#(for this and its litany of other sins)

[navree]

the concept of having children being so tied into political ambitions and machinations throughout history means that a lot of people do seem to straight up forget that these people were, like, family, and likely acted as such a lot of the time

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Worship | Divine

Hiiiiii Is it too soon to ask for another part of Worship? (<-- the silly who requested both the other parts) I'd love to see more of Roman and Virgils developing relationship, I'm also so intrigued about Remus if you wanted to expand on what he's up to? Does he have any worshippers? Or maybe he could meet Virgil and cause some (easily sorted) chaos? (Just throwing out ideas you absolutely don't have to use <3) Whatever you want to write I will GLADLY read it this au has me in a chokehold and I absolutely love your writing <33 – anon

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: none

Pairings: prinxiety

Word Count: 1484

Remus arrives.

1.

He has a nightmare. A nightmare so horrible he would wonder if it were a message from his god, that he need learn a lesson or know this pain or something, for all that he wakes up with a sore throat and a burning chest, tears failing to dry on his cheeks. But his god is there, Roman is there, wrapping arms around him and pressing kisses to his keening throat, his shaking shoulders, murmuring words of comfort and promises that he is safe.

Don't fret, he says, when Virgil tries to stammer out any word he can to explain, apologize, praise, do not fret, shh, hush, hush, just let me do this.

This turns out to be a lovely combination of soothing his frenetic mind with pleasant sensation and filling his ears with soft stories, descriptions of places meant to cradle and comfort and actions to compliment them. When he can bear to be apart from him for more than a few seconds, Roman brings him a cup of warm drink, holding it to let him ease his throat and soothe his chest. He keeps one hand on his bare back, skin to skin, words still murmured and pressed into the crook of his shoulder as he calms.

There is no cause for you to suffer like this, he whispers when once again, Virgil attempts to thank him, you are an ardent worshiper and a good man. There is every reason for me to care for you in this moment of distress.

The night is young, still, despite the violence of the nightmare, and Roman has no qualms about hoarding Virgil's vulnerabilities deep in its cloak of darkness. His voice never wavers, his words never slow, a gentle litany of soft sweet nothingness stories meant only to ease him back towards a more peaceful sleep. He spins tales of wonderful foods, of gentle skies, of kind touches and warm caresses that he mimics in kind across Virgil's palms, his arms, the slightly damp skin of his chest. He kisses his jumping pulse when fear seizes him once again, holds him close when he sniffles, promises to be here this time, every time from now on, that this will never happen again.

Why…why did it happen?

And here, Roman falls silent. I believe it was my brother.

2.

Remus, that is Roman's brother's name. The dark god, the god of chaos, the one whose motivations Virgil should not attempt to puzzle. And yet it is this same god that stole Virgil's night from him for…reasons he could not hope to fathom.

His god tells him that Remus is not a god of single-minded vengeance, that there is nothing so horrible that Virgil has done to earn his wrath. No sin he has committed to offend, no crime for which he must atone. Instead, his god remarks that perhaps his brother is bored, or wondering what it is that has stolen Roman's attention.

He's quite the hog for it, attention. Perhaps he is jealous of you.

A god, jealous of me?

Roman had laughed. Don't be so surprised at the notion, Virgil. Surely such a story is not altogether strange to you.

It is not, but neither is that fact reassuring. Most tales of gods growing jealous of mortals has the mortals suffering some terrible fate for daring to exist, even if they had no intention of sparking such jealousy in the first place. He thinks of the talented craftspeople cursed to some hideous forms for having such high quality of work, he thinks of the warriors enslaved with their wills broken beyond repair for having the courage to stand for what they believed in, he thinks of the innocent lives left battered and ruined for daring to draw a god's eye.

He does not want to spend a lot of time thinking about what it would be like to draw the ire of a god of chaos.

Roman notices his fretting, because his god knows how to read the stories people tell without realizing it and takes him in his arms.

My brother will not be the end of you, Virgil. That is not how your story goes.

3.

Virgil holds his book in his hands. It is the only thing in his house not drenched in a viscous green slime.

He sets it carefully inside his leather satchel, latches it shut, and place it on a rock high above the ground yet hidden underneath a nearby grove of trees. He steps warily into his house and pokes at the liquid with a stick. It collides with a sickening squelch and does its level best to suck the stick into itself.

Splashing it with water does nothing except wet the part of his floor still free of the slime. Trying to scrape it off with a shovel only loses him part of his coat and dents the shovel's handle where he tried to yank it free and slammed it into the door frame. Even a desperate attempt to set fire to the vacuous mass ends in failure, though perhaps that is for the best.

His god arrives to see him on his knees, staring hopelessly at the mess that his home has become, and for a moment, his face darkens. Without saying a word, he covers Virgil's eyes and something loud crackles next to his ear. When the hand is removed, the slime is gone.

I have to leave for a little while, Roman says that night, I must have a word with my brother.

Will you come back?

He softens, as he always does when Virgil worries. Of course I will, as soon as I can.

And what if…something were to happen while you are gone?

Roman's face darkens ever so slightly, but not at him. Not when Roman's gaze is directed at something over his shoulder. It will not.

How can you be so sure?

Why, Virgil, he says lightly with a tap under his chin, haven't you learned not to question your god?

4.

The bed is cold.

His house has never felt so large.

His skin has never felt so thin.

His chest has never felt so tight.

His notebook has never felt so heavy.

His words have never felt so feeble.

His stomach has never felt so weak.

His eyes have never felt so useless.

His worship has never felt so desperate.

5.

His notebook goes missing.

+1.

Wake up. Wake up, Virgil, shh, don't cry, don't cry, it's alright.

He thinks he's still dreaming again, with soft kisses on his cheeks and a hand tangling in his hair. He thinks the murmured words are some terribly tempting memory, designed to taunt him, until he hears the other voice.

You really are whipped for him.

He bolts upright.

There is Roman, already slipping his hands around his shoulders, fitting his palms to the curve of his back. And there is another figure, in dark clothes and bright green light, almost painful to look at, staring at him with such an intensity that it's difficult to hold his gaze.

R-R—

It's alright, Roman says gently, he's not going to hurt you. Nothing is going to happen to you.

He's all shaky. Do you do that?

Remus. Behave.

I could. But it's so much more fun if I don't.

Remus.

…

…

…

…irgil? Virgil, it's alright.

I think you scared him, Roro. The other figure steps a little closer, the light dimmed slightly. Virgil blinks.

Roman's hands are gentle, his voice back to the softer one he's been using for Virgil. Virgil leans into the touch, still watching the other god carefully. He tilts his head. The other god tilts his. He does it the other way. The other god laughs like crackling fire and tilts the other way too.

He's kinda cute.

He's very cute.

I see why you like him.

Two gods are discussing him as though he's a pet. He wishes he could say he didn't expect it. He swallows, lets Roman help him out of bed, and stands face to face with Remus.

Are you hungry?

Remus grins with a mouth full of teeth. Roman lets out a warning noise and they visibly shrink. I hear you have excellent bread.

Bread. He can work with that.

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[ross-hollander]

They have another...

...hell, too, although much more streamlined, for the- well, the tactical officers, the combat overseers, the handlers, you know the type. There simply isn't such a rich variety of sins to punish them for, which disappoints the fleshy, mouthless things down there, but it does make their job punishing them easier.

They have thrones for them, thrones of marble and pearl and gold and all precious things of the world. The technicians who have no eyes strap these handlers- accomplices to war -each one onto their throne, a view screen from their charge's 'mech filling their vision, razor wire holding their arms inert, headsets blocking out even their own voice. And from there, they will watch and they will listen.

They'll hear everything. Burning buildings, bodies of infantry crackling under tons of metal stomping downwards, civilians riddled with shrapnel as they flee the onslaught, the grim bell-tinkle of shells hitting scorched streets. Armor of enemy 'mechs punched through by roaring bursts of fire, pilots screaming as they cook in their cockpits. They'll watch it all, in the most perfect resolution imaginable.

And on these thrones, the devil on their pilot's shoulder, the devils on their shoulders will prod them to keep up their endless litany: nice work. Good job. Target destroyed. New directive. Solid hit. A rosary of ash-tainted metal as they get to watch how happy these damned war-dogs- these hell-hounds, if you will -are to do every single thing they say. Kill anyone. Burn anything. Everyone, even. Everything.

When their throats are shredded through by endlessly grating out their praise to their personal murder machine (and its 'mech), then they are permitted to leave. Some do, limping across Hell on their atrophied legs, towards the gate into that place where the waters are calm and the earth is undefiled by the footprints of war machines.

Others don't. They can't bring themselves to. A thousand years on a throne, absolute monarch of their view-screen-sized dominion, leaves them broken in the soul. The hellhound is the one who really holds the leash now; the husk on the throne can only drool blood as it rasps praises without end for the carnage that beast wreaks.

[library-ghoulette]

day 9 // voice kink

Prompt list thanks to @kroas-adtam 💜

Pairing: Terzo x reader

Rating: Explicit, minors DNI

Words: 1048

Tags: second person POV, female reader, confessional booth, masturbation

Summary: You confess to Papa Terzo why you have trouble paying attention during mass.

A/N: At long last, another Ghostober fic! Written in a frenzy and barely proofread, so beware? The Hail Lilith prayer that I quote in its entirety is from the article "Praying the Satanic Rosary," uploaded to Scribd by jimhoward300380.

Read beneath the cut or on ao3!

All is quiet as you make your way to the confessional, stepping into the booth and pulling the door behind you with a muffled, satisfying snick. You settle on the bench, and the dim silence envelopes you, thick and expectant. It awaits your words and the violence of breaking.

You cross yourself—right shoulder, left, forehead, between your breasts—and say, "Bless me, Papa, for a I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession."

Then, you pause, letting the silence spool out between you. You can only catch a glimpse of a silhouette through the screen, the strong line of an aquiline nose in profile.

There is an impatient shuffling of vestments. "Go on, sorella."

A frisson of excitement runs through you at the words, at the familiar trill of the rolled r. You're not supposed to know who sits on the other side of the divider. You're certainly not supposed to memorize the schedule according to which the various Papas in residence—three retired from their public role, but still of service to their flock, and one still on active duty, as it were—hear confession, and plan your sojourns into the booth accordingly.

But isn't rule-breaking inherent to your faith, you rationalize? Did Lucifer not rebel before His creator? Is it not the nature of the brightest stars to fall?

And fall you have. You're not unique in this—every Sibling in the Abbey would be happy to line up and wait their turn with Papa Terzo. Who could resist his clever hands, his easy charisma, the transfixing power of his unholy gaze?

But for you? It's all about the voice. You have been known to linger outside of the music room, sweeping the hallway extra carefully as he warms up his vocal chords, running through scales and nonsense exercises. During mass, you let your eyes slip shut in the semblance of religious ecstasies, letting each syllable of his homily wash over you, meaning more felt by your body than absorbed by your mind.

But nothing compares to sitting here with him in the secretive dark, where each word rings with a special gravity, rendered huge by the small space.

You rack your brain for something to confess, searching your soul for the most exquisite sins you've committed. You run through a small litany of everyday transgressions—indulging your slothfulness, lying to Sister Imperator and saying that you weren't feeling well to get out of cleaning the sanctuary, envying one of your Sisters the expensive new pair of shoes she just bought and won't stop showing off every chance she gets.

Each sin you recount gets little more than a grunt of acknoledgement. This is no good. He's barely spoken the entire time you've been in here, and you're running out of sins, running out of opportunities for approval, for comment.

You decide to be bold.

"And—" your voice falters for just a moment before you press on "—and I've been having— impure thoughts. During mass."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Papa. I find that I can't focus during the readings, because I'm so distracted by— by your voice."

"My voice, sorella?" It comes out deep and rumbling, and you swear you can feel the words low in your belly as surely as if he were murmuring against your skin. You press your thighs together, seeking friction, seeking any relief you can find.

"Y-yes," you sigh. Your fingers twist in the hem of your skirt.

"Well, that is a problem." A pause, and you wonder whether he's going to continue. "You come here to hear my voice, but I think that I need to hear yours."

"Papa?" you ask, confused.

"Say a Hail Lilith for me," he commands. "As your penance for failing to listen to the words of our Unholy Father."

You take a deep breath, collecting yourself as you recall the words of the prayer. "Hail Lilith, full of the Serpent's seed, Satan be with you. Blessed are—"

"Slower," he interrupts.

You begin again, taking your time. "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, the Demons."

As you speak, you become aware of the rustling of cloth, as though he has reached beneath the robes of his office, as though—but surely not—he has taken himself in hand. It surprises you so much that you stop mid-prayer.

His voice is husky, breathy, when he prompts you, "Keep going. Please."

Emboldened, you snake your hand up under your skirt and down your panties, suppressing a gasp as your fingertips find your swollen clit and begin to trace desperate circles. You strive to keep your voice steady as you continue to pray.

"Seductress Lilith, m-mother of— mm— mother of S-succubi—"

You can still hear the motion of his hand, the huff of his breath as he gets closer, as he whispers, "Yes, that's it…"

"Pray— pray for— for us." The words have to fight your quickening breath and lust-muddled brain, now, and you're so close to coming that you're barely aware of what you're saying, or how loud you're being. "Pray for us that are serving You! Now and— fuck— now and in the— in the—"

Your release carries the rest of the prayer away, and you bite your lip hard enough to taste the coppery tang of blood, desperate not to scream your pleasure loud enough for the entire church to hear.

Beyond the partition, you hear his muttered swearing, the gentle knock of his head falling back against the wall of the confessional, and a deep, barely suppressed moan that you know you'll be replaying in your head tonight, and for many nights to come.

"Pray for us that are serving you," you repeat, slightly out of breath, "now and in the time of our Fornication. Nema."

For a few moments, the booth fills with the sounds of your breath as you both recover, heartbeats slowing. And then he asks, "Do you have anything else to confess?"

"This is all I can remember," you say, falling into the rote script of confession. "I revel in these and all my sins."

"Very good. When you leave, say three more Hail Liliths and an Our Father. And sorella?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"Come to confession the same time next week."

[martyrmarked]

How is her relationship with her Ostwick family after the events of Inquisition and specifically trespasser? Did she cut contact completely? Some family members that are still out there?

skells my angel thank you for asking this tricky but important question!! after her brother was taken to the circle, and made tranquil a few years thereafter, what was never a particularly warm relationship with her parents just grew colder and distant to the point where they weren't actively speaking to each other leading up to the conclave.

after sidri is made the herald, there are a flurry of letters from distant relatives (her damn cousins, its always cousin) trying to capitalize on their relationship to her, however weak or distant, but the one bearing her family crest sits on her desk for a week before she can bring herself to open it. it's a short letter asking her if she's heard anything of her brother and congratulating her on returning meaning and admiration to the family name. she burns it all but immediately after reading it and avoids reading the several more than arrive throughout the course of the main timeline until curiosity gets the best of her, only for the inevitable disappointment of being told again and again her their greatest source of pride is derived from her status as inquisitor and never in her own actions, as if she is somehow atoning for the great sin of her brother being a mage when it was always him who was to bear the family name in service of the chantry.

before trespasser, she sends a letter to her parents stating that she is engaged and, following the exalted council, has every intention of leaving for kirkwall rather than return to ostwick (she never, not once, thought of returning). she does not receive a response but, after formal announcement of her wedding is made after the events of trespasser, the viscount's office receives ostwick's traditional wedding gifts sent by her family (wine and a set of matching silver goblets, thick cloaks woven to ward off the sea's chill and a detailed manuscript detailing the family line with the addition of her own name and a v. tethras inked at the bottom).

recognition of her marriage, as well as estie despite her being adopted, helps melt some of the iciness between them. gifts clearly intended for estie are sent every wintersend, even if there are no notes accompanied by them, and increased trade between kirkwall and ostwick courtesy of @extravagantliar, further help mend the fractures. by the time her youngest daughter is born, her parents are informed well in advance and a litany of presents (citrus fruit, cinnamon & other spices, childrens clothes and, most significantly, jewelry from her family's stores) is sent in celebration. cards from her girls are sent back to ostwick a few times a year and the occasional letter from her accompanies them.

her children (asha included down the line) do end up learning about her parents and her family, most importantly her brother, through tradition even if not personal relationships. she remembers what was important to her as a child, & what memories were warm and worth passing down are renewed by her own hand for her kids.

[hoboblaidd]

the path to redemption is paved with trials and tribulations .

In the turning of the seasons, in life and death, in the empty spaces where out hearts hunger for a forgotten face.

For about an hour after the sun had passed its zenith and crested over the mountains, Skyhold’s gardens shimmered with unfiltered golden light. It bathed the autumnal leaves of the trees reaching to the limitless sky, casting long, comfortable shadows over the drying grass and old path stones. 

You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. You composed the cadence of my heart.

With no formal Chantry in Skyhold, the faithful of the Inquisition gathered beneath the dying light of the day, their litany of soft chants quietly echoing along the veranda.

I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know. And though we are few against the wind, we are Yours.

Solas did not often come to the gardens, preferring the peace of his rotunda. But as the days grew shorter and their situation no less dire, he wandered out to hear the hush of the priests’ singing mingle with the soft rustle of autumn leaves.

Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present, and those I have called, they remember. And they shall endure.

He had never been a man of faith. He had seen from where gods grew and the devastation of their worship. 

I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here.

Yet he felt a tinge of sorrow brush against his heart, unbidden. The words belonged to a faith as foreign to him as his people’s world was to them, yet he recognized in the words of their chant pieces of familiar legends woven into a new tapestry.

I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.

“Ir suledin nadas,” Solas said quietly, adding his own codicil to their Chant for himself alone. The priests drifted from their recitation of the Trials into a moment of silence, and Solas was once again in the company of no more than ghosts.

He started at the unexpected voice beside him, and turned. Humans he interacted with rarely, outside of agents or the Inquisition’s inner circle. But he had made a point of learning who they were, at least. But this woman with a noble countenance was unknown to him. She had stolen into the garden as quietly as he had, or perhaps, he'd been too distant to notice. But he found, strangely, that her unexpected presence did not irritate as was so often the case. Rather, he felt achingly grateful that he wasn't, for this moment at least, alone.

“Is that part of your Chant?” Solas asked, his voice still hushed as if they stood within the innermost sanctums of the Grand Cathedral, or the now lost temples of his own people. In the softness of the moment, it was no mere polite courtesy or cunning inquiry. It was almost desperately earnest. “Trials faced or trials wrought?” He felt a yearning, not for faith, but for the hope that any could seek redemption no matter what they’d sown by their bloodied hands. Or perhaps, that others believed such a thing possible for someone else, no matter their sins.

[sacredheart-stigmata]

Litany for World Peace - Adapted from The Worshipbook, Westminster, 1970

Remember, O Lord, the people of this world divided into many nations, religions, and tongues. Deliver us from every evil that stands in the way of Your saving purpose and fulfill the promise of peace on earth among those with whom You are well pleased, through Jesus Christ. Amen.

From the curse of war and the human sin that causes war, O Lord, deliver us.

From pride that turns its back on You, and from unbelief that will not bow to You, O Lord, deliver us.

From national vanity that poses as patriotism, and from loud-mouthed boasting and blind self-worship that admit no guilt, O Lord, deliver us.

From self-righteousness that will not compromise, and from selfishness that glories in the oppression of others, O Lord, deliver us.

From the lust for property or power that drives humanity to kill, O Lord, deliver us.

From trusting in the weapons of war, and mistrusting the councils of peace, O Lord, deliver us.

From hearing, believing, and speaking lies about other nations and religions, O Lord, deliver us.

From groundless suspicions and fears that stand in the way of reconciliation, O Lord, deliver us.

From words and deeds that encourage discord, prejudice, and hatred; from everything that prevents the human family from fulfilling Your promise of peace, O Lord, deliver us.

Lord of Israel, and God of all the nations: we pray for Your children across the whole earth, of every land and race, that they may be strong to do Your will. We pray especially for the church in the world, Give us Your peace, O Lord.

For all who in any way work or pray to further the cause of peace and goodwill, Give us Your peace, O Lord.

For civilians in every land, Give us Your peace, O Lord.

For those who declare themselves enemies, that at last we may find reconciliation, Give us Your peace, O Lord.

Eternal God: Use us, even in our ignorance and weakness, to bring about Your holy will on earth. Hurry the day when people shall live together in Your love; for Yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever. Amen.

[copiaslilrat]

Fanfic Masterlist

Hello! I write a lot of Ghost fanfic! Here is a master post for everything. I post mainly to AO3, but will usually only post smaller stuff here. Big links are for AO3, lil links are for Tumblr.

Series

A Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out

There's something unexplainable that pulls the main character towards the Satanic Ministry and its currently-presiding anti-pope, but following that desire may put them in a situation that ends up being more than they bargained for.

Copia x First-Person POV (main character is unnamed)

18+

~61k words / 11 chapters (completed!)

Riding in the Shadows Behind You

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8

Sibling Eros has a chance encounter with a certain Cardinal with a secret after working late one night. Both of them are introverted and quite frankly extremely awkward, but they find that they simply just cannot get enough of each other. Could this be a match made in Hell?

Dracopia x NB Sibling of Sin OC

18+

No plot - just a series of one-shots with references to previous chapters. Very wholesome, fluffy, & smutty. Watch two idiots fall in love and fuck about it.

One-Shots

Copia x NB Reader (18+)

tags: cuddle sex, fluffy aftercare, first-person pov, reader is afab but uses they/he pronouns

Leave the Belt (Secondo x Reader) (18+) - AO3 link

tags: cock warming, desk sex, aftercare, reader is afab and uses fem-gendered words, Secondo acting tough but really he's just a big softie

[dusk-legion-diplomacy]

What is Life if But a Fevered Dream?

All living things must rest. Somehow, some way, eventually everything must rest.

This fact was one that Pontifex Fein had tried desperately to disprove, but learned that it was immutable. Even for immortal creatures such as he.

Rest did not come easy. It only came after words turned to useless sludge within his mind, letters no longer making sense and his will to continue reading replaced by a desire to do nothing more than curl up and sleep for eternity.

His bedchambers were rarely used these days, but he was grateful for them. The bed was far more comfortable than the hard floor he had to use during his imprisonment and time during the Phyrexian invasion. A large window filtered the light of the sinking moon and framed the stars. He barely had the energy to disrobe and get into proper sleeping attire, and by the time he actually got to his bed, his body simply gave up and he fell into a deep slumber.

And when he slept, he began to dream.

A vast and depthless cavern stretched before him. There was soft sand beneath his boots. The tide gently licked at his heels. Mavren turned away from it and saw an endless ocean obscured by mist and fog.

Come to me, something whispered. He shuddered.

He knew that voice.

It is time for us to speak.

Mavren looked back to the cavern. The tide splashed against his feet again. Part of him wondered what would happen if he waded into the sea. Another part of him knew what would happen.

A prayer came to his mind. A litany. A defense against the corruptions of the Great Enemy.

May the saint guide and deliver me from the temptations of hunger. May the saint guide and deliver me from the temptations of the night. May the saint guide and deliver me from the whispers of blood. May the saint guide and deliver me from my sins. May the saint guide and deliver me from the beast that hides within us. May the saint guide and deliver me from the pains of our sacrifice.

Mavren walked into the cave.

---

There was no light to be found once he walked inside. Occasionally, stalactites would have the faintest glimmer of light reflected from the water that dripped down, but that was all he had to navigate by. Despite this, he knew precisely where to go. He was being guided through the same whispers that lingered in the back of his mind in the waking world.

He did not know for how long he walked, nor how deep he was. Neither had true meaning for him, anyway. He would get to his destination when his destination wanted to be found.

Things hissed at him from the dark. He heard the flutter of wings, occasionally felt things caress his face as they flitted by. He kept himself focused on his litanies and his prayers, turning them over again and again within his mind.

The cavern began to open into a wider space. Light illuminated the space through a thin hole in the roof of the chamber, so bright that it nearly blinded Mavren's eyes at first. Once his eyes adjusted, he was able to take stock of his surroundings.

Golden chains threaded with cosmium lay scattered about the chamber. They were broken and warped out of shape. Bats chattered as they clung to the sides of the cavern. Initially, Mavren thought himself alone, before a bulky shadow began to unfurl towards the back of the chamber.

Wings of skin stretched taught over unnaturally elongated bone slowly extended outward. Upon the largest of these wings sat three spindly fingers, the rest of the wing they were attached to having an unnatural joint in each. A collar of skulls adorned the things neck, its face a mess of wrinkled skin pulled into the features of a bat. One of its eyes glowed a baleful red, the other eye missing within its scarred socket. It sat crouched upon its haunches, its lower wings acting akin to the wrappings Mavren wore around his waist. He disliked the similarties found there.

My child. The whispers came from within. It did not speak with its mouth, though it did have an unnatural grin, revealing its massive set of fangs. Unlike Mavren, the beast had two sets, one in its upper and lower jaws. I have been waiting for you.

"I am no child of yours. What is it that you want from me, beast? If it is capitulation you are after, I am going to leave you disappointed," Mavren said, doing his best to look defiant.

Capitulation? No. I do not seek surrender from you, child.

"Then why am I here?"

So that I may understand you.

"You are speaking with the saint and queen?"

We have spoken. I spoke with them before I came to you.

"Then I hope you see how fruitless this is."

I would not be so confident, little one. The Dusk Rose rebuked me, but the one you call your sovereign...

"She will not be swayed by your meager temptations."

So you believe. The beast folded its wings, then leaned down to get closer to Mavren. I offer you a chance to end this before your home is drowned in blood. I do not wish for my children to die; it is why I gave you life everlasting. Do you not yearn for peace and rest, pontifex?

"Torrezon will never know peace so long as you are unbound," Mavren spat. "These lands would be soaked in blood either way. You encourage us to do nothing except kill and eat."

Are we not all animals fighting to survive?

"No. We are greater than beasts."

Greater than beasts. You know, we are viewed as monsters all the same. The sins of your past linger and stain you. The others of this plane will never show you forgiveness.

"It does not matter," Mavren said. "Perhaps they will not forgive us now, but maybe there will come a day where they will. Maybe we can have a peace, even if it is fragile."

How optimistic you are.

"I have faith that everyone wants peace. That is what you came to try and offer me, after all. Getting there will be difficult and complicated, but I am willing to try. I will not allow my flock to succumb to their animalistic urges. We must be better. We are and will be better."

You love to say we as though you are not alone. Do you really think your people follow you willingly? All of my children come to me willingly. They hear me echo their deepest wants and desires and they reach out to seize them. They see that you have failed them. They are tired of starvation and prayers that go unheard, salvation that never comes. I answer their prayers. I give them that which they seek most.

"You do nothing but prey upon the fears of the ones of weaker will. I care not for your poisoned words, beast."

Your resolve is amusing to me. You would sacrifice your home and your people for pathetic pride.

"I am not sacrificing them. I will defy you until the very end, and even from the depthless grave I will continue to defy you."

I promise my children an age of supremacy and freedom. An age where they will not be forced to remain humble and pretend to be like the braying humans beneath their feet. What do you offer them?

"The truth," Mavren answered.

And what is your truth?

"You would have this plane be soaked in blood. But what happens when there is no one left but us?" Mavren asked. "What would you have us do? Devour each other until there is only you remaining? And then what? You would be trapped and forced to waste away, beast."

There are other planes in our reality. Others who may yet embrace and hear my message.

"Other planes that I will ensure you never get to. You will be trapped and starving here when all is done."

You think you are the one with power, child? The god reared up, the smaller set of wings upon its back flaring. I am the one who gave Elenda the knowledge to make you into who you are. Without me, you do not exist. I am the god of death itself!

"And so long as I can remain to fight you, you will never be the god of Torrezon," Mavren swore. The beast's face twitched, and its eye narrowed.

Allow me to show you why you have chosen the wrong answer. It twitched its long fingers, and Mavren was forced to his knees. He tried to fight against the beast's influence, but found himself utterly overwhelmed.

"You said... you did not seek my surrender," he said, struggling to get a foot underneath him. The beast leaned forward again, running a finger under Mavren's chin.

You are right. I do not seek your surrender. I shall give you my blessing, child. Even if you may hate me for it now, you will exult in it later. When that day comes, I will welcome you with open wings.

It leaned forward and sank its fangs into Mavren's body, causing him to cry out in pain. He felt unwanted power flooding through him, and when he was released, he could feel his flesh beginning to change.

"No!" he howled, trying to assert control over his own body. He felt his muscles beginning to flex and tear painfully to form wings sprouting upon his back. He felt his teeth pushing from his gums, his mouth becoming more of a deathtrap than it was before. Claws pushed their way from his fingers. The light in the cave began to feel blinding.

"I will not succumb! I will not be your monster!" he screamed. The beast in the cave only smiled at him as he awoke screaming and alone.

His room was quiet. The first light of dawn had touched the sky. Birds were singing. Mavren quickly checked himself over to find that... he was whole. Nothing had changed. No wings, no new fangs, no claws... He was himself.

He laid back in his bed with a sigh, staring up at the canopy above him. He still felt as exhausted as he ever did these days.

But dawn had come at last, which meant more work to be done. With some protestation, he forced himself out of bed, not noticing that the shadow he cast upon the wall bore the accursed wings of the enemy.

[cosmicallybound]

@empyreous   invoked the goddess,

what if they kissed? glasya :)

     later,   after   much   protestation,   the   truth   would   fall   from   petal-soft   lips,   poisonous   self-denial   finally   cleansed.   but   for   now,   the   goddess   would   insist   that   the   flavored   wine,   far   more   potent   than   any   mortal   alcohol,   coursing   through   ichor-filled   veins   was   the   only   reason   she'd   kissed   glasya.   inebriated   enough   that   slender   hands   had   cupped   sharp   chin,   tilting   the   blonde's   face   toward   her   own   before   covetous   lips   pressed   against   sinfully   lush   flesh.   the   sweet,   cloying   longing   gave   way   to   desire   as   talented   hands   gripped   supple   waist,   dragging   the   goddess   into   the   she-devil's   lap.   teasing   lips   devoured   a   soft   moan   before   they   trailed   down   hyeon's   body,   pausing   at   her   neck   to   create   a   litany   of   marks   against   porcelain   flesh.

     slender   fingers   tangled   within   silvery   waves,   clutching   the   other   closer   as   the   goddess's   head   fell   back,   exposing   more   silken   skin   for   the   she-devil's   pleasure.   molten   heat   seeped   into   every   pore,   far   headier   than   she'd   experienced.   sculpted   thighs   tightened   around   glasya's   hips   as   brilliant   amber   finally   shot   open   once   more,   the   black   of   her   pupils   nearly   swallowing   the   color   whole.   wonder   painted   itself   across   the   ethereal   beauty   of   the   celestial's   face   as   soft,   satisfied   sighs   followed   teasing   bites   into   tender   skin. 

     ❝   glasya.   darling.   ❞     pure   want   dripped   from   silken   tone   as   a   slender   hand   cupped   the   blonde's   chin,   forcing   their   gazes   to   meet.   porcelain   flesh   turned   a   faint   rose   at   the   satisfied   quirk   of   sinful   lips.   the   goddess   pouted,   albeit   unseriously,   as   she   rested   their   foreheads   together.   though   the   space   between   slender   legs   ached,   hyeon   ignored   it   in   favor   of   brushing   her   nose   against   the   blonde's,   melting   into   her   soft   body.   ❝   stars   above,   you   are   far   too   talented   at   that.   however,   i   should   think   that   we've   gone   far   enough  .   .   .   ❞   already,   regret   curled   its   ashen   claws   around   the   goddess's   tender   heart.   she   wanted,   yearned   for   the   other   in   a   way   that   she'd   rather   not   think   about.   yet,   she   could   not   allow   herself   to   fall   in   such   a   way. 

     slowly,   achingly   so,   the   goddess   shifted   to   sit   beside   the   she-devil,   careful   for   exposed   flesh   not   to   touch.   she   covered   her   face   with   an   arm,   eyes   sliding   shut   as   a   shaky   sigh   shuttered   out   of   her   chest.     fuck.    hyeon   was   spending   far   too   much   time   in   the   mortal   realm   if   her   heart   ached   like   this   after   something   so   minor.

kissing, in my christian minecraft server ( yes ) || accepting

[pastortomsteers]

The Second Sunday in Lent

February 25, 2024

Pastor Tom Steers

Christ the Saviour Lutheran Church, Toronto

OPENNING HYMNN:  693  “O Holy Spirit, Grant Us Grace”

                                                                                                                               The Invocation                             Page 184

Lutheran Service Book   

Confession and Absolution       Page 184-185

THE LITANY

P:O Lord.     C: have mercy.

P: O Christ.   C: have mercy.

P: O Lord.     C: have mercy.

P: O Christ.   C: hear us.

P: God the Father in heaven.  C: have mercy.

P: God the Son, Redeemer of the world.  C: have mercy.

P: God the Holy Spirit.  C: have mercy.

P: Be gracious to us.  C: Spare us good Lord.

P: Be gracious to us.  C: Help us, good Lord.

P: By the mystery of Your holy incarnation; by Your holy nativity;

    by Your baptism, fasting and temptation; by Your agony and bloody sweat;

    by Your cross and passion; by Your precious death and burial;

    by Your glorious resurrection and ascension; and by the coming of the Holy Spirit,

C: Help us, good Lord.  Amen.

The Kyrie (Lord Have Mercy)

Lord Have mercy upon us.

Christ have mercy upon us.

Lord Have mercy upon us.

Collect Prayer:

O God, You see that of ourselves we have no strength. By Your mighty power defend us from all dangers that may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts that may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ, Your Son, our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.  Amen.

Our Bible Readings –

Old Testament Reading         Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16                                                                                              Psalm 22, verses 23-31                                                                                                                               Epistle Reading                        Romans 5:1-11                                                                                                                                  Gospel Reading                       Mark 8: 27-38

THE APOSTLES’ CREED     P. 192

HYMN OF THE DAY:  688   “Come, Follow Me, the Saviour Spake”

                                                                                                                               THE SERMON –

This Sunday we’re told by Jesus that in our Christian life there are crosses to bear.

We’ll have difficult roads to walk, and we travel them by faith, not sight.

The victory is real, but sometimes hidden in this life.

Faith is what you have when you can’t see the victory, but accept God’s Word that it has been won for you through Jesus.

This Sunday, Moses, the Apostle Paul, and Christ Himself have direct, even hard lessons.

Peter says he doesn’t want our Lord to suffer on the cross, he rebukes’ Jesus, and is called satan for his error.

Peter says Jesus is the Christ, yet he has a wrong view at the time of what that means.

The disciple thinks the death of Jesus isn’t necessary or appropriate because he’s looking for a political, a national Messiah.

Peter is holding to a prosperity Gospel, not the Christ who will die making payment for the sins of the world.

He’s focused on the things of this earth, not eternal salvation.

Abraham will long for the fulfillment of a promise God made to him.

Sometimes we yearn for this as well in our moments of doubt and pain.

In Biblical Greek ‘belief’ is not the same thing as ‘faith.’

To ‘believe’ involves an evaluation of what has been said, either accepting or rejecting it.

Belief is conditional.

We might ‘believe’ something on the basis of its likelihood, or on the speaker’s history with us.

Faith, on the other hand, is a much more relational word.

God is not asking us to evaluate what He says and render a judgment on whether it’s believable; God is asking us to trust Him.

The Lord’s Prayer, as Martin Luther described it, is a ‘faith prayer,’ not a ‘belief’ prayer.

Our Bible passages today invite us into that relationship of faith and strengthen it.

Christ suffered and redeemed all who receive the free gift of salvation through faith.

But our experience of Christ’s victory may well come through suffering.

Especially in secular, un-Godly times.

We can consider God’s words to Abraham in our Old Testament reading: “Walk before me and be blameless.”

Like Abraham and Sarah, we are unable, on our own, to hear and appreciate the promise and command of God.

When we put ourselves before God’s Word and purpose, we are sinning.

And as the Apostle Paul will teach us in Romans, we do.

When we witness to Christ in our lives, do we need to simply trust that God is with us, and let Him tackle the seemingly impossible?

The answer is yes.

In this this time of Lent, we reflect on what Christ did for us.

We read Psalm 22 written about 1,000 years before the crucifixion, and which describes it in detail.

The Psalm begins, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Jesus will speak these words from the cross.

The psalmist notes that his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

He’s surrounded by strong men who pierce his hands and feet.

They gamble for his clothes.

One thousand years before Good Friday, God, the pre-incarnate Jesus, knew exactly what the salvation of the world would cost.

In fact, he knew it from the beginning of Creation.

The way we access this salvation is described by the Apostle Paul in our Epistle reading in Romans 5: 1-11.

Paul writes, “Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Justified by faith Paul writes, and Martin Luther repeated.

Not through our own ‘good works’ as the catholic church and other false denominations teach.

Paul goes on to write that, “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

The Apostle is saying that Christ died for all, and that Jesus wants all to be saved and come to faith.

So much for false Calvinist church teaching that God only loves some, and always had intentions to damn the rest.

This section of the Book of Romans concludes with Chapter 8, where Paul says our current sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory to be revealed . . . and that we can be sure the love of God can’t be separated from us.

It’s not that our pain isn’t real; it is so real it connects us to Jesus’ own suffering. (Colossians 1:22)

The faith that allowed twenty-one Christians, who were executed by the Islamic State on a beach in Libya, to maintain their faith at the cost of their physical lives, is a sign of the peace only God gives.

Our salvation comes through the faith and sacrifice of Jesus.

It comes through the relationship He has with the Father into which we are included through the Sacrament of Baptism, which together with the Word works saving faith in us.

A Baptism which is effective at any age, infant or elderly.

And this is because Baptism is God’s work in us, not our own.

Paul tells us that our sinful human nature wants to take credit for salvation.

But it’s a lie for humans to commend ourselves for what properly belongs to God.

This is the problem with many TV evangelists when they talk about ‘accepting’ or ‘welcoming’ Jesus into our hearts, of making ‘a decision’ for Christ.

It’s Biblically wrong, it’s spiritual poison.

Paul explained in Ephesians 2:4-5, “because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions -- it is by grace you have been saved.”

Dead people do not save themselves.

Some may ask, ‘if God is really on our side, how is it that suffering isn’t diminished for Christians, but sometimes actually increases as we take up a cross and follow Christ?

Paul addresses this head on.

Suffering has become, for the Christian, an occasion for joy.

Because suffering produces endurance. (Romans 5:3-5)

Yet hardships are more than just a training for something.

Paul says suffering is the occasion for something valuable in itself.

We are not merely victims of the world’s brokenness, and death.

When we suffer, we’re revealed to be people of God-given strength that trust in Him.

We experience the same challenges that confront every human being.

The same death and sorrow that stalks them, confronts us.

But we deal with these things differently, we face hem in hope.

Not the false “hope” the world offers.

The power of Christian hope is nothing less than the very Spirit of God.

In our Gospel reading, Jesus lays it on the line.

The cross was the ultimate sign of humiliation and subjugation for the people of Judea.

No Roman citizen, no matter how insignificant, could be crucified, only a non-Roman, what they considered a second-class person.

Yet Christ says take up your cross, don’t merely admit that it might come.

For in the strange economy of God’s kingdom, giving away, losing oneself, is in fact the Kingdom life.

While Christian martyrs who were led into the Roman arena took comfort that their death was a door to Heaven, there’s more than one way to lose ‘self.’

Ironically, the grasping on to this life, the hanging on as if we owned it, could control it, and are only here to enjoy it, is actually the recipe to lose it.

For at the end of time there will only be two who can lay claim to anything, including the claim to own you and me.

We will either belong to God above, or the infernal one below.

The nature of God’s Kingdom, as we experience it in this world, is cross shaped.

But a person who is more concerned about fitting into and pleasing an “adulterous and sinful generation” than standing for the faith will have no part in that Kingdom.

The world’s definition of success and failure has been altered by God.

Salvation was achieved through the suffering of Jesus.

And so how can we turn our back on suffering, or say we should never experience it?

Today we get the sobering, yet encouraging reminder that our suffering is not our end.

That despite suffering we never face an enemy who is bigger than our Redeemer.

Even when our faith is weak, Christ’s faith and promise remains strong.

He has left us His Church, His Word, and His Sacraments of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper to strengthen and protect us.

You have one who has defeated your greatest enemies: sin, death, and the devil.

And that champion is Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world.

Amen.

PRAYERS OF THE CHURCH

SERVICE OF THE SACRAMENT    Page 194

THE LORD’S PRAYER       Page 196

AGNUS DEI (Lamb of God)               Page 962

THE DISTRIBUTION

(Our Communion Hymn is “Jesus Christ, Our Blessed Saviour”)

Post-Communion Collect (Left-hand column)  Page 201

CLOSING HYMN:  689   “Let Me Be Thine Forever”

[armani-customs]

Sébastien Michaëlis - Wikipedia

Michaëlis's classification

edit

In 1613 the Dominican prior and French inquisitor, Sébastien Michaëlis wrote a book, Admirable History, which included a classification of demons as it was told to him by the demon Berith when he was exorcising a nun, according to the author.[a] This classification is based on the Pseudo-Dionysian hierarchies, according to the sins the devil tempts one to commit, and includes the demons' adversaries (who suffered that temptation without falling).[19][22]

. The book contains a detailed hierarchy of devils named by the nuns; many of these demons (often having French names such as Rosier or Oeillet) do not appear in other demonologies, but the extent and systematic ordering of the list has led to its being widely adopted in esoteric circles.

First hierarchy

edit

The first hierarchy includes angels that were Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones:[19]

Beelzebub was a prince of the Seraphim, just below Lucifer. Beelzebub, along with Lucifer and Leviathan, were the first three angels to fall. He tempts men with pride and is opposed by St. Francis.

Leviathan was also a prince of the Seraphim who tempts people to give into heresy, and is opposed by St. Peter.

Asmodeus was also a prince of the Seraphim, burning with desire to tempt men into wantonness. He is opposed by St. John the Baptist.

Berith was a prince of the Cherubim. He tempts men to commit homicide, and to be quarrelsome, contentious, and blasphemous. He is opposed by St. Barnabas.

Astaroth was a prince of Thrones, who tempts men to be lazy and is opposed by St. Bartholomew.

Verrine was also a prince of Thrones, just below Astaroth. He tempts men with impatience and is opposed by St. Dominic.

Gressil was the third prince of Thrones, who tempts men with impurity and is opposed by St. Bernard.

Soneillon was the fourth prince of Thrones, who tempts men to hate and is opposed by St. Stephen.

Second hierarchy

edit

The second hierarchy includes Powers, Dominions, and Virtues:[19]

Carreau was a prince of Powers. He tempts men with hardness of heart and is opposed by St. Vincent.

Carnivale was also a prince of Powers. He tempts men to obscenity and shamelessness, and is opposed by John the Evangelist.

Oeillet was a prince of Dominions. He tempts men to break the vow of poverty and is opposed by St. Martin .

Rosier was the second in the order of Dominions. He tempts men against sexual purity and is opposed by St. Basil.

Belias was the prince of Virtues. He tempts men with arrogance and women to be vain, raise wanton children, and gossip during mass. He is opposed by St. Francis de Paul.

Third hierarchy

edit

The third hierarchy Principalities, Archangels, and Angels:[19]

Verrier was the prince of Principalities. He tempts men against the vow of obedience and is opposed by St. Bernard.

Olivier was the prince of the Archangels. He tempts men with cruelty and mercilessness toward the poor and is opposed by St. Lawrence, patron saint of the poor.[23]

Iuvart was the prince of Angels. At the time of Michaelis's writing, Iuvart was believed to have possessed a young novice nun of the Ursulines, Madeleine Demandols de La Palud, from whom it was exorcised.[24]

Many of the names and ranks of these demons appear in the Sabbath litanies of witches, according to Jules Garinet's Histoire de la magie en France, and Collin de Plancy's Dictionnaire Infernal.

FLEURDELISÈ

[elleavated]

What does Proverbs 10:17 mean?

The person who listens to godly advice (Proverbs 9:9) gives themselves a better likelihood of success and longevity than those who ignore wisdom. Those who follow Christ's teachings can enjoy a truly meaningful life now (John 10:10) and eternal life beyond the grave (John 10:28).

The person who refuses to be corrected (Proverbs 9:7–8) and continues the wrong path through life sets a bad example. In many cases, others will be tempted to follow that pattern. For that reason, Scripture warns against becoming close with those who hate God and His truth (Proverbs 13:20). Though the truths contained in God's Word offer forgiveness and life (1 Corinthians 6:9–11), the people defined as "scoffers" (Proverbs 1:22) make a litany of excuses for rejecting that message. This comes in the form of false accusations of contradiction, misleading criticisms, rejection of biblical morality, or claims of irrelevance. Some simply reject the Bible because it exposes their sin and makes them uncomfortable (Ephesians 5:11–13; 2 Peter 1:19; Psalm 119:105).

Unfortunately, many self-labelled "experts" with little legitimate knowledge of the Bible ridicule it and substitute faulty human reasoning in its place. Seemingly educated, or not, such critics of the Bible lead others astray.

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Context Summary

Proverbs 10:11–32 contrasts the righteous and the wicked, focusing on their different speech patterns, their different lifestyles, their different attitudes, and their different destinies. Verses 21 through 27 are especially focused on the different results which can be expected from pursuing godliness, versus pursuing sin.

Expand

Chapter Summary

This chapter begins 375 "proverbs," which are general-case lessons or observations. These wise remarks continue the discussion of wisdom and wickedness begun in chapters 1—9. Most of the verses in chapter 10 contain a sharp contrast, with the conjunction "but" separating the lines. Often, the subject changes from verse to verse. The contrasting subjects include sons, treasure, work ethic, reputation, relationships, success, and speech.

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Ephesians 5:11-13 (KJV)

11 And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather reprove

[littledarknesgold]

Yandere preacher Halo

Warnings: Yandere, Smut, Obsessive, Possessive, Possessive behaviour, murder.

He is a faithful servant of the Perfect Monolith, bringing light and will to brothers, guiding the unfaithful lost in the darkness of unbelief.

Stalker girls are very rare, and there are none among the Monoliths. Therefore ( he so assured himself) when his eyes fell on the wrong captured in the territory of Radar, his heart trembled.

It seemed to him that the angel himself came from heaven to lift him up to the light of the Great Monolith.

His sinful soul is eager to ascend with his angel. She is his personal test of faith.

Other older brothers notice his obsession with this sinner and are alarmed.

His name is Halo, the name given to him by his brothers, because he illuminates them with the light of Perfection. But now his aura blinds him, and he sees nothing.

Sitting on a tiled floor, he reads litanies and prayers, putting his head on her brittle knees, catching every breath.

nsfw:

When the sun sets beyond the horizon all his dark and dirty thoughts unworthy of the preacher of the Great Monolith envelop his mind. Caressing his wicked flesh, he clamps his palm, trying to stifle the criminal groans.

The halo does not want to stain its angel with sinful acts unworthy of them. But when they make a long moan, he snaps and rapes greedily into their lips, devouring them. Their hands clench their soft flesh, hastily tearing at the stirring clothes.

He growled when he felt someone enter the cellar. The halo could not hear fast-moving footsteps, but only the blood in his ears. He no longer heard the voice of the Perfect God.

The Bad End:

The halos were taken to a small patio. Cold drops were dripping down his face like tears. His blank white eyes were pointed at the thin, hunched figure beside him. He didn’t take his eyes off her for a second.

Even so broken, desecrated she looked fine.

The Happy Ending:

The burning metal of the barrel of the gun touched the scalp of the temple. The deafening voice of the inquisitor of the one who read the verdict rang a funeral bell in his head.

The deafening silence of the Dead City was broken by two lonely shots.

The rays of the gentle sun illuminated the two figures slowly walking away from the empty city.

Halo gently led Blob by the hand, smiling at their future together, just the two of them.

[tanadrin]

Sha’re’s funeral litany

So I was curious about a scene in “Forever in a Day,” when Daniel Jackson is speaking a funeral litany over the grave of Sha’re, because it’s an extended depiction of an alien language--which is surprisingly rare in Stargate SG-1, especially in the early seasons, and especially for a language that is not Goa’uld or Ancient. The former is totally invented, and the latter is just randomly-mangled Latin words, but the language of Abydos, where Sha’re is from and where she is being buried, is supposedly closely related to ancient Egyptian.

The litany is below; I have done my very best to transcribe the Abydonian portions using IPA.

I speak for Sha’re, who can no longer speak for herself.

/nəˈdiduweɪ ˈguɾaχ nəˈjirjuweɪ ˈmusoreɪja/

I have spoken no lies, nor acted with deceit.

/ˈjanaχ saˈpuwu ˈʃureɪ jɛˈseɪdeɪ ˈnuteɪ ˈjirjunav sɛˈʃɛɹunu/

I was once possessed by a demon who did these things against my will.

/ˈjuwa jɛˈseɪdeɪ ˈbrɐjiv maˈnuten nəˈneɪweɪ ˈjasfeɪ/

The demon is gone, and now I am without sin.

/diˈja piˈrateɪ aˈsaku ˈjeɪru/

Grant me a place in your blessed dwelling.

If my heart weighs more than a feather my soul still contains sin. If not, may my soul join the god.

By the trial of the Great Scales, thy heart is light. Thy soul has been found true. 

Two things immediately stand out in this scene: one, of course, is the trial of the feather, which is taken from the Book of the Dead. The other is a quote from the Solar Litany, also from the Book of the Dead:

Homage to you, O ye gods of the Dekans in Anu, and to you, O ye Hememet-spirits in Kher Aha, and to thee, O Unti, who art the most glorious of all the gods who are hidden in Anu, O grant thou unto me a path whereover I may pass in peace, for I am just and true; I have not spoken falsehood wittingly, nor have I done aught with deceit.

Budge transliterates the bolded portion thus: nuk āq ȧn t'eṭ-ȧ ḳer em reχ-ȧ ȧn ȧri-ȧ sep sen. I don’t know how that would be transcribed by modern Egyptologists, because Budge uses <ȧ> where modern transcriptions sometimes use <j> and sometimes use <y>; ditto <χ> for Budge vs. modern <ḫ> and <ẖ>. All I can say is, it’s pretty clearly not the basis for any of the Abydonian phrases.

It’s not Ancient Egyptian, but it’s actually a pretty good approximation of the sounds of ancient Egyptian, at least in its Egyptological pronunciation. Accounting for Michael Shanks’/Daniel Jackson’s North American accent, where [r] is rendered [ɹ], and the closest approximations of [e] are going to be [eɪ] or [ɛ], depending on if the syllable is open or closed, I might transcribe the underlying theoretical Abydonian as

nediduwe guraχ nejirjuwe musoreja

janaχ sapuwu ʃure jesede nuter jirjunaf seʃerunu

juwa jesede brojif manuten nenewe jasfe

dija pirate asaku jeru

[iwahajii]

• scars fade (Chapter 14)

Iwaizumi’s sins cost him the one thing he didn’t want to fuck up. Yet he still did.

Oikawa can count on one hand the actual times he punched Iwaizumi in the face. This was one of them. And it wasn’t just once that he did.

This is the story of how Iwaizumi fucked up so bad Oikawa had no choice but to step in and save the day. And whether it’ll be a happy ending or not, it’s all up to you.

warning: contains cheating, explicit language, mature themes

taglist: @jcrml @on-crows-wings

then • now  • next

Tooru had to go back on Friday, leaving you with two days to spend with each other. His schedule was packed, him ranting about Iwaizumi's self-destructing tendencies (you felt like dying as he said this, but you restrained yourself), his schedule for the new volleyball season (he had to go back training in South America and playing with Argentina). It was basically Oikawa Tooru's life but with an extra added because of your disaster of a relationship with his other best friend.

"You don't have to do anything for us," you told him as you washed the dishes together on Thursday evening. "We can handle ourselves."

"I like to think I'm the one that brought the two of you together, so I guess, a part of me feels responsible…"

You sighed, bumping your hip to his thigh (because goddamn tall people). "You're being stupid. None of this is anyone else's fault but ours. We messed up. That's it. Please don't burden yourself with this."

"You're never a burden."

"We are, and I know that," you affirmed. "But we're adults and if we chose to live the way we do, then that's on us. I know you care a lot. I know I don't show it enough, but I care about you too. It was difficult, those months I didn't have you in my life, but now that I have you, I don't want you to stress over us anymore."

"I want to listen to you, but I can't help it! I want you to get back together!" Tooru whined. In a much softer voice, he asked, "Don't you want to?"

Maybe it was too soft for him to hear, or maybe you didn't really open your mouth to say the words and moving your lips was all in your head, but Tooru didn't reply to your answer.

Tooru demanded a trip the next day, his last day in Onomichi, as he so eloquently announced, so you excused yourself from your work at the town center and they were kind enough to excuse you on such a short notice. Note Tooru's shameless act of puppy dog eyes and pretty please.

"Why do you work there? When do you get the time to write your stories if you're out daily?"

"I wanted to get my mind off of what happened when I got here, so I took up volunteer work as much as I can. If I want to get decent sleep at night, I have to be so exhausted I'd be out within seconds of laying down. If I want to function properly, I have to constantly move or else I'll just cry like a pathetic person, which I didn't want to be. By now, I've built a routine that fits my writing and my day job. I got better too, sleeping and eating and all that. There were still bad days, though, but they pass."

You turned to Tooru after your litany, only to find him staring at you with eyes shining brightly with emotion.

"You grew up so fast," he cried, with literal wet tears on his eyes.

It was too early for Tooru's theatrics, so you scrunched your nose at that. "Thanks, mom," you replied, before walking ahead to the quaint café famous around town for its toast and pasta.

Tooru loved the café. And the visit to the shotengai. And the Temple Walk.

It wasn't even a surprise, but more aggravating, when Tooru, after all the ups and downs of the road, doesn't look one bit exhausted. You, on the other hand, spent days and months navigating the town, but still find your legs strained and your breath short because of cycling.

"We've been here for an hour! Get up already, it's not even that far." Tooru complained.

It was. The museum was at least another ten-minute cycle from the observatory, and after half a day of cycling with an athlete, your feet were killing you. Another ten-minute ride would be suicide.

"I'm not an athlete like you," you snapped.

He seemed to be sorry after that, maintaining his silence as he went around the place to look outside, but looked positively brighter when you stood up and told him you were ready to go again.

Majority of the afternoon was spent on the museum, because despite Tooru's whiny behaviour, he is good in appreciating art. So, you walked around the place, sharing your thoughts on some artworks, purely staring in awe at the others. Hours flew by one art after the other, soaking in history and creativity. It was time to go when you both felt your stomach grumble, crying for food.

The walk home was silent, the two of you immersed in the view of the setting sun as you towed your bicycles on the side, only to be broken by Tooru's loud gasp.

"It's beautiful."

You looked up, wondering what he was talking about. Following his gaze, your eyes land on a magnificent building, standing tall and magestic with the sky painted in various shades of orange, purple and blue. It was truly breathtaking.

"Want to go in?"

Tooru whipped his head so fast at your words. "We can?"

You grinned, smug as you said, "I have my ways."

By great odds, the caretaker you knew was on-site, so it didn't take long to ask for permission to sneak inside (you could do that, ask for permission to sneak in). Tooru held his breath the whole time, eyes busy imprinting the structure on his memory. You couldn't blame him, because you've been to the place a handful of times and still found yourself breathless every time. Especially now, with the sunset casting soft shades of gold and orange, sneaking in through the shades of green by the surrounding trees. The room feels so ethereal as the glass reflects each and every color the nature provides.

When you thought he had enough of the inside of the place, you asked, "Wanna come up?" and Tooru looked like a kid on Christmas Eve as he nodded his assent. You giggled at the way he was following you but kept his head around.

At the top, Tooru elicited another gasp as he held on to the railing and drank in the view.

"This is amazing," he breathed.

It was. Truly and utterly amazing to highlight nature this way.

"What is this place?"

"It's called the Ribbon Chapel," you answered. "Made to represent the intertwine of people during marriage."

Tooru was able to spare enough time to look away from the view, reached for your hand and squeezed it.

"It's amazing," he said again. "With or without the explanation."

"No. It becomes more meaningful, more alive, when you know."

The color of the sunset was turning more vivid, brighter as the remaining glow of the sun shines its light before the dark. No words seemed fit to capture the whole experience, something real that seemed fictional as much as it was too good to be true.

But this was reality.

And so, with the last remnants of the sun in the sky, you poured your heart out, spilled all that was inside only to be taken away by the waves and by the wind and by the light of the setting sun. With the wind stealing the last words that left your lips, Tooru looked more alive than how he did when he arrived.

You were certain he wasn't the only one.

then • now  • next

a/n: There it is! What started this entire story is the Ribbon Chapel in Onomichi. It's so beautiful.