#if you think harmony is a cult then was he raised in a cult within a cult?!?!

[hundredsspoons]

Nice Wizard of Oz reference

But seriously, Sunday had me rolling my eyes the whole story like he really was just spouting a bunch of religious drivel based on unprovable historical assumptions, fallacies, emotional extremes.... but that was the point, wasn't it? I don't want to say Sunday wasn't at fault here, because he is an adult and clearly extremely capable, but he was groomed from a very young age by Wood to be the sacrifice for Order. Wood picked up these orphans without any outside connections to raise, and even turned the simple act of finding a wounded bird into a lesson about the pointlessness of ambition (and thus the necessity for order). As the apparent(?) highest authority in Penacony, Wood no doubt played a crucial role in Sunday becoming a notpriest early in his career, where he learned about the dark underside of Penacony's dream economy, and then the head of the Oak Family. After the person closest to him left Penacony, Wood used it as an opportunity to isolate Sunday further from Robin by revealing how she was hiding her injury, (thus instilling the idea that she lies to Sunday/Wood tells Sunday the truth/the world is dangerous for Robin and needs Order). There's no way in my mind NO WAY that Wood thought for a SECOND that Sunday would let Robin become the chord master and trap herself for eternity in complete isolation. He was forcing a false binary where it HAD to be either Robin or him. And since Sunday couldn't let that happen to his sister, it had to be him. If Wood had genuinely wanted Robin to be the chord master, he could have easily trained her like he trained Sunday to embrace the Order, but there's no evidence that he so much as breathed a word to her about it.

I really love how Penacony has played around with the relationship between Christianity and consumerism and the cultishness of both, but like. I was interested in my own reaction because. I sympathized with Sunday's turmoil over the inequality of freedom and his obvious love for his sister, but I didn't really like him? His arguments were tired, his perspective was limited- frankly I found him kind of annoying. But yeah, that's because he was absolutely raised in a cult. And I didn't like him because he was saying and doing extreme things without any flexibility. Like a cult member. I had assumed that he was represented by the crow/raven in official art, but now that we know that's Wood, it means that Sunday is probably Also represented by the caged bird? And what an interesting concept. That the victim is mistaken for the abuser/manipulator. Because Wood hides behind the curtain while Sunday stands center stage espousing the unlikeable nonsense Wood has instilled in him. And thus takes all the heat. Of course, applying the label of Victim(tm) to Sunday would be really reductive; there's no denying he did horrible things, but like I really want to reflect on how my immediate reaction to his situation was kind of like, 'Who would be stupid enough to believe this nonsense?' instead of having any compassion or thoughtfulness about the wider context.

And I wouldn't be surprised if Sunday Did Know that Wood was doing all this. Like Sunday confronts him near the end, but I think Wood's teachings about the Order were just so engrained at that point that Sunday felt like he had independently come to the conclusion that Order was needed even if he knew Wood had been training him for this moment all along.

It's also interesting considering Sunday's thoughts on the strong and the weak. He views himself as someone strong enough to guide all of Penacony towards a perfect paradise and believes he has a responsibility to protect the weak from themselves and the harshness of reality, but Wood clearly singled him out as a vulnerable person. Firstly, because he was an orphan obviously, but Wood could have chosen to groom Robin instead. He knew that Sunday was the more susceptible child to his teachings of Order.

#if you think harmony is a cult then was he raised in a cult within a cult?!?! #cultception.... #honkai star rail #honkai star rail spoilers #hsr spoilers #star rail spoilers

[whalesforhands]

it exists only here

geto suguru holds onto your ghost in the trivial silence of the night.

HBD GETO SUGURU

“Geto-sama, you have an audience with an Amano Kiriko and her father in approximately 30 minutes.”

The cult leader doesn’t say a word, the stalk of pink carnation getting nicked a little too close to its petals for his comfort, his pruning shears threatening the beauty of the flora in his hand.

He thought he had it this time.

Now it’s too short. The osmanthus flowers he had spent so much time intricately placing together will go to waste… Dumb rocks and leaves that took way too long to work in harmony with each other. He sighs, frustration coursing through his tensed arms whilst staring down at the already ruined flower despite the beauty it still retained. It just didn’t fit in well with the image he had in mind. So beautiful, yet so useless now.

Should he just redo it? Amethyst orbs follow the stalk up to where it’s now currently being held up to the hanging lamp light, whiffs of its sweet scent reaching his nose as he glares. He ponders and ponders, his eyes closing to savour the fragrance.

So sweet.

“Tell Amaya-san we’re postponing. I’m busy.” Can’t you see how preoccupied he is with this? It obviously takes precedence over some worthless monkey.

A little more suffering won’t do them any harm.

The silence drags, yet Manami Suda does not break the tense stillness any further, does not even correct her superior on his mispronunciation. What use is there for him to remember a mere monkey’s name?

“Understood, Geto-sama. I will move your meeting back by 40 minutes.” She bows low, her gaze kept towards the ground before she turns on her heel and makes her way out, shiny hair bouncing with every step as she makes it a point to close the door behind her as gently, as silently possible.

It seems that her handsome boss is having one of those days again.

A quiet creak of his door and heel clicks that disappear with distance until they were no more.

It’s now that he realizes he’s alone again, silently staring down at the blush pink of the petals in his hand. He twirls the stalk over and over between his fingers as the silence stretches and stretches. It overwhelms him, his thoughts just a little too loud in the blaring quietude.

“Suguru, you don’t look well.” A warm hand against his forehead, your worried gaze and a soft voice. Touch shifting away and making him nearly chase after your comfort.

(Just for a little longer.)

“Have you been eating properly?” You’re sad, lips downturned into a frown that makes him regret ever looking so gaunt— So weak. He wants to placate you, wants to assure you.

“I’m fine—“

“Nope!” An interruption of an all too boisterous voice, lanky arms immediately hooking around both of you as you’re both pulled towards an all too excited Satoru. “So what say we go out and treat him some good ol’ soba?”

His head is starting to hurt again. A grit of his teeth and shears clattering onto the wooden table, frustrated sigh and slumping of his shoulders to ease this tension within his body. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to feel so… Bad.

It’s only then that his hands reach for the book that was upon the chabudai he sat at, trembling fingers finally making contact with the old paper, the slightly frayed pages easing the stress in his mind, the roar in his ears.

His fingers would trace well-worn, yellowed pages of an all too old shoujo manga, familiar pages that had a noticeable dent in them from how beloved they were by the previous owner. It takes him back, makes his hands reach into traces of the past. Away from this headache inducing present, away from his pain.

“There you are. I bought those famous Kiyoken shumai—“ He freezes in his tracks, his eyes widening and eyebrows raising in shock and worry when he chanced upon your teary gaze, your expression akin to a deer caught in headlights as you look at him with shiny, gemlike eyes and tears that had already spilled, rolling down your embarrassed cheeks.

He takes only a moment to recover, only silently walking forward to plop the plastic bag onto the dining table, giving you a quick once-over before patting your head, as you squeak in stunned surprise, his hand combing down your hair gently before he turns on his heel, steps heavy, quick and a threatening smile upon his face. He starts cracking his knuckles for good measure, his aura flaring into one of intimidation as he gets ready to beat a certain someone up.

“I’ll kill him.”

“S-Suguru— Wait! It’s not Satoru’s fault!” You’re already up on your feet, running to intercept him and grabbing onto his arm, using all your strength to hold him back as you feel your socked feet start to drag across the floor, his strength uninhibited by your attempt.

An innocent, accusatory lilt of his voice as he stops, turning to face you. “Oh? I don’t feel very merciful today—“

“I was crying because of a manga!” Blurted out with a shameful, humiliated voice, your arms hugging his one to your chest even tighter. Your eyes are squeezed shut as your face burns and burns with growing mortification that makes you want to curl up and die and possibility cry even more.

And that calms him down in an instant.

That memory still makes him chuckle, a hand under his chin as his eyes blink at the imagery formed in his head. Mindless flipping of the pages causes him to land on a scene that’s been bookmarked far too many times. He knows this line by heart.

“Till the stars fall down and empty from the sky—“ You sniffle, cutting yourself off and letting Suguru dab the tears treading down your cheeks as you don’t even try to resist, or even pull away from his thoroughly amused self.

“I-It’s just so romantic, okay…?!”

“Hmm?” His smile only seems to grow wider as he leans forth, handkerchief is abandoned in favour of using his thumb, gently tapping at the tears forming again in the corner of your eyes to tease you. “I wouldn’t really know if you don’t finish, will I?”

“B-but I’ll just cry—“ You quickly press his abandoned handkerchief to your nose, a sorry attempt at trying to drag your expressions away to quell the burning shame of having to face him. “Way more, Suguru…!”

“Cry all you want then.” His hand goes to hold your cheek, settling your face in his hand and chuckling as he pats your head, smiling softly, gently, warmly at the way you’re starting to bawl even harder somehow. “I’ll be here to wipe your tears away for you.”

A lock of his hair flitters in front of him, breaking him out of his nostalgic trance as a breeze blows in, as if caressing the strands with tender curiosity. A hand reaches up to thoughtlessly twirl it, amaranth eyes finally opening to bring himself back to reality.

Should he cut his hair soon?

“Suguru, you cut it?!” Satoru holds the boy’s face in his hands, shaking him back and forth and whining his disappointment. “Whyyyyyy?! How could you do that to our beautiful hair?!”

“Our…? Satoru, last I checked it was attached to my scal—“

“No…”

You’re devastated as you sat behind him, fingers slotted inbetween smooth strands that have now been slashed into shortened locks, trampling on your dreamy imagery of his gorgeous hair, your arms hugging around his waist from behind as your face buries into his shoulder to weep for the loss of his beauty.

“Our pretty hair…”

“…aren’t you both being a little overdramatic?”

He feels his heart shake, an ache that yearned to be eased when he opens his eyes to realize that he’s all alone. No matter how far those memories seemed to be, whenever he closed his eyes… It always seemed to be filled with an image of those precious days.

Steadying himself with a sigh and getting up onto his socked feet, he stretches his arms and lets his joints pop.

He should stop thinking about these things.

——

It’s fun.

Geto Suguru is having fun. A stutter in his chest, a fleeting feel in his heart as he exchanged blows. Different from those other students, so similar to that certain someone. Dodging, parrying, summoning, running, bleeding.

So fast. So purposeful in every hit, so unnatural, so talented.

Okkotsu Yuuta was the perfect sorcerer. A curse technique with so much potential, an aura of budding, endless possibilities. Why, oh, why does he still stand with the lesser beings, the lesser race?

His wooden clogs skid across concrete as he stands his ground, a smirk of condemnation and displeasure evident as he spits out a mouthful of blood and metallic ire.

He’ll show him. Show this boy the disparity of their power, the difference in their leagues of playing field as he wipes the remnants of crimson off his mouth, the stinging bruise upon his cheek from where he was bunched pulsating with an urge to destroy. To conquer.

“Cursed Spirit Manipulation: Supreme Art,” A taunting point of his finger upwards, crazed grin upon his face. Bear witness to his overwhelming strength, to his irrepressible supremacy. He doesn’t need anything else when he’s drunk off of power. “Uzumaki.”

Swirling black and daunting shadows form at his fingertip, echos of screams and damned cries of the beasts he’s consumed billowing within.

“Okkotsu,” His face is in a state of a proud, manic insanity, shivers of lustful victory trembling his bones. “I’m glad I could kill you before you managed to fully wield Orimoto Rika.”

This is it. Geto Suguru’s victory, the beginning of the end for this Jujutsu Society. Once this boy dies, he will absorb the Queen of Curses, he will be strong enough to finally change this wretched world for the better.

Would he be satisfied then? Would he finally feel that he’s avenged—

Okkotsu Yuuta doesn’t say a word, a shining determination in his gaze as his back is turned to his enemy, a tentative hand upon the curse that followed him as he called her name. The name of the girl he had known, had loved all this time.

“Rika.” A small whisper into the cursed being’s supposed ear. “I’ll give you everything,” A breath is taken. “My body, my heart, my soul…”

Geto Suguru wants to feel disgusted at the sight.

“I love you, Rika.”

The light hits the silver of the young boy’s ring, metal glinting and catching the attention of the cult leader who was kind enough to let that poor kid say his final words.

“Thank you for always protecting me.” It’s odd, repulsive, Suguru thinks as his ears catch wind of those sugary sweet lines. How warm those words feel, how they’re said with such a bittersweet mirth, how it’s almost like it resembles your—

“Suguru.” Your voice is quiet, your presence a fading comfort as he barely feels it within this empty room.

He feels a phantom warmth, a non-existent touch lightly caressing his cold, gaunt face. A contact that he doesn’t want to let up as his hands reach up only to feel nothingness and an unbearable lurch of his throat.

An aftertaste weighs heavy on his tongue, like a rag that had been used to wipe up vomit. Ringing in his ears as his nose feels clogged, nigh unbreathable. Does it even matter if he doesn’t reply? Will it matter if he tries to will away that distorted voice of yours?

Geto Suguru sees red, sees looming metal doors, hears the thundering jeers of a cult, hears a scream of your name, feels the building terror and anguish of his heart in full.

Feels like he doesn’t know why you’re here now.

Think, Suguru. Why are you of all people appearing right in this crucial moment? What do you want? What are you trying to do? What are you trying to say?

If you had one thing to say to him right now, what would it be?

“Thank you for falling in love with me.”

A sharp intake of air to snap himself out of it, the odd chorus of Yuuta’s voice and yours mixing and mashing up in his head, his pupils dilating and finally focusing back into the battle at hand. It isn’t like him to lose his focus like this. Isn’t like him to get so distracted by a haunting thought.

“Aren’t you quite the player, Okkotsu Yuuta?” His words end on an annoyed growl, a building temper to supplement the forgotten rage in his heart.

But this is what he wants, isn’t it?

“That’s rude.” Okkotsu Yuuta is deadpan, his face set in a tone of utmost sincerity and seriousness.

“This is true love.”

And Geto Suguru wonders if that’s what went wrong as he gets swallowed by an explosion of pink and white.

——

Geto Suguru thought he would at least go out with more grace. A little more flair, in a burst of Hollow Purple or a deep Red.

But not like this.

Not with his back against an alleyway wall, slid down to the ground in pathetic defeat, not whilst he’s missing an arm, bleeding out and searingly painful.

Not while Gojo Satoru stares him down like that in his final moments.

“You’re late,” He just can’t help the smile on his face that forms as his voice traces those beloved words after far too long. “Satoru.”

An exchange of words, their conversation that took place. From the safety of Suguru’s newfound family, to the battle with Satoru’s students… Suguru realizes that what was once his cold, hardened heart was starting to stir with nostalgia, a flutter in his chest that makes him want to get lost in this conversation for just a bit longer; even if the expression on Satoru’s face was blank, empty.

Even if he never smiled at him anymore.

So he takes his time, drawing out each word and sentence and mindless thought that had been churned into a flitter in his stomach that makes him think that it isn’t so bad to be on the losing end.

That it isn’t so bad that this is his end.

And when all was said and done, it goes silent. Comfortingly so in this bitter atmosphere that makes him forget about the stale iron in his mouth and his defeated heart that had nothing left to hide.

It’s hard to say that Geto Suguru was satisfied just yet.

“Do you… Still think I’m a good person?” It’s sudden, a taboo scab nobody, not even Geto himself had wanted to pick at. A wound that never quite gelled over. But— It’s fine because it’s here. It’s fine because it’s right now. Because these trivial, meaningless conversations are what make him feel whole, make him find meaning amongst all his doubt.

“Yeah.” A pause as the honoured one takes in a breath, the squeezing of his palms into tight fists as his glowing eyes begin to soften to shimmery radiance. “I bet she would still think so too.”

That’s not true. Geto Suguru feels, knows it just cannot be, no matter how much his broken heart yearns to believe it. It’s for that reason that he finally lets out a laugh, eyes turning into crescents to match his satisfied smile.

“I killed tons of innocent people, you know?”

There’s no way you would ever look at him the same way.

“You can go and ask her personally, then.” Gojo Satoru sounds so steady, so confident and brazen with his threat; that it sounds like a consolation to Geto Suguru, that it leaves him in utter disbelief at the man’s faith in him, his belief that a damned person like him would ever get to reunite with the likes of you.

Though, it brings him peace in this moment.

“Maybe I will.” It’s his final reassurance, stemming from a hope that he gets to be together with you once more, a last solace for his painful, aching soul in the silence that follows after.

“It’s disappointing, Satoru.”

His eyes blink as he leans his head back against the grimy wall, letting out a breath to soothe the staggering gnawing at his conscience. “That I couldn’t wear a heartfelt smile in this world anymore.”

Not when it turned out like this.

A beat passes, and yet another as Suguru finally feels his body beginning to crumble, vision starting to blur as he starts to see brightness in his dimming eyes. It’s okay. It’s okay now because—

It’s over.

He sees his beloved squat down, coming down onto this pitiful level to meet eyes with him. What is he—

Sincere blue to fading purple, parting lips that start mouthing words that he didn’t think he deserved to hear. He knows that goodbyes are bitter, that he’ll never be ready enough to hear them.

That he’ll never be able to accept that you’re gone.

Yet, even as it reaches into his ears, he didn’t expect the weight, the pressure that makes the tiniest semblance of regret swirl in his heart, slowly realized into a wish that he could rewind time to hear Satoru’s voice that teeters upon a breaking sorrow once more. Just one more time.

“We’ll meet again, right?”

Geto Suguru can only laugh, letting amusement enshroud his expression as his neck cranes towards the light in which his one and only Gojo Satoru shrouded. It’s so stupid, so in character for someone like him.

“At least curse me a little at the end.”

This is how he wants to go. There’s nothing else he wants to long for now… Not the Queen of Curses, not the utter desire to destroy non-sorcerers, not the bloodthirsty revenge and grudge he held against the Jujutsu system— He just wants to feel at peace from the hands of his other half.

This is it.

“Take care of her until I get there.” Wherever you both end up, his final message and blessing from just Satoru to just Suguru. A responsibility given to him that Gojo hopes comes true. All because he hopes it’s peaceful where you both were, that it relieves you both of the hope that made you hurt more.

Suguru’s parting smile is bittersweet, a blush upon his face as enchanting purple finally hide away, finally put to rest with the last of his cursed energy dissipating. A ‘goodbye’ is something he’s no good at, a ‘see you later’ far too unfulfilling. He wishes he could find kinder words as he lets his heart speak his truth, breathed out in a whisper so tender.

“Don’t be late again, Satoru.”

previous next

Notes:

Pink carnations: I’ll never forget you.

Osmanthus flowers: True love.

‘Till the stars fall down and empty from the sky, if you’re with me then everything’s alright.’ - Everything’s Alright from To the Moon (nvy’s favourite game)

#dyf au #jjk x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk angst #geto angst

[tintentrinkerin]

nothing on my tongue but hallelujah...

Rating: Explicit

Pairing:

Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles, Jared/various, Jared/Alex Calvert

Warnings: 

Gangbang, Barebacking, Jealousy, Top Jared Padalecki, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Religious Cults, Power Dynamics

Summary: Jared's Cult, the "Church of Grace" is a peaceful and harmonic little community in the South. Then young Jensen appears and rocks the Cult leader's world - moreoever, it rattles Alex awake, who's been sure to be his leader's most loved member.

Written upon request

Word Count: 9.9k

Read below the cut or on AO3

Kudos are love <3

The Divine Five Pillars of “Church of Grace”

Obedience

Purity

Community

Free Love

Kindness

The “Creed”

I believe in God, the Father and the Almighty,

who created the world, the people, the seas, the animals and the trees.

I believe in God’s son, who is his true Vicar on Earth

For he brings joy, love, community, kindness and hope. 

I reject the Devil and his kin. I turn my whole existence to 

the true Vicar of the Holy Father. 

I hereby swear to follow the five divine rules of the Church

and give myself into the hands of God’s most graceful creation.

May He and God’s Angels lead me into Paradise.

Amen.

2 Corinthians 11:13-15 

For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds.

Siddharta Gautama

Through true honesty deeply believe that all sentient-beings are one.That all beings have the same true nature, wisdom, virtue.

If people knew how much effort it took to get an orgy going, they probably wouldn’t even bother and settle for porn instead. 

Jared and Alex had to plan every monthly “gathering” very thoroughly, especially, when new recruits and adepts arrived. The new boys and girls would maybe chicken out at first, but that wouldn’t be punished. Later, yes. At their first time? No. Jared was very kind to those he found. In other communities they’d be punished right on spot. But Jared, no no, he wasn’t that barbaric. He wanted everyone to feel happy and included. Everyone had to use the headquarter’s communal showers or baths after they had an extensive cleansing plan, to purify their body and also a very intense work out session. All for purity’s sake. Jared loves purity. 

The garden behind the Church of Grace’s headquarters was around 400 acres, enough space to celebrate free love, the holy spirit within all of us, and most importantly, worship the true Vicar of God on Earth. Forget Jesus. 

Jared was pleased when he saw his usual very busy adepts who were about to be initiated in the second step of Priesthood. They were so eager and they had a fantastic taste in decorating. There will be a bonfire, it’s May 1st after all, one of Jared’s favorite dates for a gathering. Pagans used to celebrate Beltane, well, they still do. In tiny groups, the Wiccans and the Druids. He has no affiliations with them, but as a shepherd of his sheep he needs to be informed. Wise. He wants to be the one who can answer all their questions, give interpretations. His interpretations. His view of the world. And in his world, only his Church will bring them peace and harmony and closer to God’s grace and mercy. 

The bonfire wood is piled right in the center of the garden, the part of the garden that members are allowed to see and walk on. Around the bonfire a lot of big wooden logs are placed for the followers of Jared to sit on. As soon as the fire burnt down a little bit and some chalices of holy wine were emptied and some delicious weed was consumed, the orgy might start. Jared will let the believers start first. There’s always a couple or a single horny person that will start wooing a person of their interest. Jared will join later, when the ecstasy is palpable and the adepts play the drums, letting the mass of naked bodies find their rhythm. Behind the huge pile for the bonfire, there’s Jared’s seat. A massive chair made of dark wood, polished, carvings all over. Still a thing someone could find a little too pagan, but Jared doesn’t care. The truth is what he speaks, not the others. And the truth is, that people still are just the same as in the early Middle Ages. The same things struck them with awe, and it’s not churches in white marble and Jesus hanging from crosses. Nature and it’s forces, the hidden desires. Intimate, primal and authentic. That’s his motto. No nude angel chiseled out of porcelain will make people feel this kind of raw euphoria and devotion as a bonfire and some drums do. Let the drums shake their cores and make their blood rage. This is how you make people feel their primal truth, and then, they’ll realize why doing this once a month is so freeing. They will get back to work, back to Jared’s mass, satisfied and their needs soothed. Then they will happily obey, stay pure, pray and make the community itself a functional unit of people with the same values.

And their money. It’s always gonna end up in such a community running itself, on donations, the members’ money and other things. 

When the sun sets, the members of the community sit down on the wooden banks or logs, or they bring a white towel to sit on. Jared counts the members and everyone is there. Alex sits beside Jared’s chair, obeissant. 

The white flowy cult dresses start billowing in the wind. Jared sits down on his chair, with a graceful flowing movement. He’s dressed in white too, linen, see through even when dry. When he sits all the heads turn to him. In the twilight of the remaining sunbeam, you could think, Jared just descended from heaven. He likes that idea. He raises his arms and in his strong, rough voice he proclaims “Brothers, sisters, it’s time for our monthly celebration. You cleansed your bodies, you prayed and did good service to the community. Now is the time to reward you, my brothers and sisters. Let’s have the holy communion, break bread and offer it to your neighbours, offer wine to your friends. Connect.” There’s faint applause and Jared puts his hand down. “No need to applaud, my dear sister, tonight, we celebrate you and your devotion and purity!”

He turns to Alex, dressed in white linen trousers. “Brother Alex will light  the fire and then, brothers and sisters, enjoy the bread and wine, let your spirits flow and find your matches for tonight!”

The crowd cheers and they end the chorus with a loud and enthusiastic “Amen!”

“Amen!”Jared echoes and his voice layers upon everything else.

When he sits down and Alex lights up the fire he watches all these people, the four new recruits. A young cute redhead girl, she looks like condensed sunshine - a young boy, looks like he’s here because the redhead is here (he’d be weeded out tonight) - another redhead, looking fierce. A snake. He might take a closer look at her - and then, there is Green Eyes. The boy that Jared picked himself. Usually one of his lower assistants would pick them but this time, Jared had to intervene. He needed these assistants to weed out the no go’s just before Jared could even see them. He couldn’t check on every person willing to join, they needed to make a first sighting and then the few ones who might be of Jared’s interest, would be invited to meet the True Vicar himself. Usually, that was 10 out of 200 or even less. And Jared was just as rigorous with ditching the foul seeds. But Green Eyes was his favorite all along. Those eyes… 

Alex breaks the loaf of bread and offers it to Jared. Of course, he’s on his knees and only looks up when Jared takes the half of the loaf and gives him his blessing.

“May you be blessed by our Lord and his Angels,” Jared says very formally. Alex looks up, his face has tiny sprinkles of ash on them already and his robe turned transparent from the sweat. He’s decent. Will he try as the first one today? Like always? 

“May you be blessed by your Father, Our Lord and his Angels,” Alex replies until Jared gestures to him to stay up. 

“Amen.” 

“Amen.”

Jared eats and then receives the wine from Alex too. That’s a golden rule. As his personal assistant, Alex receives the blessings from Jared. Just after him, anyone is able to be blessed by their Master. They share half of the bread, they will need the rest later. In this community it is not necessary to receive Jared’s blessing to consume the holy communion as his liberal practice says that any true believer in their community, on one of the 12 holy days of their community “gathering”, can offer and receive blessings from a brother or a sister. Jared’s happy about that, because blessing 120 people would make him pass out drunk and he can’t have that. He is in control. And he needs to stay in control, too. 

Around him, the wine, the food are eaten and some herbal cigarettes are lit, the thick smell of weed is everywhere. Four cult members responsible for music start playing the drums and flutes now. Quietly still, just a hint that soon, the gathering will start with their original purpose. The physical and mental connection of the members with each other. Jared can already see people who are done eating, wine tipsy and a little herbally relaxed. Hands wander under togas and robes, simple shirts and wide hippie trousers. Alex stays with Jared, looking down on the obedient sheep doing what they’re supposed to do. The fabric in his crotch is tenting. One look in Alex’ face tells Jared everything.

“You won’t give up, huh?”

Alex shakes his head. “No. I will never give up.”

Jared now stands up and stretches like a cat that has just awoken and now is on their way to do some mischief. “Boy, all of you try so hard, but none of you can take it.”

“It’s about receiving your mercy,” Alex says, now sounding a little sulky. 

Jared heads towards the bonfire where some couples (or more) are intertwined with each other, laying on the bare grass, sitting on logs or they found a nice spot on the white towels everyone brought. Right in the center, around the fireplace, it is too hot to sit there. Jared makes his rounds, ruffles some hair here, kisses a girl there, even helps a young girl settle on her lover’s cock.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he coos, “that’s how you show your love and devotion.”

She would be too tight and small for him though. All the women here would surely love to try again and again, but none of them would be prepared for his cock. 

When he is done doing rounds around the bonfire he sits down on an empty white blanket and just like it’s natural, the free members gather around him. The drums start playing a hard and catchy rhythm. 

The psychology behind music and rhythm. His members really know how to play a mass of people and put their bodies in the right directions. Alex joins and everyone respects Jared’s assistant too much to try and get Jared before him. In absolute devotion, Alex pulls Jared’s white linen pants down to his naked ankles, then off his naked feet. The participants murmur and gasp, such a delight every time. Jared didn’t wear boxer briefs or anything else underneath and so, everyone can admire his massive cock. It’s big, the erection growing strong and hard and the tip bounces against Jared’s toned six pack, above his belly button. Even Alex with his long filigrane and very skilled fingers can’t wrap around the shaft fully. 

They all watch, not even Alex dares to touch him yet. 

“You. Alex. Claire. You were such a good team last time. Would you show me how perfectly you harmonize?”

The blonde girl blushes deep red and Alex first raises an eyebrow. It’s clear who he wants, but he would never deny one of Jared’s commands. And that’s what it is. A command. 

Alex pushes Claire on all fours, one strong hand in her hair and presses her down while he sucks on two of his fingers and then penetrates her with them. She squeals and giggles, but before Alex fucks her he knows he has to give his true interest a show, and he will. While fingering her he presses his face between her buttcheeks and starts sucking. The scene gets very loud with pleasure noises very soon and another guy asks to accompany them. 

Jared supports himself with one arm and the other he uses to stroke his cock, throbbing and hot, he loves it when his followers put on such a show. He’s leaking some precum already and a boy next to him looks at it. Greedy and inexperienced. Jared doesn’t let him taste yet, and instead the nameless boy bends down to kiss Jared’s very muscular thighs. Another follower starts doing the same on the other side, everything with Jared stroking himself slowly. He wants to enjoy every minute of it. His toes are sucked on, submissive followers suck them like it’s his massive member. The first brave adepts gather around them too and Jared can’t help but smile. People stroke his hair, kiss his neck and leave their marks, but what Jared really needs is someone taking his cock like a champion. He knows he’s intimidating. Thick and lock, and even grows bigger when hard. The first adept who is bold enough to come forward is very much welcome. He has himself oiled pretty well, he smells flowery and when he sinks on Jared’s cock (just the tip!), he freezes. 

“Oh… God”, he hisses, “oh my f… so big…” Jared smirks, his hands on the twink boys hips. Such a beautiful boy, Jared would love to fuck him and fill him up, but it looks like he is already failing at the tip. 

“Go slow, my dear,” Jared says nonetheless. A guru can hope. 

Two hands on his shoulders push the boy farther down and he cries out, half in pleasure, but also in pain. The hands disappear and the young man on Jared’s cock looks like he’s about to cry. 

“It’s too much for you, hm?”

The boy nods and gets up, legs shaking. You can tell he never had a guy fuck his ass before, bonus points for using oil as lube. He might try again after he gets used to it with another cult member. He stammers an apology. Jared pulls him down for a second and presses his thumb on the boy’s forehead. 

“I bless you, brother.”

It’s a ritual, it’s a necessity, or the boy will maybe consider leaving. But most of the boys, like Alex, stay close to Jared and try it again and again and again. Some people are overachievers, maybe one day it will be successful. 

The boy mumbles an Amen and then strolls away, looking for another group he can find a place in. Jared still feels the tight ass of this boy and, damn, how much he loves it when they’re tight, maybe an anal virgin even, and he’s the first to fuck them. Another brother sucks him off, but  he also has trouble swallowing more of Jared’s wand than just the tip. His sucking is superb, ambitious even. Drool runs down his throbbing cock, damn, he even makes delicious sounds! Jared’s head falls back and he wishes he could blow his first load, but all these attempts of his followers just leave him just ‘almost coming. The man takes him deeper now but is interrupted by heavy gagging and he has to give up. Now it’s Alex who claims to be next. Alex is the kind of guy who acts like a passionate lover with anyone, even though he only craves  Jared’s attention. He’s open and gaping already, must've gotten into a very nice threeway with Kathryn and the other member. Alex sinks on Jared’s cock, his back pressed against Jared’s sweaty chest. Alex is able to take more than just Jared’s tip after extensive dilating practice or when he’s been fucked already by two or more of his brothers of the Church, but that leaves Jared only semi turned on, too. He feels loose, not as tight as when he tried it the first time and cried for several minutes because Jared’s dick almost tore him apart. It’s enough to make Jared cum and bless Alex with an intense prostate orgasm, but still Jared is not satisfied. When Alex leaves and some others follow him to the pool, he sits down again, crotch still throbbing, his need still not satisfied. Around him the orgy is at its peak, no one is alone by now, everyone is sharing their love and energies. Jared is gifted, his cock is ready again five minutes later and he mounts that ginger woman, the adept. But she winces when he’s halfway in and Jared has to pull out. She’s biter and a scratcher, her thick accent is sexy and he makes her cum multiple times with his tongue and fingers, but he holds back now, he waits for the perfect one. Someone to form a union with. A tight one, but skilled and resilient. A man that can take his cock and even if it hurts a little, push through. 

Jared sinks down on one of the blankets, lies down and stares in the clear starry night, a follower brings him a pillow and others massage his thighs and arms, his feet. God, yes, his feet are so sensitive. Another guy shyly asks if he may be of service and when Jared opens his eyes and looks up it’s Green Eyes. He hasn’t seen the boy since the beginning of the orgy. Jared immediately hikes up and shoos his other followers away. 

“Sure, sit with me.”

The boy with the forbidden pretty pouty lips, the rough voice and piercing green eyes sits down, facing the self proclaimed Vicar of God.

“You want to be of service, what was your name again? I’m sorry that I have to ask, I am terrible with names – most people change theirs after initiation anyway and that’s what stays in my memory.”

Green Eyes looks at him. “I’m Jensen.”

“Hello Jensen. I’m glad you came to our monthly free love gathering. Is that the kind of religious practice you seek?” 

A girl offers them some bread and a chalice of wine, plus some mushrooms on the side.

“It would be an honor, Jensen, to break the bread and drink the wine with you. Mushrooms are not mandatory if you’re allergic to that kind.”

Jensen grins and echoes the girl’s “amen” and gives her a smile. It’s gotten a bit quiet around them, some followers watch Jared and his new recruit very, very closely. 

“I don’t want to break the protocol, who is supposed to break the bread and offer it?” Jensen asks with a shy grin. Jared chuckles.

“We do not have a strict protocol, not on these special nights when we celebrate freedom and harmony. And free love. When we surrender to our primal instinct, you understand?”

Jensen nods seriously. “Yes, I get that.”

He rips off a piece of loaf then a second and offers one to Jared without the ceremonial motto. Jared ignores that (at least today) and receives the bread. “May you be blessed by our Lord and his Angels,” he says, presses his thumb on Jensen’s forehead and mumbles an “Amen”. Jensen echoes again, then takes a bite. When he’s done Jared offers him the wine with the same motto, and this time Jensen copies it, even though the Vicar is addressed during that sentence with “May you be blessed by your Father, our Lord and his Angels”. He will learn that, Jared will make sure of it. 

No one dares to come any closer after they’ve been offered shrooms, bread and wine. Some couples, or whole piles of copulating people don’t care what’s around them but some very devoted followers of Jared’s doctrine watch their Messiah and the new man very closely. Some are envious. Some are in awe of these two beautiful men sharing the body of Jesus Christ (strictly speaking Jared’s ‘brother’, just a few thousand years earlier) in such a manner. Jared’s tanned body glistens in the light and sparks of the bonfire and his hair started curling a little lately. Several people’s eyes turn wet. Given the beauty of their leader. Or given the fact there’s a new boy in town. And this boy is too pretty for his own good.

II

The wine is dry and aromatic, nothing you would just chug down and Jensen and Jared empty four chalices which are refilled by a maid that was brave enough to disturb her leader and the new recruit. It’s gotten chill and the bonfire shrinks and shrinks, some members of the Church try to revive it for a little longer and throw thick and heavy branches on it, along with brushwood that would burn easily and then transfer the fire over to the branches.

Just like in the 16th up to the 18th century – this is how you build a pyre to burn witches.

Jensen carefully, even a little shy now, lays a hand on Jared’s leg. The leader is surprised, given his attitude and behaviour he didn’t count on Jensen to take part in the orgy, he seemed more the watching type. The bonfire reflects in his intense green eyes and Jared feels an aching towards his new recruit. 

Now he realizes that Jensen’s white shorts are tenting. The way he looks up at Jared, through his thick blonde eyelashes it’s absolutely acting. Jensen is not that shy. Maybe a little. 

“The others told me…” Jensen started, “that I should under no circumstances give in to your… advances. You would, how did they say… tear me apart…? I wonder why…”

Jared snorts as an answer. Amused. His followers keep saying this to either see if someone’s brave enough to come forward right in their first few months here or if they’ll chicken out. 

“Well!” He has to laugh again. “Look, I think you’ve… you’ve watched a little without participating in this celebration, right? You’re still dressed, to my dismay!”

Jensen blushes, one hand on his crotch. Now, this reaction is a little more honest. 

“I can, I mean…”

Jared laughs louder now and then lays his hand on Jensen’s, that is covering his erect penis.

“Don’t make it awkward, Jensen, it’s fine. Not many participate in their first orgy and you are not obliged to, either. This is about free love. Father gave us free will for a reason. Because without free will, there is no love on this Earth.” 

There’s one streak of Jensen’s chin long hair, it’s styled but now the hairspray or the gel isn’t working it’s magic anymore. Jared brushes the strand behind Jensen’s ear. He’s closer to the recruit now and Jensen’s hand under his pulls away for the messiah to feel what’s underneath. 

“Regarding your concern about ripping you apart… I would never. But as you can see…”

Jensen’s eyes fixate on Jared’s growing cock and he gulps visibly.

“Yes, I…”, he looks up again, doe eyed and his mouth slightly opened, his pink silky tongue wets his lips. 

“You have the face of an angel, do you know that? I wonder what hides behind that…”

Jared’s voice is low and rough now, he groans when under his fingers Jensen’s cock jumps. 

“Jared, but… what if I can’t--”

“Shush, I’ll prepare you for it. And we have masses of oils. We’ll go slow. Very slow.”

A whisper erupts amongst the witnesses, their leader and idol! – wooing Jensen. A newbie. Some figures in the dark hurry for more oil, whole cans of it, juices, towels and fresh clothes. This is a choreography of duty to care for Jared. Everyone knows this is an occasion they won’t be able to witness that often. So far only one person could take Jared’s cock and fulfill his most aching wish. 

It’s Alex’s now hated duty to bring it all over to the blanket where Jensen climbs in Jared’s lap, panting faintly between two very passionate kisses. There’s fresh bread, more wine, water from the Church’s own well, fresh clothes for both and a big bottle of lube, oil based. It will stain every inch of fabric it’ll meet. Jared doesn’t even look up at him when he retreats, but he throws a ‘thank you’ in his direction. As soon as Alex is out of reach he is forgotten. 

Jared takes his time with this one. His commune members are in such harmony with each other already that prolonged foreplay isn’t necessary, but of course encouraged. Jensen is vocal, moans in their kisses and Jared loves the effort and the devotion he shows already. Jared pulls Jensen’s clothes off and bathes in the glow of this beautiful sight. Jensen’s skin is flawless, soft. It’s a joy touching him. Jensen pulls him in another kiss and arches in the leader’s strong arms - so responsive, in every way! 

“I want to try it,” Jensen then whispers, shakily.

“What exactly?”

“Take you. Suck you.”

Jared chuckles and gets up, pulls Jensen along on his lap. Jensen’s hand is big, he has deliciously thick fingers and Alex would appreciate some good fingering from him. He should introduce these two a little later

Jensen slides between Jared’s legs, who’s supporting himself with his arms to be able to watch Jensen try and gag on his cock. Jared senses some of his sisters and brothers coming closer, silently, to not interrupt them in their exploration ritual. He can’t blame them for being curious, and this is the exact purpose of their monthly gathering. Enjoy each other freely. 

Jensen’s mouth waters and when he opens his lips, a thick streak of drool runs down his face and chin. He doesn’t hesitate to bend down and wrap his lips around Jared’s tip.

A moment of breathless silence from everywhere. 

Jensen. slides. deeper. 

Jared moans and his head falls between his shoulder blades, so that he can see the clear starry night sky.

He will stop now, it’s too much. Oh God it’s too much, he can’t do it, Jared thinks, and then he starts praying Please let him go deeper. 

Jensen’s mouth feels tight, soft, and hot and he produces so much drool, it makes it messy. Perfectly messy. Jared’s head falls foward again and he watches Jensen taking him inch by fucking inch. Jared’s cock disappears in Jensen’s tight throat to the root. Jared stays perfectly still and tries to not even move a hair’s breadth. Jensen’s hand slightly presses on Jared’s stomach and then pulls away slowly. Painfully slowly, while working Jared’s incredibly thick shaft with his tongue. As soon as he’s able to look up to Jared everyone can see streaks of tears in his angelic face and his flushed cheeks. He keeps on working Jared’s tip, circling the bundle of nerves under the tip and then, with a high pitched gasp, pulls away completely.

He looks over to Jared and smiles. “Did I do good?”

Jared nods. It’s been ages since someone took him completely. It takes all of his willpower to not grab in Jensen’s hair and force his mouth down again to suck him off.. and then fuck his recruit’s face. He would gag and whine so pretty…. Jared needs a moment to breathe in and out very deeply, call himself to reason. 

“You are perfect,” he says, his voice shaky. “By the Angels, you are the best.”

Jensen blushes even deeper and looks away. He notices the other believers have gathered around them. Jared combs through his hair. He feels that Jensen now really is shy.. that’s not a show.

“Don’t bother, my dear. They won’t touch you if you don’t want to. I’m here for you and only you. Okay?”

Jensen nods. “So I really did good? Did no one before me take you that deep? I mean it’s a bit tricky but -”

Some of the watchers moan. 

“Did I say something wrong?”

“They all tried, dear. And failed. I guess you just earned yourself a title.”

Some of the watchers lurk in the dark, some are illuminated by the fainting bonfire. The sound of drums is gone. Jared watches Jensen look around and get used to it, after all. Then he turns to Jared and grins.

“I will work to keep the title then…,”

Jared pushes his delicious mouth on his cock again, and yes, fuck, holy fuck YES, Jensen can take him. He takes him so deep that Jared can feel his throat tighten and contract, but he’s not gagging in the bad way. Tears fall and drool runs down his reasonably thick shaft. Jared’s hand grips in Jensen’s hair and pulls. Jensen utters a surprised but pleased moan and keeps going faster and faster. One hand sneaks around Jared’s balls and massages them. Jared’s hips buck up and Jensen needs a break for a second, deep, hectic breathing, his teary eyes, the rest of the bonfire glistens in his eyes. Jared has a hard time holding back his possessive nature when Jensen just worships him like that. Faint and aroused moans around them show Jared that the others enjoy Jensen’s show as well. Some couples even have started fucking. Girls stand close by, rubbing their swollen and wet parts. 

“Look around,” he orders Jensen, “look around, how much love you spark.”

“Your voice… so deep… so much deeper,” Jensen is still fighting for breath. It makes Jared only crazier. 

“That’s you, you do that to me.” 

Jensen’s hand is still stroking him. Jared would be ready to come just now, preferably he’d shoot his massive load right in his throat, but what he wants even more, what’s the source of the deepest aching is the longing to finally be inside someone fully. He wants to ram his cock in Jensen up to the root and make him come first, then Jared could let go. 

“You’re close,” Jensen whispers and presses a kiss on Jared’s lips. “I swallow if you’re into that…”

Jared’s answer is a low and growl. “What I really want…”

“Let me guess… you want to fuck me? Here in front of all these people?”Jensen sounds out of breath, thrilled, over excited. His hands are shaking when he pulls himself on Jared’s lap.

Jared holds him close, his raging, painfully hard cock pressing on Jensen’s asshole. It’s slick from all this spit, but he wouldn’t dare to just enter him now, without warning. Without giving him something to chew on while Jared has to push his way in. 

“Free love. My pleasure is their pleasure,” Jared manages to say. He’s very proud to have that uttered in a manner that makes him seem still in control of himself. 

Jensen laughs quietly and then climbs down Jared’s lap. He stands up. And everyone can take a look at this beautiful body, shaped by God to strike people in awe. His own cock is thick and looks just delicious, Jared might want to get a taste one day, too. Then Jensen turns around and lowers on all fours, his perfectly shaped ass in Jared’s direction, head down, almost submissive. 

“Make your pleasure my pleasure,” he whispers, only Jared seems to hear it. 

Men and women formed a crescent around them now, the opening pointing to the dying fire. Jared licks his lips while he squeezes a very lavish amount of oil in his hand. He doesn’t cover his cock yet, he will help Jensen first. He enters him with one finger and Jensen bucks away first, in surprise but then lowers himself on the finger, starts fucking himself with it. His broken and sweet moans make Jared’s blood boil and also the participants around them start jerking harder. One hand gesture from Jared, and his followers stop. They shouldn’t finish before Jensen does, that’s just and right. 

“More,” Jensen demands, looking behind him with big teary eyes. His pupils are tiny and the iris of a thick and rich green. Jared gives him more. Jensen literally sucks the second finger in and when Jared starts massaging his prostate from outside with his thumb, Jensen cries out, stretching more and swallowing Jared’s long fingers to the root. He gasps tiny “oh god’s” and “fuck’s”. And then Jared isn’t able to hold the urge back and test if Jensen really is what Jared needs. Someone who fits him. He covers his long member with a lot of oil and also spreads generous amounts around Jensen’s anus.

“You think you’re ready, yeah?”

Jensen nods. “Positive.”

He even grabs his buttcheeks and pulls them apart, Jared has perfect sight of his slightly mouthing, dilated hole and all he has to do… He gulps violently, but then places his tip on Jensen’s entrance and sloooowly pushes in. Inch for inch. Jensen has to let go of his buttcheeks and his hands press on Jared’s hips.

“Holy… sh…”, Jensen huffs, “Is swearing even allowed?”

“Too much?”

“It’s a lot, but not too much… fuck…” 

Jensen breathes heavily but slowly, as slowly as Jared goes, his hands don’t push against him anymore and Jared can slide in even deeper. He’s amazed by how Jensen’s hole just swallows him, inch by delicious inch. He’s tight, extremely tight, thanks to the thick oily lube he won’t be hurt. Quite the opposite. Jared pushes in, freezes and rubs over Jensen’s back, soothing him. Jensen doesn’t need that much soothing though, after a few seconds of Jared holding perfectly still and just twothree inches away from going inside all the way he sinks against Jared’s hips, taking him fully with a low, needy moan that seems to last an eternity. 

“Please… move…” he moans, while Jared still holds Jensen’s hips and stares. Just stares in awe.

He really did it.

Jared can’t believe it’s really happening, that he feels so close to someone, again, finally, after such a long time. As he doesn’t start moving, Jensen rolls his hips back and forth, his back stretches and his hands clawing in the blanket. He just fucks himself on Jared’s member, doesn’t wait any longer and the moans he utters are - there is no other word -- they’re downright vulgar. It shows how much he lets go and it washes Jared away, his fingertips dig into Jensen’s hips as he meets his recruit’s pace. Now Jensen cries out, the words and moans just drop from his lips, he wants more, and Jared can feel how greedy he is. 

The audience around them is a choir of pleasure sounds, each of them takes Jared up so high he feels like he’s more than drunk. More than high. He feels like he’s elevating.

“Jared… Harder!” 

Jared fucks him harder. Jensen around him stretches and clenches like he wants to milk him dry, make him cum, but not now. It’s too good to let it end too early, he’s been starved too long and he wants to enjoy every second of fucking this angelic but oh so slutty adept. No one ever met his pace, wanted to be fucked harder and harder, no one asked to be sore, but Jensen does.

His moans are so loud his voice breaks and trails off, chokes on his own sounds. Jared loses it at this point, he grips in Jensen’s glossy hair and pulls him on his knees, closer to his body. Pounding his ass now makes beautiful wet sounds. Jensen leans on Jared’s chest and reaches for the prophet’s ass to push him deeper. And deeper.

“Can’t get enough, huh?”Jared growls, his hand in Jensen’s hair is pulling stronger, the other on Jensen’s hip holds him steady. “Want every inch of me?”

Jensen nods, sobbing. “Yes, never been fucked so good… just how I need --” He can’t even finish the sentence, Jared’s mighty deep thrusts make his voice fade into a cry. “Oh, God!”

Jared needs to slow down just for a bit, give himself time to breathe and hold back the orgasm that’s building up. He’ll shoot a massive load for sure, he wants it to be worth it. He bites Jensen’s neck and feels the violent shudder. They cling onto each other, hands in hair, fingernails scratching and leaving red trails. 

“No, no, don’t stop now… I’m so close,” Jensen huffs, turns his head to Jared, their lips meet and Jared kisses him until both are too breathless, too close to be gentle or patient. 

When Jared picks up his pace again it’s only a matter of a few seconds until Jensen cries out and sinks back on all fours, hiding his face in the blanket. He doesn’t have to touch himself to cum, with a loud and guttural sound he spills. And spills. It’s such a mindblowing orgasm. Everything about it is perfect. Jensen’s moans, how he pulls out handfuls of grass. His clenching asshole around Jared. The amount of cum he splatters on the sheets. Jared bends forward, pulls Jensen’s face up and turns it to the crowd.

“Let them look at you,” he hisses, “share the love.”

And then Jared cums, grunting and thrusting as deep as he can. His cock pumps and pumps masses. He’s never come so hard, so long, so satisfying. For a couple of seconds he doesn’t know anymore where he ends and Jensen begins, that’s how good and intimate it feels. Jensen’s tightness squeezes him tight and makes it impossible to move or pull out. 

Jared collapses on Jensen’s back. He’s dizzy. He needs a moment.

Around them the noises turn from moans to grunts. Heavy breathing. Jared gestures to the watchers to stop jerking. He wants to have Jensen for himself for another moment when he pulls out. Jensen winces underneath him but his face just shows blissful exhaustion. Jared loves to watch his cum pouring out his partner’s holes and it’s no different tonight. Not after this divine intervention. Not after he’s been blessed with such a partner. 

It’s a lot. Jensen turns his head to Jared, his face puffy and red, strands of wet blonde hair on his forehead. And now there’s the hint of a smirk. 

“Did I do well?” he asks.

“I think you know…” Jared replies.

His hand strokes Jensen’s still half hard cock and Jensen moans. So sensitive. Next time, Jared might return the favor and suck that pretty cock.

“Your brothers and sisters want to show you how much they enjoyed watching you.”

Jensen looks around, then back to Jared.

Now the smirk is undeniable. 

“Let ‘em come.”

Jared gets up, his muscular body beaming in the light of the moon and embers of the fire. He feels like he’s about to rise above anything and anyone. This union has given him the deepest peace he could ever feel. He still feels painfully hard and when he looks down he still is. His glossy cock perks up, but he won’t take Jensen a second time and risk really tearing him apart. 

Jensen is on his knees, arms stretched forward like a satisfied lioness, sticking out his freshly bred ass to the audience.

“Children. Time to welcome Jensen in your midst.”

Alex approaches Jared to wash him off with a fresh wet cloth and a sponge while the others gather around Jensen. No one touches the recruit, after Jared united with him, but he will be showered in attention and much more.

Two days later, Jensen is still a bit sore. 

He didn’t sleep much on the night of the celebration, he’s been too hyped, too high from the rush of alcohol, adrenaline and sex. Especially the sex. He can still feel Jared’s massive pole in his ass and everytime he gives in to the memory he shudders and feels his white robe tent. 

Everything in this commune is white. The community houses in which the members live, white. The Church, white. Jared’s residence, white. The only thing that seems to be different is the massive wooden chair in which Jared sat during the celebration and watched his followers unify. 

The blankets are white, the towels, the plates. Purity is an important pillar of this group, and everyone who’s not familiar with the customs might argue that collective orgies aren’t really pure, but Jensen knows better already. Purity is based on keeping your body healthy. The diet here isn’t vegan, but the community has their own farm. 120 people need food and water. Most of them live and work here. On the farm where vegetables and fruits are grown seasonally, or they take care of the cattle, pigs and chickens. Others help keep the houses intact. 

Days are warm, the nights are pitchblack, there’s a lake and a river closeby. Women wash the clothes of the community. There is no “mine” and “yours” in the Church. There is only “we” and “us” and “our”. 

Jensen has his own room, because the morning after the orgy, after the morning prayers and morning sports, in the great hall at breakfast, Jared proclaimed that Jensen was indeed heaven sent. Chosen by the Angels. That makes him special enough to have his own room for a while and it helps him acclimate in this environment. Most new members need that. They come from their picket fence life in the suburbs or the pulsing lives of a big city. They had day jobs, night jobs, family, addictions and almost everyone of them has been materially wealthy. 

Everything that keeps them away from living a pure, devoted life with God is taken away here. Jared provides everything they need. 

Some take a week to find their place in the community, some struggle for years. Some pack their bags as soon as they realize that the sense community here also consists of freedom in love, friendships. Children are born in this community and are raised by everyone, not only their genetic parents. No one here claims to own someone or something.

Well.

At least they say so.

Alex’s room is - as it’s appropriate for his position - in Jared’s residence. This morning he decided to cut his shoulder long, honey blond hair and trim his long beard.

Purity doesn’t mean to be shaven clean or have short hair. Purity comes from the heart, free will and the ability to love. Alex doubts he is quite pure at the moment. The community is free of the toxicity of a material life - in the community, you don’t aspire to climb up ranks. There are simply only three ranks. The community, Alex, Jared. Jared is their natural leader, it is supposed to be like that. Alex is chosen. Alex is confident.

He was. His heart is full of love for the cause and for Jared. 

Until a few nights before he looked in the mirror every morning and smiled at his reflection. Because the reflection showed him a confident young man of faith. Full of love, not bound but blessed with free will. 

Then, his heart started to hurt. 

Now he hates his blue eyes, he hates his long hair, he hates the beard. He hates that he isn’t able to provide Jared the one thing he ached for.

It feels like an inconsistency of Jared’s teachings. Or Alex just isn’t at the point of enlightenment he always thought he was. He finds the fault in himself rather than Jared. But he likes it most thinking that it’s Jensen’s fault.

Jensen with the dazzling green eyes that tantalize Alex. And his damn ability to merge with Jared. Something no one in the community ever could provide. 

Alex hates that someone other than him satisfies Jared in any way.

When he looks in the mirror he sees the man who came here all these years ago when Jared’s predecessor was still alive. The man who crashed here after drugs and sex addiction ruined his life.

Growth is something that never stops. And any day you don’t work through your struggles puts you one step further away from divinity and back into the life of materiality and toxicity.

Jared mustn’t know.

Alex stares blankly in the mirror while he shaves his beard off. Completely.

It takes a few days generally for the community to calm down after such a night. Jared knows that. He feels sore himself, but in a good, satisfying way. His community is thriving, they have new members. Fresh blood. The prayers are inspiring. Jared insists on holding the divine services all by himself. These days he’s beaming with love and the rich and satisfying feeling of being connected. This is Jensen’s merit. His sensuality, his sexual aura, everything about him reminds Jared of the Archangel Michael, the fiery son of God who guarded Eden. Everything about Jensen seems to set Jared on fire. And not only Jared. The others feel it too. The women, the men, everyone stares when he passes. It takes Jared a lot of introspection, prayer and exercise to not just drag him back in his bed. Jared is known for being considerate, kind, and balanced. He leads these people on their path to God and divinity, he is their idol. The true Vicar of the Holy Father. Preferring Jensen in his first month here would weaken his own strong will. He’s sure this man is sent by his Father to heal his hurts, but he needs to care for his community first. 

Jared must not be selfish. He obeys the Lord and he will follow His guidance wherever it may take him. When he knows that his community is safe. 

After morning’s prayer and exercise Jared retreats to the communal bath. Alex prepared everything like always. He’s shaven clean and his hair is way shorter than before. While Jared sinks in the hot tub, Alex hesitates to accompany him. He looks bitter. Some of the old worry lines reappeared. Jared makes an inviting gesture.

“Come in, Alex.”

Today, Jared notices, it sounds like more than an order. 

Alex first shakes his head, but then looks up and his face softens. The lines disappear. He undresses and joins Jared for a bit.

Jared pulls him on his lap, it’s unusual for Alex to be physically distant. He recognizes his assistant has a razor cut on his chin. He runs his thumb just right under it and Alex inhales sharply.

“Why did you shave your beard?” he asks.

Alex looks away, bites his lip. His tooth gap is adorable. 

“I didn’t like it anymore.”

Jared frowns. 

“Do you doubt yourself?”

A scoff. Jared knows he just hit a nerve. Alex never scoffs at him.

“It’s just hair,” he replies. Now he even sounds a bit defiant. 

“Alexandros.”

Alex stiffens. Jared has a habit of calling him by his full name when he fucks up, just like a mother would.

Jared cups his face and looks straight in those bright blue eyes and he sees the vulnerable boy that Alex still is. His progress is phenomenal, but part of him will always stay in the darkness he escaped. 

Alex writhes but doesn’t honestly struggle against him. 

“Your looks are not important. Be careful with your heart.”

A faint nod. Jared kisses his forehead, then his lips. Suddenly no writhing, no defiance, no stubborn behavior. Alex is pliant. Good.

“I have to go”, Alex mumbles, “I have to prepare our departure to Seattle… Our original flight was cancelled…” 

Jared nods. Actually he has no desire to attend this event, but as the leader of this religious community, he has to fulfill some duties. Like going to charity events. It’s not that he hates charity, quite the contrary, as a son of God, it’s his pleasure and deepest wish to make the world a better place, but he hates the whole attention. He hates being compared to apocalypse cults or worse. His teachings are as pure as they can get under given pretenses and the struggle of humanity to overcome the Great Tribulation. 

Alex knows. “I know you don’t want to go. But I will make it worth the trip.”

“You always do.”

Alex gets up with slightly shaky legs and a very impressive erection. When he jumps back in his clothes he even turns away. Suddenly he is so shy. When they’re back from Seattle, Jared will have to hold some very intense prayer and service sessions with Alex. He seems in need of healing. And that’s what Jared was chosen for. Provide for people like Alex.

Alex isn’t gone for five minutes when Jared hears a shuffling behind him.

“Did you forget something, Alexandros?”

Someone’s clearing their throat and it’s not Alex. When Jared turns around he sees Jensen standing in the entrance, blushing and looking at his feet.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… umm, am I disturbing you?” 

Jared’s face lights up and he turns around fully, crossing his arms on the brim of the pool. Jensen is in his white robe, bread crumbs along his collar. He probably just ate breakfast. His hair is messy. 

“Not at all,” Jared replies, “usually, I don’t have guests when I bathe but you’re welcome to join today. You’re new, you can’t know.”

Jensen frowns. “Alex doesn’t count as a guest?”

“No. He is wherever I am, unless he doesn’t want to be.”

Now Jensen’s eyes glow. 

“Like now?”

Jared grins. 

“You are a cheeky one, aren’t you?” he asks.

Jensen stands there, looking at him like he’s about to say ‘yes’, but ultimately doesn’t. 

Jared gestures. “Come in already.” 

Ruffling of clothes tells him that his recruit followed his wish and now gets undressed. A moment later Jensen slides in the water beside Jared, about an arm’s length away. His cheeks turn pink.

“Are you well?”Jared asks, just as the caretaker of his people, he is always worried about them. Always ready to provide care if needed or wanted. 

Jensen’s teint turns even brighter. Ah. The orgy. It was surely his first time.

“I mean, I think I got a little rough with you there,” the leader admits.

Jensen shakes his head a little, a shy smile and a dreamy gaze show that Jensen might indeed be well. It would be reassuring to hear it though.

“No, no, it wasn’t rough at all but I would lie if I said I don’t still feel you inside me. It was a very world-shaking experience.”

“Uh-huh,” Jared replies, “it was.”

The memory alone makes Jared’s body fill with a need to do it again. Just right here. His pliant and slick body, how hot and tight and damn, how responsive and eager he was to take his cock. And that he succeeded!

Jensen turns to him, comes a little closer to get in touch, physically and Jared is very fond of the idea to have him close. Without a word, Jensen’s hand under the water’s surface, lays a hand on Jared’s thigh. Very close to his member. Flaccid. Yet. And still very big. Jared knows he’s gifted with this large cock and people who can take it, they won’t want anything else after they’ve tried it.

“I wondered, why, umm, everyone treats me like I’m super special, you do too…” Jensen’s eyes are fixated on the tiny waves his hand causes when he strokes along Jared’s thigh. “What makes me special?”

That is a very interesting question and Jared needs some time to think about it. Take deep breaths. It also shows that his new member has not ingrained all of the lore of the Church of Grace. That’s normal. No one knows it by heart after joining so recently. 

“Being special is a gift from the Lord, my Father. Everyone is special in their unique way. Take Alex. He’s devoted and tough, loyal and very good at organizing things. Ruth and Judith, you probably crossed their paths already, they’re the best cooks I’ve ever been blessed to taste. Also they are very skilled in sculpting. Everyone is special. Some special things seem to be common, like, so many people on this Earth are talented cooks, tailors, musicians, yogis. And you, you are special, because you give me a feeling of unity in such a primal way, it may seem succinct or superficial. What is it worth, being able to take me? It might not be special to others, but to me this is a thing that brings me peace. And this peace, I can multiply, share it with my people. And by the Lord, it’s not only your physical perks. The way your brothers and sisters here look at you. Some are jealous, but most see in you the most important addition to the community in years. You have a spark in you and you will do great things for the Church. I’m sure of it.”

Jensen stares and Jared notices the slight squint of his deep green eyes. His utter beauty is a gift to humanity already. He radiates purity. If he knows that?

“Is that understandable for you?” Jared asks. He lays a hand in Jensen’s neck and gently squeezes. Pulls him closer. Just an inch but it’s enough to feel Jensen way better and catch his vibes. 

“Yes, it is,” Jensen says, “I’m glad this community welcomed me, I’m glad I met you.”

Now he wraps his hand around Jared’s shaft, which is still too much and he won’t be able to embrace it completely. 

“I was worried, I am worried, it will be the only time to be close to you.”

“You will be close to me every day. At the service, at the monthly celebration. We share everything here.”

“But, can I be alone with you, just like now?” Jensen huffs, his grip tightens. Jared is just a man, his body reacts and he grows hard, so big that the tip would break the water surface now if Jensen let go. 

“I’m a man of my people, I will not deny you. To be honest, yes, I invite you to be with me.”

It would be so easy to lift Jensen up and let him sink down on his cock. It would be amazing to feel him right now. But he is still a little sore. Complete physical unity has to wait. 

“Jared…” A sigh. “What you made me feel that night… I think I felt closer to my true self than ever.”

“I’m glad this is helping you. There will be a lot of occasions for you to discover your deepest self, your fears, your worries… Everything will come to light and I know, you will overcome, you will shine and rise above your plain human being.”

Jensen’s hand moves now. He knows how to touch a man, strictly physical. It's a mechanical reaction after all, but when Jared looks deep into these green eyes he discovers his own need and how much he suffered without a mate that would be close to him. 

“Tell me, how do you like it… I feel it, I need it… you need it…?”

“I long for it.”

Jared wraps his hand around Jensen’s to guide him with the strokes.

He wants it to build up slowly, and his hand on Jensen’s neck holds him steady, whispering his instructions to keep eye contact, when to slow down and when to get faster. And Jensen is all in with it, he’s passionate, his tiny moans and curses, just from seeing Jared, make it extra hot. Actually Jared doesn’t need to climax here, because the mere anticipation of his partner is more than satisfying. They sink in a kiss when Jared’s instructions turn into a breathless staccato of ‘yes like that’s. He’s noisy when he comes and jerks in Jensen’s hand, forceful first but rapidly turning lazy and soft. 

“Teach me more,” Jensen whispers, his face burning red, making his freckles pop even more.

Jared's head sinks on Jensen’s chest. 

“About what?”

“About, what you like, how you like it… how we… connect… unify… Physically, I know… I can do that,” Jensen bites his lip.

“But you don’t know how it works spiritually?”Jared asks, placing a kiss on Jensen’s freckled shoulder. 

“Is that a stupid question?”

A headshake. Why should it be? But Jared knows, Jensen is insecure, he longs for answers and guidance. 

“Believe me, you didn’t ask a stupid question so far. You crave unity?”

Jensen nods.

“Just like you do.”

“I would love to show you more of it. But I will have to go to a congress in Seattle in three days. Alex and I will be gone and you’ll be on your own for a couple of days,” Jared replies. There is indeed some longing in his voice. 

“Oh, that is… it will be long and I’m new, I…”

Jared clicks his tongue while he combs Jensen’s hair. “You don’t have to worry, everyone will take care of you. They will do what I’d do. You will be shown around.”

Jensen shakes his head. His muscles stiffen just lightly.

“That’s not my worry, but- I wish I could be with you.”

This causes Jared’s eyebrows to raise. He wants to be with Jensen, too. Show him the world that Jared lives in and help with the settling. It’s hard to find a place in a community. Jared also fears (and hopes) that Jensen found a way in his heart.

“You are with me. And you will be. You belong to the community now.”

Jensen winds.

“I mean… could you… I would like to go to Seattle. With you…”

“And Alex,” Jared corrects.

“And Alex,” Jensen confirms.

There is no reason to say ‘no’, but there is also no reason to say ‘yes’ that is justifiable. Jensen is new. But he’s shown commitment and he wants to learn. They would bond. Jared wants it. Badly.

“Will it put your heart at ease when I say yes?”

Jared smiles and it’s a knowing one. Jensen smiles. He also knows. 

“Yes, it would.”

The way Jensen smiles and blushes is cute, maybe a little staged. Jared’s not an idiot, he knows that Jensen is wooing him. Trying to impress. Wants to appeal. He already does, there is no need to be overly pliant. Jared enjoys the attention though, who would judge him for it? He presses a kiss on Jensen’s lips and their hug turns closer, just like the last minutes of touching didn’t exist. Jared wouldn’t complain about that, either. 

“Thank you,” he utters before he can think it through.

“For what?”

Jared squeezes Jensen’s growing cock. 

“For giving me - peace.”

Peace is not the only thing Jared wants to thank his disciple for, but Jensen’s soft moan drowns any further thoughts. He wants to merge. Now. He doesn’t want to wait. Not for them to be in his room or Jensen’s. Just take him here.

Alex listens to the quiet conversation that turns into moans and splashing, Jared’s deep and ground shaking grunts. He would be a big fat liar if he claimed to be untouched by it, even Jensen’s soft noises make him rock hard. But what he feels in his heart and what he feels in his body, these two things diverge wildly from each other. He shoves a hand in his pants and hates himself for it. But who he hates more is Jensen. He will take Jared away from him. 

That mustn’t happen.

Alex has to do something about it. Soon.

#j2 #j2 fanfic #sin is sinning #supernatural rpf #part 1 of 3

[poptod]

I don’t know if you take requests for Benjamin but could you do a fic between him and a sorceress/sorcerer reader. Maybe they meet in the forest and he watches her/him (maybe it becomes a series)?

notes: ooo that's a good idea! i've never written for him before (or seen twilight) but ill try my best. notes extra: i just finished watching a compilation of rami in twilight and holy shit twilight is so fucking bad its hilarious anyway. didn’t stay all that true to the prompt (sorry) but I hope it’s sufficient nonetheless

+

That's not quite right.

For several weeks now, there's been something off about the scents in the forest. He's not the only one to have noticed the change, but he is the only one suspicious of it, which he assumes is part due to his connection with the earth. It doesn't bother him, their lack of concern – for some reason, he prefers searching on his own. Hours spent alone amongst the tall, dark trees lined with glittering snow, humming to himself, and tracking the changes in the air.

Today is especially quiet. Almost silent. While it's uncharacteristic for the world to fall silent, it's a common sight in this forest, where nothing quite lives anymore. The trees feel more like stone beneath his fingertips than like wood, and the snow at his feet freezes his skin far colder than it should. 

As the strange scent grows stronger the feeling begins to linger in his own steps, tracing the only walkway through the snow in all the forest, marking him as the singular disturber of the peace. His heart pounds as the dread weighs heavier yet in his chest.

It comes to a point where the pressure is overwhelming, pulling down on his shoulders and legs, begging him to kneel in the presence of nothing more than a sun-lit clearing. Nothing grows in the dirt circle, but there has to be something about it; the snow doesn't cover the earth like it does in meters just steps away. He pauses just outside the edge. Here is where the scent is strongest – there is no doubt.

When he raises his hand to where the sunlight streams from above, he finds a hard surface to press his hand against. His brow quirks upward as he presses harder, gauging the invisible material, wondering as to its' origins. It's a sort of magic, though he can't tell the type. Maybe pagan.

Warmth flows through him when he chants reveal in a silent language. A simple command, and the protection spell around the circle is weak enough to fall at the utterance of his spell.

The mirage falls in just a second, dripping down from the sky like a cloak till what remains is a stone tower. Moss and vines creep their way up the cracks and fissures, somehow still a vibrant green in winter, and presumably kept that way by the warm sunshine falling on this particular spot. The scent, though – it's intoxicating. Not quite good, but not unpleasant either. More like a potion mix of lavender and mustard seed. It overpowers all his other senses, begging him to give in further to his curiosity.

Muttering and footsteps sound from behind him, and in a flash he's hidden behind a small cluster of trees, peeking through the bark to see the clearing and tower.

You appear from the dark, and the first thing he notices is the comically large hat on your head. It covers your face entirely in shade, and though most of your other clothes are just as comically too big for you, it's... cute. You look smaller than you already are, and for some reason Benjamin finds himself blushing. The walking stick in your hand rises high above your head, carrying a crystal atop it that reflects the sunlight in a red hue, casted like stained glass on the white snow.

You're mumbling to yourself as you slowly make your way to the tower's entrance. His eyes widen when he notices a trail following you – half-baked spells and enchantments that glitter like dust in the sun's rays, dissipating in the air before they can fall to the ground. It draws his eyes to the book in your hands that's the size of his head, with old tattered pages covered in notes.

There's a druid in the forest.

He decides it's best if he's the only one to know. The others can get far too protective of territory, misunderstanding the modern way of the world all too easily. It takes a little work to make sure they don't wander too close to your hidden tower, or catch onto your scent and rambling spells, and soon he finds himself with a full-time job of protecting you. Oh well – it's something to do, and in the evenings he can watch you beside the river almost fully frozen over with ice.

The scarf wrapped around your neck is a little too big, drooping onto the ground from your shoulders hunched over the ice. Benjamin's beginning curiosity surrounding you has by now grown into a fondness, strange as it may be. You aren't all that good at protection spells or defensive spells, but you can bend life to your will, moving the water and plants without the power of crystals or runes. The trees seem to whisper everywhere you go, leaves and pines breaking off the branches to simply follow you. He can hardly blame them – he's following you too, after all.

Your nose has turned a blushing pink from the cold, a hint that leads him to believe you're human. Blood and all. Maybe that's part of the reason he likes watching you. You're the only creature within fifty miles that still has warm blood, as all the creatures of the forest have long been driven away by the mere presence of Benjamin and his cult.

It's a few weeks in before he notices that you're humming each time you speak. As though put under a curse, each word you mumble goes to a tune, one that haunts his dreams the second he hears it. All that long term exposure to you must be doing something to his brain – something that convinces him he needs to protect you, something that tells him he shouldn't dare speak to you.

He knows that since you're a druid, you're aware of the existence of the supernatural, but that fact brings little comfort to him as his tongue traces his fangs, watching you with hooded, red eyes. Your magic is different from his own, though to the outside eye the two of you are far more similar than he'd deem correct. The definitions of your different magics are a little shaky, but after some thought he decides that yes, you are a druid. Not a witch, or a warlock, or a sorcerer – none of them quite fit the powers that you have. The way the earth bends to your step.

If Benjamin can't find you at the tower there's only one other place you are; the river. It's still half-frozen over, but as of recent you haven't been all that focused on the water. For the most part you're focusing on the earth, melting the snow beneath you in order to reach it.

You're humming again. Watching the ground with focused eyes, holding glowing fingertips above the fertile earth.

"Idir ann is idir as," you sing, and it must be the first time he's clearly heard your voice, as it circles his head like whiskey and sways the trees into a gentle dance.

Whatever language you're singing, it must be a sort of enchantment. Maybe an offering of good wealth to the lifeless forest. All the world seems to hum in harmony with you, creating your own orchestra that swells with every breath you take.

"As an sliogán, Amhrán na farraige..."

"Suaimhneach nó ciúin – Ag cuardú go damanta."

When did he start humming?

How does he know the tune?

Something is in the air. It's like that scent all over again – all he can think of, all he can feel is you and your magic, overpowering the thoughts of ancient trees and godless skies.

"Between the here, between the now," you sing softly, and he could swear he almost had a heartbeat again, just to lose it in your hypnotic song.

Now you're singing in English – a language he can obviously understand – and with his curiosity towards the meaning of the lyrics gone, he can concentrate on the spells falling from your hand. Tiny stars, tiny universes drift down from your fingertips, landing on the earth as a sprout of vibrant green begins to stretch upwards, a small, white bud on the end.

"Neither quiet nor calm... searching for love again."

It doesn't feel like something so heavenly could come from you. Actually, the way your voice echoes in the forest, the way it combines with your magic makes it feel as though it's coming down from the sky like rain, falling on waiting ears and eager eyes.

When did he start singing with you, under his breath?

How does he know the lyrics?

"Between the stones, between the storm Between belief, between the sea I am in tune..."

And then it stops. The swell dissipates and what you're left with is a white flower sprouted in the ground, the center a vibrant purple that fades into the soft petals.

It's the only color the frozen forest has.

He doesn't quite know what he's doing, when he emerges from his hiding spot long after you return to your home. The sun will rise soon and the others expect him back before then, but something pulls him, something forces him to stay as 'something' always does. It's probably your lingering magic – that's what he reasons as he steps closer to your flower, wide eyes observing every detail of the white and purple petals.

Kneeling in the snow, he raises his hand above the flower, shifting the wind to brush against the single leaf and allow the pollen to float into the air. Magic like yours falls from his hand – golden stars, drifting onto the ground where they stay like gemstones. It takes a moment before the earth willingly absorbs them, but the moment it does another flower sprouts and blooms much faster than yours did.

Two of them sit there now, one purple and the other blood red. You'll find it - he knows you will. You come here almost every day.

He walks back home with your song occupying all his thoughts, twisting and tweaking him even hours after. It echoes in his head, over and over and over again, until all he can think of is you.

Neither quiet nor calm

Searching for love again...

#benjamin x reader #twilight benjamin #rami malek #rami malek character

[kaiekasunwhisper]

The Ebon Hold

((Co-written with @thefugitivemango / @avehi-the-adamant​ ))

~*~*~

Here she was again; Avehi felt like she spent too much time here. And at the same time, never enough. Acherus was such a fluid constant in her unlife, from the very beginning of it. She was raised in these halls. Conditioned to obey the Lich King’s call here. Then fought that very conditioning. All right here. She hated it, and loved it all at once. 

Memories weren’t the only thing the floating necropolis brought. The Ebon Blade was working tirelessly to uncover the mysteries surrounding the Shadowlands, and the inequality that plagued the scales of the afterlife. The latest on that front; The Lich King himself had become involved. Avehi didn’t know Bolvar Fordragon well; which was to say she’d never met him. But every Knight knew who he was, and what he had become. A sacrifice so great, and a burden so damning. She had reverence for the human. Reverence and caution. 

The Helm of Dominion on his head gave him the potential of becoming an enemy of life itself. So far, he’d shown great restraint. But nothing lasts forever. She was wary of him, to say the least. So upon hearing the Ebon Blade had begun working with him in recent days, pledging Knights to serve him once more… Avehi grew increasingly uncomfortable.

She crossed her arms, examining the training yard on the upper level. Her brow raised, tail flickering as she beheld one of her recent converts - Kai’eka Sunwhisper, a cultist warrior she’d met, killed, and risen. The woman was truly terrifying in that training ring! Other Knights cheered as she bested contenders one by one with her twin blades. The Draenei smiled, as she observed; Kai’eka was a good choice for this. Perhaps her best choice, so far. She turned to come around and down the steps, to speak with the warrior as her final fight came to its predictable conclusion.

Kai’eka beamed. She offered a hand to help the human up, her thanks for a fight well fought, before harnessing her weapons to leave the ring for the next pair of fighters. Being among the Ebon Blade felt good. Sparring against them was much more fun than the living. They held more strength, stamina, and one didn’t have to hold back to avoid a ‘killing blow’. While she still hadn’t grasped exactly how hemomancy worked yet, it didn’t matter as she usually came out of the ring victorious. 

She smiled at Avehi. An actual, genuine smile.

“Avehi,” she greeted her friend, “Was wondering when you’d show up again. Need to figure out how to fix my link with these swords.”

“I can show you. We use runes, not unlike the ones with which you’re familiar.” the Draenei replied, smiling in return. “Come, I’ll take you to the Runeforge.”

She led Kai’eka up from the fighting pit to an ominous, towering forge. The power it emanated thrummed as they drew near, the lich fire flames within crackling strong and bright. As far as skills developed postmortem, runeforging was something Avehi excelled at. She already served the Ebon Blade as a weapon smith early on, and picked up the undeath-unique skill from a fellow Acherian artisan. Now, she was regarded as a seasoned runemaster in her own right.

“You’re fitting in well here, it seems.” she commented to Kai’eka, smiling back to her. “How are you feeling about all this?”

“Never better, actually,” the Ren’dorei replied, “I don’t need to eat, sleep or drink. I don’t sweat, I don’t get tired… Honestly, I haven’t found a down side to this death thing yet.”

She eyed the runeforge as they approached, ears perking up in curiosity. She’s heard of them before, but never seen one up close. She eyed her blades, the cultist powered runes having faded since N’Zoth’s defeat… something she was still trying to wrap her head around. Before now, the Old Gods were all she knew… her ultimate truth. Now that she’d seen for herself the lie she grew up believing, it was time to re-evaluate where she stood and what to fight for. A confusing and frightening concept at first, but after a few days and nights of contemplation, she was excited for her new start to ‘life’ in undeath. 

“So how do these things work? Is it the same runes from a different power source, or different runes altogether?”

“I expect they’ll be quite different than the runes you’re used to.” Avehi nodded once.

She tried to keep neutral on Kai’eka’s cultist past. True, that’s what led to their conflict, and ultimately the ren’dorei’s death, but Avehi wasn’t one to fault anyone for coming to terms with the fact that their beliefs were all wrong. She could relate, after all. Kai’eka seemed genuine in her desire to move past all that, anyway. And Avehi wasn’t about to hold her back.

“They’ll function similarly, but how they bind to us and how they’re etched and forged is a very unique process. Nothing the Living can emulate… and survive.”

She opened the forge’s 'jaws', revealing a small platform. A stand, to hold and imbue the Death Knight’s weapon. Then, the Draenei stepped aside, and motioned for Kai’eka to place one of her weapons inside.

“We’ll start with a simple one, to draw upon runic power. Think of it as a reserve of necrotic energies you can call upon when needed.” she explained. “The rune you draw for it is simple; but by the nature of these runes, it’ll bind the weapon solely to you. No one but you will be able to call upon its power.”

She nodded once to the elf.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

Kai’eka nodded at the explanation, observing the blue flames spouting from the forge in the same cold blue color her eyes now matched. She drew one of her hooked blades as she stepped forward, but hesitated for a moment.

Her eyes left the forge momentarily to the now faded runes on her blades, the last symbol of her dedication to the Ancient Ones. Something about that notion tugged at her unbeating heart. Doubt clouded her mind, as over six hundred years of formation nagged at her mind. What if this was all a test? The final trial before being allowed into her promised afterlife? Eyes closed as she mulled it over… thinking of everything she’d sacrificed in life, all in their name. Her sole dedication, the blood she spilled, risking her life time and time again to obtain artifacts of power in offerings, shortening her own lifespan in ritual to give a more worthy servant longevity, her body as she gave herself in to the Void, Alteris… her own life.

No. If all of that hadn’t been enough, then she was done. Even if what she’d been led to believe was true, the Old Ones  were now powerless after N’Zoth’s fall. Had Alteris still been alive, he’d no doubt be boasting to her about it now.

“I killed my brother,” she said, opening her eyes and starting at her distorted reflection in the blade, “That’s how he died. He… interfered with the cult so…”

She shook her head, sighing. Her earlier good mood having dissipated completely in her contemplation. She wasn’t certain why she was telling this to Avehi now… perhaps because of the Draenei’s faith in her being able to change... 

“He meant the world to me. But that’s how much I fucking believed in the cause…”

Outstretching her arms, she placed the sword onto the platform, her cold gaze never leaving it.

“Never again.”

Avehi knew well when to keep quiet. Kai’eka’s moment of realization was surely one such moment. She watched the elf silently, observing her expression and demeanor change through pensive staring at her blade. The revelation was unexpected, certainly. But clearly it needed to be said. She remembered Kai’eka sharing word of her brother’s death upon their first meeting. Now, with more details given to her, it began to paint a picture of her life, and where her priorities had been. Skewed by a higher power. Muddied by faith. The Draenei’s tail flickered, before she took her place beside Kai’eka. No hand on her shoulder, no comforting embrace. Only acknowledgement of what the elf told her. Acknowledgement, and understanding.

“The Light inspires similar devotion.” she commented, as she drew her hammer from her back. “We’ve done terrible things in its name. We’ve turned our backs on our own people, even after one of the darkest chapters in our history. All because they, too, ‘interfered’ with the harmony the Light instilled within us.”

Avehi shook her head. She recalled such days. Such was her own thought process back then, amidst the fanfare and accolades of serving as a Vindicator. The Light’s chosen warriors, empowered to protect her people. She pondered herself; if she, too, had a meddlesome brother interfering with the Light’s designs, would she silence him as Kai’eka had? Her brow furrowed in disgust with herself, when the answer 'no' failed to clearly and definitively ring out in her mind.

“It’s a harsh lesson on blind devotion. One I had to learn as well.” she nodded. “But now that you’ve learned personally… it’s a mistake you’ll never fall prey to again.”

She lowered her voice, and glanced around.

“Serve no one so steadfastly that you fail to question their intentions. Not even the Ebon Blade.”

Avehi’s words were appreciated, yet surprising to hear. As much as Kai’eka had always despised the Light, it was rare to hear someone describe that side of it. Even more so to hear it from a Draenei. She listened intently, taking in Avehi’s words of wisdom.

A nod of understanding, before she turned her attention back to the task at hand. Avehi set her crystalline hammer into a stand beside the runeforge, head upright. It glowed in proximity to the forge, the same blue flames flickering within the shimmering prismatic weapon. One rune in particular began to glow at Avehi’s command; a simple enough pattern of a semi-circle beneath an acute angle opened left, with a solitary dot nestled in the arc’s cradle. The rune projected from the weapon, enlarging for clarity’s sake before the elf.

“This is the Rune of Reserve.” she explained. “When you are prepared.”

Kai’eka’s ears perked up a bit as she studied the rune. As dark as the subject of her brother was, there wasn’t much that could take away the excitement of rune inscription. Even through a different process than the Coterie, she enjoyed learning about them and what they did. And she looked forward to feeling connected to her blades once more.

“I’m ready,” she informed, “What do I need to do?”

"Draw it."

The instructions were simple enough; Avehi extended her hand, two fingers pointed out as they traced along the rune suspended before them. The rune itself flickered, glowing brighter at the Death Knight's touch. Her hammer, too, exhaled a notable wave of power as the rune was redrawn. She turned her eyes to Kai'eka once again, and nodded.

"Focus your mind on your weapon. You're well familiar with it, yes?" she asked, though already knew it was so. "Focus intently on it. Feel its smooth, cold surface in your thoughts, and trace the rune out before you. You'll feel it as it's etched, both into your weapon… and into you."

The Draenei loosened her gauntlet, before tugging it off and setting it aside. She upturned her hand, revealing the same rune aglow on her forearm. It was identical in every way to the rune etched into the weapon, glowing from beneath Avehi's skin. As the rune on the hammer's glow dissipated, so too did the glow on the rune in her skin - both fading out until they had seemingly vanished entirely.

"This power is a curse on it's own. Unbridled and untempered, it turns lesser Knights to madness. Static, it would burn our souls to dust, from within." she cautioned. "The runes focus the power coursing through us, applying it to greater uses than simply reanimating our corpses. Runeforging transmutes this danger into an asset. This pain into our drive. This curse… into a gift."

Avehi nodded, smirking slightly. She remembered hearing those words for the first time, when she learned runeforging for herself. They resonated deeply with her, then; a lost soul, hoping desperately she could pivot her dark fate into some semblance of salvation. They resonated with her still, but now for a different reason.

"Draw it," she repeated, as she tugged her gauntlet back over her hand. "and embrace this gift. Your power."

Kai’eka’s ears flicked as Avehi explained. It was a rather long winded answer for a simple question. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes and making a snarky comment about it. With Avehi being her only contact in undeath so far, she attempted to keep her more abrasive side in check until they knew each other a little better. 

“Got it. Simple enough.”

She removed her gauntlet as Avehi had, and went to work at tracing the tune in the air in front of her. She felt the inscription almost immediately as it became engraved into her arm and blade; quite a different feeling from ritual tattoos. It burned, but with cold instead of heat. Her lips parted at the new sensation, a grin forming as she felt the bond with her blade renewed, like meeting an old friend after some time apart.

Once the runeforging was complete, she looked down to her arm to admire the new marking.

“You keep saying ‘curse’. What do you mean by that? I haven’t seen or heard a downside to any of this at all.”

“And I truly hope there never is one, for you.” Avehi nodded, replacing her gauntlet - flexing her fingers to situate it properly. “Back in the days of the Lich King, soldiers and warriors were raised without much discerning. People from all backgrounds, brought back from death against their wills. With no consideration for what it might do to them, mentally.”

She shook her head, recalling how horrible that time all seemed back then. Compared to now… it was abhorrent. The entire reason she was so against raising the dead in the first place came from that terrible feeling she got anytime she thought of the early days. Before the Ebon Blade. Before the Lich King fell. But things were different, now. And if she didn’t learn to adapt, and keep her morality flexible, how was she any different than zealots like Argonas? She grunted resolutely, as she looked to Kai’eka once more.

“It’s different, now. I picked you because I thought you’d handle it well. Better than anyone else.” she told the elf. “You don’t need to be empathetic. But at least be cognizant that it’s nowhere near this easy for other Knights. Especially those of us from the Scourge days, who suffer from the Hunger.”

Kai’eka raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more on the subject. She’d heard about the Hunger, but didn’t know exactly what that was about. According to Avehi, it wasn’t something the ex-cultist has to worry about, so she didn’t really care. She assumed it was something unpleasant, nonetheless. And it was true, she’d seen some Ebon Knights walking around that looked half decomposed. She supposed she was lucky to have been brought back right away.

She turned her attention back to her blade, removing it from the platform to admire the freshly inscribed rune a moment, before setting it aside and placing her other weapon in.

“Does the same rune go on each blade? What’s the limit on how many you can have?” She asked, returning to the subject at hand.

“For this rune, they’ll be separate inscriptions so you can draw on one, the other, or both.” Avehi answered, as the impromptu ‘lesson’ resumed. “The limit comes with a balancing. Our power is limitless, like a river. But too many branches in its path will cripple how well it flows, yes? You’ll have to be mindful. Try three or four for now - these two each counting separately - and see how that feels. We can add or remove runes as you please.”

She raised her hand to the hammer, causing the rune they’d drawn before to glow and expand - reference once more for Kai’eka to imbue upon her second blade.

“Fair enough,” she nodded before going back to concentrating on the rune ahead of her. 

Having already gone through the process once, the task was already familiar, though that didn’t mean Kai’eka took it less seriously. Her connection to her blades was important to her, and she kept her concentration on that as her fingers traced the rune once more, ears flickering as she felt the inscription etched into her arm. It felt good, being able to do the runeforging herself as opposed to having to depend on a Speaker to inscribe her tattoos. It was empowering. She felt more in control of herself than she ever had before.

The process complete, she took hold of the blade, and then the other, holding both in each hand as she stepped back from the forge. She smiled, satisfied with her work. Two runes would do for now.

“Gonna have to test these in the ring soon.”

Avehi couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at that. For all she was, Kai’eka was at least predictable. She nodded approvingly as she took Rokaa up from the stand and sheathed it to her back.

“You’re welcome to now, if you wish.” she offered. “I’ve a few more errands around Acherus. Others to check on. Perhaps once I’m done, I’ll even join you.”

She chuckled again lightly, before dipping her head to Kai’eka. Despite their rocky past, Avehi felt good about this one. Emboldened and encouraged to carve her own destiny after having lived a lie, Kai’eka’s afterlife would be much better than Avehi’s ever was. And in the end, that had always been the Draenei’s intent for those she raised. It felt good to see the beginnings of that trend.

#Character Story #Kai'eka Sunwhisper #Avehi the Adamant

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

I accidentally joined one cult after leaving the Unification Church cult

I decided I needed to get out of this church immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

by HANNAH��              November 21, 2014

When we opened our eyes, I could still feel the fleeting warmth from his hands placed on my head. We sat in a circle as he led us into a quiet chant known as the “moola mantra.”

“Moola? Like money?” I wondered. The incense smoke snaked throughout the room. I noticed a donation bowl being passed around. Yes. Like money.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I readily joined the others in chanting, not really knowing what they were saying. When I couldn’t remember the next phrase, I just Milli-Vanilli’d my way through it, letting the other voices fill in the gaps for me. I’ve had a lifetime of chanting in a language I didn’t understand to prepare myself for this.

In 1982, my parents, among many others, had an arranged mass marriage at Madison Square Garden (photo above), performed by the infamous Sun Myung Moon. With a simple hand gesture, Sun Myung Moon matched my parents together among a sea of brides and grooms, and five years later, I was born, the second of four children. It’s always troubling to think about how my very existence was decided by some Washington-Times-owning, money-laundering, homophobic, sushi tycoon/sexist cult leader, but I guess it makes things interesting.

Our childhood was…weird, in a word. Even as a kid I found myself thinking, “Why are we selling flowers at the side of highways?” “Why are we going door-to-door making strangers drink juice?” “Why are we sprinkling salt over our groceries?” “Why are we waking up at 5 a.m. to bow to a picture of a Korean man and a bowl of fruit?” “Why are we chanting right now, I mean, really? What language is this? I’m tired.”

Friends would come over and ask who the Korean people were in the photos around our house, referring to the Mr. and Mrs. Sun Myung Moon.

“I…uh…they’re my grandparents.” I often found myself saying.

“But…you’re…not Asian,” they’d reply, stating the obvious.

I’ll never forget my birthday during the blizzard of ’96. My parents took us to one of Moon’s mansions in D.C. to meet some witch doctor of a woman. She claimed to embody the spirit of Sun Myung Moon’s dead mother. We stood in line behind a closed door in the foyer.

Before the door slammed shut, I caught a glimpse of a large group of people gathered around a woman and a boy. The woman had her eyes closed with the boy sprawled over her lap. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and seemed to be crying. Red marks were all over him. He tried to escape her grip, arms extended to what I assumed to be his mother, who sat silently in the circle. Then, the door shut. I’m haunted.

Finally, my turn came. I nervously sat myself next to the woman. She lifted my shirt, prepubescent chest exposed, as the captive audience watched as I was hit several times on my back. She prayed in Korean over me. And then, applause. It was over. Somewhere, there is a photo of my brother and I standing in front of the mansion after the woman hit us that day. We were smiling.

Beyond the ritual abuse, there was a certain strain of poverty that only a child of a cult could understand. You get used to communal living and sleeping on floors very quickly.

Before we eventually settled in the D.C. metropolitan area, we had traveled around the country, staying in attics, basements, and church-owned hotels and mansions. There’s a very real cognitive dissonance that occurs when you’re living in a mansion, sleeping in a tiny bedroom with all six members of your family. In that mansion, I befriended a young, Japanese opera singer who lived on the top floor. She’d French braid my hair and show me pictures of her fiancé, a man she had yet to meet.

I thought this was so strange, but I would later learn that being “matched,” or engaged to a stranger in another country was common. At 17, it happened to one of my best friends. I’ll never forget the look of misery on her face as she stood in her wedding dress, among the sea of brides and grooms, holding the picture of her future husband.

It was then that I decided I needed to get out of this church, immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

Within days of that decision, I got a phone call from an old friend.

“Do you want to get your third-eye opened?” She asked.

“Do I…what?”

“You heard me. Get your third-eye…opened.”

When we arrived at the house, a blue-eyed man answered the door.

“David!” Joanna squealed. “It’s so good to see you!” He wrapped his arms around her, practically swallowing her tiny frame. “Hannah, this is David. We met at a commune conference. We couldn’t stop staring at each other from across the room. It was kismet.”

David laughed and put out his hand to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, Hannah.” He led us inside, where a bald-headed man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed deep in meditation.

He opened his eyes and spoke with a soft cadence. He introduced himself as Daniel. He told us that he had recently returned from a trip to India, where he received a special blessing known as “deeksha,” from a group called “The Oneness Movement.” By taking part in this expensive ceremony in India, he became empowered to pass this gift of enlightenment to us.

He instructed us to close our eyes as he guided us into meditation. He came around the room and gently placed his hands on our heads. I was struck by the similarities of this ritual with another my parents performed for my birthday. There is something spiritual about having someone caress the crown of your head while they speak in soft tones over you. I felt enlightened, or at least relaxed. Like Fox Mulder [The X-Files], I wanted to believe. But there was a Dana Scully in the back of my head that wouldn’t completely let me.

I began attending meetings regularly. Daniel and I developed a close friendship where we spoke on the phone daily. At one point, I was $300 short for my rent, and without blinking, he loaned me the money. Three months later, I found myself riding in a car with him to attend a Oneness Movement get-together in Pittsburg.

We pulled up to a row house in Pittsburg, where we were greeted warmly by a jolly man. He placed prayer beads over our heads, luau-style. “Namaste,” he bowed, and we did the same. He led us upstairs to his railroad apartment and gave us a tour.

“And this…is my Christmas room.” It was August.

There were two entirely decorated trees with trains circling around them. Presents galore. Reindeer, flashing lights, snowmen. It was Christmas hell. I took a seat, completely entranced and horrified by the mechanical Santa’s never-ending “ho-ho-ho” mantra. I kept thinking, “Where am I?”

Daniel called me into the next room where others had already gathered and were chanting in harmony.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I sat on my knees, and just as I was about to lower my head in a child’s pose bow, I noticed a familiar face from across the room. She looked a lot like Diane, a Moonie truck driver who would stop and make us oxtail soup when she passed through town. She loved talking about God with my parents. No. It couldn’t be. It was. Our eyes met. In a panic, I lowered my forehead to the ground to hide my face.

Finally, the chants subsided, and a faint voice spoke up. “Hi, I’m Anthony and I prepared a song for you all.” I slowly raised my body, trying to hide my face behind my hair. A mousy-looking teenager stood before us, boom box ready. The familiar sound of chimes and wind instruments filled the room. I knew this song.

“Olha eu vii lue mostar…” He sang. “Como é belo este mundo…”

He was singing “A Whole New World,” the Disney classic, in Portuguese. I noticed Diane was full-on staring at me. I panicked just as Anthony’s falsetto kicked in for Princess Jasmine’s part of the duet.

“Um mundo ideal…Um mundo que eu nunca vi…”

I looked around the room, scanning for any sign of acknowledgement from another human. Nothing. I noticed everyone in the room was in fact, crying. Was I that cynical? Should I feel something right now? Watching Anthony shimmy his way through the intense key change was definitely a spiritual experience, but I still didn’t want to give these people my money. I felt duped. This “whole new world” suddenly felt a lot like the old one.

I retreated to the Christmas room in an attempt to hide from Diane. On a table, I noticed a photograph of Sri Bhaghavan and his wife, the founders of the Oneness movement. They were sitting in chairs, like royalty. The photograph was nearly identical to ones my parents kept of my pseudo Korean “grandparents.” Horrified by the parallels, my inner Dana Scully finally broke through.

I spent the rest of my time at the retreat doing just that — retreating. I slithered along the walls, and managed to avoid a conversation with Diane other than, “funny meeting you here” and “please don’t tell my parents.”

When I left my respective cults, I was excited to be integrated into the real world, a place without cults, or so I thought. Not so. These days, I see cults everywhere: cults of influence, cults of institutions, cults of politics. You learn a lingo, you follow a set of rules, a code of ethics. Sometimes you wear a uniform and a name tag. Sometimes you are sleep-deprived and haven’t seen your family in weeks. In a world where CEO’s are more likely be to sociopaths, it’s harder to define what is a cult and what isn’t.

What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.

_______________________________________

Hannah

After selling flowers as a child with the Moonies, Hannah is now a part-time florist. Her life has hilariously come full circle. She is also a songwriter and musician. She is a student majoring in human services and hopes for a career in social justice advocacy.

_______________________________________

A few of the comments on Hannah’s story:

mrsdanger So interesting, would love to hear about your life now and your parents’ reaction to leaving.

Keith All religions are cults, some are more destructive than others. Thank you for sharing your story. Write another story for us later to let everyone know how you are doing on your new journey.

sara_ahoy I understood what she was trying to say here. A lot of successful people become that way because they refuse to follow the rules of society, some are more aggressive, and willing to throw other people under the bus in their bid for a promotion. Cult leaders tend to act similarly, acting charming but ultimately bullying their way into leadership positions and ruling through fear and ignorance.

We like to think that the societal rules that we all follow are there to benefit us, but I’ve found time and time again that I’m paying arbitrary fees of all kinds that go straight to a rich businessperson somewhere…

Lalaloki … they sure discourage people from ever taking a day off, even when sick. And then, when people do call out sick, there’s a sort of underlying guilt involved. People are being paid to be there, sure, but in a cult, people are being “paid” salvation.

tracy This is perfect! “What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.”

Huh Wow, you should write a memoir! I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian church that was very cultish. We left in middle school and it was hard adjusting to the real world but my “inner Dana Scully” has been strong and made me skeptical of all things spiritual ever since. My advice: If a group (religious or otherwise) makes you isolated or relies heavily on secrets get the hell out!

FoxMulder She needs to know the truth is out there

breebree Moonies aren’t rich at all! The majority (my parents included) dropped out of school and donated ALL of their money to the church. And keep doing it. Ugh, so stupid.

berly I want to know why the cult did a ritual of hitting children? [ansu, a Korean shaman ritual to get rid of evil spirits]

_______________________________________

The FFWPU / Unification Church and Shamanism

Soon-ae Hong (the mother of Hak Ja Han) spent two years in Chuncheon Prison after Ansu beating an 18-year old boy to death.

Fear and Loathing at Cheongpyeong Lake

#shamanism #Hannah #2nd gen #moonies

[hauntinghilarity]

(FICTION) The Cosmic Lord, Joelene

First off, I didn't realize I misspelled the name until I looked up what outfits Dolly wore while singing this song. Given I kept referencing lyrics in order to write the parody song... i don't know how that happened either.

Anyway, I had often had the urge to make a song that implied Jolene from Dolly Parton's song was an Eldritch horror ever since I saw a post somewhere on the internet (likely on Reddit in the tumblr subreddit, leading to my confusing uncertainty) that suggested doing just that. It had been in my mind ever since.

So, upon finally doing that... I just felt it wasn't enough to just have the lyrics. Especially as I just rewrote lyrics that already existed. No, no a PARTICULAR damn muse decided that this was not enough. This particular muse had to be brought into the party!

So here is Doc and the woman I made up to sing the song sealing some Cosmic Lord that Doc decided to name Jolene because its horrible, mouth splitting name couldn't otherwise be turned into a song that he could force a human haunted by the said creature to sing. Possibly purely for his own amusement.

Enjoy, I'll add the lyrics alone at the end for those interested.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A hut deep in the middle of the swamps was certainly not where the average problem was solved, this was far from the average problem. Iris had, apparently, found herself in a cosmic love triangle. Not that it could be called that, her husband very clearly was just not that into her. This cosmic entity did not, apparently, take well to rejection.

A unique and maddening plight, Iris had never been one to back down so easily. She wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with that behavior, and her grandparents had taught her act in a far more civilized manner in such trying times. It was the only way to get anything done in these types of situations, especially the situations that one believed to be unique.

Lucky for her, while a strange case, it was not as unique as she believe. Similar instances seemed to be sprinkled through history. Easy to miss or shrug off as the superstition and legends of their more imaginative ancestors. Given the distressing nature of her comatose-yet-deliriously-screaming husband, she was forced to do her best to connect some dots.

To her delight, there seemed to be plenty of more in-depth entries on this and a number of other creatures sprinkled throughout different books she decided to look into. What one might find suspicious, should they not feel the time-ticking on the safety of their loved one, is that a number seemed to have been inserted. A modern book full of laminated pages did not often have a piece of parchment, with the script clearly having been handwritten, fused to the spine as if it had been manufactured in such a manner.

A desperate mind seeking desperate knowledge did not often have the perception to notice these details when time was an issue. Stress had a matter of forcing tunnel vision of even the most powerful of minds. Especially when, regardless of its origin, the details these entries gave her made far more sense compared to the superstition-laden legends she had previously been finding.

She did become rather disturbed when a note was clearly left for her. Just like the rest, it was implanted in the book in such a way that tearing it out would be noticeable, both visually and audibly.

‘Iris, yes YOU Iris,

‘This is getting rather tiresome, and you are reading plenty of notes that have been written for different eyes. This would be far less of an annoyance if you bothered to put the books back where they had been placed. Do you know how long it took for me to understand a dewey decimal system?

‘You meat-bodies have ENOUGh languages that are troublesome enough to learn. Maddening book math is not what I was signing up for. If I had signed up for anything.

‘The book YOU are, or were, supposed to read on your problem you just.. Kept avoiding. Now it is checked out, and I have to write ANOTHER one of these because my attempts to do this subtly and properly got thrown out of whack trying to understand the aforementioned book-math.

‘So, to save us on time and to get something out of this headache that highly benefits the both of us, reading to this point will have given you a sudden feeling.

‘Please do not fret over this. Merely some ink-based shenanigans. Nothing that’ll harm you, it merely saves me placing a map. It will lead you directly to me.

‘That is, if you want to get a particular cosmic parasite yanked from your husband’s dreams.’

Signed, much like the other letters, Doc Boots.

Iris wasn’t entirely certain what part of this bothered her more. The fact it was clearly, and pointedly, directed to her. The fact she was called a meat-body, or that fact that she DID have a very strong desire to take a walk down a particular path found on a particular street that would have her in a particular neck of the woods taking her into a peculiar neck of a swamp that had her find a particular hut.

Many would probably find coming to such a hut in the first place foolhardy, let alone irrational. Irrational problems required irrational solutions. This was far better than the option she was beginning to feel was the best, which involved finding books on Necromancy, deciding if Necromancy worked or not, and using this knowledge to bring a particular horror writer back from the dead to answer a series of pointed questions. This somehow seemed the better deal. If anything, the letter writer could deal with all this morally-gray-supernatural-foolishness.

Regardless, nothing could quite prepare her for what awaited her within the hut that the same odd feeling that lead her here told her was her destination.

The entirety of the inside seemed to be dedicated to the alignment of a single ritual sigil. A dizzying series of circular and fractal designs that weaved throughout the central floor of the hut. Various areas of the floor were raised or lowered with delicate precision to conform to the different areas of the sigil.

Dizzying as it might be, Iris could come to understand that there was a circular, flat area in the center of the entire design where every edge, curve, and rune converged on. The design was covered in runes and symbols that conformed to the shape like an artist obsessed with point-shading. A number of platforms, that took on a shape that vaguely made her note a solar system before all the strange details continued to keep her mind reeling, were raised and held a number of bundled objects. Given the darkened liquids of varying colors, though equally metallic smelling, she was certain she was comfortable being left in the dark.

Strangest of all, the structure was encircled by a number of... Vegetables. While the same size and shape of the numerous vegetables each individual entity made up, stubby stems sprouted from them in order to form the vague shape of limbs. Sunken pits in the shape of spiraling stems formed where they stared out into the world, and sharp cuts where their mouths opened.

The creatures swayed and bounced to a harmony they kept. Strange noises based on the vegetable they were grown from making up a unique melody. One she found oddly familiar. The gourds, such as the pumpkins and squashes, made up a range of deeper breathy tones while the smaller, stalk-like vegetables made increasingly higher pitches.

She was so taken aback by every eldritch detail she had to accept within the hut that it took her a moment to realize that she wasn’t alone, besides the strange sentient vegetables. An androgynous creature that, at first glance, was easily mistaken for a humanoid. The more she focused on him and more her mind allowed her to process, the more she began to second guess her decision. Especially thanks to the petals encircling one of the creature’s equally strange looking eyes.

Not so much out of fear, with her history Iris had become rather hard to spook. She was beginning to feel, at this point, that the supernatural shenanigans she had so rigidly attempted to avoid belief in, less out of a stubborn grip on pure material-sciences and more due to a brief understanding on the power belief held in such beings, were now becoming so… Silly in their abrupt in-your-face hijinks that it had long since plummeted past the point of ridiculousness and was spinning annoyingly around the pit that would send it going down to rock bottom.

Then the notable eye slid from the creature’s orbital cavity, connected by a series of spindly stems that spiraled into a rope that connected from the end of what turned out to be an actual flower and disappeared into the orbital cavity of the creature’s vine-infested skull. The eye that took the space that would normally hold the flowers pistil was intently focused on her, the vine connecting it to the creature’s eye extending outward. ‘Zooming’ in on her features while the other eye seemed to be keeping stock of what seemed to be his odd minions.

“Good. ‘ere I thought I’d been keepin’ de veggie cult practicing for an eternity. Ya meat-bodied creatures just neva’ seem capable on keepin’ a reasonable schedule dese millenia. Makes de plots I bake ta keep de balance HIGHLY difficult. I ‘ope ya know de ‘eadaches I take on ta keep ya bumbling evolved-baboons from killin’ yaselfs. Equally so de fumblin’ evolved-fools that make up what I think are my kind…” The strange creature piped up suddenly.

Iris had a bit of trouble following the creature’s words for a number of reasons. For one, the movement in the creature’s throat was highly distracting. Not only did it alert her to the slithering that seemed to happen under the creature’s skin with every movement, she was becoming increasingly aware that the vines seemed less like a strange quirk and more like an invader. One that was intent on talking to her.

She really hated fire-with-fire situations.

The second problem was that the creature’s voice was mildly off-putting. It snapped between sounding feminine and higher, to a raspy deep tone somewhere between a dying male smoker and a newborn banshee. The latter snapping briefly like the static of a rapidly tuning radio as the slithering vines beneath the creature’s skin worked to play and tune the creature’s larynx, vocal chords, and neck muscles in a complex dance it clearly only somewhat understood. It did not help it seemed to insist on trying its best to put on its best attempt at a Cajun Accent. She had to admit, it helped make the creature’s tone sound more melodic rather than like nails on a chalkboard run through autotune.

The final problem was the creature spoke at an annoyingly excited speed, which made it very hard to tell if the creature was complaining like he was being underpaid for a difficult service or impatient in his excitement to perform whatever service seemed to be on offer.

She finally had to hold up her hands in the hopes it would calm him a moment to interject. To her surprise and delight, he quieted immediately and seemed to be forcing himself to patiently wait for her to speak. She had a small suspicion as to what sort of creature she was dealing with. Her grandparents always told her that, in the case she was suspicious of, it was best to be polite. One catches more pixies with honey than vinegar, or whatever ‘nanaism’ it was.

“Not to disrespect the time and effort you clearly put into getting in touch with me…” Iris relaxed somewhat. The creature seemed to perk up when she spoke to him politely, it seemed it wasn’t the first impression he normally got. Strange as the situation seemed, it seem the perfect amount of lunacy to help her with the dream-whore currently lurking in her comatose husband’s mind. “What is it I may or may not be on time for?”

The flower extending from the creature’s eyesocket perked up a bit, as if it had been startled into remembering what it had been doing, before swiveling to look at the strange ritual that seemed to be waiting for her in the center of the hut.

“Right, right, dis. Well, long story short, I became aware of ya plight. Well, ta be honest, I became aware of de PREVIOUS couple’s plight. A hint too late, sadly. Life’s not to focus on our failures though, merely learn from dem. Dis gave me a startin’ point. It ‘as been a lil bit, but ya seem ta be de latest one bein’ bothered by dis particular problem. De stars merely aligned so dat I can assist. Merely assist thought. I can put all de pieces inta place. It is up ta you ta do de rest.” The previously annoyed sounding tone had been replaced with a far more excited, and somehow quicker, one.

The creature held out a rolled up piece of parchment, giggling to himself as he did. “As ya meat-bodied types seem ta ‘ave trouble wit’ de name dat rings ta mind for m’self, probably would ‘ave issues if anyone understanding dat type’a magic anyway, I been introducin’ myself as Doc Boots. A scholar, but goin’ by ya kind’s stories, I guess ya could call me a witch doctor? What some’a de ones I’d consider colleagues bein’ called. Dat’s besides de point. Dat.”

Doc pointed towards the parchment he had forced into Iris’ hand.

“Dat explains your part. As ya see, I been preparin’ for ya showin’ up. Just got de Veggie cult tuned.” He gestured to the group of sentient, singing, swaying vegetables.

As Iris eyed the scroll she was given, she had a sinking feeling. She recognized what tune the cult was singing. Something the freaky flower seemed to have noticed.

“Oh, good, ya familiar wit’ de song. It required some rewrites, but given de last one who got taken by dis problem it seemed de most fitting. Gotta honor a failed patient afta’ all.” Doc said with a simple, sweet smile. Even as Iris glared daggers at him.

“No, you are clearly messing with me. There is NO way this will work.” Iris protested. She didn’t consider herself much a karaoke singer. Nor a fan of parody, yet apparently, here she was. This could not be real, this had vto be an elaborate prank her husband had set in motion. He always talked about starting up a couple-prank youtube. Denial was hopeful in believing maybe, just maybe, Doc was just and elaborate costume.

Sadly, the creature followed her protested with a good point. “What about dis situation leads ya ta doubt me? Look at me. Would ya truly believe my concept’a a joke involves ya simply singin’ a song ta seal away a cosmic deity I may or may not have drawn de attention of?”

Iris narrowed her eyes. “Not until ya gave too many details.”

Before she could protest further, she found herself standing in the middle of the sigil. The creature returned to the outside of the sigil opposite of her. His hand being placed on a rune carved skull in front of him, placed on the outer ring of the sigil leaving Doc standing just outside of it. “Regardless of who did what, de point’a de matter is what do ya got ta lose from singin’ a song, when de certainty of not singin’ it is some cosmic boogun is gonna use ‘is soul ta decorate ‘er growing pocket dimension?”

Iris stared a moment, then looked at the paper. “Is that why this lyric here is..”

The freaky flower stomped the bundle of vegetable that had long since replaced his host’s foot. “Ya not ‘ere because I needed critique on my song lyrics! I personally think I did q-REGARDLESS of the origins of lyrics, ya must sing it wit’ conviction. Sing it wit’ anger and a need ta fight.”

Opening her mouth once more, Doc seemed to know immediately it wasn’t to sing. His hand snapped up, and with a snap of his fingers, a purplish green glow shot through the runes on the ground, lighting up any that the ‘pulse’ that radiated from the creature ran into on its way to the woman in the center.

Before she could react, the pulse interacted with her. She didn’t even have to look down. She knew in her gut and the immediate clear smart-ass nature of the creature she had to deal with what fate had been forced on her.

She found herself in a familiar white suit befitting a well-known country singer, with an elegant design created from what she assumed to be diamonds. It was magically created, it had to be diamonds. It had not been elegantly enchanted onto her. Instead of replacing her outfit, going by the bunched fabric of the outfit she had been wearing poofing from the open chest of the jacket. The creature had just shoved her into her and called it a day. As she lifted her head to protested, she was quieted by the fact the outfit included a well-secured wig. Going by how it shifted, she was certain she probably now looked like the singer of the song the ritual was clearly based off of.

Giving a deep sigh, her shoulders dropping, she figured she might as well. If anything, this entire damn experience had distracted her from her problems at hand. The vine riddled being would at least be useful to fling at a cosmic beast should all else fail.

“Should match de beat fairly well. De one writin’ it was mildly under duress. As I popped outta nowhere and demanded it. I always forget I need ta lead wit’ de money ‘n riches first. Otha’wise, for whateva’ reason, ya meat bodies just think Imma rob ya. If I am what I think I am, de place dat I draw power from wouldn’ take too kindly ta me stiffin’ someone on a deal. Especially not an artist. Now! De outfit should ‘elp inspire ya. Didn’ shove ya in it purely for shits ‘n giggles. As de beat starts, just get goin’ and ya should be fine.” The flower did its best to console her.

“De veggie cult is doin’ de work’a dancin’ ta keep de fabric’a reality around ya secure enough. Just keep singin’, me ‘n de sigil I built will do de work’a keepin’ ya protected. Oh, and before ya ask, no. De thing’s name ain’ exactly Joelene. Ain’ even spelled like de song, but I was able to put some loopholes inta de belief and understandin’ of de writer. None of us could pronounce it, and it’d make a rather poor song anyway. Luckily, de previous couple was rather obsessed wit’ de song ‘n de boogun decided ta roll wit’ dat. Dey really must learn ta stop leavin’ lil loop’oles. My kind’s king’a dem!” Doc giggled wildly and gestured to the singing vegetables.

The ‘cult’ of vegetables surrounding her stopped for a moment, before restarting the beat they had been practicing. Iris gave a heavy sigh and, otherwise without options, began to sing.

“Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

Invoke thy name because you took my man.

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

You won’t take him just because you can. “

To her surprise, as she began to sing the walls of the hut, illuminated by strategically placed candles, cast shadows that made it appear as if a group were dancing around them, based on how everything had been lined up. The flicker of the candle and sway of the cult must have been the cause.

From the back of her mind she felt an odd tug. The world at the end of her perception flickered and swayed like the illusion cast by heated air. She did her best to cast her concern and sing with conviction, with strength. Her dearest depended on it, and she would be damned if her husband would be taken by something Lovecraft should have vomited out.

“A form humans can’t come to bare,

With captured souls turned into hair,

Eldritch Skin,

And eyes countless,

it seems…”

She could have sworn she felt something behind her. At that very moment, Doc slammed his vegetation laden foot onto the beginning to the sigil’s runic circle. A more concentrated and steady glow, like before, began to spread throughout the sigil. As it made contact with each pedestal, the runes scribbled over the cloth covering the bundle would glow bright enough to cover the object in its blinding light, before bursting into a sea of glowing balls.

These wisps of light buzzed around the circle, and they seemed to be collecting behind her. Iris held back a flinch, as she swore she could sense something screaming. She did not know how to describe it, as the only noise she heard was crafted for the ritual. The screaming, however, felt like it was radiating from her very subconscious. Like it was somehow coming from somewhere far, far away and only its faintest echoes could be felt behind her.

Somehow, this replaced her uncertainty with hope. She began to sing with more confidence. The concern replaced by the fire of her rage, which she pumped into the words. It seemed to have an effect, as the glowing runes at her feet added an orange hue to the show of color which rippled out to the remaining runes.

“Your smile cracks across their dreams,

Your Presence warps reality,

And yet here I stand against you,

Joelene.”

Bit by bit the offerings were consumed. Her vision warped in lines around the sigil. Something her mind refused to admit was surrounding her was moving in rapid, frantic trails. The screaming, she felt in her gut, was originating from this strange anomaly in her vision. This must be the beast that was tormenting her husband. This had to be her prey.

“You’ve come to take him in his sleep,

But there’s nothing I can do to keep,

From trying, as he screams your name,

Jolene.

From what I’ve come to understand,

You’ve stolen the souls of countless men,

To shape your own destiny,

Joelene.“

As the anomaly continued to frantically flail through her vision, she felt there was power in the anger she had begun to harbor for this creature. The despair and trauma her relationship had undergone due to this horror, she felt, could be pumped into her words in order to give them more power.

As all the runes that covered the sigil found their glow and all the offerings had begun to consume, the area directly beneath the rapidly moving anomaly gained a brighter glow, tracking and following it as the light pulsed towards the skull Doc held, his mouth moving rapidly in a quiet chant.

“You forced my little talk with you,

This song I sing will capture you,

Not matter what you try to do,

Joelene.

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

The cosmic lord that tried to take my man,

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

Sealed away, she won’t try that again."

Doc joined her, backing up the repetition of the name they had forced upon the entity. The blurring anomaly in her vision was forced into the glow beneath it. The sigil, glow, and runes slid rapidly beneath her, encircling the glowing bundle she assumed was the newly captured ‘Joelene’.

"Joelene, Joelene."

The final runes that lead to the skull seemed to be sucked into the upper jaw of the skull. The entire strange scene finally got sucked into the skull, which kept an ethereal glow in its sockets and runes, but otherwise, held no clues towards what the entity with in was. It seemed to have even sucked up the outfit and wig that had been forced on her.

Doc picked up the skull, beaming in delight. “Well, should I be correct on our timin’, ya husband shouldn’ ‘ave been so deep in ‘er clutches dat dat would’a caused ‘im de slightest bit’a ‘arm. Should be makin’ ‘is way back ta ‘is body through de dreamlands as we speak! Might not be awake when ya get dere, but will be soon enough.”

Now clearly preoccupied with the skull in his hand, the strange creature gestured to the door. Clearly indicating it was time for her to make her leave. “De contents of dis skull is all de payment I need. No need ta concern ya’self otha’wise. De danger dat could ‘ave befallen you or your husband and my choice ta withhold dat knowledge from ya until now will be considered enough payment.”

Iris was rather overwhelmed. She wasn’t even certain she was even living out this experience and not dreaming of it in a fury of sleep deprivation. She couldn’t quite feel any relief. In fact, she felt rather numb. She was rather certain, thanks to the lunacy of this entire event, she would find herself waking with a start huddled in her husband’s hospital room.

The vegetables began to force a line and hop, one by one, into the mouth of a pumpkin whose mouth had opened wide enough to accommodate them. She could swear that, instead of the inside of a pumpkin, she saw a strange and horrifying orange world filled with the strange, sentient vegetables. Maybe she would prefer it be a dream after all.

Shaking this belief and concern off, Iris quickly took the opening given to her and immediately fled from the hut and the swamp it was in, content to be back with her beloved and as far from this lunacy as possible.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

Invoke thy name because you took my man.

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

You won’t take him just because you can.

A form humans can’t come to bare,

With captured souls turned into hair,

Eldritch Skin,

And eyes countless,

it seems…

Your smile cracks across their dreams,

Your Presence warps reality,

And yet here I stand against you,

Joelene.

You’ve come to take him in his sleep,

But there’s nothing I can do to keep,

From trying, as he screams your name,

Jolene.

From what I’ve come to understand,

You’ve stolen the souls of countless men,

To shape your own destiny,

Joelene.

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

You made a poor choice trying to take my man,

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

You won’t take him just because you can.

You could have had your choice of man,

But then you came into my den,

You can not keep him from me,

Joelene.

You forced my little talk with you,

This song I sing will capture you,

Not matter what you try to do,

Joelene.

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

The cosmic lord that tried to take my man,

Joelene, Joelene, Joelene, Joelene,

Sealed away, she won’t try that again.

Joelene. Joelene.

#fiction #country #music #lyrics #short story #humor #horror #doc boots #fae #lovecraft #lovecraftian

[aion-rsa]

In First Become Ashes, K.M. Szpara Makes Us Wonder if Magic is Real

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

K.M. Szpara‘s debut Docile was one of the most binge-able, divisive reads of 2020. A near-future drama set in a world in debt crisis (imagine that), Docile explores the violence of capitalism at the most intimate of interpersonal levels, as we follow Elisha as he sells himself to trillionaire Alex in order to pay off his family’s debts. With Docile, Szpara, a queer and trans Baltimore-based author, proved himself willing to dive into some complex, culturally loaded subjects to tell a science fiction story that reflects some central yet ignored truths about our contemporary society. For me, a White reader, the ways in which Docile works outweigh it doesn’t (one major criticism: the book’s avoidance of addressing America’s real-life history of slavery), but this will be different for every reader.

In his second book, First, Becomes Ashes (out today!), Szpara is similarly ambitious in topic and theme. Ashes is a standalone novel that takes place in the aftermath of the destruction of a maybe-magical cult, following four different characters caught up in the messy repercussions of the FBI’s raiding of the Fellowship of the Anointed. Much of the novel’s early perspective comes from Lark, an almost 25-year-old who believes wholeheartedly in the teachings of cult leader Nova, and that he has been chosen to learn magic and martial arts in order to hunt the monsters that ravage the world outside the Fellowship gates. Like Docile, it’s a startlingly unique premise. Despite having four separate POV characters, Ashes is able to maintain a mystery around some of the fundamental truths of this world, leaving the reader to wonder if magic exists in this world or not.

Den of Geek: Where did the inspiration for the book that would become First, Become Ashes begin?

K.M. Szpara: The idea hit me like a comeback three hours too late! I’ve always been interested in cults and faith and belonging. As a speculative fiction author, I had to give it a fantasy twist. Magic is something many of us have wished for since childhood. What if it was real—and then what if we were told it wasn’t?  

This book has several POV characters, but you very much begin with Lark’s POV. Can you talk about how you went about deciding who would be POV characters and how you came up with the pacing for expanding the perspective-scope of this story?

One of my favorite ways to create tension is to show how different people experience the same event(s). Ashes shows dissolution of a cult from four points of view. Two “privileged” members who are Anointed—one a believer and one a doubter. One member who is a Fellow, a regular layperson. One outsider who has dreamed of having the magic the Anointed claim. Each of these characters experienced life differently before and after the Fellowship’s dissolution and they’re all tied together in deeply personal emotional ways. The pacing really comes down to knowing how to choose each chapter’s POV. And for me, it’s which character will be most effected by an event. For example, Lark performs healing magic on himself in front of Calvin. Though Lark is the one being healed and performing magic, it’s Calvin who’s seeing magic up close for the first time. It’s Calvin who’s wanted magic his whole life and is inches from it. That’s what drives the story forward.

Something you do in both Docile and Ashes that I love is give us a POV character who is an outsider to a world the reader will most likely recognize and then offer Nacirema-esque observation from that protagonist-outsider. Is this something you do intentionally? Why are you interested in telling stories in this way?

I had not heard of Nacirema until this question, but I love this observation! For anyone else hearing this for the first time, a cursory Google tells me that the term Nacirema is “American” spelled backwards and is a term used in sociology and anthropology to show distance while studying people in the United States of America. (I’m not a social scientist—amateur Googler over here!) I use outsider characters in this way because I want readers to see how aspects of their lives mirror the characters’ lives, how our society mirrors these harmful fictional societies. It’s easy to read about a cult and think you would never be drawn in, but that happens to people like you and me—and there are aspects of the U.S. that are cultish but not named in that way. I want people to see how they have been drawn in, how hard it is to unlearn and escape that harm. Because sometimes it looks and feels like magic and that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

I love all of the fandom explanation and outsider observation in this book. Why did you want to have a fan character like Calvin as such a central part of this story, and how did you want to depict fandom more generally?

When I think about who would be deeply invested in magic being real, it’s people like me who grew up reading SFF, wishing I’d walk through a portal to another world—even though the stories that took place in them were full of danger. There was magic! I’ve joked with friends that if one of them texted to tell me a real wizard or vampire or werewolf was in their house, I would absolutely drop everything and go to them. I want to see! I want to lift the veil! That’s what Lilian does when her BFF Calvin texts that an Anointed member of the Fellowship is in their hotel room.

But that doesn’t mean Calvin’s motivations are pure and good—nor are they malicious! Like fandom, he’s imperfect. He wants magic and monsters to be real so badly that he’s sometimes willing to hurt others in pursuit of his dreams. Though Calvin doesn’t represent fandom as a whole—what one person could?—I did want to show someone who’s helpful and harmful, family-friendly and sexy, successful and unfulfilled. Complicated, like most of us and our interests are!

A central tension of Ashes is the mystery of if Lark’s magic is real, which creates this experience as a reader of not totally understanding as you’re reading what genre the book itself even is—is it speculative fiction or is it something else? It was a really unique reading experience, and led me to wonder as I was reading if and why I cared about classifying it. What a cool use of the “unreliable” narrator! Can you talk about creating and sustaining this tension/mystery and what you wanted to do with it?

It was difficult! Whether magic appears successful depends on the chapter’s POV character and its place within the arc. Sometimes a spell’s result is instant and sometimes it’s implied. Often faith is the difference. In that way we’re all unreliable narrators—everyone is only telling their own truth as they see it, as they’ve been raised and taught to see it. I wanted to keep readers wondering, not just for the thrill of “is magic real?” but why they’re asking. Who do they believe—who do they want to believe? Does it matter who’s “right”? Why? Read and answer for yourself! Ashes is a fantasy novel… if you want it to be.

Were the in-universe discussion of preferred pronouns always part of this story and the culture of the Fellowship? 

Yes. Cults don’t exist because they seem unattractive and survivors often have at least some fond memories. I wanted to create a place that felt somewhat harmonious and fruitful, which included the ability to find and be yourself with full acceptance. Something I wish existed outside of my imaginary cult, as well!

Both Ashes and Docile depict experiences and topics that are very sensitive for many readers—i.e. abuse, rape, and sadomasochism—and that therefore most “mainstream” authors either shy away from completely or depict very superficially. Why are you interested in exploring these themes in your storytelling? What conclusions, if any, are you hoping for readers to come away with in relation to these themes specifically?

Firstly, no authors are required to deal with such heavy topics. I choose to; they’re common experiences and I’m not interested in glossing over them. I want to show how rape and abuse and conditioning affect people both in the moment and long after. And the sadomasochism in Ashes is not a depiction of a healthy S&M experience, but that’s not to imply that S&M is inherently unhealthy—because it absolutely can be! And lots of real people experiment with and engage in various forms of BDSM, sometimes healthy, sometimes not. I’m not writing guidebooks or after-school specials. My goal is not to portray perfect relationships or characters taking all the right steps. It is to show emotional truths. To portray how complicated and messy people are and reality is when it comes to traumatic situations.

It’s interesting to me that you use 25 as the coming-of-age age in this story. Can you talk about why you made that decision?

Ages like eighteen and twenty-one only mean something because we have decided they do. The Fellowship doesn’t operate by our rules, so I chose twenty-five, which felt like a natural milestone as a quarter century. Additionally, I wanted those leaving the Fellowship on their quests to be young adults (not in the publishing category sense) who were old enough to consider themselves competent but not so old that they’d had a lot of time as an adult to reflect on their experiences. A lot is ingrained in children and teenagers and I personally spent a lot of my early twenties both learning more and new information about myself and the world, but also unlearning some of the harmful aspects I’d absorbed from my younger years. It’s a time when many are figuring out their place in the world as independent adults, for the first time, not unlike the Anointed going out on their quests.

Are there things you especially learned in the writing and publishing of Docile that inspired how you wrote and edited this story?

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

It was nice to edit a book having already done so once because the mystery was gone—but that didn’t make it any easier! Second books are their own brand of tricky—and I like to try new things with craft, to push myself, which is fun but also stressful. There is a feeling of both familiarity while writing a second book, and also fear that maybe you wrote that first book my accident somehow and will never be able to do it again. Luckily, I have an awesome team at Tordotcom Publishing and they saw me through it, again. 

First, Become Ashes is now available to buy wherever books are sold, including via Tor.com.

Note: First, Become Ashes contains explicit sadomasochism and sexual content, as well as abuse and consent violations, including rape.

The post In First Become Ashes, K.M. Szpara Makes Us Wonder if Magic is Real appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3dDRjqT

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[iol247]

The Cult of “Face” in China | 面子

The Chinese concept of “face” (aka 面子 or miànzi) refers to a cultural understanding of respect, honor and social standing. Actions or words that are disrespectful may cause somebody to “lose face” while gifts, awards and other respect-giving actions may “give face”.

It’s a complex concept that is important to grasp if you want to really understand Chinese culture. Here’s what you need to know.

Of all the idiosyncrasies of Chinese culture, the concept of “face” is perhaps most difficult for Westerns to fully grasp.

Because “saving face” is such a strong motivating force in China, it’s also one of the most important concepts in understanding the Chinese Mind.

As we dive deeper into this concept, we’re going to cover the following basics:

Defining Face to a Western Audience

Cultural Context of Face in China

How to Operate within the Reality of Face

Tips for Giving and Receiving Face in China

The goal in the end is that you’ll not only better understand the concept of face in China, but you’ll also be able to see how it influences the way you relate to people and do business in the country.

How Do You Define “Face” Exactly?

As a sociological construct, the Chinese concept of face is difficult to define.

The famous Chinese writer and translator Lin Yutang (1895 –1976) even went so far as to say that “face cannot be translated or defined.” He did, however, characterize it as “…abstract and intangible, it is yet the most delicate standard by which Chinese social intercourse is regulated.”

The closest translations are along the lines of “pride”, “dignity” or “prestige”.

But these don’t tell the whole story.

Face-management is much more than just impression management (or “protecting and enhancing your ego”) in the Western sense. Of course, no one — regardless of culture—wants to look bad or have their ego bruised. But the Chinese concept goes beyond the narrow Western concept of face (and is perhaps closer to the Arab concept of “honor”).

It’s also worth noting that the concept of face in China is vastly different than the concept of “guanxi” in China. Although both are equally important to understand.

Comparing Western Ego vs. Chinese Face

Unlike “Western face”– which is more self-oriented and individualistic — Chinese face is more other-directed and relational.

In other words, it’s less about your own personal pride or ego, and more about how one is viewed by others. Unlike Western face, Chinese face can be given or earned. It can also be taken away or lost.

Chinese face can be given or earned…it can also be taken away or lost.

As a general sociological statement, Western cultures tend to focus on the individual as an independent, self-reliant being. In raising children, the focus is on helping them develop a strong sense of personal integrity and individuality (misbehavior is often blamed on lack of self-esteem).

In contrast, for some 4,000 years, Chinese culture has downplayed the concept of the individual—instead emphasizing the supremacy of the family and group.

It was all about bringing honor to your clan. With the emphasis on the collective, the sense of self blurred so much that it practically didn’t exist. In fact, individualism was seen as immoral.

The point is that Chinese face can be communally created and owned. In 2008 study Cultural ‘Faces’ of Interpersonal Communication in the U.S. and China, Yvonne Chang of the University of Texas explains:

“Deeply rooted in the Chinese concept of face are conceptualizations of a competent person in Chinese society: one who defines and puts self in relation to others and who cultivates morality so that his or her conduct will not lose others’ face. This contrasts with the American cultural definition of a person who is expected to be independent, self- reliant, and successful. The end result is that a Chinese person is expected to be relationally or communally conscious whereas an American person is expected to be self-conscious.”

Guilt-Based vs Shame-Based Cultures

Without digging too deep sociologically, suffice it to say that this social phenomenon of face has a lot to do with the teachings of Confucius. He taught that if you lead people “with excellence and put them in their place through roles and ritual practices, in addition to developing a sense of shame, they will order themselves harmoniously.”

Here we see that the flip side of gaining honor is avoiding shame.

Thousands of years ago, China developed into a shame-based culture. This is in contrast to Western cultures, which are more “guilt” or “conscience-based”.

Generally speaking, the Chinese “behave properly” generally to avoid shame and they fear losing face—not necessarily because they might feel badly about their actions.

For many, anything goes….as long as you don’t get caught!

In China, shame isn’t just personal feelings—again, it’s a relationship-based thing that serves as a form of social control. Any sort of family or clan-kinship shame is covered up.

This is also in stark contrast to the US, where airing your dirty laundry and private business on talk shows is seen as socially acceptable (in general, the Chinese aren’t big on updating strangers on their menstrual cycles via Twitter).

Ethics of “Face” in Relation to Truth

Western cultures tend to think in terms of “truth” and “rightness” (where being innocent and right is most important). Westerners are taught to respect objectivity and facts. The law applies equally to everyone the same and our behavior is something that should be directed by our consciences.

In the West, your honor or face is more about your personal integrity. We tend to admire the integrity of those who uncompromisingly face objective truth, regardless of how self-damaging the results may be.

In the US, you can admit and apologize for your shortcomings and gain respect for your honest efforts to learn from the past. Americans are generally forgiving if someone takes responsibility for their problems.

For instance, during his Presidential run, George W. Bush spoke openly about overcoming his addiction to alcohol. This is something that no Chinese official would ever do it—it would be a devastating loss of face and almost impossible to recover from.

In contrast, Chinese society has always functioned on basis of personal relationships rather than objective customs and laws. Indeed, the rule and laws laid down were often to serve those in power (and often arbitrary and ever-changing). Complicating matters, Confucian teachings say that you’re supposed to treat people differently depending your relative statuses.

How important are ethics in today’s society?

As a result, Chinese “ethics” has never been based on universal principles of good and bad. Instead, they’re more based on the circumstances of the moment—a system that the West calls “situational ethics” (much to the chagrin of people doing business in China).

Similarly, the Chinese concept of the “truth” is not black or white either. The emphasis is less on always telling the objective “truth,” and more about what the situation and relationship calls for.

When it’s OK to Lie in China

In some ways, this helps explain the cultural differences on lying.

The Chinese will go through great lengths to protect face (their own as well as others). In fact, it’s perfectly acceptable to tell a lie—even a bald-faced one—if it serves to protect face.

China’s culture of shame doesn’t think of lies in terms of “right” and “wrong.” Instead, the goal of Chinese truth is often to protect the face of an individual, group, or even nation. In these situations, both parties can usually read between the lines and know when the “truth” is being re-packaged to help protect face (and they unfortunately will often assume that Westerners will know as well).

For instance, a hotel receptionist might tell you an obvious lie when he tells you that they don’t have any vacancies. This might be their face-saving way to avoid having to tell you that their hotel doesn’t allow foreigners.

Westerners often have a hard time with this. We don’t like to be bull-sh*tted. Our reaction is to call someone out on a lie. But in most cases, open confrontation is counter-productive, and will often result in denials or feigning ignorance.

So I’d recommend not backing your tour guide (or whoever) into a corner and calling them out if you catch them in a lie (it would be viewed as very rude, even cruel). In general, it’s a good idea to leave the Chinese with a way out of any potential face-losing situation.

Instead, if something goes wrong, always talk privately. Try to avoid assigning blame. And use the passive voice, as in: “IT seems as if there’s a problem.”

Flattery can often be very effective too: “I know this isn’t your fault but since you are very smart, what do you think we should do?”

Cultural Context to the Idea of “Face”

The concept of “face” in China is very much a cultural construct, therefore the best way to truly understand it is by seeing it within the context of Chinese society.

China’s “Super Girl Contest” Reality Show

For starters, we can look at the once hugely popular Chinese singing contest called Super Girl Contest, which is basically their version of “American Idol”.

Nearly half of the girls can sing English songs and the competition is just as intense as the US or UK versions….but their response to winning and losing tells us a lot about this Chinese concept of “face”.

China’s Super Voice Girls reality show shows us a lot about the cult of face in China

Westerners will notice that a disproportionate amount of time of the three-hour show is spent with mutual emotional consoling by the singers, hosts and judges.

In fact, to protect against the shame of being eliminated, the show spends more time focusing on the losers rather than the winners!

And even though they had a version of the tough Simon Cowell in a judge named Wu Qixian, you won’t find him fighting with the other judges. Instead, it’s much more of a love-fest than American Idol—with everyone working hard to help protect face.

Unlike the “win-lose” zero-sum mentality of the US, Chinese reality shows and competitions also typically share the prize money.

For instance, in the 2006 show “Win in China” (the Chinese version of “The Apprentice”), the winner gets 10 million RMB. The runner up gets 7 million and the other three “losers” get 5 million each!

Chinese Idioms About “Face”

Illustrating the obsession with face-management, there are literally dozens of short sayings and proverbs, called Chinese Chengyu, that have to do with “face”.

These idioms give you some incredible cultural context into this idea of face in China.

“Men can’t live without face, trees can’t live without bark.” 人要脸树要皮 – rén yào lǐan, shù yào pí

“A family’s ugliness (misfortune) should never be publicly aired” 家丑不可外扬 – Jiāchǒu bùkě wàiyáng

“Face-Saving project” 面子工程 – Miànzi gōngchéng For example, “That new expensive airport is just another face-saving project for local officials to suck up to their bosses.”

“Blacken one’s face” 往脸上抹黑 – Wǎng liǎn shàng mǒhēi For example, “He blackened your face to get you back for what you did.”

A traditional insult is to say that someone “has no face”. 没有面子 – Méiyǒu miànzi

Similarly, one of the worst things is to “lose face”. 丢脸 – Diū liǎn

Walk of Shame: prostitutes in “shame parade”

How to Operate within Chinese Face

So now that we understand how to define face and what it means within the context of Chinese culture, the next step is more actionable.

How can we make sure that we “give face” to our friends and colleagues and minimize the risk of “losing face”? Here are a few thoughts on how to operate within the reality of face in China.

How to Gain or Lose Face in China

Warning: Don’t treat this concept of face, or “mianzi”, too lightly. This is especially true if you’re doing business or spending a long time in China.

Foreigners working in China (who don’t appreciate the full cultural importance of face) often complain that their Chinese counterparts are “too sensitive” about being offended or having their feelings hurt.

Similarly, many ex-pats in China—as well as other Asian countries such as Japan, Korea, Thailand, Singapore—can tell you stories of how their local friend suddenly stopped talking to them (probably because they somehow caused them to lose face).

And from the Western perspective, it is true—the Chinese are generally more sensitive to any perceived slights having to do with losing face since it’s so ingrained in their culture. This thin-skin is largely a product of culture that has valued social harmony as the prime rule  (and generally avoided criticism).

In the West, many of these slights are seen as minor and quickly forgotten. But in China, failing to appreciate face can cause serious problems.

While an American businessperson might be respected back home for his frankness and being a “straight-shooter,” he would likely be viewed in China as uncultured, overbearing, and rude.

For instance, an American subordinate attending a meeting where his boss is presenting would generally think nothing of raising a question, making an alternate suggestion, or even disagreeing in front of others.

In China, this would be a serious face-losing situation for the subordinate, boss, and even the company. In fact, making someone lose face can sometimes insult someone so deeply as to create an enemy for life.

Losing face can sometimes be so insulting as to create an enemy for life.

Indeed, revenge is very much part of the equation—and not just on Chinese soap operas, which include a heavy dose of avenging face-losing situations. I think it’s safe to say that throughout China’s long history, face has started many unnecessary conflicts.

In terms of practical China travel advice, a loss of face can result in some form of sabotage, non-compliance, or foot-dragging.

For instance, let’s say that you’re frustrated by an employee who is processing your visa or permit. You start ranting and raving loudly—demanding to see the manager, etc.

Don’t be surprised if your application is “lost” under the bottom of the pile.

Viewing China Through the Lens of “Face”

A better appreciation of face can go a long way in helping visitors better understand China.

For instance, foreigner business people will often notice that Chinese employees will often go to great lengths to steer clear of them. Most chalk it up to “being shy” or their inability to speak English.

That’s just part of it.

For the average Chinese person, talking to a foreigner is scary because it there’s a lot of potential for appearing incompetent and losing face, especially in front of other employees or the boss.

Even though they’re in their own country, many Chinese somehow feel that they’re supposed to know how to speak English when talking to a foreigner (instead of the other way around). Or even if they do speak it, there’s the fear that their English may not be understood, corrected or even laughed at (worse if they’re English majors and it’s part of their job description).

In general, the Chinese avoid situations when others can see them making “mistakes” (such as incorrect pronunciation).

While other Chinese people all know the ground rules governing face, they don’t know what they’ll get with a potentially unpredictable, emotional and loud laowai.

For better or worse, many Chinese have a perception that Westerners easily lose their cool and will fly off the handle at the drop of a hat. Worse, they might’ve personally witnessed or experienced past incidents where an angry foreigner exploded in frustration (leading to a loss of face for all parties involved).

Similarly, the average Chinese person on the street can also be apprehensive when being approached by a foreigner (asking for directions, taking a photo, making conversation, etc).  In these situations, you can increase their comfort level by, well, not acting like a loud, back-slapping foreigner (yes, I’m looking at you Americans).

If you want to copy an American, I’d recommend taking John Wayne’s acting advice:

“Talk low, talk slow, and don’t talk too much.”

Pretend that you’re trying to feed a nut to a nervous squirrel–approach at an angle, don’t attract too much attention and no sudden moves.

Preserve China’s National Face

Operating under the construct of Chinese face goes way beyond just how you relate to family, friends and business contacts. In fact, many events in Chinese history can be better understood when viewed through the lens of Face.

All Chinese children learn about the incredible timline of Chinese history (through the CCP’s version of history nonetheless). The Chinese are keenly aware of their own history of “humiliations” at the hands of foreign powers.

This has resulted in a strong sense of nationalism—almost to the point of defensiveness and over-sensitivity.

On a practical level, avoid any criticisms that might be taken as disparaging (even about the government).

The 2008 Olympic opening ceremony is an obvious example of the importance of building up national face (you could say that it was the ultimate “face project” of modern China). It’s no wonder that they invested so much time and money in wowing the world. Not to mention the pressure on the actual athletes!.

Example: Hu Jintao’s Visit to the U.S. in 2006

Even at the highest levels of government, failing to grasp the symbolic importance of Chinese face can cause problems, intentionally or otherwise.

Take the example of former Chinese President Hu Jintao’s 2006 visit to the US. Even though many of the mis-steps by the US and George W. Bush were probably unintentional, many Chinese netizens who got the real scoop believed that it was an intentional campaign to make China lose face on the international stage (especially since they spend so much thought into face when hosting foreign leaders).

President Hu had insisted on an official “state visit” (the highest form of diplomatic contact), which was given to his predecessor Jiang Zemin in 1997. President Bush didn’t give it to him, instead using the more neutral term “official visit” (Hu’s face was somewhat saved in the Chinese media by translating it as “state visit”). There was also wrangling before finally being given the full 21-gun salute, instead of the originally planned 19-gun salute.

Similarly, Hu was refused a full state dinner. Bush instead gave him only a state lunch (resulting in the fact that the meal wasn’t even reported in the Chinese media). During the greeting ceremony on the White House lawn, the loudspeaker introduced Hu as the president of “the Republic of China” (the official name of Taiwan), instead of the “People’s Republic of China”.

It gets worse. While Hu was giving his official speech, a protester from the banned Falun Gong group loudly heckled him from the stands. It took the Secret Service three minutes to escort her out.

The final act of humiliation occurred at the end as Hu started to leave the platform that he was standing on with Bush. As Hu was about to walk away in the wrong direction, Bush hastily reached out and grabbed Hu by his suit jacket to pull him back on the stand. If the scene occurred between only American politicians, it probably would’ve passed with little notice.

Bush grabs Hu Jintao’s suit jacket, causing him to lose face

But from the Chinese point-of-view, it was deeply insulting to see their nation’s leader being tugged at and treated like a small child.

In fact, the whole affair was so disastrous from a Chinese face-losing perspective, that the Chinese state media downplayed the visit– preferring instead to focus on Hu’s visit to Bill Gates’ mansion and to Boeing’s massive facilities in Washington State.

In January 2011, Hu finally got his full state visit when he was invited to visit President Obama (along with the 21-gun salute and state dinner). According to Philip M. Nichols, a Wharton professor of legal studies and business ethics, the visit was “symbolically successful”—explaining that “One of the things the meeting accomplished was that President Obama treated President Hu—and by extension the People’s Republic of China—with respect.”

Another Example: 2010 Japanese Boat Incident

When I was living in China in September 2010, the Chinese state media was obsessively reporting on a two-week long spat between Japan and China. If not for face considerations, I doubt that the incident would have received all of the attention that it did.

If you know anything about Chinese history, you’ll know that the worst face-losing events were the Japanese invasions and occupations. Suffice it to say, there’s still very strong anti-Japanese sentiment in China (it’s very safe to say that they’re the most hated nation in China).

The basic incident: A Chinese trawler collided with a Japanese patrol boat in an area claimed by both countries. The Japanese coastguard let the crew go but arrested the captain. China responded with escalating threats and economic sanctions (even suspending Japan-bound shipments of rare earth metals crucial in advanced manufacturing).

Eventually, Japan let the captain go, although they didn’t give the apology that China demanded (after all, they have their own national face issues to deal with too).

Tips for Giving Face in China

Here are some simple tips to help “give face” to a business counterpart or friend in China.

Praising someone publicly: This is true especially in front of their elders or boss.

Giving high marks on customer evaluation forms: The Chinese are generally generous, especially when giving reviews of their teachers.

Treating someone to an expensive meal or banquet: The most common face-giving technique that makes Chinese business and society run is the big banquet.

Giving sincere compliments: Make sure that you’re showing that you’re enjoying yourself when being treated out.

Giving an expensive gift: If possible, the best thing you can give is an imported gift that can’t easily be bought in China.

Avoid These Face-Losing Situations

If at all possible, try to avoid these particular face-losing situations with a Chinese counterpart:

Openly criticizing, challenging, disagreeing with, or denying someone.

Calling someone out on a lie.

Not showing proper deference to elders or superiors.

Turning down an invitation with an outright no (instead, they usually say “maybe”, “yes, maybe”, “we’ll do our best”, ” let’s think/talk about it later,” or “I need to discuss it with so-and so first”)

Being late on a flimsy excuse (demonstrates that you don’t respect or take them seriously).

Interrupting someone while they are talking.

Being angry at someone –mutual loss of face for both parties

Revealing someone’s lack of ability or knowledge (such as being able to speak English).

https://www.china-mike.com/chinese-culture/cult-of-face/amp/?__twitter_impression=true