#ALTERNATIVE RELIGIOUS PATHS

[i-am-theseeker]

The Carnux Sounds: You are the Magician

I once believed in a divide between the sacred and the mundane, but as I’ve journeyed through life, I’ve come to understand that everything holds a sacred essence. The notion of the mundane is simply a perspective. Within this reality, every aspect is imbued with significance and holds a sacred quality. If we can have […]The Carnux Sounds: You are the Magician

[gffa]

I've been a little slow on getting out new STAR WARS fic recs out, but in my defense it's because I've been reading a bunch of longer fics lately. In the spirit of "there's a special feeling to those fics that consume you and make you stay up until 3am because you can't put them down", here's a list of some of the ones I've loved or am in the middle of reading and they are haunting my thoughts and I need to inflict that on everyone else. Whether you're looking at a long upcoming trip and need some good reading material or avoiding your feelings by sinking into fic or just because you like reading, I hope you'll find something here! Including a bonus underrunning theme of throwing in a bunch of Jedi-loving fic to continue my agenda of making Jedi-centric fandom a more fun place to be. 30k+ is the minimum and this isn't all of my favorites, but it's a great list of "I have a week off to kill and I want to be in a fic coma by the end of it".

STAR WARS FIC FOR WHEN YOU NEED TO KILL ABOUT TEN HOURS WORTH OF TIME AND WANT TO HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT FICTIONAL PSYCHIC SPACE WIZARDS WHILE YOU'RE AT IT:

✦ Out with Lanterns by SkyeBean, mace & ahsoka & plo & shaak & cast, 312.5k     In another universe, Jedi Masters Plo Koon and Depa Billaba decide a Padawan could do Mace some good. It takes a while, but he eventually agrees. When he takes Ahsoka Tano as his Padawan, Mace knows that he's broken through a Shatterpoint and changed the course of a life. How, he doesn't know. ✦ Reprise by Elfpen, obi-wan & qui-gon & mace & yoda & anakin & cast, time travel, 558.9k wip     Ben Kenobi dies aboard the Death Star in the year 0 BBY. He wakes up shortly thereafter in the Jedi temple in the year 41 BBY. Haunted by memories and regret, Ben must forge a new path for himself in the Jedi Order of his youth while navigating the murky waters of time travel. Crafting a better future from bitter experience is hard, but learning to heal is even harder. ✦ Take it from the top and try again by mauvera, obi-wan & qui-gon & anakin & padme & mace & shmi & dooku & cast, time travel, 112k wip     Five years into his self imposed exile on Tattooine, Obi-Wan Kenobi is gifted the chance to go back and bring hope back to the galaxy. With hindsight on his side, he fully intends to save his master, save his padawan, make some new and old friends again, prepare the Jedi for a war they’ll hopefully never see and begin to pull apart all the many tangled threads of the Sith Lord’s plans. Should be relatively easy. Right? ✦ Post Order 66 Exile AU by Livsy, obi-wan & anakin & cast, 46k     Alternatively: after a failed order 66, in which many Jedi still died but the Sith were defeated, an exiled warrior and a boy wander a distant planet and attempt to get along. ✦ Remedial Jedi Theology by MarbleGlove, obi-wan & anakin & jedi & cast, 51.3k     Let us consider the fact that the Jedi Order is a monastic religious organization based out of a temple, with five basic tenets of faith. ✦ Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi by stonefreeak, obi-wan & anakin & padme & yoda & palpatine & bail & dooku & mace & quinlan & vokara & ahsoka & cast, 124.5k wip     By an old Republic law, all members of the Jedi High Council are senators in the Galactic Senate, and can thus be voted in as chancellor. A Senator from a less prominent planet has had enough of Chancellor Palpatine's incompetence and calls for a Vote of No-Confidence and the installation of Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi as Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. This one action becomes the catalyst that changes the direction of the galaxy. ✦ What We've Become by Vinyarie, vader & ahsoka & cast, 82k     Darth Vader and Ahsoka’s fight on Malachor takes a different path, and Ahsoka actually is able to save her master. Or rather, she’s able to convince him to save himself. Diverges from canon in the last few minutes of Twilight of the Apprentice and goes increasingly AU from there.

✦ time to change the road you're on by wreckageofstars, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & luke & leia & han & ghost crew & cast, time travel, 93.6k wip     The end of the Clone War is near - the fall of the Republic even nearer. Anakin Skywalker, caught up in the events that lead to the rise of the Empire and the loss of everything he holds dear, finds himself sent nearly two decades into the future. Ahsoka Tano, still coming to painful terms with the true fate of her former master, is - not exactly happy to see him. But the Force works in mysterious ways - and the future is not nearly as set in stone as they've been lead to believe. Multi-chapter AU, Rise of the Empire/Rebels-era. ✦ narrower than a razor's edge by bereft_of_frogs, obi-wan & dooku & qui-gon & anakin & sidious & cast, 30.2k     Dooku tips his hand ten years earlier because he can't stand the thought of his former apprentice's murder, and that might just be enough to save everyone...if it doesn't get them all killed first. ✦ soften every edge by gigglesandfreckles, obi-wan & ahsoka (& anakin), major character death, 48.1k     "Rejoice!" the galaxy says, in the wake of war and the dawning of peace. "How?" Obi-Wan asks. "No," Ahsoka says. (or: Obi-Wan & Ahsoka learn to live on.) ✦ hunting toward heartstill by blackkat, mace/cody & plo & fives & shaak & obi-wan & anakin & rex & cast, 207.2k     Plo has an idea. Mace agrees, and everything snowballs right into hell from there. (Or: Mace and Cody get married in order to give the clones citizen status. Before they can focus on that, though, they're going to have to deal with ancient Sith artifacts, evil prophets, plots to overthrow the Supreme Chancellor, lost planets, monsters warped by Sith alchemy, inconvenient , and Darth Sidious turning his eye on a potential new apprentice. Just...not in that order.) ✦ Cataclasm by dendral, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & waxer & cast, 63.1k wip     For reasons unknown to all but himself, Obi-Wan Kenobi has left the Jedi Order in the midst of the Clone Wars, taking with him a single clone. Anakin Skywalker has been unofficially tasked by the Order to find Obi-Wan and bring him home. Unfortunately for Anakin, it seems his former master is always ten steps ahead of him. ✦ Unexpected Awakening (The Rewrite) by Rhiw, obi-wan & qui-gon & anakin & feemor & bruck & jango & cast, time travel, 135.1k wip     The life of General Kenobi is cut short at the hands of his Padawan, but the sight that greets his eyes upon awakening is not that of blinding light of the Force, but the Jedi Temple he knew when he was still a youth. As he struggles to understand the path laid out before him, Obi-Wan unwittingly captures the attention of a singularly unusual Temple Guard, and that of a reluctant Qui-Gon Jinn.

✦ Knightrise by deviantaccumulation, obi-wan & ahsoka & satine & yoda & cast, 89.4k wip     There is no battle on Mustafar or in Coruscant's senate building. Instead, a small but still alive Jedi Order rises from its ashes on Mandalore. ✦ Fire and Ice by Yesac, obi-wan & anakin & cast, 111.9k     Anakin wins the duel on Mustafar, but doesn't kill Obi-Wan. Along with Padme, Obi-Wan finds himself living in a chaotic world where the man he thought he knew has become the thing he swore to destroy. Can Anakin be turned back? If so, what then? ✦ Better That a Millstone by Icarus_is_flying, obi-wan & luke & anakin & leia & cast, 86.7k     Vader discovers Luke and Obi-Wan on Tatooine when Luke is one year old and attempts to reclaim the family he threw away. Obi-Wan is less than pleased, and Luke and Leia? They have their own ideas about how their future should play out. ✦ Bloodlines by KCKenobi, obi-wan & anakin & dooku, 35.8k     When an explosion traps them in the same doomed escape pod, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Dooku are stranded together on Tatooine. The goal is simple: cooperate long enough to survive, and not a second longer. But a shared past has a way of connecting the people we think we know—and bloodlines run deep. [or: your classic family road trip across a desert planet, except your grandpa is, you know, a Sith Lord. And now he's sort of starting to bond with your Jedi dad. And that might be an issue.] ✦ When Darkness Seems to Hide This Place by IllyanaA, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & rex & cast, 136k wip     After killing three of the Jedi Order's best and brightest, Palpatine's fight with Jedi Master Mace Windu goes shorter than expected. Afraid he's lost his chance at recruiting a new apprentice, Sidious unleashes Order 66 across the galaxy, but, per their programming, the Clone Army is not to harm Anakin Skywalker. After witnessing the most painful loss he's ever experienced and injured at the hands of his captors, Anakin is ready to die like the rest of the Jedi, though not before getting his vengeance. ✦ Precipice by shadowsong26, obi-wan & anakin & padme & luke & leia & bail & ahsoka & rex & cast, 253.6k     An AU in which Anakin Skywalker does not follow Mace Windu and the others to Palpatine’s office after they leave to arrest the Chancellor. As a result, he doesn’t get that final push over the edge, and doesn’t Fall. ✦ Averting Galactic Destruction by kj_feybarn, obi-wan & anakin & quinlan & rex & cody & fives & dogma & wolffe & plo & shaak & dooku & sidious, time travel, 44.3k     AKA The Time the Force Sent Obi-Wan Back in Time and Quinlan Vos kept him from Going Kamikaze because let’s be Honest, Being Forced to Come Back in Time Would Suck.

✦ Into the Archives by skygawker, obi-wan & anakin/padme & palpatine & cast, 104.9k wip     After hearing the legend of Darth Plagueis the Wise from Palpatine, Anakin decides that his best chance to save Padme is to break into the restricted Holocron Vault of the Temple Archives to search for information about Plagueis. Predictably, all does not go according to plan. Revenge of the Sith AU. ✦ Live To Fight Another Day by raemanzu, spica_tea, cody & rex & jesse & kix & obi-wan & anakin & fox & cast, 396.9k wip     Clones have their place in the universe, beyond the schemes of Palpatine. Events conspire to place Rex on the path of a new fate, one which will affect the future in ways not even the Jedi could foresee. Loyal to source material and characterizations. Canon-divergent. Starts between seasons 5 and 6 of TCW and explores Rex’s reaction to Fives’ dying words and subsequent events building toward Order 66. Variety of canon characters. No ships. Very Ace and Aro. Strong focus on certain friendships (Rex and Cody, Jesse and Kix, etc) with those friendships playing major roles. Thematically about how the clones navigate loss, trauma, the concept of their enslavement, their identities, etc amongst the larger active plot threads. Content warnings for war-related PTSD, trauma, combat injuries, and all around war-related angst etc in later chapters. ✦ Life and What Comes After by Ibelin, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & padme & cast, 177.2k wip     Obi-Wan dies on Jabiim. Anakin blames himself, doesn't know how to go on and yet - he does. Maybe the Force rewards that kind of thing, or maybe he just gets lucky, but when a mission lands Anakin on a vaguely familiar planet, he gets a second chance to do what he knows he should have done in the first place: save his master. (And maybe a chance to save the galaxy, too.) ✦ Knight-Errant by zinjadu, anakin & ahsoka & obi-wan & padme & rex & jedi & clones, 315.8k     AU - The Jedi Who Knew Too Much. Rex decides to stay "in pursuit" of his Commander; he jumps. Now, with backup, Ahsoka navigates the lower levels and deals with Ventress. Meanwhile, Anakin takes the Order to task, finds a little more support, and things turn out a little differently for everyone. And this is just the beginning. ✦ the massive machinery of hope by Killbothtwins, obi-wan & qui-gon & anakin & shmi & jedi, time travel, 150.1k     After the end of the war with the Empire, Obi-Wan wakes up in his twelve-year old body. Now all he needs to do is convince everyone he's psychic, trick his Master into taking him on before he's sent to Bandomeer, redeem a few bad guys, and try not to have a nervous breakdown. Pretty easy. It's not like the Sith are lurking on the horizon, waiting to devour the Jedi Order.

✦ The Exchange by MissLearn, obi-wan & anakin & qui-gon & ahsoka & padme & cast, time travel/body swap, 120k     The Daughter has a bad day and it irrevocably changes the fate of the galaxy, twice over. Or; ROTS Obi-Wan and Anakin are swapped with their younger, TPM, selves. It changes things, in both parallels. ✦ In All The World by Kjellarnen, obi-wan & anakin & cast, 144.8k wip     The story of how Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tamed each other, from Naboo to Anakin's early days at the Temple. ✦ In Another Life by KCKenobi, obi-wan & anakin & ahsoka & padme, time travel, 52.3k     Eleven years after the rise of the Empire, a favor to a friend sends Obi-Wan traveling through the multiverse. He encounters different versions of the galaxy and of himself—including one in which Anakin never turned to the dark side. Obi-Wan and this Light Anakin are forced to work together to stop the creation of a disastrous Empire weapon. But as they move through different versions of reality, the timelines become more and more twisted—and the harder it is to distinguish who they are from who they might have been. And—to find their way home. ✦ The Intruder by Hollyoakhill, obi-wan & original clone characters, 82.5k     When a vicious attack from a strange, indestructible monster traps them on a derelict star destroyer, a young clone trooper fresh from Kamino join forces with Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi to find a way to escape. ✦ Conceal Me What I Am by Himboskywalker, obi-wan/anakin & padme & yoda & mace & palpatine & quinlan & cast, omegaverse, NSFW, 108.3k     Separatist Propaganda is turning the Republic against the Jedi Order and the Senate sees no choice but to join in a political alliance to fight dissent on a unified front.An alliance is proposed through an arranged marriage,between a Jedi Knight and Republic Senator. Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi are chosen as representatives of the political union by Darth Sidious, meant to bring ruin to the marriage and the public's support of the Jedi,for Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the Beta he claims. But even Sidious does not know of the secret Anakin Skywalker keeps, that he is not the Alpha the galaxy believes him to be. ✦ Equinox by lilyconrad, obi-wan/anakin, NSFW, 95.9k     During the Clone Wars, Obi-Wan and Anakin crash on a remote planet and take shelter in the ruins of a grand estate only to find they are not alone.

✦ Invictus by Himboskywalker, obi-wan/anakin & cast, NSFW, 40.3k     "He is the balance, the other half, the completion to Skywalker’s soul, a perfect dyad in the force. But while Kenobi is a simple answer, the force also sees the difficulty of the pair coming together in balance. The foundations of the galaxy they exist in pull at them, threatening to intervene in their unity. But this is also a simple problem, for the force is far greater than the foundations of a single galaxy, for it is the foundation of all. So the force enacts its will, to bridge the pair over a span of moments, of years, of eternities, and Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi will fall in love, have fallen in love, and are falling in love." ✦ Neutron star collision by thedunesea, obi-wan/anakin & cast, NSFW, 121.2k wip     In the aftermath of Order 66, Anakin Skywalker's miraculous survival after his confrontation with the new Sith Apprentice Darth Vader ignites a sparkle of hope in the remaining Jedi, in the fledgling rebellion and, above all, in his former Master, who thought he had lost everything to darkness. But darkness is generous, and it is patient. ✦ Lex Talionis by intermundia, obi-wan/anakin & ahsoka & dooku & rex & cast, NSFW, 187.1k     The ancient Galactic Republic is dying slowly—an ugly death of corruption, sprawl, and decay—with the sin of slavery hanging over its every triumph. The beleaguered Jedi Knights are too few to adequately patrol and police the entire Republic, and are faced with complacency and greed at every turn. Born into a crumbling and stagnant galaxy, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker are faced with the greatest challenge of all: themselves. Obi-Wan likes rules and control. When the galaxy around him stops playing by the rules, what is a Jedi to do? Anakin needs rules and restraint. When the galaxy around him conspires to set him loose, what is his Master to do? Falling slowly or falling fast, falling through lust or falling through wrath—it all leads to delusion and moral decay. What can be born from the ashes? ✦ Atlas of Our Ruin by Ripki, obi-wan/anakin & cast, NSFW, time travel, 230.8k     Both the past and the future casts long shadows. Obi-Wan and Anakin learn that the hard way, when a mysterious holocron flings them backwards and forwards in time, forcing them to confront painful truths. But the time-travel is only the beginning… ✦ Seed by bell (belldreams), obi-wan/anakin, NSFW, 44k     When Anakin falls prey to a lethal poison, Obi-Wan has no choice but use all his resources to heal him-- no matter how reluctant he is in administering the antidote.

✦ wicked thing by imaginarykat, obi-wan/anakin & ahsoka & cast, nsfw, sith!obi-wan, 124.2k wip     There are rumours of yet another Sith Lord hiding among the Separatists. The Council sends Anakin to investigate. Anakin has a bad feeling about this. or, the story of how Anakin exists in a perpetual state of intense embarrassment, Obi-Wan is enjoying it a little too much, and everything is, generally speaking, a gigantic mess. ✦ Rulebreaker/Wildheart by chapstickaddict, obi-wan/anakin & ahsoka & luke & leia & barriss & cast, NSFW, 230k     Darth Vader, the strong arm of the Sith, held loyal to his Order since they took he and his mother from slavery in the deserts of Tatooine. Until he became convinced they killed his wife. He abandoned his Order and disappeared in the chaos of the Clone Wars, presumed dead by all sides. That young Skywalker is known around town as a widower and homesteader; a Nabooian who emigrated to avoid the trade blockade; a father of overly-energetic twins and warding a Togruta war orphan; a decent mechanic if your farm equipment or maintenance droid is acting up. Anakin is a paranoid, over-protective hot mess doing his best to raise his weird pack the way Padmé would have wanted. How the hell is he supposed to do that when his kids and not-apprentice make him haul a half-dead Jedi Master home like a lost pet? ✦ more than a candle by jenmishe, obi-wan/anakin/padme, NSFW, 50.3k     "The dark is generous and it is patient and it always wins – but in the heart of its strength lies its weakness: one lone candle is enough to hold it back. Love is more than a candle. Love can ignite the stars." Or, a few thousands of words of how Anakin, Obi Wan, and Padmé realize many things, which include, most notably, how they feel about each other and how to handle said feelings. Oh, and in the meantime, they deal with a megalomaniac Sith Lord. ✦ Anamorphosis by avocadomoon, obi-wan/padme & anakin & mace & corde & qui-gon & cast, 33.5k     noun, plural an·a·mor·pho·ses [an-uh-mawr-fuh-seez, -mawr-foh-seez]. A distorted or monstrous projection or representation of an image on a plane or curved surface, which, when viewed from a certain point, or as reflected from a curved mirror or through a polyhedron, appears regular and in proportion; a deformation of an image.

[ezekiel-krishna]

7th Lord in All Houses [ Spouse/Marriage, Partnerships & Public ]

Part 3 .. { Vedic Astrology }

🔘To Check Your Placement

📌 Refer to My Part 1 > Click Here

7th Lord in 8th House

When the seventh lord enters the eighth house, it can naturally pose challenges. The eighth house, similar to the sixth and twelfth houses, represents distant and challenging circumstances. The most significant indication here is the transformative nature of relationships and partnerships, as they have the power to completely change you from the core.

The eighth house is known as the house of crisis, indicating that there are deep karmic lessons to be learned. It is possible to meet a potential spouse during a major crisis or turning point in your life. Alternatively, you may also meet a spouse while working in crisis-related fields such as medicine, emergency services, counseling, or psychotherapy, where you are helping others in their time of need.

With this placement, it can be challenging to connect with your spouse on a deep level. Your spouse may have their own psychological issues and difficulties, making it even more difficult to relate to them. Early experiences may have also caused psychological problems when dealing with people in general.Trust issues and difficulty being vulnerable to others may arise. You may find yourself in chaotic love affairs or short-term relationships that don't seem to lead anywhere.

However, when you do find a potential long-term spouse, having a strong network of friends can help sustain the relationship. This placement is intense and sometimes challenging in terms of relationships, but having friends around can alleviate some of the weight and help smooth things out. Your elder sibling or your spouse's elder sibling may also be very supportive of your relationship.

In a relationship, safety and financial security are often top priorities. However, marrying solely for these reasons can lead to challenges, especially when it comes to communication. Walking on eggshells and facing misunderstandings with your partner can strain the relationship. Additionally, dealing with a spouse's health issues can add another layer of difficulty.

Balancing the demands of the relationship with personal goals can be draining. It's important to maintain honesty and avoid any shady dealings. While partnerships may face obstacles, venturing into self-employment or starting a business can bring great benefits, including wealth and success.

7th Lord in 9th House

This is an incredibly fortunate placement as it resides in the house of dharma, bringing blessings to your life through marriage. You possess a liberal and open-minded nature, attracting many people and being attracted to many in return. Typically, individuals with this placement have the opportunity for multiple relationships, but you strive to maintain a righteous and dharmic attitude within them. Interestingly, you are likely to meet your spouse in a foreign land while traveling for higher education or even in religious settings.

Your deepest desire is to become an entrepreneur, yearning for the freedom to pursue your own path in life and establish your own business. Therefore, this position is exceptionally auspicious for business people or those seeking business success. True wealth and triumph can be achieved when the seventh lord resides in the ninth house, and your spouse takes immense pride in your accomplishments. The foundation of your relationship thrives on frequent intimacy, such as sharing a bed, embarking on spiritual pilgrimages, visiting ashrams, or seeking spiritual wisdom together. However, be cautious of potential challenges arising from your or your spouse's home. At times, the relationship may face opposition from your mother or your partner's mother.

When purchasing property together, careful consideration is necessary to avoid potential issues. It is crucial to prioritize being together rather than being apart. If you have separate properties or anything that creates distance within your home, it may strain the relationship. Additionally, be mindful of childhood friends who could pose a threat to the stability of your relationship. Stay vigilant and protect what you hold dear.

7th Lord in 10th House

The placement of the 7th lord in the tenth house can be quite challenging, but it doesn't mean that long-lasting relationships are impossible. In fact, with hard work and dedication, you can make your relationship thrive. You are attracted to a partner who is ambitious and has a high status or the potential to achieve it.

Together, you both support and uplift each other in your careers. However, it's important to maintain a healthy balance in your relationship. Working in the same field or even meeting at work can create conflicts, so it's crucial to give each other the freedom to pursue your own paths. Avoid meddling in each other's careers and focus on nurturing your individual growth. While you can be business partners, it's essential to prioritize creative freedom and personal space to ensure the survival of your relationship.

When the seventh lord is in the tenth house, taking control of your marriage becomes vital. Put in a hundred percent effort to make it work, especially as your status and success in life increase. This will serve as a protective factor for your marriage.Your ultimate desire is to have a beautiful and comfortable home, filled with all the luxuries and comforts of life. You also have a strong attachment to your early home environment and your country of origin. It's important for your relationship to be a part of this, as it brings you a sense of belonging and fulfillment.

One potential threat to your marriage could be an old lover from either you or your spouse. This can create turmoil, but on a positive note, your children have the potential for excellent success in life. However, they may not always be subservient to you, and there may be disagreements with your spouse regarding their upbringing. In such cases, compromise will be necessary to maintain harmony within the family.

7th Lord in 11th House

You may experience financial benefits through marriage, it's that straightforward. The 11th house pertains to society in general, so having similar perspectives on society, politics, and social morals is crucial for this relationship. Your main aspiration will be to start a family and have children as soon as possible. Being a creative individual, sharing creative hobbies or work with your spouse can greatly enhance your marriage. However, just like the seventh lord in the tenth house, your children will be happy and successful individuals but may not always be submissive to you, posing a challenge.

With this placement, you are more likely to have daughters than sons. You are most likely to meet your potential spouse within your social, political, or professional circles. A colleague at work could potentially become your spouse, introduced by friends, elder siblings, or relatives. Communication is key to maintaining this marriage - frequent and open conversations are essential. Engaging in activities like cooking together and sharing meals can strengthen your bond.

The main risk to this relationship comes from subordinates or individuals you have conflicts with, who may pose a threat to your marriage. Despite this, the position is favorable for business, with new opportunities constantly presenting themselves.

7th Lord in 12th House

It seems like the universe has some challenging karmic lessons in store for you when it comes to your spouse. Interestingly, you are most likely to meet your potential partner when you are in foreign lands or traveling. The twelfth house, which represents internet connections, also plays a significant role in bringing you together with your spouse. It's quite common for your partner to have some foreign cultural influence, either because they are from a different country or belong to a different culture than yours.

Interestingly, no matter how hard you try to meet someone similar to yourself in your local environment, fate seems to have other plans. You often find yourself drawn to individuals who are far away, with different perspectives on life and diverse cultural backgrounds. Long-distance relationships are also quite common for you.However, being together can be quite challenging.

It could be a situation where one of you is working abroad while the other is working elsewhere and traveling back home. These difficulties and separations can even occur in a committed, long-term relationship. It's important for you to have open and honest conversations about finances and how you both handle them.

It is crucial to prioritize honesty and openness in any relationship, as keeping secrets or manipulating others can have negative consequences. When the 7th lord is positioned in the 12th house, financial matters become a significant aspect of the relationship. Initially, you may be quite generous towards your spouse, but over time, you may become more frugal with your resources. This change in behavior is often triggered by your spouse's extravagant spending habits, which can create fear and insecurity within you.

Disagreements regarding finances can pose significant challenges, and in the worst-case scenario, it may lead to actual financial losses. You may find yourself spending excessively just to maintain the relationship, such as traveling long distances to be with your spouse, which can further strain your finances.

Additionally, your spouse may experience health issues or illnesses, adding to the financial strain and overall difficulties in the relationship. Similar to the influence of the seventh lord in the eighth house, it is crucial to avoid excessive secrecy in order to maintain a healthy dynamic.However,I have seen many couples tend to enjoy frequent travel or holidays together, which can positively contribute to the relationship.

Exercising, engaging in activities, and going for long walks are all factors that contribute to a stronger bond between you and your partner. These shared experiences bring you closer together and create a sense of connection. Additionally, the support of your partner's siblings can also play a positive role in your relationship. However, it is important to be cautious about relying too heavily on sexuality to maintain your bond. While physical intimacy is important, it should not be the sole foundation of your relationship. It is crucial to cultivate emotional depth and connection as well.

Sometimes, individuals may choose not to marry if their seventh lord is positioned in the eighth or twelfth house. They may come to the realization that marriage is not the right path for them after having already been married. It is important to honor your own desires and make choices that align with your true self.

Your ultimate desire in this lifetime is to purify yourself spiritually, which will bring you happiness and fulfillment. As you embark on this journey of self-purification, you may find that a more suitable spouse enters your life. Your affinity for animals is also significant, as they bring you comfort and joy. Having pets in your relationship can strengthen your bond and bring you closer together.

However, there may be challenges in your relationship when the seventh lord is in the twelfth house. Your partner may hold a significant amount of power and control, leading to frequent breakups and feelings of insecurity. It is important to address these issues and communicate openly about your dissatisfaction.

While this placement may not be favorable for business partnerships, it is excellent for working as an entrepreneur in foreign lands or dealing with foreign companies. Profit can be gained through these ventures. Additionally, businesses related to fashion or those that address people's distress through psychotherapy, counseling, or life coaching can also be highly successful for you.

Let me know your placement below !

Remember This is a General Analysis , Whole Chart is to be consider for Accurate Personalized Predictions.

For Paid Personalized Analysis & Reviews ➤ Check Here

Masterlist ➤ Check Here

[moondirti]

7. PROPOSITION

CHAPTER SEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter six / chapter eight ⇀

summary: a proposition is made in hope for new beginnings

mature | 4.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, apocalypses, death, decay, blood, injury, sexual tension, angst, no use of y/n notes: I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL. anyway repost lol

During the liminal period between detonation and your understanding of it, you’d been convinced of your own fatality. Dead girl walking; the shell-shocked mantra playing in an unremitting loop as you navigated the flattened planes of your once-home.

New York was a ghost town. Or – town isn’t exactly the proper verbiage, not when it comes to describing the hollowed locale. It’d been flushed of all its previous pomp; skeletal buildings with their windows blown to bits, light posts bent at the root, central park a glorified bonfire pit for skyscraping flames. In truth, when you’d awoken, you couldn’t recognise your whereabouts. 

That was the basis for which you told yourself it was a dream. Everything existed as a distorted reflection of what you were familiar with, a fucked plane capable only of occuring in feverish delirium. The bite, you’d accepted – nodding to yourself grimly. You must’ve gotten sick again and passed out before the speech, transported to some stuffy hospital that pinned you with needles full of hallucinogens. How else could you have explained your occult ability to phase through walls, or the complete absence of people?

(In hindsight, it was denial more than anything.)

Yet time progressed on a tortoise’s shell, marching with all the leisure of reality. It didn’t jump like it would’ve had your consciousness been in charge, with its aversion to the mundane and grotesque. No; you’d started to see the faults in your logic when the substance that perpetually fell from the sky proved to be human ash, or when – the further down you travelled – maturating flesh increasingly marked your path. You’ve never known your mind to be so cruel. 

So, dead.

If so, then you’d settled on purgatory. A state where souls atone for their unforgiven sins and are purified. It was an interim solution; you weren’t the religious type, anyway. But maybe that'd been it. Maybe you’d been given a last hope at redemption, thrust in a distinctive nightmare to comprehend how much worse hell could be. At least you lacked pain, at least you were dressed – clad in the silk of your gala gown. But the sky had been red, covered in a sheet of dismal smoke, and you couldn’t see the stars at night.

It was a sign; you’d failed at reaching them. 

The notion had paralysed you for days, tearing at the false comfort you’d wrapped yourself in up to that point. You’d weeped, and tested the limits to your intangibility with lacking enthusiasm. Blotchy faced, snotty nosed – passing your arm through rubble, succeeding, then trying the same with your feet, which abraded against the rough surface instead. The inconsistency was hard to keep up with, but the task at least distracted you from a profuse existentialism.

You’d heeded no patterns; some days, you were completely nonphysical. Or, parts of you remained that way, while others shifted back to palpability. It’d been a tug of war, dependent entirely on your mood and a greater scheme you had no part of. With your limited comprehension, it’d only guaranteed the purgatory hypothesis. Not mortal, nor spirit. Stuck in a great between. 

(What heaven was worth this? Who deemed it so?) 

The guessing game got old. You’d needed something else – more than water, or a fresh change of clothes; good, honest science. Truth. You couldn’t move on until you’d had reason to believe the outcome could justify this. 

You turned to the cosmos then, impartial as ever, despite their discernible absence. They were still there, you knew. Just beyond the firestorms, the sun burnt bright enough to penetrate smog. Its hazy glow provided an alternate reminder of something for you to still pursue – wherever it was, wherever you were. You couldn’t be sure that an afterlife meant nirvana or elysian fields, yet fulfilment looked to be the common denominator. An underscore.

To you, that would only ever be one thing. 

Deep space, your stars – your Sol. 

(It was hope in the one way you could define it.) 

The threads started to converge in an instant of poetic cognizance. The Phoenicians had done it, and so too had ancient sailors. Stars for navigation, for reasoning. Of course. All that entailed for you was to certify you were worth it. 

You’d started by cleaning. Little things, far from where you’d originated. A neighbourhood of collapsing houses, nested in beds of fine porcelain and dust. The times where you could use your hands, you’d sweep the debris onto them and deposit it in a hole, harrowed from a singed lawn at the end of the row. When you were immaterial – a state that had begun gaining rarity the better you were able to cope – you’d focus on mentally tallying inventory. Some to set aside, for whatever poor individual would visit next, and the rest for you. A diet of canned beans and bottled water was better than nothing. 

Then, you’d dealt with the bodies. 

There were none within the city, nor the suburbs. It was only when you’d ventured outwards did they start to crop up; thin corpses with leathery skin still stretched over their frames, starved or burnt or both. The smell had been putrid, reeking of pure rot, and you’d surmised that perhaps they’d taken too long to find salvation. It’d motivated you to keep working, burying them in marked graves with a plug fastened over your nose. You didn’t want to end up like them, as a chore for the next. 

It was near impossible to keep a timeline of it all. Now, you estimate it as months, though it had felt longer. You’d gone through it with no milestones, or any inclination as to whether you were finally getting close. Cleaning the entire expanse of purgatory seemed too big a task to ask of anyone, immortal or not. Yet as the weeks crawled by, you’d started to reckon that was exactly it. You’d felt nothing special, no sweeping message from God alerting you of your success. Just more devastation, more labour. 

(Were you wrong?)

You’d started to get sick again. Irritated sinuses, a scratchy throat. Every breath you took was more useless than the last, oxygen unable to circumvent your system. Smoke inhalation, likely. You’d searched for ventilators to help treat the symptoms, alongside pain relief for the sores spotting along your palms. There’d been nothing, and that wasn’t to say it had always been that way. Empty, orange bottles decorated every barren street, purged by apocalyptic gluttons.

(You couldn’t trick yourself – the dead had no use for medicine.) 

Some fate must have willed it, though. It was there, in the seventh hospital you’d scavenged, that it’d happened. 

A… being, no taller than five foot four, decked in a bright yellow suit and a hazmat mask. Loitering the entryway with a trash bag full of salvaged goodies. It hadn’t noticed you, preoccupied with routing the way back home – so you rushed into a nearby room to change into your gown. It was wrinkled and torn in places, having been the outfit you’d initially spent weeks in, but it was far better off than the grimy cargoes you’d adopted in its place. 

You’d kept it for this; your day of judgement. 

It – he, as it turns out – lived in a bunker, deep beneath the catastrophic surface of the state. You’d followed him there. A perfectly normal thing to do, candidly, for someone who’d forgone social interaction since death. It couldn’t dawn on you that he was surely in the same boat; isolated, cornered like an animal on its haunches. If it had, you would've made an effort to approach him with caution. 

So, it certainly shouldn’t have come as a surprise when your ecstatic hello was met with an axe to the face. Naturally, it’d phased right through you, a feat which only furthered the old being’s terror. 

God had turned out to be more skittish than you’d expected. 

(“Blimey, whit the hell are ye supposit tae be.”

“I’ve been waiting so long–” 

“Ye're gonnae get yourself killed wearin tha’ flimsy thing, lass.”

You’d felt so stupid. You should have surmised that the occasion called for modesty.

“Forgive me,” 

“Whit is it ye want? I don’ have any food for sharin’.”

“Redemption, if you please. I promise I’ve been good, I just want to see the stars.” But of course he’d know that. “Sir. Lord, sir.”

“Is somethin wrong wi yer head?” He’d huffed. “It's tha’ radiation, I'm tellin’ ye. Or maybe I'm dead an’ seein’ things.”

Dead? Another lost soul? 

“Are you not God?”

“God? Ha!” The human scoffed. “Trust that I wouldn’ be livin’ in this rat’s ass if I was.”)

It turned out that he did have food, and plenty – stuffed cans stacked in rows atop rows of nourishment. Medicine too, an age old ventilator that he’d tapped with a knuckle to spur into function. He’d agreed to let you replenish if you’d take a gander at his malfunctioning radio, of which you had limited knowledge on but were willing to give a try. You’d no idea what he needed a radio for in the afterlife, anyway. 

(“The battery contacts are corroded, I think.” You had spit through a mouthful of corn. It’d tasted like pure sugar to your neglected tongue. “If it matters to you this much: baking soda to neutralise the acid, then a bit of vinegar over it to help wipe off the gunk.” 

“Smart one ye are,” He’d pulled a cigarette from one of his various pockets, lip curling at your inquisitive gaze. “Don’ give me tha’ look, I ain' got none for ye.” 

“I’m okay, thanks.” After a bit of deliberation, you’d added, “I’m afraid I don’t understand something.” 

“Whit is it this time?” 

“Why’d you set up permanent camp here? Don’t you want to leave?” 

“An’ where wad I go?” His lighter had taken several starts to sputter a flame. 

“Heaven. Hell – if that’s your thing. The cosmos?” 

He’d barked another one of those sturdy laughs. “Ye one o’ them fanatics? That say wha’ happened wis for good cause?”

“Huh?” Tentatively, you’d placed the radio back on its rickety stool. “What happened?” 

And all humour had drained from his face, his pupils hardening to flat beads. If it hadn’t been for the sudden shift in mood, you’d have gone forever traipsing on a fantasy. No; it was the tremor, the breaks in his once haughty inflection – idiosyncrasies that could’ve only been described as sympathy-triggered. It’d built upon your doubt, your already wavering faith, to strike you out of your mental regression. 

“The Alchemax bomb, lassie.”)

He had a bucket for you to throw up in, slick with panicked sweat, unable to hold on to anything as your body oscillated between materialities. He’d made no comment on how your hands fell through the floor, or the knees that started to sink alongside them. Your fault, your fault. Any thought besides blame hadn’t time to develop, recycled for fuel to keep the cognition running. Your fault. Your fault. All this time. 

(Who could you have turned to? You’d been praying to deities who’ve long since left.)

Night bled, and the man had retired. You’d stayed plastered to the ground, crouched over a slosh of your purged innards. The foulness hardly moved you; it’d felt good to punish yourself in that way. You’d taken to being your own arbiter, and such was one of the many reparations to come. 

(You’d shunned the voice that insisted you deserve none of it. If you hadn’t been so ambitious, so blind to the flaws–) 

You’d wanted to leave. So desperately that the wish had seized every cell in you, shaking them with a vigour unparallel to even celestial fury. You’d wanted to leave. There’d been nothing for you to divert your efforts to after learning the truth. Nothing you could have done to fix it. You’d wanted to leave. To anywhere but there.

Please. Please. Please. 

Just this one thing. 

The air warped.

You hadn’t noticed it immediately, still wrapped in your own misery. Scratchy skin accredited to grief, you kept rocking in place, bathing in muggy sobs. But it’d only grown worse, like a fraying fabric chafing along every appendage. Your dirty nails dug into your palms.

The friction peaked, rubbing you raw. You’d heaved in large gulps of oxygen, pulling at your flesh like it could’ve stopped it. Your jaw had unhinged, teeth clamping down on your thumb to muffle the overstimulated scream that’d threatened to break. Tears sealed your lash lines shut. 

Almost a second later, it stopped, interrupted by the blare of car horns. 

And, when you’d opened your eyes, you found that you were someplace else entirely.

Your fingers graze along something rough. At first, it’s easy to mistake as your jeans, the denim hardened in places with lack of care. 

The space seems to have shrunk since Miguel fell asleep, slumping inwards, its rock walls poking your elbows and curved spine with a clinical brutality. It’s difficult to imagine how he feels; twice your size, unused to fitting those muscles through tight squeezes. Disastrous still, the low creak of the steel arch above puts a timer on your misfortune. The topic of your demise is of increasing relevance. 

Perhaps he drifted off for that exact reason. To hinge on ignorance; an avoidance of this waiting game. Or, more credibly, to force you into a figurative detention. Think about what you’ve done, and what I’m asking of you. 

In any case, it’s working. The trauma you’ve tried repressing thus far rushes through your conscience, carving gaping canals of remorse, lapping at its banks to keep it fresh. You’re convinced your heart could give out, wrenched in innumerable directions, the only respite afforded being the glitches that rip through you. You deserve to stay here, but he doesn’t. He’s always only sought what was right. 

(You can fix it, do this one thing.

Though you can’t grasp where to begin.)

You pinch the fabric, tugging at it in a nervous tick. You don’t feel the tension across your calf, an observation that grows stranger the harder you pull. Reaching over with your free hand, you smooth over your pants. They’re still level with your shin bone, unmoved. 

Huh. 

There’s a mortifying moment where you fear that it’s Miguel’s suit you’re fiddling with, before taking into account that it’s impossible to twist the nanotechnology. 

And it’s too close in to be a wall.

You delicately trace the surface with your pinky, searching for any discernible edge, intent on mapping out the overall shape to deduce its origins. Your arms wave about in a frantic fashion, but to your bewilderment, you find no real boundary. Weirder yet, it appears to slice through your shoe and a portion of Miguel's thigh. 

Feels like–

Your stomach lurches, broiling in a bold concoction of thrill and trepidation. It throws you off guard, your brain lagging behind the reality your body already accepts. You know what it could be, having undergone the phenomena in several situations similar. An answered prayer during your lowest points – back at the man’s bunker, a few times since then.

Nerves humming with electric fervency, you tamp your hope into something more manageable, unable to handle another blow should this turn out poorly. Or – comparably – should you succeed; if this is, indeed, a portal. Your resolve trembles with the strength of a baby bird's wing, missing the survival instincts that once bolstered it. 

(What would it mean for you?)

Biting your lip, you plunge your fist through to the other side. 

It comes in contact with something cold, unlike anything in your little cave. Cold, glossy and… crinkly. A plastic bag of sorts, packed full of a pulpy filling. You’re tempted to draw away, disgusted, but redirect that intensity into inspecting instead.

The bag rests upon an uneven floor, marred by pebbles that lend a sense of ruggedness to the place. Outdoors. Downright filthy, too; judging by the clammy residue that sticks to your knuckles. Bile nudges up your oesophagus, inspired by the unidentified refuse you’re granted access to. Squalid; a dumpster, probably. Decorated in bursting trash bags.

But then–

Mooring yourself upon Miguel’s abdomen, you dip your forearm further in. The static off the portal’s perimeter sings with discordant vibrations, its intensity bordering on painful. It prickles the fine hairs along your limb, scouring any goosebumps raised with a grating ferocity. You stifle the whimper that arises as a consequence.

Your fingers dip under the trash, grazing something that makes you pause. Rubber. Ring-like. 

The day pass? 

Swallowing, you jerk it towards you. It doesn’t budge, stuck under the refuse. 

(It occurs to you to give up. The moral dilemma its purpose poses is abundantly clear.)

Hooking all four digits around its circumference, you pull harder. The portal eats at you, hostile to the foreign intrusion. Any longer and you’re afraid it’ll cut your arm clean off, right under where that gutter almost did the same. Your adrenaline had been enough to numb the torturous incident then, both physically and in memory – and though you lack that direct threat to your life now, the setup is much the same. A situation where you’re finally in control, a reclamation to the morality you’ve long since lost. It’s personal – the scolding he’d given you like a knife to old wounds. 

The prospect fuels the surge you need, distending through your biceps, reinforcing their efforts as you finally yank the bracelet out. The portal makes no noise when it zips back shut, but you feel the lull, its energy abandoning you to wallow, alone again. Or, not alone; you gently settle between Miguel’s legs, careful not to disturb him. 

There’s a stark silence that passes afterward, a line of astonishment keeping it intact. You allow it, needing time to process the staunch implications of the day pass sagging upon your lap. Its lilac hue gives a faint light to your surroundings, illuminating the cranny you’ve only been able to picture so far. It’s about what you expected – save for the resting face of your companion. 

He looks good. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t usually, but the peace that graces his features compliments him, rounding out any harsher edges. You trail your gaze up his neck, to the jaw that points to a pronounced chin. Lips that pout even over retracted fangs. An aquiline, masculine nose. It fits him, you think. Lends itself to the fluffy hair that frames his sharp cheekbones. You linger on it probably longer than you should. 

That is, until you catch sight of the blooming discolouration marring his temple. 

It’s partially obscured in shadow, yellowing along the ends and purple in places you don’t have the advantage of properly observing. Yet, the bruise communicates all it needs to, loud and explicit. You’re not in a position to procrastinate any longer; you’ve already spent a year running from fate. It might make you sick, your organs tying together in a nauseating knot – and every impulse in you might scream against it. To run away; to leave him here for dead. Live the rest of your life in peace – it’s only right, it’s only right.

Then, you remember what he’d said to you. 

(“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?” 

“It’s not fair.” He didn’t skip a beat, tone laced with a hard understanding. “But it’s fact.”) 

You really hate him sometimes. 

Bracing yourself, you shake his shoulder. He’s up in an instant, snatching your wrist in one warm palm. You wait for the tired mist over his awareness to melt, a stone lodged in your throat.

“¿Qué es?” He whisper-shouts. “What?”

“I–” Your voice warbles. Pathetic. “I have something for you.” 

He squints. 

(Rightfully so.) 

Breathing through the hesitation that strikes the rungs of your ribcage, you hold up the day pass. 

He doesn’t realise what you mean immediately, flicking back and forth between the bracelet and your furrowed brows. Realistically, his doubt can’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, yet you’re eternally paralysed within the anticipatory dread – a fossilised mosquito captured in amber. Even when he does eventually catch up, you stay still, letting him pilfer the key to your freedom and watching as his drowsiness sharpens into a pointed resolve. 

And you don’t stray, not for the entire stretch during which he tinkers with its components. It’s not his aforementioned allure that encourages it, nor the sudden flashbacks to your earlier breakdown. Ridiculously enough, it’s satisfaction – a contentment at having finally defied your self-interests. You look to him like you had the sun back home. For validation on the path you’re headed towards, a small hint of a job well done. You’re too cautious of your own pride, betrayed by it more often than anyone else, but he–

He knows what it means to be a true spider-hero. 

You hope that one day, you will too. 

“Lyla?” Miguel demands into his watch, testing to see whether the spare parts of your contribution resolved its issues. 

“You’re alive! Huh,” A miniscule projection of his LYrate lifeform approximation blinks into existence, tilting her heart-shaped glasses down as if to punctuate her disbelief. 

“I came across a few obstacles, but I’ve got the Wr-” He catches your wince. “Our target. Set coordinates for 928. I’m coming home.” 

“Gotcha. Can you wait until Reilly coughs up a twenty, though?” 

“You bet on my survival?” 

“Silver linings!” 

“Lyra.” 

“Okay! Alright. Home it is, boss.” 

“And tell Jess to be on stand-by with an empty cell,” He adds, lowering his pitch to one more understated. You can’t lie and imply your appreciation – no matter what he does to soften your circumstance, it retains its somberness. You’re going back to that desolate wasteland, and this time, you have no will in ever leaving. 

“Figured you’d want to get her in the go-home machine as soon as possible. No?” 

“No.” He asserts, the decision rumbling from deep within his chest. You steel yourself against the shiver that wobbles through you. “I’m not done with her, yet.” 

“Explain something to me, would you?” 

You smell of lemon antiseptic and dirt, arms wrapped in fresh bandages from shoulder to wrist. It’s an unpleasant combination, exacerbating the headache that gnashes on your skull under these fluorescent lights – darkness having been an ally to your concussion. The acetaminophen they’d given you at the med-bay has done nothing to aid your pain, and you’re convinced that the only thing that would work is a long, hot bath. 

That is to say, you’re not ready to have this conversation. 

When you don’t respond, Miguel stands from his seat, exercising the prominent muscles in his legs. His sweats do their best to conceal them, but you’d been in close quarters with him for far too long to have forgotten the way they bulge and shift with every move. If you focus, you can sense them now, pressing against your ass, pinning you in place. 

He huffs. You doubt your glassy-eyed ogle is doing you any favours. 

“Can’t make any promises.” You murmur, before deciding against it. It probably isn’t the best time to test him. “I’ll try my best.”

It’s the first time you see him in casual clothing, which changes him – much like sleep does. Outside of his suit, he looks younger, on a pedestal closer to common man. A white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, loose pants. Lighter colours, in complement to his bronzed complexion. 

Get a hold of yourself. 

“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of responsibility.” He starts. Wrong, you want to say, because your breakouts have always been based on pure luck. “You threaten falling into floors, to phase through walls. Except, when we were trapped back on 15. You silently accepted our fate, despite having every means to prevent it. It’s telling, in my opinion.” 

You nod, already aware of what he’s getting at. “Sounds like you don’t need me to explain, so–” 

“You can’t control your powers, can you?” 

“Bit late in figuring that one out.”

“Then how’d you come about the day pass?” He presses, not so much questioning anymore.

As it stands, you have two options: 

To lie. It’s easy, natural after a full year of it. Your interrogator doesn’t need to know the truth if all he’s going to do is send you back, and with his newfound revelation about the nature of your abilities, it could prove advantageous to keep their full scope from his knowledge. You don’t owe him shit. 

That’s Wraith talking, of course.

The you you want to be, however, beckons for candour. There pervades the confessional once more, a box drawn around you, prompting you to relieve yourself of all your secrets so you can be cleansed. Religion – a fickle thing, but it feels right, here. 

Besides, who knows when you’ll be able to talk to anyone again. 

“I’m not… entirely sure.” Your frown tucks underneath your teeth, and you suck on your lip while trying to formulate a coherent answer. “It’s happened previously. It’s like a portal, except it’s invisible and appears on the irregular occasion. I was thinking of ho– my earth when it materialised by my hand.” 

His forehead creases, drawing in incredulously. 

“You can create gateways into other dimensions?” 

“Not quite. My working theory is that, somehow, the boundaries between worlds are thinning. I think I mentioned how my intangibility works?” He gives an affirming blink. “My atoms find the quickest way through something, so maybe they’re able to do the same through, ya know, the literal fabric of space-time.” 

It really does sound idiotic to put out loud. 

Miguel cups his face, rubbing away the weariness gathered in his wrinkles. There’s a plaster over the contusion on his forehead, overcast by rowdy tresses of wet hair. You do your best to suppress the image of him in the shower, steeling your expression into one of indifference. 

“That holds up. This started a year ago?”

“Yeah,” 

“There was a thing with a super-collider.” 

“A… thing.” The scientist in you cringes. Though, you have no room to talk. 

“All I’m getting from this is that, if I were to send you home, you could just high-tail out of there whenever the opportunity arises.” 

His distrust shouldn’t shock you as much as it does. You ponder the best way to go about this, yet your tongue betrays you, speaking before you can lasso it back under command. 

“In theory, yes.” You pause, waiting for it to sink in. “But I won’t.” 

Some grand gesture of faith that was, you imbecile. 

“Sure.” He stresses, unconvinced. 

Taking a step forward, you crane your neck to meet his eye. Patchouli catches the office draft, clouding your head until all that comes from you is unintelligible nonsense. 

“I’m sick of this game of cat and mouse. I don’t want to be the bad guy any more.” Your thunderous heartbeat drowns the effect of your proclamation. It’s hard to tell whether you come across as genuine or not. “All my life, I’ve only ever done what was wrong, what was selfish.” You rephrase his earlier reproach. “Let me be right, just this once.” 

Your conviction sways when he tenses. No; this doesn’t feel honest, not even to you. 

You want to be good. With all the fire of every star in this goddamn universe, blazing hot and colliding to expel devastation upon its neighbours. It shrinks up in your core, skyrocketing in temperature. It verges on explosion; a supernovae, life-giving. You want. You want. You want.

But, you’re afraid you don’t know how. 

“We can make a deal?” You offer, plummeting to new depths of uncertainty. A deal requires mutual credence; for every skipped vow, you’ll lose out on something too. “Let me stay, just until I learn how to be the hero you need me to be. After that, I’ll go home – I swear it. And you’ll never have to worry about me again.” 

He gives no blatant indication as to whether he’s seriously considering it. His head dips, and he turns his back to you, likely calculating collective factors to form the best solution. The way you perceive it, though – this elongated reticence:

He sees no other choice. 

chapter eight

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[asexualannoyance]

“[...] Like other movements within political Islam, the movement [Hamas] reflected a complex local reaction to the harsh realities of occupation, and a response to the disorientated paths offered by secular and socialist Palestinian forces in the past. Those with a more engaged analysis of this situation were well prepared for the Hamas triumph in the 2006 elections, unlike the Israeli, American, and European governments. It is ironic that it was the pundits and orientalists, not to mention Israeli politicians and chiefs of intelligence, who were taken by surprise by the election results more than anyone else. What particularly dumbfounded the great experts on Islam in Israel was the democratic nature of the victory. In their collective reading, fanatical Muslims were meant to be neither democratic nor popular. These same experts displayed a similar misunderstanding of the past. Ever since the rise of political Islam in Iran and in the Arab world, the community of experts in Israel had behaved as if the impossible was unfolding in front of their eyes. [...]

In 2009, Avner Cohen, who served in the Gaza Strip around the time Hamas began to gain power in the late 1980s, and was responsible for religious affairs in the occupied territories, told the Wall Street Journal, “the Hamas, to my great regret, is Israel’s creation.” Cohen explains how Israel helped the charity al-Mujama al-Islamiya (the “Islamic Society”), founded by Sheikh Ahmed Yassin in 1979, to become a powerful political movement, out of which the Hamas movement emerged in 1987. Sheikh Yassin, a crippled, semi-blind Islamic cleric, founded Hamas and was its spiritual leader until his assassination in 2004. He was originally approached by Israel with an offer of help and the promise of a license to expand. The Israelis hoped that, through his charity and educational work, this charismatic leader would counterbalance the power of the secular Fatah in the Gaza Strip and beyond. [...]

In 1993, Hamas became the main opposition to the Oslo Accord. While there was still support for Oslo, it saw a drop in its popularity; however, as Israel began to renege on almost all the pledges it had made during the negotiations, support for Hamas once again received a boost. Particularly important was Israel’s settlement policy and its excessive use of force against the civilian population in the territories. [...]

It also captured the hearts and minds of many Muslims (who make up the majority in the occupied territories) due [to] the failure of secular modernity to find solutions to the daily hardships of life under occupation. [...]

The new Israeli methods of oppression introduced during the Second Intifada—particularly the building of the wall, the roadblocks, and the targeted assassinations—further diminished the support for the Palestinian Authority and increased the popularity and prestige of Hamas. It would be fair to conclude, then, that successive Israeli governments did all they could to leave the Palestinians with no option but to trust, and vote for, the one group prepared to resist an occupation described by the renowned American author Michael Chabon as “the most grievous injustice I have seen in my life.” [...]

The obvious failure of the Palestinian groups and individuals who had come to prominence on the promise of negotiations with Israel clearly made it seem as if there were very few alternatives. In this situation the apparent success of the Islamic militant groups in driving the Israelis out of the Gaza Strip offered some hope. However, there is more to it than this. Hamas is now deeply embedded in Palestinian society thanks to its genuine attempts to alleviate the suffering of ordinary people by providing schooling, medicine, and welfare. No less important, Hamas’s position on the 1948 refugees’ right of return, unlike the PA’s stance, was clear and unambiguous. Hamas openly endorsed this right, while the PA sent out ambiguous messages, including a speech by Abu Mazen in which he rescinded his own right to return to his hometown of Safad. [...]”

—Ten Myths About Israel by Ilan Pappé, Chapter 9: “The Gaza Mythologies”, the section titled “Hamas Is a Terrorist Organization”

[whimsicalpoet44]

Sorry I've been M.I.A. I've been processing a lot of grief and have had a lot of unexpected life changes (unrelated to grief).

Soooo, to cheer myself up here's some random astro observations.

Random Astrology Observations

These are based on my experiences, and not every one of these will apply to someone else with the same placements. This is just my own observations!

Note: If I use the word Karma, I mean the concept that you get back what you give to others. I want to be respectful about using the term and wanted to make sure I'm distinguishing it separately from the religious meaning of the word. I haven't found a great alternative for it even after searching extensively, so if anyone knows one please let me know! I know it's been westernized and I hate that. ☹️

⚡️ Anyone with 3rd House placements will likely encounter issues with their siblings at some point or another. They could live in their siblings shadows, been tasked to take care of them, or just never got a long with them altogether. This can play out in a hundred different ways, though.

⚡️ We talk a lot about repercussions for messing with a person who has Saturn in the 4th/8th/12th House. But Saturn in the 2nd? I almost feel like it's worse.

I know a person with Saturn in the 2nd who was being mistreated by an authority figure. The person mistreating her was getting a degree in higher education. By the time the two parted ways, the person mistreating her had her entire reputation completely obliterated, rendering her higher degree completely useless in her career field as a result. And the person with Saturn in the 2nd told nobody about the individual's behavior.

Saturn won't just come for their finances, they'll come for anything of value. Six months later, that individual was divorced, selling her home, and was pushed out of the organization she worked in. It was genuinely shocking lol

⚡️ As a person works through their Lilith sign, their appearance can change. Not just physically, but their overall vibe. They'll feel like a different person. And it's because they've owned their inner power.

⚡️ Scorpio Placements are so powerful, but they often stand in their own way. They can manifest basically anything, but their self deprecating tendencies can hold them back from attaining it.

⚡️ If the Universe pairs a Capricorn Rising and a Scorpio Rising to hold a person accountable for their shitty behavior, you know whoever that person is really messed up. Both of these rising signs hold heavy karma, one from Saturn and one from Pluto. It's actually quite a beautiful sight to behold if the person is deserving. I've seen this on many occasions and when both are through, there's nothing left standing.

Both individuals also always figure out about halfway through the divine intervention that they play a far greater role than they realize and it's a lesson for the two individuals to step into their own power as well.

When we try to be the 'better' person, sometimes we're denying the person who wronged us the accountability they deserve.

⚡️ In a synastry chart, aspects to Lilith, South Node, Chiron, and Juno can indicate potential soul contracts if you know where to look. (If you're soulmates/twin flames/karmic partners/etc). Of course there are other indicators as well.

⚡️ Sagittarius placements are seen as hopeful and positive, but a lot of the times, they're full of doom and gloom. They avoid their problems by doing whatever they want. Many of them never planned out a long-term future because they never saw themselves reaching that point of their lives, rendering them in a disaster they have to clean up and build themselves back from the bottom up. Which they do successfully. They never really lose hope, but they avoid responsibility until they can't anymore.

⚡️ Aquarius/11th House Placements fight a life long battle of trying to be themselves and not fit the mold their parents laid out for them. They only find true happiness when they realize their life path isn't for everyone and it relies on the fact that they must be who they really are.

⚡️ Aries Placements get a lot of hate, but if they react from a healthy place, they make some of the best advocates I've ever seen. I think it's because they have an endless supply of energy and healthy anger to tap into to make sure everything is getting addressed correctly.

⚡️ Leo Placements cannot escape attention. It follows them. They are usually forced to reconcile with it and learn to work through the uncomfortable feeling associated with it.

⚡️ If you have a planet that's in the same sign as your Chiron (or conjunct), prepare for that area of your life to be a complete dumpster fire until you find a healthy way to work through the Chiron wounds.

⚡️ If you tell a Scorpio something they don't want to hear, they'll just change the subject. Then they'll come back to you in 6 months and tell you that you were right, but they'll never outright say the words "you were right."

⚡️ I'm pairing Libra, Pisces, and Cancer together to work through their people pleasing phase, because once they do, they can flip a switch and cut someone off without a second thought. That's when they unlock their inner power and begin to set healthy boundaries.

⚡️ Taurus Risings have a lot of great qualities to them (and I do love them), but I've seen a lot of praise for Taurus Risings who also have Scorpio placements. While I can see the benefits, every Taurus Rising with Scorpio Placements that I've ever met (and I've oddly met a few) have created their own personal prison in their minds when it comes to trusting others and opening up. They won't crack. They are lock and key. They can express they want to be vulnerable, but they often don't know how. (Again, this is just my oddly specific experience lol) They also struggle with finding safety in materialism, while also feeling empty because they crave more spiritual interactions.

⚡️ Gemini and Sag placements always feel chronically misunderstood. I've also never met a single Gemini/Sag that wasn't diagnosed with ADHD or was a burnt out gifted kid. A couple of my friends that tried to prove me wrong came to me about 2 years later with a diagnosis in their 30s. 😂 (again, just my experience)

⚡️ Virgo North Node - How's that career in healthcare going? 😂 Jk, not everyone with a Virgo North Node is in healthcare, but it's a lot of you. lol

⚡️ Capricorns are some of the most anxious people I've ever met. They just hide it really well. It most likely stems from whatever they went through in childhood.

⚡️ Virgo placements often carry this stereotype that they're uptight and anxious (with a lot of control issues). As a person that used to work in the mental health field, every Virgo I ever met did have anxiety, but it wasn't 😢anxiety😢. It was ✨anxiety ✨. They are some of the funniest people I've ever interacted with. And they did have the stereotypical Virgo traits, but there was a layer of sarcasm to it. They're hands down some of my favorite people. A lot of them are oddly cat people too, which is weird, because I see a lot of people associate Virgos with dogs. (though it's really both since virgo rules small pets)

⚡️ Ever Sag had a horse phase. I don't make the rules. 😂

⚡️ Cancer placements likely struggled with bullying in childhood. I swear it's because other kids can sniff out their sensitive nature and try to exploit them. They always end up surprised when Cancer placements stand up for themselves, though. I would never want to cross a Cancer placement because they'll find the time and patience to extract revenge. People forget about their cold side.

⚡️ Leo Sun, Virgo Moon, and Scorpio Rising are the ultimate big three combo. And weirdly, I know a lot of people with these placements. They trigger others without trying. They just exist and people literally hate them. They have a strong sense of justice and they're very methodical and practical. It's excellent.

[doormatty3]

Sinner's Salvation: Chapter 1 (Ed Warren x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

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Summary:

[Ed Warren x Female Reader] [Ed Warren x You]

You don't believe in the supernatural and superstition. Witchcraft and demonic occurrences are nothing but quackery to you. But when the room starts spinning, days start blurring into each other and shadows start dancing in every corner you wonder what is wrong with you. No doctor can tell you more about your condition - each and every one is insisting that you are fine and perfectly healthy.  Seeking alternative help, you stumble across Ed and Lorraine Warren.  They promise to help you, rid you of the demon that has taken hold of you - to drive it out. But you didn’t know what you signed up for and what an exorcism by Ed Warren entails.  OR: Ed shows you how well he can possess your body - and your cunt

Wordcount: 8019

Chapter: 1/2

Warnings: 18+, description of violence, dirty thoughts, flirting, religious imagery

A/N: Peer pressure is strong - so here is another Patrick Wilson fanfic. This first chapter is pretty much swf, the smut is in the next one. And belief me…it is filthy. Anyway I need Jesus or Ed to exorcise me.

Next chapter

CHAPTER 1

Your head pounds as you try to busy yourself with the magazines on the glass table at your doctors’s waiting room. Headaches and migraines have been intermittent companions throughout your life - coming and going over the years with an emphasis on going.

However, for the past few weeks, they were persistent and overstayed their welcome.

What began as a dull ache that had settled in the front of your skull had slowly morphed and spread through your whole head until it felt like constant and pervasive pressure was applied to your temples, squeezing your mind between its fingers restlessly. The dull throb had escalated into a sharp, blinding stab, like invisible hands transforming into relentless claws.

It was at this point that you resolved to consult your doctor. Those headaches were out of the ordinary, deviating from their usual form and you were yearning for some relief and an explanation as to what was causing them. Because you were sure that it wasn’t just migraines or stress.

You sink back into the uncomfortable chair of the waiting room as you find yourself desperately seeking some solace from the sharp pain throbbing at your temple. The mix of the flickering fluorescence overhead and the bright daylight seeping in through the window seems to intensify your discomfort so you close your eyes to drown out one sensation. But the lack of one sense amplifies the other, so you hear the murmur of hushed conversations and discussions as well as the rhythmic ticking of the clock that has never seemed so loud as it does at this moment.

You bring your right hand to your head and rub your thumb in circular motions over your temple while your fingers rest on your forehead. Despite your best efforts, it does not really help against the throbbing ache and only provides some short-lived relief.

Each passing minute elongates your stay in the room, marked only by the clock’s relentless ticking.

On any other day, you would have read something or watched the other people sitting in the room but the headache makes everything tiring and painful.

Suddenly, your name echoes through the waiting room, your head jolts up and your eyes fly open. The doctor’s assistant meets your gaze with an expectant look and gestures with her hand, saying: “Please follow me”.

As you rise from the unyielding chair quickly, the ticking clock and flickering lights momentarily fade into the background when spots dance in the edges of your vision - a new side effect of your headaches. You blink a few times to regain your composure and balance.

The corridor leading to the treatment room is long and sterile - occasionally a colorful picture on the white wall breaks up the monotonous path. The echo of your footsteps sounds loud in your head and you feel the sharp stab in your temple with every noise.

With a smile and a nod, the woman opens the door to the doctor’s room: “He’ll be with you in a couple minutes. Feel free to take a seat”.

“Thank you”, you mumble quietly and pull out a chair to sit down.

The room is adorned with medical charts, anatomical diagrams, and informational posters that detail various parts of the human body. Anatomical models of organs and skeletal structures stand on shelves, their detailed features catching the sterile light.

You lower your eyes to your hands and away from the bright lights in the room when the door to the room creaks open.

“I’m sorry for the wait, dear”, the doctor enters the room, shutting the door gently and taking a seat opposite you, “What brings you here today?”

“I wake up with headaches almost every morning”, you admit, your voice carrying the weight of fatigue and frustration, “It started a few months ago and hasn’t gotten better - only worse.”

The doctor, a mix of empathy and expertise, leans in, pen poised over a notepad, ready to capture the nuances of your struggle.

“Tell me more about the nature of the pain. Is it sharp, dull, pulsating?”, he inquires, his eyes focused on yours, seeking a clearer picture.

You take a moment, searching for words to convey the indescribable sensations.

“It’s like… a relentless pressure, sometimes sharp and stabbing, and it just lingers throughout the day. It’s not just the pain; it’s the way it clouds everything else, like a persistent shadow”, you explain, your frustration evident in the furrow of your brow.

And then you add, almost as an afterthought: “I usually have migraines, but this headache feels different. It’s like a stranger invading my headspace, and nothing seems to help.”

The doctor nods thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in a half-hearted attempt at concern.

“I see. How would you rate the intensity on a scale from one to ten? And have you noticed any specific triggers or patterns that coincide with these headaches?”

You take a deep breath, appreciating the opportunity to provide more insight into the daily struggle you endure.

“The intensity varies, but at its peak, I would rate it around an eight or nine. It’s not just the pain…”, you trail off for a second, blinking your eyes rapidly against the throbbing of your head, “It’s the relentlessness of it, like a drumbeat in my head that refuses to fade away.”

The doctor scribbles a few notes, but his furrowed brow remains a mere semblance of genuine concern and you cannot help but wonder if he takes your concern seriously.

He continues, without looking up: “Triggers or patterns - have you noticed anything specific that seems to bring these headaches on? Certain foods, stress, lack of sleep, perhaps?”

Your mind races to pinpoint potential triggers, hoping to offer any helpful information.

“No, I don’t think I can pinpoint any specific trigger. I’ve tried tracking my diet, but nothing conclusive… I know stress can make it worse, but that just doesn’t seem right. It almost feels like they have a mind of their own.”

The doctor’s nod is accompanied by a distant sound of acknowledgment: “Understood. We’ll note the variability. Have you observed any changes in their frequency or duration recently?”

You pause, considering his question. “Yes, they’ve become more frequent, and the duration seems to be stretching out. Sometimes lasting for days.”

As you share your experiences, the doctor’s responses remain mechanical, lacking the depth and engagement you hoped for.

He takes down a note on his pad, his expression somewhat detached.

“Thank you for sharing that. We’ll explore this further. In the meantime, have you experienced any other symptoms alongside these headaches? Changes in vision, sensitivity to light, or nausea, perhaps?”

You take a deep breath before responding: “Yes, there have been moments where I see shadows dancing at the edge of my vision, and light, especially bright light, seems almost intolerable.”

“Well, headaches can be tricky. I’ll prescribe you some pain medication for now. It should help take the edge off. Let’s see how that goes before jumping into more tests.”

The doctor’s demeanour remains distant, his response lacking the reassurance you were seeking.

A pervasive disappointment sets in as you absorb his words, rendering you speechless. The doctor’s lack of genuine concern leaves you disheartened.

With a brisk movement, he rises from his chair, with a faint smile gracing his lips as he extends his hand toward you.

As the doctor withdraws his hand, he nods almost imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment that punctuates the end of the consultation. With a parting glance, he pivots and makes his way towards the door, the echo of his footsteps emphasising the hollowness of the room. The door creaks open and then closes, leaving you sitting alone as you try to comprehend what just happened.

The initial hope for understanding and empathy begins to waver, replaced by a nagging question: are your headaches truly as severe as they feel, or are they being downplayed by the doctor’s lack of concern?

The doubt grows as you leave the examination room, and a wave of self-questioning accompanies you. Perhaps you’re exaggerating the pain, or maybe others endure worse without seeking medical attention. The once vivid description of your headaches starts to blur, muddled by the doctor's detached response.

This self-doubt, however, doesn’t entirely quash the very real and tangible pain you feel daily. The clawing at your temples persists a constant reminder that, regardless of the doctor's reaction, your struggle is genuine.

_____6 months later_____

The moment you pry your eyes open, you instantly regret it when a familiar surge of pain flares up and radiates through your head. The once-tolerable discomfort, only triggered by encounters with brighter lights, now manifests even at the gentlest touch of illumination.

The blinds in your apartment are drawn almost entirely shut in a deliberate attempt to shield you from the outside world. Only a handful of thin, feeble stripes of light manages to illuminate the room, casting delicate patterns on the floor. The room around you remains shrouded in a semi-darkened veil.

As you lay there, contemplating the day ahead, you can't help but wish for a respite from the relentless screaming in your head. With a groan, you push yourself up, your movements measured to avoid exacerbating the persistent ache.

The dull glow of a digital clock on the bedside table reveals the early hour, a reminder that the day has just begun, yet the promise it holds seems elusive under the weight of your current state. You’d much rather not have to open your eyes at all and retreat into the comforting embrace of darkness and the inevitability of facing the day ahead.

The current intensity of the throbbing headaches promises a rather bad day ahead - maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

The cool surface of the floor meets the soles of your feet offering a momentary distraction from the pulsating discomfort in your head as you navigate the dimly lit space. The few rays of light filtering through the partially closed blinds create a chiaroscuro effect, casting shadows that dance along the walls like fleeting memories.

The weight of uncertainty presses down on you, adding an undercurrent of fear to the pulsating discomfort in your head. The unknown, wrapped in shadows, looms over your thoughts, intensifying the ache that reverberates through your skull and manipulating the threads of your mind like a malevolent puppeteer, weaving a twisted dance of uncertainty.

With each step, you can’t shake the feeling of being adrift in a sea of questions, with no clear answers in sight.

You lower yourself into the desk chair in your office, facing the computer. With a heavy sigh, you rest your head in your hands, succumbing to the pounding in your head that seems to be intensified by the soft glow of the computer screen.

A sense of worry washes over you as you contemplate the missing fragments of time. There are moments when waking up brings with it the haunting realisation that whole days have slipped through the sieve of your memory. You recall mornings when you’ve donned shoes and proper clothes, yet the specifics remain elusive, lost in the fog of an obscured consciousness.

Unexplained bruises are scattered across your body like cryptic symbols etched into the canvas of your skin. The morning light sometimes reveals these marks - random, and varied in size. Some bruises are inconspicuous, while others are more pronounced, a stark contrast against the pallor of your skin. You know that it may very well be a nutritional deficiency or just your clumsiness in general.

It's plausible that during the night, you inadvertently collide with objects or navigate your dimly lit apartment and stumble into furniture, while the pain is obscured by the prominence of your persistent headaches. Which rhythmic persistence feels as if someone else is dwelling within, an unwelcome tenant navigating the labyrinth of your thoughts.

Once again you google your symptoms just as you did before in hopes of finding something that provides you with the answers you so desperately seek. The tapping of keys echoes in the quiet room as you type in the details of your affliction.

The search results hold a plethora of possibilities, ranging from the mundane to the foreboding. Your eyes sweep across the information, revealing a spectrum of potential explanations.

Predictably, illnesses such as cancer or a brain tumor show up in the results. But you recall a recent and disappointing visit to the doctor during which you talked about the results of brain scans that were completely normal and unremarkable. The lingering sense of unease that clings to your every thought has not been dispelled by that and still remains.

As you delve deeper into your online search, the glow of the computer screen casts an ethereal light on your face, accentuating the furrowed brow that accompanies your contemplation when the search results take an unexpected turn.

Among the medical explanations and everyday ailments, there is a collection of pages adorned with ominous symbols, discussing the supernatural, and invoking the paranormal.

A skeptical scoff escapes your lips at the absurdity of such notions. The idea of demonic involvement feels like a fantastical escape from the reality of medical concerns. You dismiss these supernatural threads as mere distractions, remnants of an online world where fiction and reality often blur. But you cannot deny that you are intrigued and fascinated by those weird demonic and paranormal things.

So you decide to dive deeper and steer your thoughts in a different direction than your medical condition.

You stumble upon Ed and Lorraine Warren. Their names are etched in the annals of supernatural and demonologist lore, their photographs capturing a certain gravitas that transcends the ordinary.

As you delve into their stories, a mix of fascination and skepticism grips you. The tales of haunted houses, malevolent entities, and their seemingly fearless pursuit of the unknown unfold like chapters in a dark, mysterious novel.

The images of the Warrens show a tall, imposing couple that exudes an aura of authority. Their gaze seems to pierce through the screen as if they have encountered unknown forces that your brain cannot comprehend. Both exude attractiveness and Ed, in particular, captivates your attention with his clear blue eyes and a soft, reassuring smile.

As you sink deeper into your exploration, you come across intriguing details about the Warrens, including snippets about their artifact room.

Further research reveals that Ed is a non-ordained demonologist officially recognized by the Catholic Church and Lorraine, on the other hand, is described as a gifted clairvoyant.

Notably, you discover that the Warrens are scheduled to speak at a university near you in a few days, where they will delve into topics surrounding demons and the supernatural. This upcoming lecture piques your interest, as it offers the possibility of gaining insights on the topic you’re interested in and steering your thoughts in a different direction.

The next day unfolds with a disconcerting air that hangs over every moment. As you move through the routine motions of your day, a persistent sensation gnaws at the edges of your consciousness - a feeling that someone might be in your apartment, an invisible presence tracking your every move. The shadows seem to linger, conspiring to elongate and distort as if concealing the secrets of an unseen observer.

Unease settles in, and the weight of the unknown intensifies. Your senses are on high alert, hyperaware of subtle sounds and fleeting shadows. Paranoia casts a veil over your perception, transforming the familiar surroundings into a labyrinth of uncertainty. The notion that you are being followed, and watched, becomes an inescapable undercurrent.

As you sit down at your computer to continue your Google search about Ed and Lorraine Warren, the mysterious feeling of being watched persists and the noises in your apartment become more pronounced.

Suddenly, you hear a distinct tapping sound, like fingernails lightly brushing against a surface. Your head jerks up, and you glance around the room, searching for the source.

You decide to investigate the source of the sounds. Slowly, you get up from your chair and start to explore your apartment. The creaking floorboards and faint whispers add to the tension in the air. As you move from room to room, you can’t shake the feeling that someone - or something - is with you.

Jesus, you think.

Delving into the Warrens’ cases has genuinely left an impression on you. Despite your rational certainty that you'll discover nothing unusual, a small part of you wants to make sure that you are truly alone, so you look into your bedroom.

The room is dimly lit, and shadows dance on the walls, creating an unsettling atmosphere and you half expect to come face-to-face with an intruder.

Of course, the room is empty. You shake your head at your antics and the weird games your mind sometimes plays at you. So you return to your computer, determined to focus on your research.

As you delve deeper into their history, you come across tales of unexplained occurrences and inexplicable events. The line between the paranormal and the ordinary becomes blurred, and you can’t help but wonder if there's a connection between your eerie experience and the stories you’re reading.

The distinct creak of the front door opening sends a shiver down your spine, intensifying the unease that had settled in the pit of your stomach. Your head jerks up instinctively, eyes widening as you try to discern any movement or sound that may follow.

Slowly and cautiously, you ease yourself out of the office, your senses on high alert - your mind cannot have made that up again, it feels too real.

Each step is deliberate, the floorboards beneath your feet protesting with muted groans. The dim lighting in the hallway casts long, wavering shadows, creating a macabre dance of darkness that seems to come alive with each flicker.

As you make your way to the kitchen, you can't help but notice the play of light and shadow, accentuating the contours of the furniture and giving the surroundings an otherworldly quality. The eerie atmosphere lingers, and every sound, whether a distant whisper or the faint rustle of curtains, contributes to the unsettling symphony. Your heart pounds in your ears, the rhythmic thud echoing relentlessly as adrenaline courses through your veins.

The air feels charged with tension as you navigate through the space, acutely aware of your surroundings. The kitchen, once a place of familiarity, now holds an unfamiliar weight, and you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to find a presence lingering in the shadows.

You look around for a potential weapon in your kitchen. Your eyes land on a set of sharp kitchen knives neatly arranged on the counter. You grab one, the cold steel offering a reassuring weight in your hand. Gripping it tightly, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as the blade reflects the gentle glow that is emanating from the windows.

Your mind races with possibilities, ranging from a potential intruder to something more otherworldly. Your eyes blink rapidly, a reflex under the stress, and you can feel sweat building as your apprehension grows.

With the knife in hand, you decide to cautiously approach the area near the hallway that leads to the front door. Every step is deliberate, and the creaking floorboards beneath your feet seem to echo in the silence. The shadows play tricks on your imagination, making you question whether the movement you see is real or just a product of your heightened senses.

As you reach the entrance, you notice that the door is slightly ajar. The chill in the air sends a shiver down your spine. Holding the knife in a defensive stance, you push the door open, ready to confront whatever or whoever might be on the other side.

To your surprise, the hallway appears empty. The dimly lit corridor stretches out before you, devoid of any immediate threat. However, the feeling of being watched persists, leaving you on edge.

A shiver runs down your spine as you turn towards the living room, and your eyes widen with a mixture of fear and surprise.

In the dim light, you make out the silhouette of a figure standing in the shadows. The room seems to hold its breath as you lock eyes with the unexpected visitor.

Your grip tightens on the knife, your instincts urging you to be prepared for whatever may come. The figure remains still, a mysterious presence cloaked in darkness. Panic and curiosity wrestle within you, but you muster the courage to speak.

“Who’s there?”, you demand, your voice wavering slightly, betraying your inner turmoil.

The figure doesn’t respond immediately, maintaining an unsettling silence. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you start to discern features - the outline of a person clad in big, dark clothing wearing a hood. The air in the room feels charged with tension, and the quiet seems to amplify the beating of your heart.

A surge of fear courses through you as the stranger inches closer in the dimly lit living room. Your panic intensifies, and without thinking, you unleash a scream, a mixture of fear and warning, hoping to startle the intruder or whatever presence stands before you as you feel your whole body shaking.

“Who are you? What do you want?”, you shout, your voice echoing through the tense silence. The sudden burst of sound reverberates in the room, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

The stranger freezes momentarily, their movement halted by your unexpected reaction. The dim light casts uncertain shadows on their stance, making it challenging to discern their intentions. You maintain a defensive stance, clutching the knife tightly in your hand.

In the wake of your scream, a heavy silence lingers, broken only by the sound of your own rapid breaths. The stranger remains silent, their next move unclear.

“I don’t want to hurt you! Please just…go”, your voice is shaking and the fear that settled itself in your core is palpable.

Suddenly, the stranger surges forward and in a split-second response to their move towards you, fear and adrenaline drive you to react instinctively. Without hesitation, you thrust the knife forward, aiming for the center of the oncoming threat. The blade makes contact, sinking into the stranger’s stomach with a sickening resistance.

The stranger gasps, a guttural sound escaping their lips, and their momentum falters. The reality of the situation hits you, and your eyes widen in shock as you release the blade and stumble back. You watch their hands instinctively clutch their injured stomach before inevitably collapsing onto the ground.

Time seems to stretch as you assess the situation, your mind racing to comprehend the events that have just happened.

You stand there, breaths coming in ragged gasps, staring at the figure now on the floor. The dim light accentuates the stark reality of the situation - their blood on the knife, their blood splattered on the floor, and their blood staining your hands.

A wave of panic grips you, and you feel the onset of a panic attack tightening your chest. The reality of the violence you've just inflicted crashes over you, and a whirlwind of emotions - fear, guilt, and shock - threatens to overwhelm your senses. Bile rises at the back of your throat, adding to the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

The heavy silence in the room is broken by the sound of your laboured breathing when you realise the gravity of the situation. You just stabbed someone.

You step closer to the figure on the floor, your hands are trembling and your mind is in turmoil. Your gaze falls onto the knife. It is still stained with their blood and lodged in the stranger’s stomach like a macabre focal point that rhythmically rises with their rattling, shallow breaths.

You hover over the figure and you reach out to grab the protruding knife with your bloody hands in a motion that you cannot stop. Your hand closes around the handle and you pull.

The knife emerges from the stranger’s stomach without much resistance but with a wet squelch and a deep, pained groan. Blood follows the blade out of the wound, drenching the stranger’s clothes as you watch mesmerised.

A few seconds tick by before you sink to your knees and lift the blade again as if pulled up by invisible strings.

The knife plunges into the stranger's chest, and a sickening resistance, a visceral clash of flesh, bone, and muscle, courses through your hands. The figure beneath you convulses, and the room is filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of their laboured breaths and pained noises, and the air is heavy with the metallic scent of blood, a salty tang settling on your tongue.

As you continue to stab in a mindless range, the blood pools over your hands, coating them like a warm embrace. The stranger beneath you convulses in response to each stab, their breaths growing more ragged with each passing moment.

Your frazzled breathing is loud in the room when you snap out of your frenzy. A sudden realisation grips you as the weight of what you've done settles in and the knife hits the wooden floor with a loud clink.

The dim light flickers, casting an eerie glow on the tableau of violence before you.

The dark clad, hooded figure that lays motionless on your floor in a pool of deep red blood surrounding them, drawing a macabre outline.

You reach out to the stilled stranger's form and tug the hood down from the stranger's head.

A jolt of terror courses through you as you reveal your own face staring back at you, eyes wide in terror. The shock is overwhelming, and you stagger back, falling onto your hands. The surreal horror of the revelation sends a scream tearing from your throat.

But then, as abruptly as the situation unfolded, you wake up screaming. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you're drenched in a cold sweat. The remnants of the dream cling to your consciousness, leaving you disoriented and unsettled.

As the realisation sets in that it was all a nightmare, a wave of relief washes over you. The room is bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, and the familiar surroundings of your bedroom reassure you that the disturbing events were only figments of your imagination. The oppressive shadows, the metallic tang of the knife, the haunting echoes of the chilling act - all dissolved into the hazy realm of dreams.

You extend your arm to hit the light switch for your bedside lamp, flooding the room with a brighter light. However, the sudden change triggers a throbbing headache, and spots dance before your eyes. The harsh illumination contrasts sharply with the peaceful moonlight, leaving you momentarily disoriented as you navigate the transition from the dreamworld to the stark reality of your lit room.

Abruptly, you raise your hands, a quick and anxious gesture, checking for any signs of harm or scattering of remaining blood. When you see nothing but spotless skin you take a moment to collect yourself, breathing deeply. Yet you still rub your hands together, attempting to rid yourself of the lingering sensation of phantom blood that appears to have permeated your skin.

The digital numbers on your clock glow faintly, spelling out the hour: 3 am. The unsettling residue of your nightmare clings to your thoughts, a haunting aftertaste that refuses to dissipate.

As you consider the option of getting up, you notice the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the night outside. The weight of the bedsheets feels heavier than usual, as if reluctant to release you from the lingering grip of the dream's distressing scenes. The room, while familiar, carries an air of unfamiliarity, as if the vivid dream has cast a subtle shadow over your reality.

The intensity of your frustration grows as you realize that even your dreams have become a source of distress. The pervasive discomfort of constant head pain during waking hours now seems to extend its unwelcome influence into the realm of your sleep, turning what should be a respite into yet another source of anguish. The feeling of being trapped in a dual nightmare, both waking and sleeping, causes tears to well up in your eyes.

In all the months of your illness, you have never felt so completely and utterly lost and afraid.

A sob escapes your throat, and tears stream down your face as you succumb to the overwhelming weight of despair. You just want to get better - because this state is not living anymore, it is merely existing.

You recall the Google search from the day before - about Ed and Lorraine Warren being at a university for a lecture.

Maybe they can help you tackle whatever this is. Conventional medicine has failed you, leaving you desperate and adrift, and at this point, with nothing left to lose you are okay with anything. After all - it cannot get worse.

_____

The lecture hall at the university is packed, filled with an eager and diverse crowd, spanning different ages, all buzzing with anticipation as they gather to witness the renowned Warrens deliver their lecture.

Ed and Lorraine take their place on the stage, positioned behind a podium. You find yourself nervously seated in the middle of the audience, the bright lights exacerbating your headaches, the dull throb syncing with the beat of your heart as you feel anxious. Your attention shifts to the front, where Ed and Lorraine stand and you let your eyes rank over them.

Ed, with his impeccably styled short auburn hair, is dressed in a light grey three-piece suit paired with a black shirt and a tartan tie. Lorraine’s attire is a black vest over a light blue ruffle blouse and a long skirt carrying a matching tartan pattern, echoing Ed’s tie.

It’s a subtle reflection of their devotion to each other, you figure. Both of them emanate an undeniable attractiveness that seems to reel you in and you understand why they are so successful in what they do.

As they stand behind the podium, Ed exudes a grounded demeanour, his voice breaking the silence and resonating through the hall: “Fear is defined as a feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger. I don’t care if it’s a demon, a ghost, a spirit, or an entity - they all feed on it.”

Despite Ed’s composed presence, Lorraine appears unfocused, her eyes scanning the crowd as she nervously plays with her rosary.

The room is illuminated by a large screen, displaying rough film footage featuring a gaunt, despondent man in his late twenties - rail thin, eyes black like his hair, and skin pasty white. A Catholic priest stands beside him, murmuring Latin in a barely audible tone.

“Maurice here was a French Canadian farmer with nothing more than a third-grade education - yet after being possessed by a demon, spoke some of the best Latin I had ever heard - sometimes backward. He had been molested by his father, who also exposed him to bestiality. Evil found its home in this man because he was conflicted, and forced into this - he never had a choice. He thought he was saving his wife by shooting her - like his father did to his mother”, Ed informs the audience as the film unfolds before them.

You experience a mix of unease and captivation in Ed’s presence, marvelling at how he commands the room. His bright blue eyes gaze into the audience as he speaks, intensifying the dull throb in your temples as you concentrate on the lecture rather than the charismatic man on the stage.

Shifting your focus from Ed’s figure, you fix your gaze on the screen displaying the possessed man, Maurice, writhing in agonising agony.

Lorraine interjects as the film plays: “If you look at his eyes, you can see them tearing blood onto his shirt.”

You witness Maurice’s white T-shirt morphing into a canvas of dark crimson, accompanied by anguished screams.

“And upside-down crosses started appearing on his body”, Lorraine’s soft voice narrates as Ed lifts Maurice's shirt in the film, revealing two inverted crosses pushing out from the inside.

A sense of disbelief floods your thoughts - how is that possible?

Your headache pulses, prompting you to massage your temples as you watch Maurice’s struggle. The shocking scenes inadvertently bring back memories of the unsettling nightmare from the previous night. You blink rapidly, attempting to dispel the lingering thoughts and bring your focus back to the stage.

Ed takes charge, saying: “That’s good, Drew, why don’t you hit the lights.”

As Drew obediently follows Ed's instruction to turn off the projector, the room is bathed in light once more.

The harsh contrast between the vivid reality around you and the haunting scenes you’ve just witnessed on screen intensifies the unease. You notice others in the audience shifting uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging glances that reflect a shared sense of disquiet.

Ed’s silhouette becomes more pronounced against the darkened backdrop, and his next words pierce through the silence, undeterred by the discomfort permeating the room, as he begins to explain the significance of the possessed man’s ordeal.

His voice, a steady and authoritative cadence, cuts through the residual tension: “What you’ve seen tonight is not an isolated incident. Demonic possession is a very real and insidious force that can take hold of a person's soul.”

The rational part of your mind grapples with scepticism, but the visceral memories of Maurice’s screams and the grotesque symbols etched on his body make it challenging to dismiss the possibility outright.

Ed’s blue eyes, still holding the attention of the room, seem to penetrate the shadows of doubt. As he delves deeper into the supernatural narrative, your unease mingles with a growing curiosity.

Your attention is drawn to Lorraine, who still appears notably on edge. Her eyes nervously traverse the audience, revealing a subtle unease as her husband, Ed, steers the course of the lecture. It’s as though there's an undercurrent of tension beneath the surface, and Lorraine’s apprehensive demeanour suggests an awareness of something lingering in the air.

You wonder what she may be searching for or if that is normal for her - Ed doesn’t seem to be bothered by it.

“So, what happened to Maurice?”, a young man seated in the front row blurts out loud.

Ed responds with gravity in his tone: “Well, he tried to kill his wife but instead he shot her in the arm and then turned the gun on himself. Maurice had a very troubled life with little to live for...and not even an exorcist you bring him back.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, evoking a sense of sympathy for Maurice. The nonchalant demeanor with which Ed addresses the grim outcome leaves you intrigued and a bit unsettled. You can’t help but wonder about the myriad experiences the Warrens have encountered, considering their seemingly unshaken composure in the face of such dark tales.

As Ed turns to roll up the projector sheet, your attention briefly wanders. At that moment, you find yourself discreetly appreciating his form – his broad frame, strong shoulders concealed by the suit, and his ass that is pronounced by his tight pants.

“Which brings us to the three stages of demonic activity”, Ed declares, pointing emphatically to each word written on the blackboard. He begins to pace around the room, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the assembled audience.

“Infestation, oppression, and possession. Now, infestation: That’s the whispering, the footsteps, the feeling of another presence… which ultimately grows into oppression - the second stage. Now, this is where the victim, and it’s usually the one who's the most psychologically vulnerable, is targeted specifically by an external force. Breaks the victim down. Crushes their will. And once in a weakened state, leads them to the third and final stage: possession.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, emphasising the ominous progression of these stages.

Ed’s eyes, still holding the attention of the room, sweep across the assembled audience, and he opens the floor for questions: “Are there questions?”

A smattering of eager arms shoot up, and you find yourself sinking deeper into your chair. While you too have a question, the nature of it – perhaps delving into the experience of possession – could raise suspicions, causing you to hesitate.

Ed acknowledges a male student in the front row with a subtle nod, indicating his readiness to entertain the question.

“I’d love to know what scares you the most?”, the student inquiries, his curiosity evident.

Ed’s demeanour shifts slightly, breaking into a small but genuine smile at the inquiry. His gaze is momentarily diverted from the audience to meet Lorraine’s. In that brief connection, it’s apparent that Ed’s gaze is filled with love, a sentiment that practically emanates from him, adding a layer of warmth to the otherwise intense atmosphere. Lorraine, still appearing unfocused and nervous, scans the room with vigilant eyes, seemingly attuned to energies beyond the visible.

“Being married to a clairvoyant - there’s not a whole lot I can get away with”, Ed responds, his smile widening as he adds a touch of humour to the gravity of the topic, “But there is just a base level of respect for everything we deal with.”

You can’t help but find Ed’s smile endearing and attractive. The way the skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles toothily adds a touch of charm to his already charismatic presence.

As Ed shares this insight into his personal life, the room absorbs the shift in tone, the lecture momentarily transitioning into a more intimate and conversational atmosphere. The male student nods in response, seemingly satisfied with the candid revelation, as the audience gains a glimpse into the intricate dynamics of the Warrens’ unique partnership, accentuated by the palpable love that underlies their connection.

You raise your hand into the air since you thought of a question that won’t arouse suspicion among the gathered crowd. The odds of being chosen appear slim, given the multitude of raised hands, but you decide it’s worth a shot.

Yet, the moment your hand ascends, Lorraine abruptly grinds to a halt.

She suddenly stops cold - her smile vanishes, and her fidgeting with the rosary stops as her eyes lock onto yours with unexpected intensity. Under the weight of her unyielding, scrutinizing gaze goosebumps rise on your arm, and an unexpected chill ripples through you.

Simultaneously, as if in synchrony with the abrupt cessation of Lorraine’s movements, a searing flare of pain erupts in your head. It feels as though an unseen force is ruthlessly clawing its way into the recesses of your skull, compelling your hand to instinctively seek solace on your throbbing temple.

Breaking free from Lorraine’s gaze, you shift your attention towards Ed, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy.

However, Ed, too, has pivoted his attention from the audience to his wife. His gaze remains riveted on her, a pronounced crease forming between his brows as he meticulously follows the direction of her unbroken stare.

Your breath catches in your throat as you meet his eyes - bewildered and tinged with concern. As you lock eyes with Ed, a sensation akin to lightning strikes courses through you. The connection feels electrifying, and for a moment, the world seems to narrow down to the intensity of that shared gaze.

He takes in your form, trying to make sense of why his wife froze on the spot.

As he registers your hand that’s still suspended in the air, Ed’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before finally breaking the silence: “The girl in the fifth row. What’s your question?”

The exchange with Lorraine felt like an eternity when in reality it must have only been a few seconds. Strangely, it appears that no one else in the audience has noticed it.

Before you speak, you discreetly clear your throat. The disconcerting encounter with Lorraine has thrown you off balance.

“How do you protect yourself against the evil forces? Are there specific precautions you take?”

Ed Warren takes a moment to compose himself before addressing your question. The room falls into a hush, and all eyes are now fixed on you and Ed, with your heart still racing. The intensity of Ed’s gaze momentarily threw you off balance.

He responds with a serious expression: “Well, that's a good question. When dealing with the paranormal, it’s crucial to approach it with caution. Lorraine and I always ensure to say a prayer for protection before any investigation. We also use blessed religious artifacts, such as holy water and crosses.”

Lorraine, still visibly affected, nods in agreement, her gaze somewhat distant. You wonder if the people in the audience noticed her strange behavior or if your mind is just playing tricks on you.

“In addition to that, we have a network of clergy and experts whom we consult for guidance. Spiritual strength and faith are crucial when confronting dark forces. It’s about maintaining a balance between understanding the supernatural and respecting the spiritual realm”, Ed continues.

His intense gaze remains on you as he concludes the ghost of a smirk on his lips: “Well, rooms and artefacts can be blessed - but people cannot.”

“Thank you”, you nod and try to fake a smile.

Some part of you had hoped for a more detailed approach on how to deal with the unsettling experiences you’ve been facing. You doubt that you can just pray the persistent headaches and unexplained occurrences that have been plaguing you away.

The audience appears satisfied with the response and begins to murmur amongst themselves. Ed picking up on the collective mood, smoothly gestures for the next question, effectively shifting the focus away from the brief moment of tension.

Despite the outward calm, your mind is racing. You remain deep in thought, contemplating the practicality of the advice given.

You feel Lorraine’s gaze lingering on you, still scrutinising you but no longer frozen.

Ed occasionally diverts his attention from the audience, his concern evident in the subtle furrow of his brow and the way his eyes linger on Lorraine. His glances toward his wife carry an undertone of protectiveness, a silent reassurance seeking confirmation of her well-being as you wonder if it was a good idea to speak to them.

When your eyes meet Ed’s, there is an inexplicable intensity that steals your breath for a moment. The connection feels charged with unspoken questions and a shared curiosity about the peculiar reaction Lorraine had toward you. The exchange is profound, but it’s repeatedly interrupted, the moment broken again and again as Ed diverts his gaze back to the audience or checks on Lorraine.

You sense that Ed is wrestling with his own thoughts, wondering why Lorraine reacted in such a way, and, truth be told, you share the same curiosity.

As your headaches intensify with each passing moment, you find yourself yearning to escape the persistent gaze. The desire to leave this space becomes increasingly urgent as the weight of the unknown, coupled with the growing discomfort in your head, becomes almost unbearable.

“Well, that concludes this seminar; our time is up”, Ed declares, prompting the attendees to rise, and you join the collective movement toward the exit.

Just as you’re about to step through the doorway, a gentle, small hand is placed on your shoulder. The unexpected touch startles you, and you instinctively turn around. There stands Lorraine, her eyes carrying a mix of concern and kindness, and her voice holds a soothing quality as she speaks.

“Can we talk to you? Please, just stay behind”, Lorraine requests, her tone gentle but with an underlying seriousness.

The weight of her words feels like a sudden rush of cold water, and you can’t help but wonder if she has picked up on something you may not even fully understand yourself. A conflicting mix of desire for help and an underlying fear grips you in that moment. Despite the uncertainty, you decide to comply, nodding in acknowledgment and watching as the room empties.

As the door closes behind the last departing seminar attendee, you find yourself alone with the Warrens in the now-empty room. The weight of both Ed and Lorraine’s gazes fixated on you becomes palpable, creating an atmosphere charged with unspoken questions. It’s an unnerving feeling, like being under a microscope, and you can’t help but shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny as the pounding in your head reaches its peak.

Ed, ever perceptive, notices your discomfort and steps forward, breaking the silence.

“You don't have to be scared”, he reassures you with a calming tone, “My wife, Lorraine, she... well, she sees things that I cannot. And right now, she sees that something is bothering you.”

Lorraine, standing beside Ed, remains silent but her eyes, keen and perceptive, seem to penetrate to the core of your being. It’s both fascinating and unsettling, knowing that she possesses abilities beyond the ordinary.

Ed continues: “We’ve encountered many individuals who’ve faced unexplained phenomena, and sometimes, it helps to talk about it. Lorraine has a unique gift, and she might be able to offer some insights.”

As the conversation unfolds, the weight of your distress becomes increasingly apparent to Ed and Lorraine. Their expressions soften, recognizing the urgency of your situation.

“We understand that you’re going through something, and we’d like to help. Our home is a sanctuary, and Lorraine’s unique insights might bring some clarity to what you're experiencing”, Ed’s voice is marked by genuine concern as he reassures you.

Lorraine, who seemed to exude a calm and reassuring presence during the conversation, her demeanour a blend of empathy and understanding, gently adds: “Sometimes, being in a different environment can make it easier to open up and address these issues. We’ve assisted many people facing similar challenges, and we are here for you.”

The persistent throbbing in your head intensifies, and shadows seem to dance in the periphery of your vision as you stand before the Warrens. The pain becomes a tangible force, urging you to seek relief and answers. The sincerity in their words, coupled with the promise of potential resolution, convinces you to accept their invitation. Despite the lingering uncertainties, the hope of finding solace from the unexplained phenomena that have haunted you is a powerful motivator.

As you agree to visit their home, you take a moment to scrutinise Ed and Lorraine up close. The subtleties in Ed’s mannerisms captivate you - the way his hands flex when he explains something. The fluid movements of them, enticing your gaze to trace the contours of his rather large palms.

His lips curl in a subtle but genuine smile, revealing a warmth that contrasts with the gravity of the situation.

You notice that Ed is not clean shaven but instead, a carefully groomed short stubble graces his jawline, framing his face in a way that accentuates his features. The stubble adds a rugged charm, underscoring a sense of authenticity and strength.

You find yourself feeling a different kind of pull - a quiet and unexpected attraction to Ed.

As you stand near him, you catch a whiff of his intoxicating scent, a distinctly manly fragrance that envelops you like a comforting spell. It’s a blend of woodsy notes and subtle hints of spice, leaving an indelible impression that adds an intriguing layer to the enigmatic connection blossoming between you.

A momentary hesitation causes you to instinctively bite your lip, a nervous habit that betrays the complexity of your emotions. In that fleeting instant, you catch Ed’s gaze flickering down to your lips, lingering longer than appropriate.

The attraction to Ed catches you off-guard and the unspoken connection, heightened by your response and Ed's subtle acknowledgment, adds a subtle tension to the air.

Not only is the situation at hand graver and darker but he is also married - and his wife is standing right beside you.

A twinge of guilt creeps in as you become keenly aware of the poor job you are doing to hide the magnetic pull you sense toward Ed.

Next chapter

[bloopitynoot]

3 Shadowgast fics that made me ugly cry

Okay so I read a LOT of shadowgast fanfics and I wanted to share some of the ones that made me absolutely weep. (I was going to wait until tomorrow but I got too excited to share).

All of these have some intense emotional distress, but I promise you all they may be angsty but they absolutely have happy endings.

They are all set in very different AU's, are hefty completed fics, and have similar feels!

1. the breathe before the phrase

(171513 words) by @kmackatie Chapters: 20/20 Rating: Explicit Summary: The ringing note of a concert A is played by the oboe, echoing on its own in the space. It’s picked up by the wind section, followed rapidly by the brass, and the familiar feeling of an orchestra calibrating takes over Caleb. The tonal adjustments as each person brings their instrument into alignment sinks into him and something inside Caleb shifts in recognition as Essek leads the strings into their own tuning. It’s like something is waking up, like something unfurling and firing across long-unused paths of memory. His hands shake slightly, as he raises his bow and joins them, fingers fumbling against the pegs and fine tuners that give him control over his instrument. ---- Essek Thelyss is a leading violinist, his spot as Shadowhand of the Rosohna Philharmonic Orchestra has been uncontested for over a decade. Caleb Widogast is a recent arrival to the city, convinced by his friends to audition for one of the vacant violinist positions. After starting off on the wrong foot, Caleb and Essek get to slowly know each other, discover what brings them joy, create while defying expectations, and find out that what they can produce together may just be better than anything they can do separately.

Why I cried: The amount of pressure put on Essek made my heart absolutely shatter. That plus the pinning between Caleb and Essek had me weeping. The hurt/comfort energy. The bad parent Dierta and of course past Caleb Ickythong trauma healing. Other than the story itself Katie has put so much energy into explaining the music, the playlist is stunning, and the inspiration for the played pieces in the fic are grounded in actual compositions. No spoilers, but the ending is gorgeous <3

2.Till Human Voices Wake us

(66080 words) by @ariadne-mouse Chapters: 23/23 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Additional Tags: Merman!Caleb, no Mighty Nein but otherwise canon setting/events, Neutral evil Essek, Essek-typical anxiety and fatalism, Loneliness, Hurt/Comfort, spooky gothic vibes, some horror and disturbing imagery, the ocean as a threat/love language, Illustrations, drowning themes Summary: Essek Thelyss, lonely and ambitious prodigy, comes to Nicodranas to make a risky gamble with the Assembly. At the water’s edge, he finds himself swept up in another dangerous entanglement he can't seem to escape — and as time goes on, he's less and less sure he wants to. Will his treasonous alliance or the sea itself devour him first? (Or, the one where Caleb is a merman.)

Why I cried: okay so look, this story was so fucking sad I can't even begin to describe it. The love and longing between the two, the tragic backstory for Caleb. Treason = death for Essek (it's a happy ending though so do not worry, but I definitely worried so you don't have to LOL). It also has some stunning art in it!!!

3. what luminous worlds await

what luminous worlds await (178674 words) by @essektheylyss Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Champion of the Luxon AU, Alternate Universe - Future, Space Opera, Religious Conflict, religious trauma, Violence, Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Dreams vs. Reality, Demisexual Essek Thelyss, Past Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Fictional Religion & Theology, Implied/Referenced Sex, Mention of Using Sex as Self-Harm, several immortals grapple with loss while trying to save the world, so so many liberties taken with consecution, this wouldn't be a problem if you'd EXPLAIN matthew mercer, and/or if a certain drow would give literally any straight answers, (I mean he can't give straight answers when he's not straight), Background Fjorester (Past), Post-Canon, …very post-canon Summary: “You seek my nature. It is a lonely endeavor. Would you like to join me on this path?” “Yes.” — After a thousand years, a divine champion awakes in a lightless cave above Port Damali with little memory to speak of and a beacon in his hands. Even as he struggles to piece the past together and process what he has lost while he slept, the future demands he answer for the crimes of his elders. It offers little in return, but perhaps there are fragments of possibility awaiting him.

Why I cried: Omg oh boy, this one made me BIG cry- honestly one of my favourite fics I have read so far. A true space opera, a story of love, in many forms, over time, space, and multiple lives. I sobbed from chapter one literally until the end. Though I think you will need an A03 account to read this one, but it is worth the wait to set one up. My partner watched me cry so much while I read this. I totally did download and save this fic to send to pals so they can cry with me. It is worth the agony for this happy ending. I might still be crying LOL

[scuttlingcrab]

A Devil's Lament

Summary: Raphael brings Tav to an abandoned chapel, hoping to complete one final task before he begins his conquests of the Hells.

Notes: I was inspired by my friend Mark Choi and his announcement of a new piano arrangement of "Down By The River." I desperately needed to see Raphael playing not just a piano, but a pipe organ. And what would suit the occasion? Our favourite Devil playing a song he had composed over a millenia ago, after he first lost the Crown of Karsus...

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

(Image via certifieddilfenjoyer)

There once stood a magnificent chapel along the road to Baldur’s Gate. Mortals came from far and wide to bask in its glory, seek refuge from whatever sorrows afflicted them, and pray to the deity it was erected to honour. However, like most beautiful things on this plane, it was slowly worn down from one conflict after another, until it merely stood as a dilapidated relic of a time gone by.

On a particularly humid evening, nearly one year after the Elder Brain’s assault on Faerûn, Raphael found himself with Tav on the outskirts of the chapel, staring fondly at his old stomping grounds. No place was off limits when it came to his Devilish business, and the various religious structures scattered across the realms always proved to be the most lucrative. Raphael partook in his favourite game of hunting mortals in the very establishments they trusted, luring them into his traps with fanciful proposals of fortune and glory. 

The Devil never settled on the weaker creatures unless there were no other alternatives, but it was the clerics and overly righteous he craved. There was nothing more joyous than watching their resolve slowly decay after his cunning verbiage and skillful charms got under their skins. Their potent souls were simply delectable, and worth all the time and effort to acquire them.

“So what are you planning?” Tav asked, stopping Raphael from reminiscing any further. “I thought you said we had no time to waste.” 

“Walk with me, if you will, there is a final task I must complete before we are to continue.” 

Raphael had already started on the path ahead and Tav quickly jogged to keep up, the stones crunching beneath her boots. He smiled to himself at the notion of her, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, running after him.

As Raphael strode through the remains of the toppled structure, he searched for something far more valuable than the achievements of past meals. Raphael was after the heart and soul of the old chapel, the instrument responsible for the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard in his lifetime. The chapel’s pipe organ.

He heaved a sigh of relief to find the instrument still nestled at the far end of the rubble, under a canopy of overgrown trees. He had not been back since the fight against the Absolute, and in truth feared for the worst. Raphael would never let that spectacular creation suffer the same fate due to the failures of mortalkind, but he too had neglected it; spending the last few months muddled in the intricacies of reforging the Crown of Karsus.

The Devil had often argued with himself about whether or not to bring the pipe organ to the House of Hope. He had an idyllic place for it on his atelier balcony, overlooking the River Styx and barren wastelands of Avernus. But doing so would open him up to countless interruptions and he’d lose what he valued most: his precious solitude. He would never risk it.

“A marvel…” Raphael whispered, tilting his head up to admire the towering organ, the 3,000 golden pipes glistening in the darkness. 

His eyes attentively moved across the pipes, carefully inspecting every surface for signs of damage. It was no secret that Raphael cherished the instrument, nearly as much as the Crown he had desired for over a millenia. It was Raphael’s own toy box, it could imitate nearly any orchestral instrument with just a few minute actions unnoticeable to the common mortal. The organ could do wonders above and beyond any grand piano, or even any symphony. With this tool, Raphael was his own maestro, having the power to freely weave his own melodies into existence and escape into the futures he so desperately desired. 

“This hunk of junk? It’s practically falling apart.” 

“I will not hear another peep from you.”  Raphael hissed, turning to face Tav. He raised his finger threateningly towards her, as if scolding a small child. 

Tav raised both of her hands apologetically, though there was still a hint of impishness in her smile as she took a step back.

“Sorry. Carry on then…” 

Raphael sniffed sharply, in an attempt to keep his infernal flames at bay. As powerful and useful as that mortal was, she was a constant irritant; pushing Raphael closer and closer to his boiling point the more time he spent with her. And yet, they were inseparable since Tav had gifted the Crown to Raphael. Of all the creatures, in all the wretched planes, that little mouse had to be the one to fall into his claws, leaving a lasting effect on him.

He quickly redirected his attention to the pipe organ, brushing off the rotten twigs and dirt from the three keyboards. He snapped his fingers and a leather bench appeared, replacing the one that had broken long ago. 

Raphael eagerly took his seat, lightly running his feet over the pedalboard to test it was still functional. He then prepared the various stops along the edges of the organ, choosing his intended octaves for the serenade to come. 

After a few more minutes of fiddling with the organ, making sure all the divisionals were arranged accordingly, he was ready to begin. 

With another snap of Raphael’s fingers, sheet music took shape before him. The chosen melody had been etched into his memory for a thousand years, yet he still brought out the yellowing sheets of paper whenever he dared to play it. Like the ruins surrounding him, the pages were close to deteriorating, slowly withering away at the edges. 

The music notes were barely legible, the ink having faded a century or two earlier. Raphael dared not handle the pages by hand, as they would crumble at the slightest touch. Seeing the pages again were oddly comforting to the Devil, a sign of how far he has come. As painful as it was to revisit the meaning behind the music, the moment would always be part of Raphael, no matter how often he tried to consign it to oblivion. 

The Devil took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against the keys. His exhale matched the roaring bellow that emerged from the pipes. Energy surged through his hands as he played the beginning of the piece, his feet moving to a completely different rhythm against the pedalboard. The low notes coming from his feet accompanied the lighter ones from his fingers, creating a flawless harmony. 

The sounds of the pipe organ soon filled the air, echoing around him like lost ghosts wailing in the dark. It was haunting, exquisite, and a perfect representation of his internal strife. It was Raphael’s lament - the anguish, vexations, and seething hatred from all the years of his existence poured through his own spirit into the instrument. The reverberations from the pipes shook the trees above Raphael, causing the leaves to fall like snowflakes. 

These same feelings had fuelled Raphael’s drive and ambition since he was a young Devil. He was discarded by Mephistopheles and left to rot in the deepest, darkest parts of the Hells; forced to suffer for a sin he had not committed. Raphael still found his way, against all odds, and survived every obstacle thrown at him. He learned how to rely only on himself, to play the game of the Hells, and quickly rise up the ranks by tipping the scales in his favour. He had ruthlessly betrayed allies and levelled entire cities, and he would do it a hundred times over if it meant he was closer to fulfilling his destiny of uniting the Nine Hells. He would show his father how powerful and capable he truly was. 

As Raphael continued, he let himself get lost in the tempo, not questioning where his hands went next, which stops he pulled, or where his feet would take him. He soon found the keyboards were wet, had it begun to rain? He closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat as decades worth of repressed emotions started to bubble to the top. He felt his fingers slip on a key, and then another, causing him to miss a few notes, but he quickly amended the mistake. He opened his eyes in fury, only to realise that he was crying. He clenched his jaw, causing the tears falling down his cheeks to quickly evaporate as his body sizzled in anger; resenting himself and the situation, always such a fool to let these fleeting emotions get the best of him. 

He wasn't sure how long he had been playing, but his fingers throbbed as they continued to press against the keys. He wanted to continue, to replay the song again and again, to make sure it was perfect, but it was coming to its natural conclusion. He would need to leave it as is.

Raphael played the final notes, holding his fingers to the keys for an extra beat as the sounds slowly faded. He snapped his fingers and a small flame appeared in his hands. He lifted it up towards the music sheets and let the edges of the papers catch fire. The pages were devoured by the flames within a matter of seconds. Let the ashes of his lament stay within the ruins of the chapel.

“Gods…” Tav whispered, her voice choking with emotion. “Did you…?”

“I have never played that in front of another mortal. The first and last time you will ever hear such a piece.” 

“It was remarkable.”

“I know.” Raphael responded, rising from the bench.

He flicked his wrist and the Crown of Karsus materialised before them. He caught reflections of himself in the Crown as he stared at it, his visage splitting into broken shards against the material of the relic. Different versions of Raphael stared back at him, as if from alternate timelines, offering a range of glimpses into his future. He smiled at the reflections and the thought of what he might look like donning the Crown, fighting against Zariel and her forces, in all his glory. 

“It was a fitting farewell and one I had been looking forward to for a considerable amount of time. Now onto new beginnings, come.”

Tav didn’t wait for Raphael to create a portal, she jumped towards him, latching on to his arm. On previous occasions he would’ve shooed her away, like an irksome mosquito, but he let her stay clinging to him. Just this once, perhaps for his own comfort.

Tonight Raphael would write a different composition - one of celebration and conquest, that he would play throughout the decades to come, solidifying his reign.

[hauntedhokage]

sins of the father

act II of a lamb's devotion

Priest!Nanami Kento/Fem!Reader and mentions of some Itadori Yuuji/Fem!Reader & of Sukuna/Fem!Reader

summary: things haven’t been adding up, but you trust him to guide you safety and protect you from the evils that may threaten your wellbeing

word count: 1.8k

warnings: MDNI, alternate universe - no jujutsu, unprotected sex, priest kink, mentions of exorcism, description of sexual acts, mentions of a small age gap (around sevenish years, reader is in her early-mid 20’s and Nanami is in his early thirties), mentions of demons, reader has both parents

[masterlist] [nanami masterlist] [ao3] [ko-fi + commissions]

Of course you weren’t dating Father Kento. Such a notion that you were intimate with a priest, of all people, would be absurd to anyone who thought it. 

You spent more time at the church because you were volunteering your time to help him generate more engagement in town. He enjoyed meals at your home because you were considering theology as a career path now, and he wanted to provide as much one-on-one time with you and his bible as he could provide.

Nobody needed to know what happened behind closed doors. How he was saving you from your sins and temptation, potentially even yourself. You’re sure it’s long past a need for religious validation but instead an infatuation with the priest who was damning himself with every careful brush of his fingers against your skin - each touch softer and more intimate than the last, every look carrying a meaning that you’re afraid to know the secret of. 

The way he had looked at Yuuji was equally concerning, but for different reasons. 

You’d cracked quickly, telling Father Kento about your situationship with your best friend. Not that it was impossible to figure out, Yuuji was the only person you really spent time with outside of your family, but what came after was something you’d never be able to forget. 

Father Kento had asked you for a favor: he wanted to talk to Yuuji. He hadn’t said about what exactly, just to talk but your friend had been avoiding him, and you thought nothing of it. You thought it was a great idea for Father Kento and Yuuji to get to know each other; so one night after working in the bar you’d walked with Yuuji, telling him that you needed to pop into the church on your way home to grab your journal that you’d left by accident. What awaited was a surprise to you both, the Father grappling Yuuji from behind and sparking an actual fight in the church that you stuck close to the altar for. 

Your repeated requests for him to stop hitting Yuuji were ignored, and you were powerless to stop him. You’d never been afraid of Father Kento until that moment, seeing your best friend’s blood on his hands when he finally came to kneel in front of you had you horrified, and you can only watch over his head as he murmurs a prayer for forgiveness as two men and a woman you’ve never seen before enter the church and surround Yuuji. Bloody hands hold your own as you ask who they were and where they’d be taking your friend, questions that don’t get answers as Father Kento stands to tower over you and rests his forehead against yours. 

“Yuuji-“

“Will be okay, little one. It had to be done.”

And then he’d kissed you; it had been the first time in the few weeks that you’d known him that he’d kissed you on your mouth, opting to kiss your forehead or hands to avoid that intimacy - to convince himself that there were still holy intentions behind your connection. His bloody fingers gently hold your cheeks, keeping you in position even as his tongue probes your mouth while the sound of heels shoes on hardwood echo through the empty church. 

“Who’s this, Kento?” It was the woman, and he’s pulling away from you only barely to look at her. Her nonchalance at his proximity should’ve been additional cause for concern, but at this point you’re not sure anything could unsettle you more than you already were. “Clearly important if you hit the kid that hard.”

“This is the most precious little lamb I’ve ever laid eyes on, Ieiri. God’s chosen one, I’m sure.”

Chosen, he’d said. For what, you didn’t know. Chosen by God, something that couldn’t be confirmed or denied by truly logical means but in that moment it made everything feel different. Ieiri didn’t falter, only humming before lighting a cigarette and walking away with an assurance thrown over her shoulder that Yuuji would be taken care of - something that you didn’t understand but hoped meant that he’d be returned to town alive. 

Something that haunts you, as you couldn’t keep your thoughts off of your friend’s health. You’d led him to whatever end that had been, you did that to him. 

You don’t get much sleep.

With the increased intimacy with the priest, he often found himself in your bed - having finally crossed the point of no return that was sleeping with you outright. No more stopping at what you knew was third base, instead he was filling your sinful cunt whenever he had the opportunity with the explanation being that God had spoken to him and that you were chosen to lead his flock to salvation. Your body had been blessed, you were an allegedly holy vessel, but didn’t help you sleep at night. 

Instead you find yourself leaning into the wall beside your bedroom window, your eyes taking in the scene that was your small backyard as Father Kento sleeps unbothered in your bed. You missed your friend, you prayed for his forgiveness - but something in the back of your mind tells you that God likely wasn’t pleased. If God favored you, he’d let you sleep. 

“What are you doing out of bed, little one?”

“Is Yuuji dead?” you ask softly, keeping your gaze fixed on the grass outside your bedroom window as Father Kento sighs behind you. The hands that settle on your shoulders do little to bring you comfort, but you do let him pull you back against his chest. “Please tell me the truth.”

“He’s not dead. He’s in recovery with a friend of mine, you met her in the church. I’ll have her call so you can speak with him.”

“Why would you do that to him? Yuuji never hurt anyone, and you- you-“

“Yuuji was possessed, that demon was doing its best to corrupt you along with Yuuji.” He made it sound so simple, like it made perfect sense to beat your best friend almost within an inch of his life. “I needed to subdue them both, to ensure Yuuji could get the care he needed.”

“I lied to him, to bring him to you like you asked, a-and-”

“And you did wonderfully, little lamb. Yuuji will be okay, and he’ll be thanking you for your actions, I’m sure.”

Father Kento wouldn’t lie to you, you trusted that, so you only nod your understanding while continuing to look out the window. “God has long since forgiven you for your sins related to Yuuji’s salvation.”

“And the demon that possessed him, that was Sukuna?”

“Yes, he’d marked you much like Yuuji had been marked. Likely wanting to prepare you as his next host.” 

“Do you know anything about something called Sukuna?” There was a knowing look in his eye when he’d asked you that question, one that in hindsight you wished you had the mental clarity to question. A lot of things would have been easier if you had asked more questions, you’re sure.

Because your answer was no. You had no idea what a Sukuna was, or why he’d ask such a question while he was still carefully cleaning his cum off of your face. 

“How did you know? Yuuji looked normal to me.”

“You’d been marked by Sukuna. His marking was on your tongue, but it's faded since we started our sessions.”

“When it’s gone completely, will you stop spending time with me?”

“I will be by your side to protect you for as long as you come to me to be your shield from temptation.”

There was so much that felt wrong about that statement, but you only accept it with a nod and let him carefully pull you back and into your bed. The unease over Yuuji’s wellbeing had eased, replaced with unease at the weight of Kento’s statement. He could lose his entire career and reputation as a priest in this town if word got out that he was sleeping with you. He could call it salvation if he wanted to, shielding you from temptation, but it was pure sin and blasphemy. This was behavior you should be removing yourself from, instead you’re letting him push your nightshirt up as his lips trail along the column of your neck. 

You’re arching up into him when you should have been pulling away, begging for more of his touch rather than screaming at him to have some sense of holy dignity as a supposed man of God. But, you supposed, you were just as damned as he was at this point. A life without him seemed empty, given how much time you spent with him these days. A gradual descent into dependency is the road you’d found yourself on, and you were running out of reasons why you should fight it. After what you’d done to Yuuji, there was nobody else for you to get close to besides Father Kento. There was nobody else you’d feel safe enough with to give your body to except for Father Kento, because the Father couldn’t beat himself within an inch of his life and you doubted the mysterious trio you hadn’t seen since that horrible night would attack him like he had attacked Yuuji. 

But if you were to be purely reliant on the father - what was your purpose? What did you contribute to the grander scheme? Were you the little lamb destined to follow her shepherd blindly? Could you do that?

“What’s my purpose in God’s plan?” Your voice is nothing more than a whisper into the dark room, effectively stopping Father Kento from pushing his tip between your soaked folds. You see the confusion across his features in the dim moonlight at your question, then feel his hand cup your cheek as he begins the slow push of his length into your cunt. 

“Your purpose is a great one,” he starts, and you lose sight of him as your eyes fall shut at the stretch to accommodate his size. Internal cleansing like this was done rarely, as the father was trying to preserve what holiness you both had left. Was there any left? After what he’d done - after what you’d helped him do - did holiness exist between the two of you when he’d spilled blood in a church and had various types of sex with you in that same holy structure? 

“You’re a vessel of love, little lamb,” he murmurs into your hair, his fingers gently tracing over your sticky skin as you hum into the dark room. “A vessel of God’s love, and my own.”

That statement doesn’t sit right with you, his fingers ghosting over your jaw as you stare at the wall in an effort to contain any questions you might have. It wasn’t fine, by any means, but you know that these are questions that he won’t answer right now. 

You didn’t think God’s love was supposed to present itself in having sex with a priest, and you’re doubly uncertain of Father Kento’s meaning behind you being a vessel of his love. 

[rosemarydisaster]

I feel like Chani choosing to save Paul through the prophecy would make their reconciliation so much easier. I really dislike Jessica's use of the voice in general but especially at this moment.

It would have been such a great moment of tension with herself, completely devastated by the loss of her Usul. And then she remembers... the tears of the desert spring, a stupid prophecy. She isn't sure that's how it works. The desert spring is supposed to be a metaphor for the ecological change, right? But it is her name and she does feel like crying. She isn't convinced it will work because it's a silly prophecy, but she just has to try.

She springs into action she grabs the water of life and Jessica tries to stop her, probably thinking she's trying to join Paul. But Stilgar, who knows Chani's, name stops her. And Jessica sees her mix the tears with the water of life, she know another drop of it might either kill Paul or bring him back so she let's it happen, hoping for the best. We get some much needed nuance with her character, clearly worried about her son and asking Alia "what have we done?".

Chani, who doesn't believe in religious prophecies nor Bene Gesserit bullshit holds the two drops to Paul's mouth. A part of her simply wants to show everyone how stupid this is, how there's no prophecy, and how they're fanaticism has killed a great man. But then Paul wakes up.

The relief, the horror, the completely upending of her entire belief system... chef's kiss. She isn't sure if this is some Bene Gesserit thing, if Paul was pretending so he could get her to fulfill the prophecy. And then she hears Stilgar's voice "Tears of the desert spring".

Everyone around them drops to worship the Lisan Al-Gaib. Jessica is relieved, Stilgar is overjoyed and she's just confused. Paul tries to hold her, tk kiss her to thank her but she isn't ready. She feels tricked. She has spent her entire life believing one thing and now nothing makes sense.

So she keeps her distance, she tries to resist the prophecy that Paul himself called bullshit but she's confused. She isn't going to abandon her conviction that their savior must be Fremen. She remembers Paul asking in the tent if he's not Fremen enough after passing every test and she doubts.

She fights for the Fremen at the battle for Arrakeen, she does her part and she wonders if she had any choice at all. And then the thing with the princess happens, and she's distraught. Paul reassures her that he will love her as long as he breathes and it comforts her. At least until she remembers how he stopped breathing after the water of life. What's worst, he declares himself an emperor, forcing the old man to kiss his hand like a petulant child. And he threatens to destroy the spice if people don't accept him as their new ruler ...is too much.

She made a promise too, to love him as long as he remained himself. He changed and the most frightening thing is that she still loves him. She needs space, she needs the desert.

This would offer the possibility of Paul finding her and saying "You are angry at me for participating in the prophecy to save this planet but you used it to save me when you thought I was dying". He could try to convince her with that whole "when everything and everyone you love is at stake you'll take whatever chance you get" which is kinda how he locks himself in that specific future in the books.

I don't know they could have a conversation on how things would be different if he had died in Siege Tabur or after the water of life. He would explain to her (and the audience) the narrow golden path, and how the alternatives are so much worse.

I think it would be interesting if Chani comes to the conclusion that she has to end Paul's tyranny out of love, because her Usul would rather die than become a monster. But she pretends to accept Paul's argument (the audience unsure if she does buy it or not). That would set the stage for Dune Messiah much better and have a very interesting dynamic between the two (specially for that ending).

Jessica forcing her doesn't accomplish anything it only confirms for Chani that the Profe y is some Bene Gesserit bullshit (Jessica calls for her and forces her to do it). The reconciliation is going to be so much more difficult after that. Also, for a guy that wants to tell "a bene Gesserit story" the director is misusing Jessica. If they let her be more manipulative (talking to Alia about how the drop from the water of life will trigger the reaction for him to wake up) we could see how the prophecy is planted while allowing the Fremen to believe something magical happened. It would open Chani to her manipulation...but no, she had to scream.

I feel like, for all that they show us Jessica manipulating the religious people, that scene left a lot of people confused. I saw the people at the theater saying "wait so the prophecy is real" which is the last thing you want to do in a Dune adaptation.

What I described would only take two more minutes (and a lot of acting) but I think it would make the themes clearer and make Chani and Jessica a bit more interesting. I liked the movie but this is one of those moments I simply can't understand, specially from a fan of the Bene Gesserit.

[i-am-theseeker]

December 16, 2024 Nothern Hemisphere’s Current Moon Phase

The Moon’s current phase for today and tonight is a First Quarter phase. This phase occurs roughly 7 days after the New Moon when the moon is one quarter of the way through its orbit around the earth. Exactly half the moon will be illuminated and half dark. On the day of the First Quarter phase the moon is […] December 16, 2024 Nothern Hemisphere’s Current Moon Phase

[finisnihil]

Minor Luocha and Firefly analysis+Penacony Spoilers read at your behest

If Firefly is a Kallen Expy like I’ve seen some people suggest I hope she and Luocha stay 2747388274383774744747 miles away from each other forever.

Their dynamic in HI3 is certainly something and as somebody who doesn’t play HI3 I’m quite fascinated by Otto’s religious adoration of her where he seems to love her in the sense of somebody worshipping a god or saint probably due to the religious setting he was raised in and her role as his “savior” (I have no idea what I’m talking about I have Vague Understanding and that’s it) but also I like how HSR is treating their characters right now individual of each other.

Seeing Luocha act the way he does feels so much more fulfilling with the current understanding that Kallen isn’t impacting his decisions. He’s kind because he wants to be, because he likes being kind, because he’s a healer and healers make people’s lives easier and better quality and not because he’s upholding somebody else’s ideal. Plus, his relationship with Yaoshi, immortality, and rebirth and being disgusted by it is so much richer in my opinion. When Jingliu says he has a void in his heart that can’t be filled, with how he’s trying so hard to insist he’s normal and human, how he’s got serious parallels to Jesus but he’s turning against his god because he does not want to wear this crown of thorns, he does not have to in order to save those who need saving.

And Firefly, a girl who’s living on borrowed time, who’s losing her body and is desperately trying to cling to any sense of freedom, who seeks the warmth of the Trailblazer’s Stellaron heart because it’s better than the cold clinic she’s alluded to be being stuck in. Fireflies only live for two months and they use that precious time frantically sending out little bursts of light to find company in a responding signal. A shooting star is only there long enough to be wished on for something greater before it’s swallowed by the night again. Isn’t it only natural to ache for more time? To hide from Death in the arms of its brother, Sleep? To remain in this Golden Hour just before the reset of the clock reminds you that you are fading and a hour is just that, a hour, no matter how golden?

In a way, their roles have reversed. Firefly is now the one scared of death and desperately seeking a way to circumvent it even if it means hurting or deceiving while Luocha is doing his best to be a good person while also wrestling with the opposition of people who hate him on the principle of his circumstances.

I don’t think Luocha could ever be Otto. They share the same looks and the same traits yes, but they seem to have gone down completely different paths. Same thing for Firefly and Kallen if they are alternate versions of each other.

And if they ever do meet, I hope it’s a sparse glance, an eye contact, and then they merely pass each other on the street and think nothing more of who the other might’ve been.

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 7

read on ao3! (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 2.6k

Chapter 7: 'Slipped'

Juliet had forgotten what it felt like to walk in the forest, under a blanket of trees so thick that daylight could only be found creeping through the gaps in their branches. She closed her eyes when the light hit her, caressing her face and warming her skin in a soft, dewy glow. Joel walked a few steps ahead of her, twigs crunching under his muddy boots as he marched up the continuous incline of the worn path they followed. 

Days had passed since their run in with the clickers in the Boston museum. It had taken them a whole other day to get out of the city after they came across a large hoard of infected stumbling through the streets, there must have been at least a hundred of them. Joel decided they would seek shelter in an old doctor's office for the night while they planned an alternate route out. So they sat, under the orange glow of Joel’s oil lamp and ate their rations on the dusty floor littered with old newspapers. 

After their ‘meal’, Joel cleaned and changed the bandage of Juliet’s shoulder wounds, muttering something about not wanting to miss out on her promise of supplies if she died of an infection. Juliet sat in complete silence while Joel wiped a cloth drenched in whiskey over her shoulder, soaking up the blood pooled around the exit wounds. The whiskey smelled like him. His movements were clinical but careful, his touch tender as he rebandaged her shoulder. It was strange to see his rough hands, marked with calluses and scars, engaged in an act of such gentleness.

His performance was not to be mistaken for kindness, of course. Joel was very clear, with the speed in which he moved away from her after he had finished, that he was only protecting a worthwhile investment. 

Joel’s coldness remained after days of travelling together, his scowl never letting up. He communicated with Juliet almost entirely with nods, grunts or gestures with his hands. Which was demonstrated when he turned to meet Juliet’s eyes and signalled to pause in the clearing between a few trees. Juliet looked up at the space between the branches and noticed that the sun was nearing the middle of the sky, almost mid-day, it appeared Joel was stopping for a quick ‘lunch’. Food was scarce, they had combined their separate stashes the previous night and found that there were only enough bite size pieces of jerky to last another day. Juliet was not overly worried by their draining supply though, as Joel informed her last night that they were headed towards some friends of his who would provide them with food and ammo for the rest of their journey. 

Juliet had stiffened at the mention of Joel’s friends, although that was not the word he had used. Joel referred to them as his partners, meaning people he frequently smuggled with, Juliet assumed. She was uncomfortable with the thought of other people trespassing on the budding camaraderie she was developing with Joel.

Juliet worried that he would change his mind, join another group, and leave her to cross the country alone. She didn’t like to be dependent on others, usually wearing her solitude and independence as a badge of honour, but Juliet couldn’t deny that she needed Joel for this journey.

She didn’t know the route, she didn’t know the best roads to avoid major cities or how to hide from groups of infected - that wasn’t her main concern when she made the same journey only three years prior.

Being a young woman living in a post-apocalyptic world was a death sentence, she needed someone to watch her back whether she liked it or not. Juliet knew all about the kinds of sick men who lurked around every dark corner of America’s deserted landscape. A shudder ran through her at the thought.

Joel stood next to her, his backpack on the ground next to his feet, his back pressed against the trunk of the tree they both stood under. Juliet copied his movements as he tore a bit of jerky with his teeth and swallowed. The jerky was tough, it tasted like burnt rubber, smelled like it too. Juliet didn’t care, she was so hungry she devoured it in seconds. She took a swig of her water, cleared her throat, then decided to test Joel’s capacity for conversation.

“So, how long till we reach these ‘friends’ of yours?” she asked in the most nonchalant tone she could muster, staring down at her feet to enhance her act. 

Although her eyes were pointed downward, she could feel the burning weight of Joel’s stare simmering on the side of her face. She didn’t dare lift her head as she waited for him to respond. 

“About five hours if we keep the pace up,” he answered as he crumpled the paper his jerky was stored in and stashed it back in the pocket of his backpack. Then he swung it over his shoulder and adjusted the strap. 

Juliet nodded as she did the same. “Cool,” she replied, deciding to leave the conversation there for now. Juliet was becoming more familiar with the timescale of Joel’s irritation. 

They continued their hike, Juliet matching Joel’s speed as much as she could. Her thighs were screaming in pain but it was nothing compared to the ache of her shoulder.

She was worried the wound was becoming infected, the pain shouldn’t be increasing as the days went by, should it? 

Joel had stitched the exit wounds closed the night she was shot, when she was thankfully heavily unconscious. However, his supplies, found in the decrepit ruins of the store, were obviously not as sanitary as they should have been and Juliet was becoming more and more anxious of her continuous waves of dizziness and hot flashes.

An infection was the worst case scenario. Antibiotics were like gold dust in today’s world and she no longer lived in the QZ where she could bribe or blackmail the medic workers for a few pills. No, in the outside world, infection meant almost certain death. Alarm pounded through her. Her death would mean Ethan would never be saved. Her death would mean Joel would never receive the remaining supplies he needed to reach his brother. 

The burden of Juliet’s survival was overwhelming.  

Juliet knew the best medicine for this situation was denial, so she burrowed the possibility of her impending death in a tight corner in the back of her mind and focused on Joel’s back as they made their way through the forest.

…………………………………………………………

They were about fifteen minutes out from Joel’s ‘friends’ place, their steps slowing as they neared their destination. Juliet was becoming increasingly anxious, she didn’t know anything about these people, didn’t know their intentions. To make matters worse, the pain in her shoulder had started to flash down her arm to her fingers. Juliet was sweating profusely and struggled to hide her panting from Joel’s questioning stares. 

“What are their names?” Juliet asked, her voice a low croak. 

Joel shot her a quick glance, his eyebrows furrowed at her dishevelled appearance. “Bill and Frank,” he replied. 

“How did you meet them?” she pried, desperate to take her mind off the pain ricocheting around her body. 

“Long story,” he said after a pause. 

“Right,” Juliet whispered, it was futile trying to use Joel as a distraction. 

They stayed silent again until they finally approached a tall metal fence expanding the perimeter of a massive property. Juliet could make out a row of large houses lining both sides of a street covered with fallen leaves. What was this place? 

Joel’s already stiff body language had turned glacial as he approached the fence and typed in a quick four digit code. The door to the fence made a sharp buzzing noise before the lock popped open. Juliet glanced up at Joel, attempting to gauge his reaction and waiting to follow his lead but he stood entirely still, the now familiar veil of Joel’s survival instincts falling over his features. 

Something was off. 

Joel looked down at Juliet and caught her already staring up at him. He blinked and turned away, facing towards the small town, then he nodded and walked forward, holding the gate open for Juliet to pass through. His eyes said trust me as she passed. So she did. 

They walked at a slow pace along the street. Juliet twitched to pull out her gun but she trusted that Joel knew what he was doing. She was confused, though. She knew that only two men were living here but it still felt too quiet. The stillness in the air was a crushing pressure that wrapped around the both of them. Joel kept walking until he abruptly stopped in front of a beautifully preserved two story house, the paint looked fairly new, the blend of blues and white creating a soft contrast against the dark brown of the door and window sills. It was magnificent, she was amazed that someone had put so much time and effort into maintaining its beauty. That was why she was so surprised when she noticed the overgrown garden and the dead plants lining the entryway onto the property. Why would someone put so much care into the maintenance of the house but forget to water the plants? 

Juliet was startled from her thoughts when Joel slipped his gun from his back pocket and clicked the safety off. The usually quiet sound echoed around them in the silent street. Juliet looked to Joel with questions in her eyes which he answered with a low “Stay here” then he started to stride down the path to the front door. Juliet’s mouth dropped open slightly, astounded that Joel would ask her to wait behind. She rolled her eyes, took her gun out and followed after him. 

They met at the front door, Joel let out a quiet but weighted sigh when he turned to find her standing next to him, then he reached out and turned the handle to the front door. They both raised their guns as they stepped through the doorway, Joel immediately moving forward to sweep the bottom floor as Juliet waited by the entryway to the dining room. There was a folded piece of paper lying on the dark wood of the extravagant dining table, along with two sets of cutlery and decaying bits of food left in ceramic bowls. Juliet froze, her mind travelling back to only days ago when she found a similar piece of paper lying on her own dining table. She swallowed and called for Joel.  

He rounded the corner immediately, his eyes wide and jaw tense when he saw the paper Juliet pointed to. As he walked closer to it, Juliet noticed car keys sitting beside it on the table. Joel picked them up before opening the letter. Juliet was unsure what to do while Joel read the words written on the yellowing paper, she wanted to give him privacy but she was also desperate to know what had happened and what this would mean for their situation. She jumped when Joel suddenly dropped the paper on the table, pocketed the car keys and marched out the front door, letting it slam behind him. Juliet flinched at the sound. 

She stepped forward and set her gun on the table, then tentatively picked up the letter, anxious to read the words which had caused such a reaction in Joel. She understood, though, when she read the first few sentences and knew that his friends were dead. 

What confused her was the mention of a woman’s name she hadn’t heard Joel mention before: Tess. Juliet swallowed when she realised the implication of Bill’s words. 

‘I leave you all of my weapons and equipment. Use them to keep Tess safe.’ 

She must have been close to Joel, close enough to both have a friendship with these men. Juliet couldn’t remember any mention of a Tess in the Boston QZ or a mention of Joel even having a partner. How long were they together for? 

Juliet released a long, slow breath before she slumped into the dining chair at the head of the table. She thought about going after Joel but she didn’t know him well enough to comfort him or to predict his reaction to finding out that his friends had died. Juliet decided the safest thing to do, to avoid Joel’s potential wrath, was to sit quietly and rest her eyes. She was exhausted from the hike and the pulsating pain entirely covering the side of her body where the bullet wound resided. It was only seconds after she had closed her eyes when she felt a black numbness crash over her mind.

………………………………………………..

The feel of a burning hot hand pressed against her forehead woke her up, the world was foggy and Juliet’s eyes struggled to focus. 

“Fuck, you’re burnin’ up,” a voice cursed. Nausea gripped her now, a gag rising in her throat as the hands that belonged to the rough voice tipped her forward, slid his arms under her and lifted her into the air. She was floating for only a second before she was placed on a cushioned surface that felt so comfortable Juliet wanted to drift off again. 

“Hey ” the voice barked, a hand now tapping her cheek. “Stay awake.”

Juliet wanted to follow his instructions, she really did, but she was just so tired and so cold and the hand that touched her cheek was so warm. She pressed her face against it, a moan slipping from her lips. Instantly the hand pulled back and a low groan rang out in the blackness behind her eyelids. 

“Shit,” the voice said. “I’ll be back in a second, don’t you dare fall asleep again.”

“Okay,” Juliet whispered as she urged the darkness to descend upon her again. 

………………………………………………

She woke to solid arms lifting her body up in a seated position, careful to avoid her injured shoulder. Juliet opened her eyes with a sudden wince, where was her t-shirt? She was on a couch in only her bra, the wound on her shoulder now leaking blood and other fluids onto the strap.

“What? -” Juliet muttered and her head rolled to the side before it was caught by a rough hand. 

“Shh” a sharp voice cut her off. “Open your mouth, now,” it commanded. 

Juliet blinked a few times, her eyesight finally focusing, and the blurry form crouched in front of her became clearer.

Joel.

One hand cradled the back of Juliet’s head as the other held a large white pill against her mouth, urging her to part her lips. Joel’s face was so close, his pupils so dilated that his eyes looked almost entirely black. Juliet licked her lips then allowed them to fall open. Joel instantly dropped the pill on her tongue then reached for a glass of water which he helped her take a sip of before he gently held her mouth closed as she swallowed the tablet. 

Juliet gasped as it slid down her throat, her eyes falling closed, and this time, Joel let them. His grip was firm but careful as he helped her lie flat on the couch again before he let go and moved to sit on the coffee table beside her. 

Juliet’s eyelids fluttered open and her head rolled to the side as she watched Joel wipe a hand over his face and sigh. Her mind was so fuzzy, she couldn’t tell where they were or what time it was, but one thought pressed against her consciousness, keeping her awake…

“Joel?” she breathed, her voice a whisper.

“Who’s Tess?”

[astarionposting]

tell us more about ren she’s so pretty i need lore

Hello anon!! I am so flattered u want to know more about her! Ren is an alternate universe version of my usual Tav. I’m much better at storytelling visually, so I’ll explain some of my visual choices I’ve made for her character, which contains a bit of the lore I have created thus far. (also thank u for the excuse to just create a character dump post for her lol - i spent way too much time on this)

content warnings: mentions of dissection, scarring one's own face, unhealthy obsessions, stalking, religious trauma... just general fucked up Bhaalist things. + spoilers for BG3

EYES

A keypoint in her design are her eyes; Ren has the same eyes as The Dark Urge's Fiend butler, Sceleritas Fel, reflecting her origin as a creation of Bhaal Himself. Similar to other creations like her and Sceleritas, she was made with the purpose of serving and assisting Bhaal's Chosen.

SCARS

The right side of her face is deliberate scarring of her own doing during her priestess "training". Her body scars, however, are the result of the experimentation performed on her in her early training days. These experiments are often done with the purpose of making unnatural "improvements".

HANDS

I really love how Scarlet Witch's fingertips will stain black as a result of her use of the Darkhold's chaos magic spells, so I took that inspiration and headcannon that Ren's hands/arms do something similar from her "training" as a priestess of Bhaal and her use of necromancy/shadow magic and rituals.

For her general aesthetic, I was mainly inspired by the concept art for Bhaal for BG3 and this art of a priestess of Bhaal. She often wears a large dusty cloak over her usual gown. Placed on the top of her cloak, she will also sometimes wear a crown of thorns, mimicking the "spiky" style of common Bhaalist attire. During their time in the temple, before the events of BG3, she often adorned her face with a broken piece of a human skull. Since her coat is quite heavy, she walks a little hunched over… kind of like a creepy gremlin. Additionally, she will wear a small Bhaalist charm at the collar of her cloak.

Underneath, she wears her typical black gown; the top half resembles Orin’s carapace and blends into her skirt, with leg slits for better mobility, of course! When she isn’t wearing her cloak, her hair is loosely tied back and styled into a collection of braids, accessorized with Bhaalist jewelry.

*Keep in mind I am not a lore expert in terms of D&D deities or Bhaalist lore in general. I took some stuff from the forgotten realms wiki but also just made some stuff up lol, so this NOT D&D or BG3 lore accurate.

Also, again, warnings for unhealthy relationships/obsessions, as well as brief mentions of torture but not in detail.

THEY ARE BHAALISTS THEY HAVE ISSUES!!!!

Similarly to Sceleritas Fel, Ren has a lot of "care" for The Dark Urge. She favours him over Orin, and often clashed heads with her... but of course I have to have some doomed yuri content too!!!!!! so maybe they kissed once or twice >:) (but waaay before the events of BG3) Her "training" as a priestess of Bhaal consisted of torture, religious indoctrination, and extreme mental corruption/manipulation, especially by Orin. As implied before, she faced experiments in order to "improve" her usefulness to Bhaal and His Chosen. As a result, she is not the most stable person you'll meet. She is mainly chaotic evil aligned, however, her final loyalties will always lie with The Dark Urge, and she is accepting of his resistance/redemption path, as well as his acceptance/murder hobo path. She is essentially a certified Real One (also doesn't rlly vibe with Bhaal after he kills her evil Dragon boyfriend yk). The tadpole in someway also helped "release" her mind of Bhaal's influence, and while she is still an obsessive and violent girlie, she can be persuaded to not be a total murder hobo and sometimes even decides on her own to go against Bhaal's wishes (she still cool with murder though). As I previously mentioned, Ren was created by Bhaal to assist His Chosen in his duties and leading the temple, as most priestesses/priests of Bhaal do. She is more of a companion and advisor to The Dark Urge, rather than a servant like Sceleritas Fel. She is deeply (obsessed) "in-love" with The Dark Urge, and supports him over Orin. A while before the whole tadpoles, absolute, blah blah blah stuff, her and Orin had a brief history, but it was moreso Orin's jealousy of what Durge had. Her in-game class is a Bhaalist class mod! It is very fun so far, and she just levelled up to level 3 and can now has the ability Verminous Metamorphosis, so she can turn into a… RAAAAT!! 🐀 sorry, Astarion :( However, I see her as a combo of this and a death cleric of Bhaal. In terms of how her story is going in the BG3 campaign, i still haven't fully fleshed anything out yet! I would assume she would have a large impact on Durge's memory loss. Maybe she will have her own gaps in memory, but knows they have a reason to go to Baldur's Gate. As for other durge events, I believe she would be proud of The Dark Urge for such a "beautiful display of gore!" after Alfira night lol. I'm still undecided if I want to do redemption or murder hobo durge... I don't want to kill Isobel so I'm probably going to headcannon that Bhaal tasks The Dark Urge with killing her, as a way to test if he is "losing his way", or if he cares more about the life of a "mere servant of Bhaal" than his own "birthright" as Bhaal's Chosen.

For now I am just going with the flow of the game and doing some fun photo and gif series of Ren and Durge's adventure in my Durgetav playthrough!

Face preset | hair | scar | eyes | makeup + bloody lips | body tattoo & autopsy scar Orin top, arms + legs | dress + accessories | cloak | hood + crown/mask | lingerie

♡ PLAYLIST

dividers made by me with canva; graphics by @/brand314195326 and @/dhtgip. screenshots by me ♡

[marimayscarlett]

Priest RZK? Priest RZK. That's some gourmet shit right there. Discuss.

Hi 👀

Ah yes. The age old brainrot of Priest RZK which is still going strong, caused by the infamous music video which also brought us, apart from a very fabulous Richard, a suave Monk-Olli and yet another Schneider with a puppy-moment, which still causes people to lose it every other day:

Now, to examine this fascination with Priest RZK properly, it's somewhat important to look at some general and at some more specific points regarding the attraction to priests and men of the church:

First and foremost, they're meant to be celibate (at least in the catholic church, which is my point of view here). They're actually unattainable and off limits as a romantic and/or sexual partner since they vowed loyalty and love to the church and are definitely not meant to stray from this path in any way. Which kind of, if we use theological terms here, makes them some kind of 'forbidden fruit' so to speak.

-> If a priest, who vowed to be celibate, desires someone, it can become a test of his vocation, which can have life-altering consequences, emotional turmoil, unrequired longing and love and maybe ultimately even a secret affair - a whole lot of potential drama, which can be quite a thrill for some people.

They are (or should be in the best case) there for people in need. Listening to concerns, giving out advice, keeping secrets to themselves and overall representing some form of (fatherly) confidant and advisor, most of the time in one-on-one conversations - roles which can become quite loaded with emotion and emotional intimacy, so to speak.

-> Priests can be (for some religious women, like here) an embodiment for care and security, like a safe dream vision to project inner longings on without running the risk of being disappointed (since acting on these feelings is out of question).

In the linked articled above, a survey among catholic women gathered the following typical traits for a priest in women's eyes: 'different to other men’, he ‘pays attention to me’, ‘listens to me’, is ‘sensitive’ and ‘intelligent’; thus oftentimes traits these women miss in their own lives/relationships. Attraction to priests can point in the direction of "a search for both alternative models of masculinity and alternative experiences of male authority" (especially for women who suffered under these social structures, but not only) - a man which moves outside of the common norms and male behaviour patterns.

Regarding Richard, I can imagine that the following thoughts might come into play when it comes to the insane attraction of the concept of him as a priest:

Richard in priest robes looks so good, so modest and serious, and so wrong. Since we kind of know he's not the most steady person regarding relationships and definitely does not live anywhere near the realms of celibacy, this contrast between his way of life and that of a priest can be quite alluring and in my mind creates the picture of a somehow corrupt and opportunistic priest, which absolutely does not help. (Not thinking about him piously celebrating mass and then making you drop to your knees in the confessional 5 minutes later, nope)

Richard is a great listener and very interesting and interested conversation partner, so he would make a great priest regarding giving out advice and listening to problems and sorrows. To confide in him in a private setting, only for the situation to turn out like this is a brainrot which accompanies me for quite some time now 👍🏼

The terminology of adressing him. Quoting 'Fleabag' here:

This (or to be the reason the poor priest has to turn to drastic measures to keep his desires in check, what a dream):

Conclusion: Every day, we stray further away from God on here and do so in lightning speed 👌🏼