareness of his sins. Wrapping his arms tightly around you, he suddenly pulls your body closer to his, nudging his face into your neck. It feels almost like an escape, from the choice from the decision, from your eyes. Your hips buck slightly against his body the moment you can feel his warm lips against your shoulder. Your arms wrap around his back, your hand pushing into the curls at the back of his neck.

Paul moves his hips underneath you, pushing harder inside you with every thrust, your bodies gradually beginning to move at the same pace, the same tempo. A whine slips past your lips when you feel his tip right under your stomach, the way he feels inside you, the way you can feel him so deep within you, makes your fingers wrap tightly around his pretty curls. With his every move, you tug at them a bit harder, each of his thrusts followed by a quiet grunt.

He curses himself in his mind for it all. Not for the act alone, but more so for the fact that if you were to stop right now, walk out and leave, promise him it wouldn't happen again, he'd beg you to stay. The worst part is that he's sure you know it. You can tell by the way he holds you close, the way his hands never leave your body, the way his cock reacts to the movements of your body.

“Almost there, almost there, Father.”

His body tenses up at the way you use the title so freely, like it doesn't mean anything, as if it simply doesn't matter. The warmth between his legs feels impossible to fight back now. His heart beats faster, his whole body tensing up as the feeling gets closer and closer.

“I-God,”

His eyes widen at his own words.

“It's okay.”

You reassure him quietly.

“It's okay, Father, it's okay.”

Biting into his lip, he fights another moan as his hips raise up one more time to push further inside you. You twitch, clenching around the priest when his legs shake slightly, his stomach tenses with eyes shut tightly. You talk him through the climax, like you always do. Praising the way it feels inside you, the way he attempts to hold it back for you.

The couple of drops of sweat shine in the warm lamp light, the few strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His fingers dig deep into your thighs as he helps you with the pace again moments after.  Paul did this every time, every time he accidentally finished first, never wanting to leave you unsatisfied or to feel like someone else could’ve done the job better.

You rest your head against Paul's body now and feel his hands on your back. It's bizarre how gentle and how innocent the closeness feels at that moment as you both attempt to calm your bodies down. The images of his body under you slowly fade as the overwhelming silence, so familiar to you now, fills the small bedroom once again. It's not a bad thing, it wasn’t the wrong decision, you tell yourself. You repeat it in your mind like you do each time you two meet, each time this happens. Your guilt doesn't stand in your way. The church, the faith, the people on the island, throughout your life you managed to get your own perspective on this, understand what's important to you, what values you believe in. But you know, you know and understand it's not the same for the man lying in the bed with you right now.

Despite the gentle touches, despite the way his arms wrap around you to hold you so close to him, you know he's somewhere else, somewhere far away now. Overthinking, overanalyzing… possibly regretting the choice he made to see you again today. Maybe, maybe that’s it, but this wasn’t your decision alone. It was a mutual agreement, just like it always was. You glance up slowly, shifting your gaze from the droplets of rain falling down the small bedroom window to the face of the priest.

Paul holds you in his arms, craving the feeling of another person so, so close to him. His body slows down now, his chest rising and falling less drastically, his thumb slowly brushing over your back. His mind is racing, of course it is, he's unable to stop. He feels the guilt growing in him with every second, every minute passing. He wonders, he asks himself how he let this happen again, how was this possible and why, of God, why did he need you so badly. He glances down when you enter his mind and your eyes meet for a brief moment before he turns away quickly. He shouldn't have done this, he shouldn't have broken like this, he shouldn't have let you break him like this again. The wave of regret washes over him when his heartbeat slows down again. Your body weighs heavy on top of him, skin to skin, and the realization of his choices, his weakness, slowly fill up every little part of his body. He should pray, ask for forgiveness, pray and tell you to leave, to fight the urges that lead you back to him and him back to you time after time.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Your quiet voice cuts through the silence filling the small house like a knife. There's a sharp pain in his chest when your words reach his ears and he swallows hard, closing his eyes.

“Don’t.”

You feel his fingers grip your arm tighter to a point where it hurts slightly, a pleasant sensation you choose not to point out at this time and spare him the details. Looking up slowly, you bite the inside of your cheek, carefully considering your options. Your eyes scan his face; his dark, now slightly curled hair is pushed back, only a couple stands still on his forehead. His deep, dark eyes running from your now oh so innocent gaze, the few droplets of sweat running down the side of his face. You rest your head against his chest again, his eyes back on you the moment you look away, and he knows you can tell he's watching you carefully. Your fingers draw small patterns on his ribs as you choose to continue the confession.

“My God.”

You whisper and he gasps almost silently.

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.”

You recite the prayer from memory.

“In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You, whom I should love above all things”.

You pause, glancing up and watching as he listens with his head resting against the bed. His eyes are shut tightly, his lips parted.

“I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no more.”

It's funny how easy the words come to you. How difficult it is to forget the prayers you've been through since childhood, how with the passing of time, for you, they've lost the meaning they used to carry. And the meaning they still have for him.

“... and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.”

Your hips move back on top of him again, and you feel his hand at your side. His touch follows with a quiet grunt he didn't quite manage to fight back.

“...my God…”

His cock twitches underneath you and he curses his own body in his mind, his shaky inhale interrupting your words. But he doesn't stop you.

“...have mercy.”

You finish the prayer and rest your chin on your arms crossed on top of his chest. With your face now turned to him, you watch his face, waiting for his reaction. The priest spends a moment in silence, his eyes closed. His thoughts slip from him, the images of you plaguing his mind. His Adam's apple bobs slightly as he slowly recalls his part of the prayer, the confession.

“God, the father of mercies.”

He starts, his voice barely a whisper, as if he worries that God himself might be listening. You shift on top of him and Paul swallows hard. His eyes now open but again, they never find your gaze, focused on something far behind you.

“God, the father of mercies…”

He repeats, and you kick your feet in the air slowly, waiting for him as he closes his eyes with a quiet sigh.

“...through the death and the resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins…”

He pauses for a second, your eyes never leaving his face, his hand resting on your back, thumb gently brushing over your skin.

“Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace.”

Another pause, and you watch him fight with himself, doubting his own words and the power and meaning behind them.

“And I absolve you… from your sins… in the name of the Father, and, and of… the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

You mumble quietly and give him a brief moment of peace before pushing your tongue against his chest. You lick a stripe right from his nipple up, up over his neck before kissing the side of his jaw. The priest swallows hard, inhaling sharply through his teeth before brushing his hand over your hair.

“Rest.”

He instructs, and for once, you listen.

“Am I forgiven, then?”

“Don't. Don't ask me that when you know the answer. God can not forgive us for our sins if we, his children, don't regret them. Regret, is the foundation of penance, of forgiveness. If you lack regret for your sins, for your choices, for this…if you lack that feeling within you, God can not help you.”

How could you regret it?

“Do you regret it, father?”

“Yes.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

“But I don't enough to be forgiven for this.”

There's not enough regret, instead there's longing, the need and the desire for more. The feelings have been present in the back of his mind ever since he got to feel you for the first time. There was regret, anger and guilt, but it was never, never enough to push him away from you. Always too much and never enough.

#paul hill #john pruitt #Paul hill x reader #john Pruitt x reader #midnight mass #midniight mass fic #hamish linklater #father paul hill #monsignor john pruitt #Paul hill fic #john Pruitts fic

[bullet-prooflove]

The First Time - Priest!Joe Velasco x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @storiesofsvu @xoxabs88xox @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @cycat4077 @deekaag @cixrosie @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @mydarkestsecretlol @the-adzukibean @wooshwastaken @imaginecrushes @kiwiithecrazybird @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @hey-dw @alwaysachorusgirl @telepathay @weiwei0210 @nessamc @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @irishavengersassemble

You’re beautiful inside and out and that’s part of the problem. You’re this wonderful soul wrapped up in the body of a temptress and it appeals to every single part of Father Jose Velasco. If it was one or the other, he thinks he would have been able to resist you but that combination? He had no chance.  

You have such a pretty mouth; he couldn’t tear himself away as he watched you deliver today’s reading during mass. His thumb chases over the shape of your lips as you sit before him on the visitor’s chair with your hands on your lap. There’s something about you he just can’t resist. There’s so much untapped potential inside of you, he can feel it simmering underneath the surface. It’s intoxicating being this close to you, knowing he has you at his mercy if you let him.

“You want this don’t you?” He says, his voice rough as he clasps your jaw. “Say yes and I’ve give you everything he doesn’t. I’ll fulfil everyone of those fantasies you’ve been having.”

You raise to your feet and for a moment he thinks he’s misread the situation, that you’re going to leave but then you fix him with that sinful look of yours. Your fingers raise to the buttons on the front of your dress, and you slowly begin to undo them. He watches the fabric part revealing your cleavage and his dick jumps to attention. You’re wearing a white cotton bra, the dark shape of your stiff nipples highlighted though the material.

“I want you to ruin me.” You tell him as you shrug out of your dress, it flutters to the floor around your feet. Your panties are damp already, he can see the wet patch on your white underwear.

It’s wrong, so fucking wrong but the temptation is too much. His lips brush over yours and he’s a goner. Raw heat surges through his veins and it’s like a dam breaks. The sensation, it’s overwhelming, it’s been over a decade since he last kissed someone, since he’s felt the passion and thrill of being with another person. He’s forgotten how good it feels.

You moan into his mouth, and it ignites something inside of him. His hands come to rest on your hips, fingertips ghosting over the elastic of your panties, before he tugs them off. He guides you towards his desk, your ass bumping against the edge, his fingers ghost over your slit, smearing them in your wetness. He groans at how soaked you are. You’re ready for him, desperate even and so is he. He can’t wait any longer. It’s been too long since he’s been with a woman, and he needs this now. He unzips his trousers, shoving them down his hips. His palms come to rest on your thighs, parting them even wider before he rubs the tip of his cock over your moist opening, coating himself with your slick.

It’s intoxicating, a heady rush of desire and want. He enters you slowly and it feels like absolute heaven. You hug every inch of his cock, taking him like the good Catholic girl that you are.

His hand threads through your hair, gripping it tightly in his fist as he guides your mouth back to his. He sets a brutal pace, deep forceful thrusts that have you keening into his mouth as his cock rakes over that sweet spot. His palms slip down to your ass, gripping it tightly as he fucks into you.

Your breath hitches, your fingers digging into his shoulders, grasping at the fabric of his shirt. You’re close, so fucking close that he can taste it. He knows what you need to get you there, you’ve told him every single one of your fantasies, the shit your fiancé won’t do. His palm slips down to your throat, fingers digging in as he exerts the slightest pressure. He sees the moment it happens, the instant you shatter and it’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.

You cry out his name as you come, your core clenching around his dick so hard that you drag him over the edge with you. His mouth covers yours, stifling your moans as he spills himself inside of you.

“Oh babygirl, you’ve got a bit of the devil in you haven’t you?” He whispers against your lips.

You tip your head back and laugh and it’s the prettiest fucking sound.

 He withdraws from you carefully, tucking himself back into his trousers. He opens the top drawer of his desk, his gaze flicking up to watch you as you collect your dress from the floor and begin to fasten the buttons.

He withdraws a pack of cigarettes, selecting one of them before placing it between his lips and lighting it. He takes a drag before leaning against the edge of his desk and offering it to you, your shoulder nudges against his as you take up residence alongside of him. You blow out a ring of smoke, watching it evaporate into the air before you ask.

“Am I the first person you’ve…”

“No.” He tells you retrieving the cigarette. “I joined the seminary ten years ago. My pathway to God has been a little chequered.”

 He pauses, inclining his head towards you.

“Is your fiancé the only man you’ve been with?”

“No.” You say quietly. “There were a few before him but…”

“Nobody’s been able to give you what you need.” He states with a knowing look.

“Until now.” You tell him, meeting his gaze.

He dips his head low, his lips brushing over yours as he murmurs.

“Same time next week?”

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#svu #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit #joe velasco #joe velasco x reader #joe velasco x you #priest!Joe #jose velasco #jose velasco x reader #jose velasco x you

[onbearfeet]

WIP Wedneday? WIP Wednesday.

Road trip with the cast of Monster Mash. Imagine these dinguses playing yellow car.

--

Jack Russell had never been a fan of long car rides.

He didn’t mind driving, particularly. Being a werewolf often meant living somewhere new every month, and until the advent of cheap intercontinental air travel, that had mostly meant picking a continent and moving around on it as best he could. And for the last century or so, moving around in North America had meant automobiles. He’d driven everything from Model Ts to Rolls Royces, and none of it had been particularly difficult or uncomfortable.

No, it was being a passenger that he couldn’t stand.

Perhaps it was something about werewolf reflexes; he reacted to things slightly faster than ordinary humans, even in his own human form, so if he wasn’t careful, riding shotgun in a car meant he was constantly tapping an imaginary brake or gas pedal half a second before the driver did. Or perhaps it was lingering trauma from all the times he’d been shot or netted, trussed up, and thrown into the back of something with a snarling engine. Whatever it was, he didn’t enjoy being in a moving vehicle that he didn’t control. He sometimes wondered how Ted felt about it; after all, there probably weren’t any vehicles built for someone his size.

But Elsa Bloodstone owned the van, and Elsa did not give up her keys without a good reason, so Jack had gotten used to swallowing his pride and climbing into the passenger seat—or worse, the back after Bucky Barnes won the coin toss.

There was one positive to Elsa’s driving, though. Somehow, through whatever perverse alchemy made her the most remarkable woman in the world (at least in Jack’s thoroughly biased and entirely correct opinion), he could sleep while she was at the wheel. Something about the cedar-and-sage scent of her at close quarters put his hackles down, smoothed his bristling paranoia, and let him drift off to the thrum of the engine and the whisper of her breath.

And so he was mostly asleep, slipping in and out of a pleasant dream about running through high mountain forests with nothing chasing him for once, when he heard Elsa’s voice.

“Barnes.”

“Your majesty,” Bucky drawled from behind Jack, where he was presumably still strapped into a jump seat in the cargo area.

Jack felt the smile tugging at his lips. He hoped Elsa couldn’t see it.

Elsa huffed, and Jack could hear the eyeroll in her voice. “In my infinite mercy, I’ve decided to do you a favor.”

“Golly, gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said flatly. “I’m saving you considerable embarrassment. Not counting your years with Hydra, how long would you say you’ve been, er—?”

“Myself? Conscious? Human?”

Jack couldn’t suppress the small flinch.

“Yes. That.”

“A few years, now. I guess you can count it from 2014, if you’re going from when I got out. But it took me a couple years to, y’know, have a personality again. Why?”

“Did you spend much time catching up on history?”

“I puked for two days straight after I googled JFK, so no.”

“Right, then. There are facts you’ll need to know if you don’t want to make a complete arse of yourself.”

“If this is about Marvin Gaye, I swear to Christ—”

“Your Wikipedia page,” Elsa interrupted, “says you were raised Irish American Catholic. Is that true?”

“Near ’nough.” A faint Irish lilt drifted through Bucky’s voice. “My dad was, anyway.”

“Then you probably heard a few sermons in your day about the evils of homosexuality.”

Bucky burst out laughing.

It was loud enough that Jack gave up even pretending to sleep, opened his eyes, and sat up from where he’d been slumped against the passenger window. He stretched as somewhere behind him, Ted rumbled a question that sounded like What the hell?

“Sorry, fellas,” Bucky chuckled. “Old man laughs at history lesson, you know how it is.” He snorted.

Jack stretched and used the motion as an excuse to look back at the cargo bay. Bucky was, indeed, still in his jump seat, wiping tears from his eyes and grinning.

“Priceless,” he muttered. “Just priceless. Elsa, is this gonna be one of those ‘some people are queer now and you gotta be okay with it’ talks?”

“If by ‘okay’ you mean ‘on your best manners or I’ll stab you’, then yes, that’s what this is.” Elsa took her eyes off the road just long enough to glare daggers at Bucky.

“Ha.” Bucky scrubbed at his face with his flesh hand. “Okay, let’s save you some time. Quick show of hands—who in this van has, at some point in their life, done queer shit?”

He pulled his hand away from his face and raised it above his head.

Jack grinned and put his own hand up.

Ted urfed and raised his.

Bucky looked at Elsa and raised his eyebrows.

Grudgingly, Elsa raised her hand.

“That’s what I thought,” Bucky said. His voice gentled. “Doll, I’m from Brooklyn. Down by the Navy yard, no less. There’s not much I ain’t seen. If I use the wrong words or something, please do correct me before the ghost of my mother rises from her grave and hauls me off by my ear, but you don’t have to worry I’ll see two fellas kissing and get the vapors.”

“Good,” Elsa replied, turning her attention back to the road. “Because our client is an old friend of mine, and I’ve got barbed bolts in my crossbow.”

#wip wednesday #monster mash #werewolf by night #jack russell #elsa bloodstone #ted sallis #bucky barnes

[valiantstarlights]

Hello Favorite Author,

I hope this ask finds you well.

Will you ever grace us with the story of how Demon Dream took an innocent and virginal Priest and turned him into a cock hungry whore that likes to get bred on an altar?

It's no problem if you would prefer to keep that piece of fine literature to yourself but I respectfully implore upon your most generous grace.

Warmest Regards,

Some Rando That Keeps Refreshing Your Tumblr Every 5 Minutes

Aww 🖤 This ask is so sweet 🥺 I'm actually not feeling very well rn, but your words cheered me up! 😊

I don't know if I will ever like, write an entire 50k of that actual story (because I think that's what we're looking at here 😂) but I can certainly tell you some stuff that I want to write, from the time we see Dream and Hob get married in Kyrie Eleison, to when we see them again in Offertory.

(I say this now but no one knows what Dream is planning for me when NaNoWriMo comes around 👀)

CW: mildly spicy, plus a sprinkle of blasphemy 👀

Hob arrives with Dream in Hell, right at the gates of Dream's territory. Jessamy and Matthew are excitedly welcoming Dream back, but then--

--Oh? Who is this? A new friend? A new parent?! 🐶🐶 They're very excited, especially Matthew, but Hob is like, literally afraid of everything because God have mercy on him, he's in actual Hell now. 😭🙏 He is overwhelmed af. He is highkey praying the rosary in his mind and does like 20 Hail Mary's instead of just 10 per mystery. He clings to Dream who happily bridal carries him over all the thresholds until they get to the master bedroom.

And after the sweetness of their first night, I want to have some slow burn of Hob like, actually falling in love with Dream. (side note: Dream has been pointy horns over clawed feet in love with Hob since before they got married 😂) Like, yeah, he's totally hot, but there's so much more to him?? And he's actually nicer than some religious people Hob knows on Earth?? And he makes his heart flutter when he's near???

The situation escalates to where Hob is the one coming to Dream for sex (because Dream will never force him. No, no, no. Dream is willing to wait and have Hob be comfortable first 🥰).

They have schmoopy staring-into-each-other's eyes sex, with Dream always telling Hob how he's so beautiful and divine, and Hob just often looking away with tears in his eyes because he's never felt this good before. Like yeah, Dream makes him cum and that feels so good, but his heart also feels so full?

Menwhile Dream is worrying that Hob wants to go back. (And he will worry endlessly. He never tells Hob because man's got enough on his plate being in Hell and married to one of its lords after being a priest on Earth. And not just a priest, but a good Catholic one. It's the rarest of the rare pokemons. So Dream understands. It's a huge adjustment.)

Something something until Hob becomes comfortable enough to seek Dream out outside their bedroom in order to have something in his hole because nothing else would do.

Not his fingers, not his plugs, not the dildo Dream left him that is shaped exactly like Dream's cock... Nothing would do!

And at first maybe he's teary eyed and feeling so ashamed, asking for what he wants, what he's been needing since Dream left him like an hour ago to attend to his duties, but Dream is always so very patient with him. 🖤 He always gives Hob his cock, no questions asked, and kisses him sweetly while he works to take Dream's entire length inside himself. 🥰

Hob loves sinking onto Dream's cock just so satisfied and full, rubbing his lower stomach where Dream's outline is showing, cuddling up to him and not clocking anything else in the room. Like, literally, Dream's other siblings could be in the room and Hob wouldn't notice them until he has taken Dream to the hilt because he's such a horny little mess.

There will be large sections of the (hypothetical? 👀) 50k devoted to me showing how Hob spends his first few days or weeks in Hell being highkey afraid, him slowly getting used to life in the castle, and of course, the entire honeymoon month(s) that's just Dream taking very good care of him 24/7 and teaching him all the ways he could be pleasured. 😏

Hob definitely learns a lot of things about himself. 💯 He arrives in Hell so naive, not even knowing what a plug is for, or that he can orgasm when his prostate is massaged. But once his and Dream's honeymoon month is over (and okay, technically, their honeymoon month will last maybe like...idk, 90 days instead of 30), Hob is just. An entire different person, almost.

He still has his little religious habits that he's trying to stop doing (like saying grace before he eats or singing Christmas songs), but he's very willing to unlearn all the stuff he learned as a priest, and learn the truth straight from Dream's mouth.

(Examples: God can be whatever gender they want to be, that entire thing with Mary and Gabriel, how the phrase 'turn the other cheek' doesn't mean accept abuse, etc.)*

And then I want to end the (hypothetical?? 👀) 50k just before December 24 in the story, when Hob is happy as a clam, living his life with his loving husband and their two hellhounds, with all of Dream's subjects now believing in miracles, because Hob has brought life and laughter and happiness to Dream's territory that it almost feels like stepping in pleasantly warm summer sunshine again.

(And then of course Dream worries like an idiot because he mistakes Hob's happy humming to him wanting to go back to his old life. 👀 But thankfully that gets resolved in Offertory, so yay? 😊)

--

Notes:

'the entire thing with Mary and Gabriel' is based from a short story I read a long time ago on an actual published (fiction) book. 👀 It was dark, but I liked it anyway 👀

turning the other cheek - When Jesus is still alive and the Romans are still in power, this means that the person turning their cheek demands equality from the person who slapped them. It's an entire socio-economic thing. 🤷‍♀️ So when someone tells you otherwise, expecting you to simply accept more abuse because God/Jesus/the Bible says so and martyrdom is what gets you to heaven, it's not true at all. If there is a God, and if they are good, then they would want you to be happy and to be treated well. 🖤

#priest hob AU #ask and you shall receive #dreamling #the sandman #my writing #good job my thumbs

[buckttommy]

Quick little Bobby POV that I whipped up after that set photo. Catholic!Bobby praying for his kids is something that can be so personal (translation: I'm throwing up blood). On ao3

It's funny to him, sometimes, how routine religion becomes. It's supposed to be this big thing, isn't it? At least that's how people talk about it. Religion, the greatest of great dividers, spoken with a sort of gravitas reserved for whispers behind cupped hands. On one hand stand the devout, on the other the faithless, each with both feet planted firmly on either side of the line.

Righteousness. Brainwashing. Devotion. Child abuse.

But neither side is truly right, are they? Religion, Bobby has come to find, is a lot like putting on a comfortable sweater. It's there when you need it, both a comfort when your shoulders are cold and a burden when the world is too sunny-warm to bother. But Bobby has learned over the years that you always need a sweater. You just don't always realize you need it until the rain pours and the thunder rolls.

Buck's hospital room is dizzyingly sterile. They always are; such is the nature of being a passerby in a sea of passersby. Fill one bed, empty another, a constant revolution of life and death, life and death. Bobby doesn't know why it matters to him more this time though. Matters so much that he wants to take a bucket of paint and swab over the cold white walls with a light blue or pastel green. Plant a couple vases along the edges of the room filled with sweet smelling, vibrant flowers to liven up the space. But Buck hates flowers and Bobby's not keen on facing the legal hassle that'll come with technically defacing hospital property, so he remains in his seat, staring idly out the window.

He wonders how many more times he's going to have to do this—the bedside vigil, the hollow-voiced, tight-throat prayer for healing, for mercy. For forgiveness, when he thinks it's necessary. It feels necessary today, mostly because Bobby's not sure if the people in his life are better for having him in theirs. Mostly because he's not entirely sure he's not cursed.

Bobby shakes his head. He stifles a yawn, digging his thumb and forefinger into his tired eyes. "It's a ridiculous thing to think, isn't it? It's not rational, I know it isn't, but sometimes..." He looks down at the rosary in his hand, at the years of prayer tattooed into the lines of his hands, and shrugs. "I don't know."

Buck doesn't say anything, but then, of course he doesn't. Buck is in a coma. Three days ago, he was dead.

Bobby stares down at him, committing every detail to memory.

Buck's face is still. His entire body is still in a unnerving, unnatural way that makes nausea swirl in Bobby's gut.

He's not equipped for this much suffering. There's this saying that parents aren't supposed to bury their children; what does it mean for him that he's already buried two, that he stands on the verge of burying another?

Buck isn't his son by blood. Right now, on the other side of the door, Buck's parents are sitting awkwardly in the corner of the waiting room, like it's clear they'd rather chew glass than be by his side. But Buck's his kid in all the ways that matter. Bobby's walked him through grief and triumph, held his hand through is first heartbreak and through the aftermath of a fucking explosion. Yeah, Buck's his kid. And right now, his kid is walking the same path Brooke and Bobby Jr. did—a path that leads to an early grave and a lifetime of Bobby wondering what he could have done differently.

It's no wonder he feels so tired all the time, no wonder he feels so old and weighed down by everything. He feels like Atlas, forced to forever carry the corpses of his children on his back. Already he can feel the weight of Buck's skin and bones on his shoulders. Bobby held his son's lifeless body in his hands; he knows how much his death weighs and it feels like a wooden cross dragged through the streets.

Bobby leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He drags a hand over his face. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor, kid. I need you to pull through this. I know I've sat in this chair, or one like it, quite a few times already asking you to perform a miracle, but I need another one. Just one more. Because there are a hell of a lot of people out there that need you. Hen, Eddie, Chris. Me. I—"

He cuts himself off. Blinks past the burn of tears, takes a deep, steadying breath, and squeezes the rosary in his hand until the beads carve divots into his skin.

Bobby clears his throat. "One more miracle, kid. Just one more, and then I'll have you on desk duty the rest of your goddamn life, okay?"

Buck doesn't move. He would have squawked in protest at that before. Desk duty, Cap? he'd say, nose crinkled. Are you serious? The only way you're dragging me off that rig is if I'm dead.

Well.

A knock sounds at the door. Bobby turns around in time to see Athena peek her head in. Her smile is soft, but her eyes are sad.

"Hen and Karen are here," she says, but time's up is what she means.

Bobby gets to his feet, his knees cracking as he goes. He tucks his rosary in his pocket and crosses the few inches between himself and Buck's hospital bed. He drags a hand through Buck's hair, feeling the limp, greasy strands slide through his fingers and, after a moment's hesitation, leans down and brushes a kiss to Buck's forehead.

"I'll be back tomorrow after shift. Try to wake up before then."

Bobby doesn't say goodbye; those two words have long since begun to feel too final. He squeezes Athena's hand when he passes and together they walk down the hallway as Hen and Karen take his spot.

Tomorrow.

He will take up his mantle and pray again tomorrow, don the sweater of religion and plead mercy like the humble servant he is. But for tonight, Bobby settles in the car, sinks into the anger brewing in his chest, and leaves his faith on the hospital doorstep.

God seems to be too busy for him anyway.

#girl i hate this fic #anyways! #my fic #tv: 911 #911: 06 x 11 #911 spoilers #jack.txt

[ave-immaculata]

Helloo,

What is your advice to give to someone who’s never prayed or repented before but wants to start? I have no clue where to start and am feeling discouraged. I know there’s not a right and wrong to follow but i’d like some advice if you wouldn’t mind.

Thank you so much! Your blog is very inspiring.

Ahh that is so exciting!! Honestly, getting to a point of desiring it is already so wonderful. I wish I had better advice and I'd love for people to chime in. My first ever prayers were really awkward and casual and I think that that's okay! You can tell God that you're not sure what you're doing, but that you want to pray. Ask Him to teach you and ask Him to make your prayers fruitful!

Personally, I also remember finding "vocal" prayers really helpful to supplement more conversational prayers (i.e. prayers that have rote words like the Our Father, the morning offering, etc., not necessarily just prayers spoken out loud)

Using the Psalms as prayers was always really nice (more on this below, some faves are 86, 91 and 116). I didn't grow up around Christians so formulating my own thoughts and words was (and is) challenging. It's okay to experiment with different types of prayer and see what sticks. If it starts to feel burdensome, stop. Thank God for the time you did spend in prayer and keep going about your day. Although it seems counterintuitive, especially for those early in the spiritual life this seems to be the perennial advice of the Saints. You don't need to stack on a big long list of prayers, what counts is that the Holy Spirit prompts you, and you respond to that call even if only with a smile meant for Him.

As far as repentance goes, it sort of depends! If you were baptized as a Catholic and have just been away for a long time, you can make a Sacramental Confession. If not, I'd recommend starting off with some other quick prayer, and asking God for His love for you to be present, and to help you make a good, sincere confession to Him. Take a bit of time just letting Him love you (it might feel awkward, that's okay!), and then, just let out what's burdening you. Even if you forget things or miss something, know that every sin imaginable is just a drop of water against a raging fire of Mercy. If it helps, you can also google an examination of conscience beforehand to help you reflect on what you want to repent of. A favourite Psalm for repentance is 51.

Basically, it's a lot of trial and error, and the way you pray will naturally evolve over time. Ask Him to help you and He will. It's okay to grow discouraged. A good structure to follow is "Thank, Ask, Rely." Thank the Lord for something (getting to work safely, His kindness, the weather, having food for lunch, soft blankets, your guardian angel, etc.), ask Him for what you want/need, and rely on His wisdom and generosity.

Okay, I rambled a lot, but here's like... a sample?? Of something to try, and see if it's sustainable or enjoyable or fruitful:

"My Lord, in your presence I want to prepare my heart for this moment of prayer. Send your Holy Spirit to enlighten me and open my mind and heart to everything you want to tell me today. Thank you Lord, for nourishing me with your word." Read through a Psalm once or twice, and then take a couple of minutes (literally, no longer is necessary) to reflect on what passages stood out to you, confused you, or that you really enjoyed. Maybe ask God a question you have.

Before bed, tell God for something you're grateful for and ask your Guardian Spirit to pray for you throughout the night.

Praying for you, and don't let your discouragement overwhelm you; all of Heaven is rejoicing seeing you try and learn and grow!

[motherdolores]

My dear and ethereal friend Mother Dolores, ¿What has been your most pleasant and sacred inspiration for the sinister and sacred art that you show every day?. ୁׄ♥︎

Recently I have felt great inspiration by the post mortem and the Rococo artistic movement, although they are totally different styles, I think they make me feel in an angelic way, of ancient and sacred peace.

What I find with your dark and religious art is inner peace as a human being, the tranquility you transmit makes me identify with your sacred scriptures that have been wrapped in your blessed hands. ⛪ ♱

You are a special being that the Virgin Mary has brought into this world to demonstrate that we are angelic beings and that we have been brought into this violent world for one purpose. I love you, may God bless you forever and ever. 👼🏻🫀👼🏻

া♱ Behind the rocks, there is a dead body with unimaginable bruises, filled with words that it explores along with poetry, a movement that revolves around time in human warfare. The only thing that gives strength to my words is the dawn, my beloved Angel Divinidad. My greatest inspiration towards my own art is navigating through the centuries in melancholy and hope for family unity, the antiquated words of a Queen to empower her grand valley of Porcelain Dolls. I feel that the diaries of Gemma Galgani, St. Catherine of Siena, Margaret White, Virgin Queen, Dolores del Rio, and Lupita Ferrer have embraced a huge part of my childhood, and above all, I have been most blessed by their artistic works (performance, mercy, talent, charm, longing, etc...). To any tide that surpasses my creativity, I will always have the authentic company of my natural feelings. Clarity surrealism, although drama will always be in my most holy blessing. I have to feel that angelic strength again, for which I used to kneel in the Catholic Church to save my loved ones with captivating words. My other inspiration is the majestic art of Kaho Honey, Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, Brooks Ginnan, Suehiro Maruo, and my dearest @genesisfawn (I suggest with utmost pleasure that everyone who adores me, needs to follow this wonderful dark artist of Kingdom's Fawn). The entire audience should know about the question you just asked me about myself, and with the utmost knowledge from my mind, I replied with these beautiful words.

Despite other interests that bless my words, I am glad that you have found that passionate quality with Rococo style and the untold stories of the Post-Mortem. It makes a great impact to remember silent film. I am happy for you that you have found a strong bond of inspiration towards your style. I am grateful for your divine friendship, enchanting beauty.

Truly, I deeply value the sentiments you have bestowed upon my artistic endeavors, encompassing my crafted works of art, poetry, and intricately woven tales. The magnificence of your expression is akin to the celestial radiance that graces the most sacred twilight, heralding the rebirth of crimson-hued roses. From the core of my being, I hold profound gratitude for your profound appreciation. ♱া

O sweet Angel, I come forth with a question, solely directed to you... What have I done for you to articulate my persona in such a mesmerizing way?

۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬ ۬

Espero que termines este mes bendito de la Virgen María con un fuerte abrazo fuerte de ángeles verdaderos.

"No permitas que te turbe el pasado, déjalo todo en el Sacratísimo Corazón de Jesús y vuelve a comenzar con alegría." – St. Teresa de Calcutta

#ɑːnsər tuː ən ˈeɪndʒəl

[corsey]

muse dynamic: elfgar and johnson. alternatively: elfgar, johnson, mackenzie.

Send in a muse dynamic and I'll tell you what I like about it.

There's been too much said about the dynamic. I noticed a runnig theme I liked the other day that define their characters in relation to one another so I'll talk about that.

Cleanliness/Germs/Hygeine etc

Johnson visiting Elfgar in a dingy cafe. We get an insight into why he is so unhappy with his job: all he can see across every surface are germs, viruses, bacteria. He is not focussing on it but it is inseparable from his experience of the world. He feels above these smaller life forms, and he is! at least enough to 'sanitise' the area where he sits so that the risk of them damaging or affecting his vessel is minimal. And it's so heartbreakingly cruel and unusual that his maker is forcing this ethereal being of pure light and power to just sit in a pigsty.

Like Johnson, Mackenzie notices uncleanliness and imperfection. She's spent decades laundering textiles, by hand, without electricity. It was the first duty Idris gave to her: to make things clean, to clean up after the men, to make things go away. She takes this to its ideological extreme - like an AI - or an angel might - when it becomes clear that the unclean thing that needs to go is Shipley and Idris.

Buildings are about adding and adding but cleaning is about creating an absence. Uncleanliness is also about adding and adding because it is the multiplication and accumulation of...stuff.

Elfgar is never fully clean or kempt, even after he's showered. If it smells, he's wiped it on his trousers. He does not see the complicated biome that Johnson sees and why it can be harmful to his body [he doesn't have that problem as an immortal] or why it is so disgusting. It just is.

Mack knows that the absence of her father and brother is better than a world with them still in it. Johnson and Mack know that sometimes absence is more beneficial to progress than adding and adding. But Elfgar does not like to think about that. He thinks you clean things, they get dirty again. He thinks B12, penicillin, yeast, curing, salting, fermenting, dung, bricks, have been fundamental to civilisation. Plague and death and unclean undesirablness is intertwined with humanity. He's incapable of imagining separating the good from the bad or starting the world over again so that it is perfect.

It especially coincides with their relationships to Abrahamic religion.

Johnson is an angel forced to live as a human. He is a perfect, clean being who's getting mental gangrene in the form of humanity/feelings.

Mack's Calvinist/Protestant upbringing affects her ideological 'cleanliness.' Established as the stripped back version of faith. No bells and papish whistles. Only the truth. No space for her mercy or forgiveness as she already knows what's good and what's bad. It is her duty to stay clean/remove problems.

Elfgar was somewhat pagan or superstitious or an Anglo Catholic and then he was a Catholic and then there was a war and he had to be a Puritan and then he was an Anglican, and there was a reformation and now they call it C of E and now-- It's just messy, and muddy, and at this point meaningless, and it's not so much a faith that directs him as it was a sociopolitical passport.

#*Answered #Re: Jonmackgar #*Elfgar headcanons #i was also thinking johnson uncannily neat/tidy exterior is a defence mechanism #that keeps people at arms length so that he doesn't get clocked as inhuman #and elfgar's unclean exterior is a defence mechanism which keeps people at arm's length so that he doesn't get clocked as inhuman

[syncopein3d]

Left Alone Part 10: Silencers 2

Big weekend update, so I split it up!

Tropes/content warnings: M for mature themes overall. vampire whumpee/caretaker, male whumpee/caretaker, non-binary whumpee/caretaker, general morbidity, and in this chapter, mind control and death by vampire bite. The person who is killed is a woman, if that's something you need to know for trigger reasons, but it's in a fairly straighforward combat way.

There will be a lot of play with, and discussion of, the concept of consent in this series, as it applies to many topics. There will be angst. Vampire biting can be painful, platonic, or NSFW and I'm not sure what direction that will take, but Tolly will definitely continue to fantasize about subtextually or literally sex-murdering Arden, as vampires often do.

If you would like to be added to, or removed from, the tag list of this series, please let me know!

Part 9: Silencers 1

“So, no kids this time,” Liam said. He drove the electric Sprinter that night, because it was his turn to drive and Chase's turn to ride shotgun. Both of them were dressed in black tac gear, black Kevlar vests, helmets buckled on their heads decaled with the name of an armored car company. It was a different armored car company each time, matching the temporaries on the outside of the van. This time it was Merrywether Armored Transport. A green pine-shaped air freshener dangled prosaically from the rearview mirror. Armored cars were generally diesel, not electric, but diesels were noisy. The fully electric Mercedes Sprinter could glide up to a place in near-total silence.

Liam wasn't his real name. Chase wasn't his partner's real name, either, nor Madison and Michael in the back. None of the party of four Silencers knew the real names of any of the others. No one could be cursed except by the name they most believed to be their true one. As a consequence, they rotated sobriquets every few months. If you used a false name for too long, you might start to believe it was your true one. They rotated call signs, too.

“Naw,” Chase said. “No kids. The mark's 28, if that makes you feel any better.” He and Liam weren't that different-looking from one another: both brown-haired, brown-eyed guys in their mid-twenties, just under six feet tall, excellent physical shape. Both were veterans of overseas infantry operations. Both tended to look very closely at sudden noises.

Both had steel amulets under their black tee shirts to keep the voices out.

Liam knew that they had almost nothing in common besides this, that he was an FPS gamer in his off-time and Chase was more of a watch football and grill kind of guy, but to know that you'd have to get to know them both. And you didn't get to know people on the Silencer teams unless you were on one yourself.

“Don't use that tone, man,” Liam said. “You didn't like that, either. You know you didn't.”

“Course I didn't,” Chase said. He continued to look from front window to side window mirror and back almost mechanically, shifting to keep his sidearm from stabbing him in the hip. “But we got it done. That's all that matters. You can't hold onto that shit, or it'll eat you alive. Pray to the Crone for mercy, isn't that what you do?”

“The Mother,” Liam said. “The Crone has no mercy. I'm impressed you remembered that much, though. I didn't think you were listening, you being a Secular and all.”

Chase shrugged. He also had a scar running along his right cheekbone, and while he was steady as a rock, it turned pinker when he was excited. And he did get excited on mission in a way Liam didn't.

“I don't need a word for it,” Chase said. “You were raised Catholic, that's your real problem.” He glanced at Liam and away again, fingers shifting on the grip of the razored shortsword on his hip. The stalk of bamboo sat further back, recently cut to a sharp point and still alive. They didn't expect to need them today, but it was standard issue and they would never be without razored steel for Hunters and living wood for the Undead.

Madison was busy checking and rechecking the contents of her cleanup bag, rolling the bags tighter, making sure all the bottles of disinfectant were full. Her lips were pursed tightly when Liam spared a glance for the mirror. She had hands like a stevedore and she was built like a coat rack. Madison never said much, but from the way she handled firearms he was pretty sure she was some kind of vet, too. He knew she and her wife socialized with Chase sometimes, so maybe she was a Marine, like he was.

“I don't like it when there's kids,” said Michael from behind them. “And I'm Secular, too.” Michael sat on the opposite bench with his ankles crossed, arms folded. He was the only current member of Silencer Team NW-4 who was black now, because a corpse had gotten Jaden last month and a fifth hadn’t been assigned yet.

“Yeah, but were you raised Catholic?” Chase asked.

“Jehovah’s Witness.”

“I never knew that,” Liam said. “Are you still?”

“Nah. I have a different family now.”

“In silence,” Chase said, leaning forward with uplifted fist. Michael leaned in to smack the bones of his forearm across Chase’s in an X.

“In night,” said Michael.

“What about you, Mads? How you doing back there?” Liam asked.

“Fine,” Madison said. “It's going to be the same shit either way. It's a job needs doing. We do it.” Her icy tone thawed slightly as the pale grey eyes glanced up at him and back at what she was doing. “Pilot car who gave the okay said it's for sure just Arden Telep, remember. Immediate family are all mundane, and he’s still on witchbane, thinks he’s undiagnosed schizophrenic. The house is out in bumfuck nowhere. It'll be quick. Easy. So don't worry, Liam.”

“That name sounds familiar,” Liam said.

“Cause of Nicholas Telep,” Michael said. All three of them looked at him, Liam more briefly and in the mirror. “What? He was a big damn deal around here when I was a kid. Arden’s got to be some relation. Way I heard it, Nicholas Telep was Silenced. Maybe it was for fucking with the Hunters. That would explain,” he waved a hand. “This whole thing.”

“Above our pay grade,” Chase said.

Michael shrugged. “You're not wrong."

"There's the turn," Liam said, and took them down the narrow road, the headlights lighting up a traveling oval of the dense green walls of the evergreen forest. It was mostly pine out here, closer to the ground, clearcut sometime in the last fifty years and not yet replaced with the taller Douglas firs. You could get cut up like you'd run through a car wash full of nails if you tried to walk through these woods, between the sharp-needled pines and the wild blackberry vines that choked the roadside and the thickets. There were probably dynasties of rabbits out here that had been around since the pioneers.

After about a half-mile, the dirt drive opened up and became a paved driveway leading up to an elegant loop in front of the battered-looking house. There was a row of lamps along the drive, but most of them were out, leaving irregular patches of darkness and light. It didn't look like much, a rambling old pile with chipped blue paint, but he felt it when they crossed a certain threshold. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his ears rang like he'd just come off an airplane. He hit the brakes immediately. Without the steel amulet he knew he’d be bleeding from every orifice in his head.

"Wards of Alarm," he said. "If he’s sensitive at all, he'll know we're coming."

"It won't matter," Chase said. 

"It never does," said Liam.

Inside the house, Tolly reached for Arden’s shoulder. “Arden. What is it?”

Their eyes snapped to his. “I don’t know! It felt like – I can’t describe it. Like getting cold water thrown on you but like someone’s standing behind you, too!”

“I don’t underst - ”

Someone was opening the front door and the back door, not the one by the kitchen, but the one on the other side of the laundry. Tolly could hear the faintest clicks and clacks of the lock being tinkered with.

“Someone’s here,” he said. “Arden, go downstairs.”

“Tolly - ”

“Downstairs,” Tolly said in an urgent whisper, switching his grip to Arden’s upper arm. “Now, Arden. I’ll come and get you when it’s safe.”

He let go as Arden turned, and he heard running footsteps in the hallway, then the basement door closing more quietly than usual. The front door was open now, and he could hear a heart beating: high enough from the ground to be a very tall woman or a slightly tall man, steady, barely elevated. He was not nervous about what he was doing, or he’d done it many times, or both. Then the back door opened, too: shorter person, even less concerned than this one.

Tolly went that way first, pushing his sneakers off to make less sound on the hardwood floor of the downstairs. He glided into the shadow of the stairs, peering into the back hallway: whoever was back there had not yet left the laundry room. He slid into the doorway of what proved to be a large dining room and flattened himself against the wall. Scents wafted to his nostrils in the faint breeze from the laundry room door opening: Adult female, healthy, wearing some kind of dense artificial material with a strong smell. Boot rubber and leather. Gun oil. Metal. Fresh bamboo.

Bamboo was a frequent choice as a melee weapon against vampires, because it grew fast and stayed alive for hours after it was cut. That didn’t tell him whether it was a team of Witches or Hunters. The former might be able to throw fire at him; the latter might have senses approaching the keenness of his own.

Who would know he was here? He couldn’t imagine Nicholas would tell anyone, and Arden definitely hadn’t. Someone must have already been watching Arden on their trips to town. But that was speculation. He needed hard facts. And Arden wasn’t here to see anything he did…

As he was contemplating this, the barrel of some sort of long gun with a bulky silencing attachment glided past the open door beside him. Tolly grabbed and yanked, pulling her off balance and into the dining room. The woman in the black tactical gear had extremely good reflexes, but they were mortal reflexes. He dodged a blow that struck wood chips from the doorpost as he snatched her shoulder radio away and tossed it onto the long table behind him. She snapped a kick at his shin that could have shattered the bone. He slipped it easily as he slid behind her, yanked the bamboo from her belt, and tossed that, too. She couldn’t turn fast enough to follow him even in his current state, and then he snatched at the fastener of her helmet and flicked it away. He was ducking to set it on the floor so it wouldn’t clatter when the razor sword whistled over his head, long microseconds too late. Her shirt under her heavy vest had a high, stiff collar. It shredded like paper under his talons as he grabbed at it.

Scraping a bloody welt into her throat was not part of his plan. He needed someone to interrogate. But his talon scratched her as the collar came away, and then the scent of fresh blood hit his nostrils and the world went red. Black Tolly slammed her into the wall with the full weight of his body, hip turned against the attempt to knee him in the groin, and it was only accident that his hand found her wrist before she stabbed him. She dropped the weapon as bones cracked under his grip, hissing in anger as much as in pain.

He yanked her head to the side with his other hand, completely ignoring her repeated blows to his ribs, and sank his teeth in around the big artery in the side of her throat. His lips sealed against the skin just in time. Blood shot down his throat so fast it would have drowned him if he’d inhaled. Overwhelming ecstasy blotted out every conscious thought for what felt like forever, time pulling out like taffy until a second was an hour. He felt himself changing, felt his true strength returning, and he gloried in it.

He felt the soldier’s struggle weaken almost immediately, arms dropping as her weight sagged against him, and then only the pressure of his weight and the wall held her up. He held on even as the flow started to drop off, even as her heart gave out and her body stopped twitching. He did not regain even the slightest capacity for conscious thought until he could get nothing more. But finally, even suction could get him not one more drop, and he took his mouth away with a rough lick. Now that he was fully himself again, his saliva made the little wounds shrink and close. That would only work in a living victim or one very newly dead, so it was important to do it at once.

Witches and Hunters would know what an exsanguinated body with no visible marks meant, of course. But their organizations might not be the ones to find the body first, and secrecy must be maintained.

Tolly lowered the body quietly to the floor, trying to remember through the fog whether either of them had made enough noise to be heard from the front vestibule. He’d hit her against the wall hard. Whether through stoicism or an attempt to avoid alerting Arden, she had died without crying out. He heard footsteps, but they were investigating the kitchen right now.

“Mads?” whispered the radio on the table. Tolly rifled the body quickly and found the amulet around her neck. It was plain steel, in the shape of a crescent moon crossed with a longsword. Witches. She had not tried to use any kind of spell. Maybe she couldn’t use them in combat, and that was what had made her expendable to this sort of mission in the first place. He had no idea how any of it worked. Nicholas had not been stupid enough to give him details.

She had died too fast to suffer. Still, he had learned almost nothing. Black Tolly pocketed the amulet and turned to stalk back out into the hallway, toward the sound of shod feet on the kitchen tiles.

Part 11: Silencers 3

@fleur-a-whump, @bitchaknso, @valravnthefrenchie, @thewhumpcaretaker

#whump #whumpblr #syncopein3d future reference #vampire whumpee #vampire whumper #female whumpee #tw death #tw brief violence #death #Black Tolly #Arden #Trifold Balance Universe

[goldenponcho]

You Can Lead a Castellan to Water…

Chapter 2: A Castle Tour

Gail studied the little castellan as he walked ahead of her and his servants, entering a door at the side of the large audience hall, hands locked behind his back. She noticed with a bit of amusement that his nails were painted a dark blue that matched his coat and hat.

“As you can plainly see, Miss Crain, this castle is a vast stronghold, and every inhabitant is bent to my will. However, it isn’t easy keeping up with all of them at once. Best you not stray far, as I certainly would not want you falling prey to one of the plethora of lurking beasts that make their homes here.”

Gail gave a light breath of laughter, her eye catching the room through the archway to their left where some such “beast” seamed to be chained to a wall, “Yeah, I hate having roommates, too…”

In a synchronized motion that seemed as if her three captors were one being, the two hooded servants halted and Ramon twirled to face back toward her.

“Your quips are amusing,” he smirked, taking a step toward her. “But in my experience, waggishness tends to precede larger behavioral problems. Ones that require swift correcting…”

She shrugged her shoulders in defense, genuine surprise in her wide eyes, “I’m just trying to remain cordial! No one’s ever joked with you?”

Ramon’s own eyes narrowed, before turning to continue leading their trek through the massive structure, “I find that jokes toward me are rarely cordial, Miss Crain.”

“WITH. Not TOWARD… I feel like there’s a difference.”

Ramon humphed, leading them around a set of stone pillars.

“I’m not planning on pissing off my captor by making him the butt of a joke. I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, that’s certainly good to hear. Because those who make ME the butt of their jokes are not left with the capacity to laugh for long.”

The corners of Gail’s mouth turned downward, and she nodded, “Fair enough.”

A pair of what looked to be some type of robed monks bowed to the castellan and opened the next set of doors for them. As they entered, Gail took in the grid of pools that surrounded the walkway before them and the reflexions of the torches in the clear water.

“Wow…what’s this room for?”

Ramon glanced over his shoulder at the sudden question. He wasn’t used to spending any extended amount of time with someone who could hold a conversation…other than Lord Saddler, of course.

“My ancestors were some of the most devout Catholics in all of Spain. So much so, in fact, that they insisted on full immersion baptisms for any residing in the castle,” he looked over his shoulder again with a grin, “I made the decision to leave the room untampered with as I find the sound of running water relaxing.”

“Damn! And I thought Biltmore Estates was impressive…”

Her flattery hit it’s mark and had the desired effect.

“I have had the sacred duty of transforming this estate from its sacrilegious origins into a holy haven of protection. My ancestors were vile heretics, praying to a god who would deny his mercy to those who need it most…”

They ascended a wide set of stairs that brought them to the largest pool where they stopped, and the castellan turned to face Gail and her holders again. Two robed figures on the two raised walkways alongside them began turning cranks that raised their own passage across.

“Los Illuminados provides salvation to all who seek its divine grace. And soon, that will be the entire globe.”

Gail’s brow furrowed, “I’m guessing you’ll be going for less a “go forth and preach the word” approach and more a…”stick your fingers down people’s throats and implant parasitic eggs en masse” type of thing…”

“It will be as our gracious Lord Saddler wills it. But not everyone will be so blessed as us. For reasons that are only our Lord’s to know, he has deemed you a special case. Like myself, you will retain much of your humanity, your free will and intelligence,” he leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his yellow eyes, “but UNLIKE myself, your free will may be overridden should you choose to become unruly.”

She considered this as he turned to lead them across the new bridge to the door on the other side, “Well…guess I’ll have to behave myself, then…”

Ramon lifted his head, happy that the warning was clear, but also looking forward to the challenge should she NOT choose to behave herself.

As they had exchanged conversation, he noticed the subtle drawl in her voice. One that he could most closely compare to those he remembered hearing once in an American recording of a western radio show when he was young. He remembered laughing at the funny way the old cowboys spoke. Her accent was quite muted by comparison, but he found the sound…interesting.

The next room he led them through was almost stranger than the last; two massive Greek statues hung like stalactites from the vaulted ceiling. Gail wasn’t left to marvel for long as they headed up a left side staircase and into the next hall to the next room. Surely they would be at their destination soon. Though, she figured she should count herself lucky that their destination hadn’t been the prison in the first room.

Then they passed through that room.

And then the next…

“Sure do get your steps in around here, seems like.”

Ramon gave a nod, “Salazar Castle is the keeper of the ancient remnants of las plagas, which expand widely beneath it. There are certainly more rooms than would seem practical, even in a structure warranting such extravagance.

“Of course normally, there would be a quick trolley ride that would take us quite close to our destination, but it is in an unfortunate state of disrepair.”

Gail inhaled silently, “Any way I could KNOW what kinda destination we’re talkin’ about?”

Ramon gave a stern glance over his shoulder before deciding to indulge her, “You will be kept in my personal chambers. You are to be put on strict bed rest, as it will provide the best conditions for your plaga to thrive.”

Gail cocked her head, “Then what about you?”

Ramon didn’t look back, “WHAT about me?”

“Where do YOU sleep? I mean, I guess I haven’t seen the size of your bed. And you’re probably small enough to-“

She cut herself off as he made a sound of irritation, with a glare this time.

“I mean, it seems like a bit of an awkward situation, sharing a room.”

Ramon opened the next door, and they were outside.

“I won’t be needing a bed, as I rarely sleep, Miss Crain.”

Gail felt her cheeks grow a little hot at her presumption, “Oh…”

“You will be under close watch in the first stages of your transmogrification, and my own chambers are the most convenient place for that. I spend much of my time nearby, and when I am not there, our Lord’s servants will be. So no funny business, bonita.”

“So you’re telling me I get to lay around in a fancy castle all day while servants wait on me hand and foot?” she raised a brow, “Shit! I should’a joined up a long time ago!”

Ramon and his servants performed their synchronized halt yet again, and he fixed her with a warning look, “This is not a vacation for you, Miss Crain! You will soon be an important part of the most sacred organization mankind will ever encounter in its millennia of existence. You will show your respect.”

Her eyes were wide again, “Sorry…”

She sounded sincere enough for his scowl to soften, and they continued alongside what looked to be a garden maze. The corners of his mouth raised to nearly a smile as he shrugged one shoulder. “Though…you will be well taken care of. And the view will leave you wanting for nothing. Yes, we are both…quite lucky.”

They reached a door with an hourglass shaped relief in it. With a snap of the little man’s fingers, the cloaked creature to their right produced a concrete slab that fit into the indentation, one with a moon, and the door slid up to reveal a massive master bedroom.

As they walked in, Ramon motioned from the verdugo that still held Gail’s arm to the side of the bed, “Ponla ahí.”

The creature led her to where he had pointed, and to her slight surprise, it left her there unrestrained. She was quite sure that should she attempt an escape, the two hulking creatures could easily neutralize her.

The castellan turned to the other verdugo, “El botiquín, por favor.” And with that, the other creature retreated to the door on the other side of the bed.

“Do, please, have a seat, Miss Crain,” he motioned to the bed.

She did as requested, and he came to stand in front of her. She noticed that even seated there, she still had to look at just a bit of a downward angle to meet his gaze.

Without warning, he reached to cup her jaw in his palm. She jerked slightly, whether from the unexpected proximity to her face or, more likely, from the memory of those digits cramming themselves down her esophagus. She allowed him to examine her, however, apparently assessing the damage done by her previous, meathead captor.

“My sincerest apologies for the way that that lunkhead of a yanqui has treated you, señorita. Rest assured you will not be subject to such barbarism while in my care.”

“Damn decent of you,” she gave a slight start as he pulled down the bottom lid of the eye that hadn’t been blackened to examine that as well.

“Hmm…too early to tell, I suppose. All in good time.”

Gail ruminated on the implication before the red coated verdugo returned with the requested first aid kit. He started by cleaning the blood from her nose, seeing that it didn’t seem broken, and that she didn’t express any pain at the touch.

He held out a palm, “Your arm, por favor.”

She offered him the forearm with the deep cut, and he was surprisingly tender as he cleaned and dressed the wound.

“What in el nombre del Padre did you do to deserve these, querida chica.”

She gave an amused exhale, “I think it’s up for debate whether I deserved them… Honestly, I just think dude likes knives.”

Ramon glanced up from beneath his hat, “Are there more?”

“Only older ones. I’m a fast healer.”

“Mm,” he hummed with intrigue, “Soon to be even faster. The marks will be but a memory in only hours.”

Ramon could have sworn she had the look of wanting to say something, but she kept her thoughts to herself. He ran light fingers over her bandages before releasing her arm.

“I will have my servants draw you a bath, and you may choose from any clothing from the right wardrobe,” he motioned to the room from where the verdugo had retrieved the first aid.

She perked at “bath”, “A bath sounds INCREDIBLE right now!” she sprung to her feet, “Thanks, Ramon!”

Ramon’s eyes widened at the strange leap he felt inside him when she addressed him by his first name. Was that his plaga? Strange… And she was exorbitantly cheerful for someone who had been captured and force-fed a permanently body and mind-altering parasite. Saddler was right; he would need to keep eyes on this one at all times. That was what the zealots were for, after all.

As if reading his thoughts, there was the sound of the door on the opposite side of the room unlocking, and a group of zealots entered the room, two of them carrying a delicately detailed, brass tub.

“I will return tomorrow morning to assess your progress,” he joined his guards, stepping out of the then open door, “And do get plenty of bed rest; I wouldn’t want to be forced to strap you down.”

His smirk was the last thing she saw as the door came down to leave her in the room with the band of busy servants. She looked toward one of them, knowing she wouldn’t respond, but speaking to her anyway.

“Bit of a sadist, idn’t ‘e?”

Spanish Translation:

bonita - beautiful

ponla ahí - put her there

el botiquín - the medical kit

yanqui - yankee

el nombre del Padre - the name of the Father

querida chica - dear girl

#ramon salazar #resident evil #resident evil 4 #resident evil fanfiction #you can lead a castellan to water…

[angeltreasure]

Hello, firstly I have no idea what’s happened with you and I am intrigued as it sounds really scary! I will be praying for you though.

Also, I wondered if I could ask for prayer as *ugh* I am literally on the verge of breakthrough. I feel it. I feel like the things I used to put my focus on and care about are fading away like I know putting stuff down at the cross is full freedom and I keep getting random things that I will focus on that really is the opposite of what I know God would want like it’s quite clearly something the enemy has put to try to shift my focus or get me into a place that isn’t going to the Lord. I kind of feel annoying even asking for prayer about this because I realise that it’s not from God but it’s always nice to have others in my corner and help a girl out! God bless you and I hope whatever is going on with you ends with complete peace

Thanks for stopping in!

No one touched me but I spoke with the devil face to face because I pissed him off trying to get closer to God. Without going into details that can be read publicly, yeah it was surprise for me but I knew it could be possible, since I love reading about St. Padre Pio, my favorite saint…. Thank you so much for your prayers, I need them.

Do not be afraid. It’s good to ask for prayers. Yes, that’s definitely our enemy trying his best to distract you away from God. I know that because I went through it myself. You will always have one or two sins that you will recognize will always come up again and again, throughout your life, which you are tempted by. A confessor told me that no matter how hard we try, we will always have a couple sins that will tempt us, even five minutes after we die, when the enemy tries to win your soul. Thankfully, God is merciful. As Catholics, we are so blessed to have the Sacrament of Reconciliation (Confession). Use it as much as you need to. In the prayer you say at the end, when the priest in persona Christi is absolving you, you speak out loud a part which is says by the help of God’s grace you will avoid all which leads to sin. That little sentence is key to cut down on mortal sin. We can win spiritual warfare by calming the waves of sins. The more sin, the stormier the waves. The goal is to get towards a flat wave line as best we can. With baby steps, you must find ways to avoid sin, at a pace you feel comfortable with. Jesus will understand your efforts.

Remember that God is in control. Do not let anxiety over the battle against principalities and powers frighten you, tender child of God. You and I will help each other put on our armor of God, the armor of light, not the armor of darkness. We can combat through praying the Rosary, having just about anything blessed (yes your house, your car, even your phone). Keep holy water at your bedside to make the sign of the cross with it. You can sprinkle holy water around your house, there’s also blessed salt you can use too. I highly recommend carrying around a blessed Rosary AND a blessed Green Scapular. Place them under your pillow at night after reciting the prayer of St. Michael as you lay down to sleep. Don’t be afraid to turning around the corner of every bush to fight, but rather, cast your cares upon the Lord because He cares for you. He loves you. One of guardian angel’s special talents is getting rid of the feeling of temptation to sin for you, but he won’t do so without you asking for help. Remember your guardian angel. These are just some ideas you can do. Feel free to reach out to a priest if things really escalate from here on out.

#prayer request #asks

[giantkillerjack]

Christ's sacrifice on the cross fulfilled prophecies, freed us from the old covenant (that would be what your friend was talking about with the animal sacrifices), and reconciled us in our fallen nature to God our heavenly Father. Why would God want to prevent the fulfilment of a prophecy of our redemption through his Son? You can find really clearly broken down explanations with simple Google searches. or even on Youtube, if reading isn't your thing.

[Continued in second anon]:

also, catholics don't believe that people capable of change are condemned to hell... that's sort of the whole shindig of purgatory.

it seems like the issue wasn't that you were "too much of a fag" to stay, but rather when the questions you had weren't addressed by those in your immediate circle of influence you decided it was all bogus. cause these are good questions! good questions that have been answered hundreds of times over hundreds of years beginning with the early church fathers

[This is in reference to a post I made about how I feel Jesus died for no reason and that my childhood in Catholic school failed to explain it to me. I wrote "thank goodness I was too much of a fag to stay."]

I mean I very much was too much of a fag to stay - the Catholic Church is not kind to queers, and there's a reason every one of my queer friends who grew up Catholic is no longer part of the Church. Lil Nas X knows what's up! Better to rule in Hell and all that. My girlfriend often talks about how she believes if she was raised Catholic as an autistic queer, she would not have lived to adulthood. I agree with her. The shame of it all would have destroyed her. So I very much was and AM too faggy to be a Catholic, and I am immensely grateful for this because I was very very unhappy in the Church.

But actually, the initial reason I had a long agonizing crisis of faith and then dropped it entirely was actually a thought that occurred years before my realization of my own queerness would have forced me either out of the Church anyway or else deep into dangerous self-loathing.

I think the actual heart of the question that destroyed my faith is this:

Is God omnipotent, or not? And if yes, why does he need us to suffer?

Because if he's not omnipotent, then all of this makes sense to me. The whole theology, I mean. Horrible sacrifices had to be made to stop every human soul from going to Hell for all eternity. A long painful battle against the Adversary waged by the good God and his people! It would make sense that he had to suffer if there are other powerful forces at play that established the prophecies he is fulfilling!

But... if he wrote the prophecy..... then....... why? Someone has to write the prophecy in the first place, right? It's not impressive to fulfill your own prophecy, and it doesn't explain why he made one.

If God is not omnipotent, then of course child abuse exists in this world on a massive scale. He hates it and is doing his best to fight it! This fits with the picture of a loving and merciful God that I was taught in school.

But... if he IS omnipotent, then I need to know why child abuse exists. "Mysterious ways" won't cut it because that just means "it doesn't make sense and also maybe that suffering is actually necessary." Which is not an answer I will accept.

The thing that killed my faith was the idea that God cannot be both all-powerful AND kind.

And everything I have experienced about God's Love has been through threats of Hell. I don't think it's kind to save someone from Hell if you condemned them in the first place and also you created Hell. That sounds a lot like an abuser saying you ought to be grateful they didn't hit you and will let you make it up to them. It's a warped version of mercy.

The Catholic church has historically relied on and continues to rely on shame, fear, and social ostracization in order to gain funding and influence. These are very powerful weapons that they use very liberally - shame, fear, isolation - and as long as that Central Paradox I mentioned above continues to exist, then their claim to power and righteousness sounds awfully hollow.

Which brings me back to the concept of martyrdom. I was taught, in no uncertain terms, that sacrifice was something inherently holy. Even when it didn't help anyone! Lent was just a practice in self-denial. It was never clear why Jesus needed it from us.

I was told the only way to 100% be a good person is to never stop sacrificing myself, and even after I stopped believing in a god, this attitude remained deeply, poisonously rooted. (Thanks, Capitalism!) When I was 25, I worked myself nearly to death, and I'm still dealing with the permanent health consequences of that. So ingrained is this mindset in me.

Being gay helped me to avoid falling back into the Church because they hate queers so much, and I am so so grateful for that.

The day I decided God didn't exist, I remember feeling like I could breathe for the first time. I was free! I was loved! I was no longer alone! I no longer had to define my life around shame and guilt! It was terrifying, but also like going from a world full of gray to one full of color!

I think in the end, little 11-year-old me decided that if God was not kind, then I don't know what the point of him is.

And as much as it hurt, knowing that going back wasn't an option for me also helped me stay safe!! Thank goodness I am a dyke!!!

#child abuse #abuse #violence #religious trauma #original #catholic tumblr #come answer my paradox i want to know why this doesn't bother others #dimension 20 #fantasy high #ally beardsley #< tagging with that stuff because part of the reason I'm having this revisitation of my old faith is their character in season 1 #they play a D&D cleric who has a complete crisis of faith when their god can't answer why bad things happen to good people #their character is a complete wreck for the rest of the season and it's very funny and very well done #and as I understand it a little bit autobiographical #d slur #I didn't even get into sexuality here. the church hates sex but nobody's more obsessed with sex than Catholics. it is #restrictive and judgmental even to straight people and there's never a clear explanation besides God said so #i remember the first time it occurred to me that i could potentially grow up to be a whore. #AND I AM PROUD TO REPORT-- #THE PROPHECY IS COMPLETE #hehehehee

[mcx7demonbros]

Damnation - Solomon’s Case

This is a continuation of my Damnation’s Series (like literally everything I’ve written about damnation). However, it can be read separately.

First, I want to talk about Solomon’s immortality. Many assume Solomon would be save forever thanks to his immortality (i.e. he would escape eternal punishment). However, I believe Solomon’s immortality is relative, not absolute, meaning it could be removed from him or something stronger than his immortality could destroy him.

I divide immortality into two types, absolute and relative. Absolute immortality belongs to God alone. Being self-existent, having no beginning and no end, absolute immortality is an attribute of God.

Holy God, Holy Strong, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us. (The Trisagion)

Souls are also immortal, and this immortality is absolute in the sense of it couldn’t be removed or changed, but also relative in the sense that this immortality needs to be sustained by God.

Relative immortality can be achieved by human, only through some extraordinary means. And like the name indicated, this kind of immortality can be overcome by something stronger than it. However, trying to attain this immortality is sinful in itself.

Since the fall of human, every human are fated to die one day, an effect of Original Sin. Adam’s sin is transmitted to his posterity, not by imitation, but by descent. (Dogma no. 63 of the Catholic Church). Trying to achieve bodily immortality means going against God’s punishment, which is no different from a criminal trying to escape their lawful penalty.

Think about it. Only a person with no hope for the afterlife would try to achieve immortality. The person clings to this life on earth, its transitory wealth, its pleasure, its forbidden knowledge, etc.

Solomon’s immortality belongs to the second category, the relative immortality. Proof? Grim Reaper(s) tried to take his souls multiple times. Had Solomon’s immortality being absolute, the Grim Reaper(s) would have been trying in vain. But as Grim Reaper(s) is death incarnated and death is under their jurisdiction, they sure know what they were (still are) doing. Meaning, Solomon’s immortality is not absolute.

Even if the Grim Reaper(s) never manage(s) to capture the Sorcerer’s soul. There’s still the Apocalypse at the end of time. According to some theories, the Earth will be covered by fire (contrast with Noah’s time which is with water), this fire will surely kill at least all living human beings. The fire is never defined I believe, but the death of all human at the end of time is decreed by God, with 100% certainty. If Solomon makes it to this point, his immortality will surely ends and he will die. After the death of all human, come the dreadful Judgement Day

Dies irae, dies illa

Solvet saeclum in favilla,

This day, this day of wrath

shall consume the world in ashes,

(Requiem Mass - Sequence “Dies Irae” - Day of Wrath)

On this dreadful day, demons will accuse you before the just Judge. For Solomon, which demons but his 72 will accuse him. Asmodeus and Barbatos, whether they want it or not, will accuse Solomon on that dreadful day, pulling him down to Hell with them.

I guess I gotta make a separate Masterlist for this topic. Guess I’ll talk about Simeon’s case next.

TAGLIST

@sparkbeast20 saw your comment in the reblog on the previous post so I tagged you to clarify Solomon’s case

#obey me #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me solomon #omswd solomon #om! shall we date #om! solomon