#Cathedral Convict

[kiri-tired]

Art by: のろ (ro no)

twitter: @ro__no || pixiv: users/38820059

Art source:

www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/91831390

[cutevirgo]

while i do not subscribe to catholicism tm big c church, unfortunately i am not able to unsubscribe from being irish catholic because none of them really believe at the end of the day u just get the generational trauma

[cera-writes]

Remy and reader on their wedding day and night. Fluff and smut please? 😗😗😗😗😗😗

A/N: I like the way you think 🥰🥰🥰 Pairing: F!Reader x Remy "Gambit" LeBeau Tags: fluff, nfsw, sweet sweet smut

"I Do."

The air crackled with nervous anticipation, a fizzing current that danced along your spine. Sunlight streamed through the ornate French doors, casting a warm glow across the sprawling gardens of the St Louis Cathedral. It was the day. You were marrying Remy LeBeau.

A shiver, not entirely from the air-conditioned coolness of the room, rippled through you. You glanced at yourself in the antique mirror, the handcrafted lace of your wedding dress whispering against your skin. It was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the life you once knew. But then, so was everything about Remy.

A soft rap at the door startled you. "Come in," you called, your voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaked open, revealing Remy. He looked impossibly handsome in his tailored black suit, a crimson rosebud pinned to his lapel. His eyes, red as garnet and black as night, held a familiar warmth that sent a familiar flutter to your heart.

For a moment, you could only stare at him, speechless. He took a hesitant step forward, a sheepish grin breaking across his face. "Well, mon cheri," he drawled, his voice a barely above a caress, "you look like you swallowed a canary."

You swatted him playfully on the arm, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. "That's the most eloquent compliment I've ever gotten from a thief."

Remy chuckled, the sound rich and deep. "Only for you, cherie. Only for you." He reached out, his hand hovering over yours. "Are you ready?"

You squeezed his hand, the nervous energy dissipating into a calm certainty. "As I'll ever be."

Remy's smile softened. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Then let's go steal the show, shall we?"

The walk down the aisle was a blur. Arms linked with Remy's, you felt a thousand eyes on you, yet all that mattered was the man beside you. You glanced over at the X-Men, your friends over the years as they smiled at the two of you. Morph was bawling, tears streaming down their eyes. Even some of Remy's old Guild acquaintances had shown up and made an appearance. Remy squeezed your hand reassuringly as you reached the altar, a silent promise exchanged in a single touch.

The ceremony was beautiful, a tasteful blend of your traditions and Remy's heritage. When it came time for the vows, Remy's voice, usually smooth as butter, trembled slightly. His words, though, were heartfelt, a testament to the love that had bloomed from the most unexpected of places.

Yours were no less heartfelt, spoken with a conviction that surprised even yourself. You pledged your love, your loyalty, your entire chaotic, beautiful life to this charming thief who had stolen your heart.

You both said without a single doubt in your words, "I do," at last.

As your longtime friend Kurt Wagner declared you husband and wife, Remy took your face in his hands, his gaze intense. The kiss that followed was filled with a lifetime of unspoken emotions, a promise whispered on stolen breaths.

The reception was a whirlwind of laughter, music, and dancing. Remy, ever the charmer, regaled your friends and family with tales of your adventures, your first time ever have met each other, each embellished for maximum effect. You watched him, a smile permanently plastered on your face, your heart overflowing with a happiness you never thought possible.

Later that night, as you stood on the balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens, Remy wrapped his arms around you from behind. "So," he murmured, his voice husky, "Mrs. LeBeau. How does it feel?"

You leaned back against him, a contented sigh escaping your lips. "Like coming home, Remy. Like I finally belong."

He nuzzled your neck, his lips sending shivers down your spine. "Then welcome home, cherie. Welcome home."

As you gazed out at the star-dusted sky, hand in hand with the man you loved, you knew this was just the beginning of your grand adventure. A life together, filled with laughter, love, and perhaps the occasional heist, was a future you wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

But the night didn't stop there. Your Honeymoon awaited as Remy carried you bridal style back through the threshold.

Remy had managed to secure a beautiful hotel nestled in the heart of the French Quarter.

A slow smile spread across his face as he sat you down inside the French Chateau. He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "Let's get you out of this dress, shall we?"

His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine. You nodded, a silent agreement hanging heavy in the air. He helped you remove the dress, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours.

When you stood before him in nothing but your lingerie, the air crackled with unspoken desire and undeniable lust. He took a step back, his eyes roaming over your body, a mixture of possessiveness and reverence in his gaze.

"Ma Belle, you are absolutely stunning," he breathed, his voice thick with desire, his accent thickening.

You stepped closer, bridging the gap between you. You reached out, your fingers tracing the planes of his chest. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it was replaced by a hungry glint in his eyes.

He captured your lips in a kiss, deep and demanding. It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken promises, of a lifetime of passion waiting to be explored. You surrendered to him completely, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around you.

You then pushed Remy down onto the plush bed adorned with red rose petals. He smirked devilishly, eyes never leaving yours as he beckoned you closer.

The night stretched before you, filled with stolen moments and whispered endearments. Remy was everything you'd ever dreamt of and more - tender and passionate, playful and protective. He explored your body with a reverence that left you breathless, his touch igniting a fire within you.

"Oh gods, Remy! Don't stop, please..." you begged breathlessly as he took you inch by inch, rough and hard, needy and desperate. "F-fuck chere! T-tu te sens si b-bien," he stammered, breaths coming out in short pants. You were both reaching new heights of ecstasy with each other.

You'd made it a point early on in your relationship that if he wanted you, he'd have to bed you properly on your wedding night as traditional and outdated as that sounded. You were tired of having your heart played with in the past. But here he was now, worshipping your body like a long forgotten art. Funny how life turned out for the both of you.

As the night wore on, the initial urgency gave way to a slow, sensual exploration. Remy was thrusting into you in slow deliberate thrusts. Your body fit him like a glove. "Just like that baby, god I love you, Remy...my cajun man," you kissed his lips as he made love to you.

He smiled, half proud and half completely enamored with how you were making him feel.

You learned each other's bodies in a new way, the pleasure building with each touch, each kiss.

Finally, sated and breathless, you lay curled up in his arms, the moonlight painting silver streaks across your entwined forms.

"I love you, Remy," you whispered once more, as if never getting tired of those three words, your voice thick with sleep.

He nuzzled your hair, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Je t'aime, mon cœur," he murmured. "Plus que les mots ne peuvent le dire."

You drifted off to sleep, the feeling of his love a warm blanket wrapped around you, the promise of a lifetime together a sweet dream on your lips.

You were his and he was yours.

Pour Toujours.

[totowlff]

break the rules

➝ you're there for business and that's all. however, after your presentation, you meet a mysterious man who makes you question all your convictions.

➝ word count: 3,8k

➝ warnings: strip club environment, alcohol consumption, mentions of smut

➝ author’s note: this was an idea that appeared suddenly and that was stored for some time in my drafts. after finishing my last one shot, i took the courage to finish this story. definitely not my best, but I still find it interesting and, in a way, mysterious.

The wind whipped your hair against your face as you walked down the narrow street. Winter hadn't officially arrived in Vienna, but that didn't stop you from feeling a bone-chilling cold under the thick coat and red scarf you had chosen to leave the house that late afternoon.

The movement at that time of day in the Innere Stadt was intense, cars roaming the alleys near St. Stephen's Cathedral, sharing the tight space with buses, bicycles, motorbikes and pedestrians, many pedestrians. Residents and tourists, adults and children, all mixed together, heading to their homes, apartments and hotel rooms to rest after a long day in the City of Dreams. Walking in the opposite direction, however, you weren't going home or to the hotel, like them.

You were going to work.

The fact that you had a night job was not surprising, considering that that was a city that had tourism as its main economic asset. There were countless bars, restaurants and cafes that were open, waiting anxiously for customers, especially after a complicated period related to the Covid-19 pandemic.

But the surprising part of your job was that you weren't a waitress, a cook, or a bartender, even though you'd served countless flutes of champagne and glasses of whiskey, with and without ice.

You were a stripper.

It wasn't the most conventional job there was in Vienna, especially considering the city's nightlife. However, it was the only one that, in addition to paying well enough to cover the expenses of the PhD in psychology you were doing, was flexible with the timing of the workshops and seminars you needed to attend, as well as making it possible for you to work on your dissertation during the week.

Your family didn't know, let alone your classmates or teachers. The official version was that you worked in a high-end bar and received some generous tips from customers. Nobody needed to know what you did or said for them to pay you so well.

Stopping briefly to see an interesting shoe that was in the Midanis window, you headed towards the brown door next to the gold tiled wall where the club's name was placed. Stopping in front of the intercom, you quickly typed in the employee passcode, a simple sequence that caused the lock to squeak open.

Descending the stairs leading to the lounge, you came across one of the security guards, who was smartly dressed in a well-tailored suit.

— Good evening, Layla.

— Good evening, Marc — you replied, smiling.

That wasn't your real name. As soon as you were hired by the club, you were given a new name, of Arabic origin, in order to protect your privacy and offer more security against clients who wanted to cross the line that was firmly delimited in your contract. Unlike other girls, you had refused to join the club's list of available escorts.

You were there to dance, and only to dance.

As you entered the main hall, you found the place being carefully prepared for the night. Two female employees were bent over tables, wiping them down, while the bartender arranged drinks on the bar. Greeting them with a smile, you crossed the room towards a door at the back of the room, which led to the dressing rooms.

As she opened the door, your nostrils were filled with the scent of hairspray, women's perfume, and nail polish remover. In the speakers, a lively beat mingled with the conversations and laughter of the other women who worked there, who were already getting ready for the night.

— Good evening, Layla — a blonde girl, who was modeling a curl with a curling iron, greeted you.

— Good evening, Fatin — you answered, as you went towards the lockers and opened yours to put your purse in — Curls today?

— Aisha heard that there is a big table reserved tonight — Fatin replied, letting go of the strand she'd just styled and picking up another one — Looks like it's a big guy's birthday party. And you know what it means, right?

— Tips? — you replied, looking over your shoulder as you removed the coat you were wearing, revealing the black top you were wearing underneath. Then it was the turn of the jeans to slide down your legs, revealing your panties in the same color.

— Exactly — she smiled, releasing another curl — And the good ones. The kind ones that pay bills.

— I hope so, I still have to pay my apartment’s rent this week — you chuckled, as you folded your coat and put it in your locker. Then you pulled the black tulle top and shorts out of your bag, putting them on right there. There was no point in feigning modesty considering the women there were dressed even less discreetly than you. Finally, you put on your favorite heels, with transparent and vertiginous platforms, perfect for the choreography you would be doing that night.

Sitting in front of the mirror, you were just finishing gluing on your false eyelashes when Theresia, the club manager, walked into the dressing room with a wide smile on her face.

— Good evening, girls — she said, receiving a chorus of positive responses — Today we are hosting a large group for a birthday celebration, so I ask that you put your all into your choreographies and be nice to them.

— Do you have the setlists? — one of the girls, a brunette whose name there was Huda, asked.

— You start, Huda, followed by Iman, Layla, Malika and Karima closes the first round — the woman replied, making you release the air that was trapped in your throat. You hated being the first one to perform, as your choreography was more rhythmic, and generally, the audience appreciated more lively opening numbers — Any other questions? No? Great. Girls who want to go to the bar are free to do so.

Theresia walked out with a few girls behind her. However, you remained seated, staring at your own shoes.

— Layla? — someone called you. You looked up to find Fatin standing in front of you with a smile on his red lips — Are you going to stick around?

— Yeah. I want to stretch and concentrate for the performance.

— Want me to take a look at the guys to give you a preview?

You smiled.

— I do.

— Okay, I'm going there and I'll be right back, okay?

Fatin left the dressing room towards the club’s bar, while you remained seated, staring at your own reflection. You were wearing strong makeup, your eyes lined with eyeliner, almost cat-like. A perfect parallel with the choreography you had chosen for that night, which had something wild and mysterious about it.

As you mentally recalled the steps, following the beat of the music in your head, you imagined how your movements would look to the eyes of the men who should be walking into the club at that hour, ordering their drinks and talking about business and other banal things before enjoying the women who would walk onstage and make them put their hands in their wallets and pockets.

Still thinking about one of the moves you would make, your eyes met Fatin's, who was returning to the room with a wide smile on her face.

— Did you like what you saw? — you asked, stifling a laugh.

— There are some interesting guys out there. Apparently they're here to celebrate the 50th birthday of one of them. But if you ask me, they don't look 50 years old...

— Did you ask their age?

— No, but, you know, these guys always have friends the same age.

You laughed.

— Everyone from here?

— Doesn’t look like it, as they're speaking English. There must be foreigners with them.

— Americans?

— Don't think so. Too handsome to be 50-year-old guys from America.

— There are 50-year-old guys from America who are handsome.

— But those are too handsome, Layla. And, let's face it, the only good looking guy in America at that age must be Ben Affleck and I'm pretty sure he's not out there.

— Of course he’s not, he got married this year.

— Married? — Fatin asked, incredulous.

— Yeah, with Jennifer Lopez — you replied. It wasn't like you followed celebrity news, in fact, you found out after a customer commented on your butt being similar to the singer's and lamented for long minutes about her marriage.

— Shit — she muttered, taking a seat in a chair beside her, facing the mirror.

— Don't worry, you'll find your Ben soon, Fatin.

The two of you continued talking, commenting about the choreography you were working on and the song you were dancing to that night. When showing a video that you had made in a rehearsal, your colleague gave a mischievous smile.

— The guys out there are going to love it.

— You think so?

— I'm sure — she replied, as you caught sight of Theresia's face in the dressing room doorway, a slightly worried expression on her face.

— Layla, you’re up.

— Why?

— Iman's with a client and the guy paid for an hour with her. I can't get her out of there now.

You sighed, getting up from your chair.

— The show must go on — you said, pushing past Fatin and heading for the door.

The way to the stage was always a moment of introspection for you. It was as if you stripped yourself of all the labels you occupied in the lives of the people around you. You abandoned your daughter, granddaughter, friend, student, psychologist and future doctor to become just Layla. Your sensual and confident alter-ego, who looked each of those men in the eye and made them feel much more than sexually desired, but understood and welcomed as well.

Standing at the entrance to the stage, you took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching your hands, relaxing the muscles in your shoulders. “It's showtime”, you thought, before looking up and wiggling your feet to check that your shoes were securely fastened to your feet.

And then you entered the stage, slowly.

The room seemed to quieten as you walked to the center of the stage, the voices becoming whispers inside your head. Leaning your back against the pole, you waited for the woman's voice to come through the speakers before looking up. The club was full, men and women mixed up, liquor bottles, champagne flutes and whiskey glasses strewn across the tables.

The soft beat guided your movements. Lifting one leg a few times, soon you were pulling yourself up onto the pole, spinning as your body slid down. Your muscle memory took you through the music as if it were something natural that you had done hundreds of times. Every step came naturally, every sigh, every lust-filled gaze you directed at the audience.

After a few steps on the ground and spinning around the pole to get up again, you finished the choreography looking back at the audience, while the song ended in a whisper from the interpreter. The silence that followed made the corners of your lips curl. The mission had been accomplished.

Taking a deep breath, you waited for the spotlight that illuminated you to go out so that you left the stage in quick steps, hurrying to make room for the next girl who would perform there. At the backstage door, Fatin was waiting for you with a wide smile on her face.

— Another perfect performance, Layla — she said, as she escorted you back to the dressing room — The guys were completely mesmerized.

— I hope you didn't notice that I missed one of the footprints on the pole — you replied, walking back into the dressing room.

— Honestly, I didn't even notice — Fatin murmured, while you took one of the small glasses of water and took a long drink — Now drink this and let's go back to the hall.

After a quick look in the mirror to confirm that your hair was still acceptable and that your makeup still looked fresh, you followed Fatin to the bar, which was, indeed, very busy. Smiling, you waved towards the bar, where the bartender, Farah, was making another Old Fashioned for one of the men sitting across from her.

— Layla — you heard Theresia call out to you from a corner of the hall, near the hallway that led to the private rooms. Giving Fatin's shoulder a knowing squeeze, you walked over to the manager with a smile on your face.

— Yeah?

— There's a guy waiting for you inside.

You blinked.

— Who?

— Does it matter?

— Well, it's just that I haven't talked to anyone yet...

— And you don't even have to, just move that ass of yours and these guys are happy — she said sharply — Now go, he's in room three.

Nodding, somewhat resigned, you entered the hallway in silence. Taking a deep breath, you were concentrating on putting the mask back on, on being the mysterious, seductive woman that man had seen onstage. “Focus”, you thought, before exhaling and putting your hand on the doorknob.

The private rooms always had the same layout, with a pole placed in the center of the room while a large black velvet sofa took up three of the walls of the room. Sitting right in the middle of it, tugging at the sleeves of his white shirt, was the man who had requested your presence.

He had dark hair and eyes, as well as a strong jaw. His shoulders were broad and, even sitting down, he looked very tall. Upon noticing his presence, he straightened his posture, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

— Good night — you said, slowly approaching the pole in the middle of the room, your eyes locked on his.

— Good night — he replied, his deep voice running through your body like a caress and a shiver — Layla, isn't it?

— Yeah — you said, placing a hand on the cold metal, leaning almost nonchalantly, even though you were feeling just the opposite. However, the rule was clear: it didn't matter to you who he was. It only mattered that he was willing to pay to have you for his eyes alone, if only for a few minutes.

— I liked your performance — he said, resting his elbows on his thighs — Have you been dancing long?

— A few years already — you replied, as you walked around the pole, your fingers slipping along it.

— And you like it, I presume.

— Well, yes — you said, smiling as you practiced a few laps on the pole — It pays my bills, so I can't complain.

The corners of his lips curled up as he leaned back on the couch.

— I guess I can say the same about my work.

— What do you do? — you asked, before mentally condemning yourself. It didn't matter to you what he did, you were just there to be a pleasant sight and nothing more. However, your curiosity did not anger the man in front of you.

— A curious girl, I see — he murmured, giving her a small smile.

— Someone needs to be — you hesitated, after all, you didn't know his name. And, realizing this, he hastened to complete.

— You can call me Torger.

A strong name. Powerful. Unusual. Something tingled on his skin.

— And what do you do for a living, Torger?

— Business — he replied, punctually.

— That we all do, don't we? — you returned, leaning against the pole.

— Indeed. But in my case, it's real business. Finance.

— Banker? Or investor?

— Neither of them. I own a business.

You snorted, looking unimpressed.

— Ah, crypto, eh? — you said — I hope you're not thinking of paying me that way, I won't accept it.

Your comment made Torger chuckle, throwing his head back. Stopping suddenly, your heart was pounding in your chest as something warm spread through your body.

— No, no, I've learned my lesson regarding cryptocurrency, I don't even want to think about putting money into that.

— Did you already try and lose money?

— Enough for me to regret thinking it would work — the man replied, running a hand through his hair — The point is, my job is related to finance, and before you ask, it's not illegal at all.

— I'm relieved — you murmured, allowing yourself to hook one leg over the pole for a quick spin.

— And you?

— What about me?

— What do you do? — Torger asked.

— You see what I do — you answered — I dance.

— I'm asking out of here. Do you work with something else? Study?

You pressed your lips together as you put your feet back on the ground. The moment you stepped there, Y/N didn't exist, the woman who was fighting for a postdoctoral degree didn't exist, neither the daughter, or the sister or the granddaughter that you were.

There was only Layla. And only she could be there, inside that room.

— I can't say anything.

— Why not? — he asked, raising an eyebrow.

— Because it's in the rules — you said, leaning against the pole again.

That was an outright lie. There were no rules within the club regarding what you could and could not say about yourself to the customers. The choice was entirely yours and you always chose not to say it so as to protect yourself from potential stalkers. Yet even following your own directive, something told you that you could trust Torger.

— Rules?

— From the club. I can't say anything about myself.

— Anything?

— Anything.

— Not even if I want to know more?

— Not if I wanted to tell you more — you said, stopping in front of the pole. Staring at you, Torger had the shadow of a smile on his face, as if he sensed that you wanted to say more. “Am I that transparent?”, you asked yourself as you took careful steps towards him.

— And are there any other rules here that you need to follow?

— Well, there are some — you murmured.

— Do you mind telling me?

You took a few seconds to think as you allowed your back to slide down the pole, coming to a stop on your knees in front of it.

— I can't use my real name or any information that identifies me, and I can't drink or smoke during working hours.

— Layla isn't your name then?

— No — you replied with a smile, as you slowly rose from the ground — And I didn't even mention the rules you have to follow…

— Are you serious?

You chuckled as you walked to the front of him.

— Yeah. You can't pressure me for information about her private life, not even take me out of the club during working hours... And you can't, under any circumstances, make physical contact.

— You mean I can't touch you? — he asked, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

— No, you can't — you replied, looking down at his hands. They were big, with long fingers and not a ring in sight. Perfect to touch you.

— Not even if I asked?

— No.

— No one would know.

— They would.

— Only if you tell — he returned, in a mischievous tone.

Moving closer, you crouched down in front of him, your eyes wandering over his expression, trying to unravel what was behind the mischievous smile and curious look. He was completely magnetic, drawing you into his orbit in an almost natural way.

— And you want to touch me? — you finally asked.

— Yes, I do.

Looking into his dark eyes, you took a deep breath before taking his hand and bringing it to his face, your fingers lightly touching his skin. You felt as if your entire body was pulsing, heat spreading inside your chest. The feeling of doing it for the first time was both frightening and delicious.

— You're beautiful — Torger murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek.

— You're rather handsome yourself — you replied, making him chuckle.

— Thanks, I don’t hear that often.

— Seriously?

— Yeah. I've never been successful with girls.

— I don’t believe you.

— Why not?

— Because you're making me want to break all of my rules — you replied, instinctively bringing your face closer to his — And I never break rules.

— But you're breaking them now.

— For you.

— I guess I should feel special.

— Maybe you are — you whispered, your face close enough that your nose was brushing his. His touch on your face made anticipation swell below your navel — Maybe you are that much more than special…

You knew the moment you kissed him, you were lost. This was your last chance to back off, to avoid doing something you would bitterly regret. But at the same time, you wanted to jump into that abyss, you wanted to do that.

And when you kissed him, it was glorious.

It was a chaste, subtle touch. It was the first time you'd kissed a customer, and in a way, you wanted it to be the last. You wanted to kiss that man forever if that was possible. You wanted to taste him, wanted to feel his skin under your fingers. I wanted to feel his strength and delicacy mixing with his desire between the sheets.

— Torger — you whispered as he pulled away slightly. However, the answer came through his hands, which helped you up and placed you on one of his legs. Wrapping one of his arms around his neck, he didn't wait to bring your lips together again, this time in a more intense kiss.

It was strange to be in that position, completely surrendered to a customer, tasting alcohol on his tongue and his fingers squeezing your thigh. But, it was a good-type stranger. A stranger who made you understand why other girls had their favorite customers, who they offered more than attention and affection.

— I've never seen a woman like you — he growled, nibbling her neck, the hand that was on her thigh slowly moving up her body, burning you with desire — So beautiful, so perfect...

Your fingers dug into his dark hair, pressing his face against your skin, as if it could give you a crumb of pleasure. And, considering the path his lips made towards your breasts, you were pretty sure it was close.

Until the lights in the room turned white, and the music suddenly stopped.

That change in the environment had him looking up at you as sadness invaded your chest, your lips pressed into a thin line.

— What happened?

— Your time is up — you muttered.

— But… If I want, I can request more time, right?

You sighed, getting up from his lap. It was like waking up from a really good dream and realizing it never really happened. You couldn't have a guy like him all to yourself, you never could. You could never have more of him, however much you wanted.

— No, Torger. The limit is 30 minutes per girl, per night.

— Shit — he said quietly, running a hand over his face.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, not to say painful. You didn't want to go, but you knew you needed to get on with your night, just like he did.

But how to continue working after that?

“The show must go on”, you said to yourself mentally, before sighing and turning towards the door. However, something wrapped around your wrist, preventing you from following. Turning your face, you found Torger's dark eyes fixed on yours.

— Are you going to be here tomorrow?

— Yeah. I perform every night here.

— So I'll see you tomorrow, okay?

— Okay — you replied with a little smile — See you tomorrow, Torger.

Bringing your hand to his lips, he placed a kiss on your knuckles.

— See you tomorrow, Layla.

[radicalgraff]

Graffiti painted on the doors of St Patricks Cathedral in Melbourne in April 2020, shortly after Cardinal George Pell was released from prison following a High Court apeal.

The Cardinal, who died on Wednesday was previously convicted of sexually abusing choirboys during his tenure as Archbishop of Melbourne.

[sicutpuella]

Transcendence (Reader & Ghost / Simon Riley)

AFAB, HEAVY Catholic and Religious Themes, she/her pronouns

divider by @iluvpooks

Simon's life had never left room for faith or spirituality. A practical man, he found no evidence of divine mercy in his struggles. Yet tonight's assignment was simple - observe London's old Catholic cathedral and report any suspicious activity, any possible routes that can be used by snipers, entrances and exits.

As an outsider, the worshipers' devoted prayers seemed strange. But one figure caught his eye - a woman, her face radiating calm acceptance. Her gentle smile seemed to offer the mercy Simon had never known. When their eyes met, he found no judgment in her gaze, only compassion. 

His eyes were drawn to her across the room. A radiant beauty, she had a timeless quality about her. Her features were delicate yet striking, reminiscent of renditions of the Virgin Mary he had seen in great works of art. There was an ethereal grace to her presence, a calmness in her expression that hinted at inner strength and kindness. She seemed a vision, perfectly composed in a way that stirred his admiration.

Her beauty stirs a feeling inside him that's unknown, and even unwelcome, in a battle-hardened mercenary. He can't make sense of it. His heart is hardened from his own trials, and his work is devoid of kindness. He is a soldier with no room for sentimentality. But he finds himself unable to break her gaze, a connection that shouldn't exist. Simon watches from across the street, hidden from her sight. The gentle sway of her hips, the way her dress shimmers... It all strikes a chord inside him, filling him with a familiar unease. He's never felt this way before. He's not supposed to.

Vulnerability had always been a foreign concept to him. From a young age, he was conditioned to eliminate all signs of weakness—emotion, attachment, humanity. He was forged into a weapon, with his every action laser-focused on efficiency and results. Intimacy was an impossible luxury, one not afforded to those whose primary purpose was ending life, not nurturing it. And yet, even for someone stripped so bare of tenderness and connection, there remained an unfillable hollow within. Deep down he wondered, what might it be like to know the gentle warmth of another's touch, if only for a moment, before having to slip back into the numbing role of programmed protector he had long since taken as his sole identity.

He was trained not to care about others. Caring always leads to pain. Yet the sight of her makes him weak. She stands with her hands clasped together, her body swaying ever so faintly in time with the music of worship being sung inside. The light of the stained glass windows falls in a mosaic that dazzlingly reflects from her soft cheeks.

Months had passed since that fateful night, and slowly, steadily, she had chipped away at the impenetrable walls around his guarded heart. Now, as sunlight filtered gently through the window and washed over her sleeping form, he felt only stillness and calm within. For the first time that he could remember, there was no restlessness stirring him to flee, no instinct pulling him back into solitary introspection. All there was, was her—the rise and fall of her bare skin in the soft morning light, a reminder that he was no longer alone.

Simon held no belief in God or faith. Confronted with his duty to end lives, he pondered: What is the purpose of embracing salvation?

Does he even deserve salvation? Forgiveness? Repentance? 

He lacked belief in any form of higher power or destiny. His conviction remained steadfast: relying on unproven truths was both irresponsible and irrational.

All the lofty concepts of divinity and spirituality that had meant so little before seemed but pale imitations in the radiant light of her. When she breathed his name with such tender reverence, it was prayer made flesh - her voice an angelic hymn transporting him to paradise. The way her fingers traced delicate devotion across his skin transcended any ritual, for truly her caress was the only salvation he had ever known. In the hallowed dark behind closed eyes, the kindling of each candlewick touch bestowed a communion more sacred than any sermon. She was sanctuary and salvation writ as one miraculous being, come not to deliver judgment but sweet mercy, embracing his unworthiness without demand yet granting redemption's full bounty just the same. In her alone was encompassed all mysteries of faith he once deemed empty air - here in living, breathing form was divinity that needed no doctrine to be proved divine. 

What is god compared to her?

[theseshipsshallsail]

“Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing,” he whispers, cracked and brittle around the edges. “Of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching.”

Until now - this - them, Oliver’s appreciation of poetry leaned more towards the philosophical, however Neruda’s words escape unbidden as he brushes a sweat-damp curl from Elio’s forehead.

True darkness has fallen outside, but the moonlight pouring through the shutters bathes his face in shadows, leaving it reminiscent of the Praxiteles sculpture they’d salvaged just days prior. A ridiculous notion - and one he would normally scoff at - yet Oliver’s been circling the absurd since the moment Elio fell asleep in his arms, stunned by the realization he doesn’t know himself at all. 

How could he? When he’s neverfelt this way before?

Not in his previous relationships. 

Not after sex.

Never. 

It’s a defence mechanism, of sorts. The meticulous compartmentalisation that keeps his emotions in check. Yet that level-headedness - his ability to close himself off - has always served him well. Kept him on an even-keel throughout school and his career, alike. 

So perhaps it’s better this way: the silent understanding between them.

The things left unsaid.

But right now? 

In a villa in Northern Italy? 

Oh, he’s falling to pieces. 

Overwhelmed to be holding the man who’s stolen his heart along with his name.

The man who’s more Oliver than Oliver himself. 

And it’s… 

Fuck, it’s -

“I’d give you the world if I could. Steal you away to New York. Have you with me forever.” 

There’s something achingly vulnerable in the gentle rise and fall of Elio’s chest, so Oliver flattens his palm over the hallowed cathedral of his ribs, fighting down the swell of emotion that threatens to choke him. 

“Everything…” he breathes, vision prickling when Elio’s fingers dig into his forearm, clinging on just as tight even in his dreams. “I’d keep you safe. Make you happy…”

A foot twitches against his calf.  

“So very happy, Elio…”

An unintelligible murmur reaches his ears. 

“I’d worship you,” he continues, sliding a hand up the length of his spine, tracing each dip and ridge until he’s once more resting peacefully. “Because I can’t get enough of you.” A beat. “Because I love you,” he confesses, voice shaking with conviction.

A quiet sigh is his only response, and Oliver presses a kiss to Elio’s temple in order to hide the tell-tale quiver of his lips.

The words, he knows, are wholly inadequate for the depth of longing contained within. 

This isn’t love. 

It’s so much more. 

But the truth is a bitter pill to swallow, and if three broken syllables are all he has to offer he repeats them verbatim, already bracing for the coal-black storm clouds that gather up ahead. 

Prompt: Love confessions/things left unsaid. (To a conscious set of ears, anyway...)

[theinnerunderrain]

The Doctor's Envy [Yan!Dottore x Saintess!Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, religious themes, non-consensual touching, mentions of experiments and medical interests, brief description of blood and injury.

Word count: 1.8k+

-

“This is always the way envy works. It never starts with the object of envy. It starts with a shake of the fist at the skies, a frustration with the gods, a deep feeling of injustice. Why has God not given me what I want, I need, I deserve?" Genesis 4:1-16

Dottore never regarded himself as being an avid devotee towards the Deities, or at least not the benevolent Gods that worshippers commonly describe in an attempt to entice someone to embrace their small religious community, a way to manipulate and maneuver their new little member. It's even laughable considering they operated almost like an occult, simply a high-end one with the support of the Tsaritsa.

If God truly cared for his subjects, then why was he willing to abandon them in the most difficult times of their lives? Through wars and battles, God never blinked at the eye of those who died within the field. Not even once at the innocent lives lost within the chaos.

Yet, he couldn't resist but just let himself meander aimlessly through the garden of the cathedral, wondering if Pantalone was the one in charge of budgeting such a lavish courtyard. He was to blame for his blunder since he was curious and desired to see the Saintess that Capitano passionately adored. Indulging in such meaningless philosophy and romanticising a creature other than himself, he intended to demonstrate to himself that Capitano was nothing more than a simple fool. Then again, he supposed all the Harbingers were nothing but babbling fouls that were ambitious for the wrong paths. But perhaps it's better to dream than rather not dream at all.

Yet, he was disproved by his own convictions.

Dottore had only seen a brief glimpse of the enormous portrait of you that was displayed in the Tsaritsa palace and had only overheard such brief descriptions of your beauty. Many would describe you as a beautiful entity, capable of even out shining God's favourite angel, although he wouldn't be surprised if God's true treasure was actually you.

But he instantly recognized that it was you who was lounging on the marble bench and basking in the warm sunlight. He shifted against the column, obscuring his silhouette from your hindsight. Your eyes were sealed, your eyelids were veiled in thick lashes, and your lips were stained with a reddish colour, curved into a small smile. He would presume that you were praying since your gloved fingers were clasped together, positioned right under your chin.

Even though Dottore has inevitably never encountered an angel in person, he was convinced that you would be a true representation of a heavenly deity, an angel in disguise that freely roams the surface of the earth.

Your physique was so brilliant and lovely that he swore he could have seen white light emanating from it, surrounding the air around you with divine power.

When Capitano's voice could be heard pleading with you to return because it was growing late, his astonishment was swiftly dispelled. It was just five minutes after eight; even a child would grumble about just how early it was, so perhaps the Captain was indeed insane. And yet, seeming unworried, you did nothing but get up from your bench and make your way to the cathedral's entrance.

Such a subservient creature.

Dottore felt a sense of resentment toward the rest of his co-workers for attaining something he wanted but had yet to achieve. Despite the fact that he had only received a brief glance of you, he was aware of how much he desired you.

No, maybe desire isn't the right choice of word.

He was merely curious, an aching curiosity to see what the color of your blood may be. Or if your body was truly constructed of internal organs like the rest of humanity, or if your insides were nothing but a hollowed shell similar to that of the Balladeer's?

His desire to comprehend your truths was being swallowed by the hunger that was gradually gnawing away at his mind. The aching to strap you down onto an examination table, and slowly unravel all of your mystery.

He was eager to know what makes you squirm.

He longed to see the Divine nature of your capabilities, wanted to know how exactly you were able to heal with some precise control.

He desire to study them all.

Your voice.

Your skin.

Your hair.

All of you.

-

The white dove sprawled still upon the grass, its wings frantically fluttering in a desperate attempt to breathe. One of its wings was punctured by a sharp arrow that ripped through its flesh severely enough for the arrow to be visible on the other side of the flap. Its wound erupted with blood, staining its white feather red.

You nearly acknowledged the bird was beautiful despite its torturous demeanor. It reminded you of a fallen anger that has been shot down by an archer, now lying helplessly within the field of baffle. The palms of your hands smack against each other, jolting you out of your reverie and reminding you that treating the bird is your primary concern. You can't blindly gawk at it and expect it to heal itself.

"I'm sorry about this."

You whispered before extracting the arrow from its wings, leading it to howl in anguish. You slowly extended your hands in front of you, drawing them close to the bird. You shut your ears and muttered a few silent prayers before directing the elemental power to flow through your palm, a brilliant blue light shining as the bird's wound started to mend. The bird's injured wing started to flap after you withdrew your hand from it. This time, relief overcame the agony. You carefully picked up the bird, lifted it into the air, and threw it, marveling as it soared into the air, flapping its wings with obvious excitement.

"The bird was already condemned to perish, why bother saving it?"

Startled, you spun around at the new source of voice, catching a glimpse of a rather tall man with blue hair and a large beak mask that concealed his pale face. The only visible portion of his face were his lips, pressed in a small smile as if he had been observing you for quite some time.

You've certainly never seen him before.

"All lives are precious. We must feel obligated to help those in need even if their expiry date is near."

As you spoke, you raised yourself off the ground and brushed your hands against your knees in an attempt to wipe off the dirt. Your white dress is encrusted with dirt, and you fully anticipate Capitano giving you a heavy scolding when you return sporting a dirty dress after all the effort the Sisters went through to mend together a dress.

"Though I beg to differ, that is a perspective worth considering."

As he neared, you could glimpse more of the man's mask after he had finished responding and had begun to steadily approach you. He was wearing a mask that was somewhat reminiscent of the plague doctors you may well have read about in history books. Perhaps seeing him was an omnious sign to your fate. Although within one of his palms, he held a bow, a hunting bow it seemed. Hunting was prominent within the Cathedral's grounds. You couldn't help it but wonder if the man was the sole reason for the bird's injury.

It was a rather foreboding treat to the eyes, you couldn't even peer into his eyes since they were strictly concealed.

"On top of that, it appeared as though you were having a blast peering at the bloodied bird."

Your hands shot up to your face as soon as he said those words, your fingers stroking your lips to see if you were actually grinning, but your lips were merely curved in a rather neutral stance. Were you really smiling?

"Ah, my apologies. I was simply making a bad joke."

The man laughs at your terrified expression, thoroughly enjoying the way your face briefly altered to one of terror before it was immediately covered up by that facade you always wore. It was rather fascinating to see you switch up so fast, and he even wondered if your personality had always been like that. Or if it was a result of your journey within the capital?

A calm, smiling expression.

You cough somewhat uncomfortably, trying to cover up your prior failure at self-retention. Dottore wasn't exaggerating when he stated to have seen the way your lips flickered into a faint smile as you gazed at the bird, even though it seemed to be an accidental reflex. He didn't want to utterly humiliate you at the first meeting, so he opted to remain silent. Nevertheless, given your status as a Saintess, it was a somewhat surprising attitude. It was surprising to see that a Saintess like yourself has a few loose screws within your head , although you don't seem to be aware of it.

He didn't expect you to be somewhat twisted, perhaps it's a change of characteristics due to your time spent within the capital? Or was it Capitano's torment? Was it the effect of lingering around Columbina? Perhaps even Childe?

He wouldn't be so surprised considering how humans change so fast, like a river streaming down a cliff, unconscious but still a change. He supposed that your personality had to eventually shift if your need for survival was prominent.

"What brings you here today, Doctor?"

Ah, so you can guess that he works in that field; you probably picked it up from his mask.

What an observant being.

Dottore leans into you unexpectedly as he watches you stagger back in disbelief at his sudden action. He stretched out to grasp a thread of your hair with gloved hands, fumbling with the tiny hairs as if he were attempting to feel their general texture, rather soft he must admit. Dottore kissed a small section of your hair before you had a chance to react and push his hands away. You could then see his long tongue quickly swoop through his lips and as if to taste a small portion of your hair, leaving a small stain of saliva to stick to your hair. With a smear of blossom crimson on your cheeks, you hurriedly slammed your hands into his chest and shoved him aside leading him to tumble back, but not enough to hit the ground or anything.

How endearing.

A tiny scowl formed on your lips, and you inhaled deeply as the façade you once maintained started to disappear from your face as fury started to take over. His laughter simply made you angrier, and you turned to leave when you overheard it, ready to report him to Capitano, but his voice managed to stop you.

"I apologise, my dear. Actually, I'm here to assist you with a physical examination, by the order of the Tsaritsa."

A medical examination? Given that everyone was aware of the conflicts between spiritual healing and scientific medicine, that doesn't seem like it would be very courteous of the Tsaritsa. They are both incredibly distinct from one another and very proud of their individual accomplishments. You've never thought a doctor from that sort of sanction would even step foot within the cathedral unless they absolutely had to.

The person standing in front of you, however, disproves that assertion given that he was inside the Cathedral and was conversing with a prominent figure within its walls. He had a rather careless attitude as it seems like he doesn't care much for the Cathedral's rules or the respect for one's privacy.

"I'll now give my formal introduction."

He remarked, extending his hand between the two of you, gesturing for you to take it. You hesitated accepting it because you didn't want any involvement with this strange man. Your regular schooling at the cathedral, though, compels you to take his hands and press your palm into his, before he raises them to his brow. He clasped your hands as though he were praying, and you had a feeling that it wasn't something he did on a daily basis. As if he was mocking your entire being, laughing at your pitiful soul. Although his eyes were concealed by the mask, you could practically feel them scorching through the piece of metal, burning into your skull as he peers up at you with a mischievous smile.

"To the Fatui Harbingers, I am referred to as il Dottore, the doctor. I consider it a privilege to become acquainted with you."

Jealousy is both reasonable and belongs to reasonable men, while envy is base and belongs to the base, for the one makes himself get good things by jealousy, while the other does not allow his neighbour to have them through envy (Aristotle).

[mouseline-cowgirl]

The Order of the Epiphany VS The Farsight Enclave

The cathedral dressed in somber tones, upholding Sister Serena on its balcony, awaiting for the heretic xenos to show up. It was her first day as an Imagifier, ascended by her sisters even though her young age, blessed with the most peaceful voice of them all.

The doors of the cathedral opens, letting the majestic rhino and the heavily armed Sisters to march into battle. Sister Serena gets into the tank, leading the Sacresants, doubting her own worth, but with blind faith towards the Order and the Emperor.

The silent prayers, muffled by the steady growling of the tank, accompanied the Sisters inside, as they adventured into an alleway, unaware of the silent xenos that awaited them.

And suddenly, like the shadow of a ghost, the infamous Farsight himself jumped in front of them. He defiantly unsheated his heretical sword, trying to intimidate the Sisters. And soon enough, a rain of missiles and ashes striked the rhino that witheld the faithful. They prayed fevorously, knowing that their demise wasn't destined to be inside that tank, and as if the Emperor himself were shielding them, they survived the infinite missiles of the xenos. But Farsight, the "Hero" of the xenos, wasn't done yet.

He stormed towards the rhino and it was torn to pieces. The burning scraps of it flew away against the cathedral, as Sister Serena chanted peacefully to rally her Sisters, preparing for battle. They stood toe to toe against Farsight himself, but even with the shield of the Emperor and his eternal gaze upon them, they couldn't hold for very long. Farsight slaughtered the Sisters, one by one. Sister Cassiopea stood between the blade and Sister Anarchia to save her, while she dealt a deadly blow to one of the suits. As Sister Fidegna headshotted the last suit, she was impaled by the heretical runed sword...

And only Serena stood alive after that. Just the "Hero" and the Martyr. And she couldn't fight in those circumstances. Her whole equipment was the Imagifier, carrying the charred skulls of the Saints, but even against those odds, she stood firm against him. The survivors of the retributor squad, who were awaiting near the cathedral walls, could just watch as the events went on. Farsight, the "defender of the greater good", was about to murder an innocent child, a beautiful soul with the most peaceful voice of the Order. She chanted. She sang soft words of encouragement, not anger. She followed the path of the Sacred Rose, embracing the love for her Sisters more than the hatred for the xenos, as she was brutally decapitated by the xeno.

After her demise, Farsight assumed that the rest of the Sisters would retire from the battlefield. It would be the "smart move", the "logical" even, so he flew away from the crime scene, to jump back in front of the cathedral, assuming that the field was conquered.

But Sister Helestia and Sister Olivosa, who saw everything from the distance, were not going home that day. Farsight was caught by surprise. This reckless move, this "ilogical" and "unoptimal" move on the Sororitas behalf was his last mistake.

They only had to strike true once, to actually penetrate that wicked armor of him (that was already damaged by the martyr sacresants), and their righteous conviction made them unhesitant towards the adversities. A rain of grenades fell from the sky. Farsight did his best to fall back, but it was too late. The skies opened sightly to blind him with a beam of light, as the Emperor gazed down on them, and the xeno blew to pieces for his crimes.

[illbewritinghere]

Thoughts on Indika

I love media with themes of nuns, I remember watching Sister Death with my wife and enjoying it. I have to say I picked up Indika just by looking at the cover art, I had no prior knowledge about the game. Looking at the trailer I assumed it to a Monty Python-esque escapades of a Nun. It is, but it is so much more than that.

The Story (spoilers)

The story takes place in 19th to early 20th century Russia and is about a girl named Indika. She lived with her father who ran a bike shop. When she was 15 she met a gypsy boy, they became friends and soon they fell in love. The boy asked Indika to run away with her to the city where they can start a new life. Indika reluctantly agreed and the boy convinced her to let him steal money from her father's store. However, the boy gets caught stealing by the father. He drags him out of the store in front of Indika and asks her if she knows the boy. Indika was just a child and seemed to be scared of her burly and mean looking father, out of fright she said she didn't know him and her father shot and killed the boy right infrot of Indika.

This snapped something in her. Watching the love of her life killed in front of her own eyes by her father. She felt tremendous guilt, maybe if she had said she knows the boy her father would not have killed the boy. She did not want to accept her fault and blamed it on the devil. Ever since then, she started to hear the devil in her head, and blamed every bad thing she did on the devil. Her father after realizing this, sent her to a Nunnery to become a nun.

Fast forward maybe ten years later, the game starts with Indika performing the everyday chores of a Nun. She is disliked among her peers even though she is very polite to everyone. Probably because the orthodox people she is around do not like the fact that she has the devil residing inside her head.

One day she was tasked with delivering a letter for which she had to travel to another town. Things take turn for the worse however when Indika was cornered by a person who tried to rape her. Fortunately she was saved by an escaped convict, Illya. She felt indebted and helped Illya escape the authorities.

On her journey, she finds out Illya has a decomposing arm which he refuses to amputate. Illya is a religious man and he believes that in a farway land there is a rumor of something called the Kudets which performs miracles in front of your very own eyes. Indika decided to follow him to find the Kudets because she believes that it could also help her rid the devil from inside her.

Through out her journey, we get to see the human side of Indika, she seems to question her faith while still blindly following it, she shows sexual attraction towards Illya but still abstaining from it. Every time she would think of questioning her faith, we'll hear the devil talking and Indika would shut the voice up by conforming to her beliefs.

Things took an unfortunate turn however when the decomposing arm of Illya got progressively worse and Indika had to cut it off to save him. Once Illya realized that Indika cut his arm off, he was furious and decided to go find the Kudets alone. He believed he was special and the Kudets would allow God to perform a miracle and heal his arm. Because of this he thought Indika was jealous and did not want him to witness the miracle, even though she only tried to save his life.

They eventually reunited and finally managed to find the Kudets. It was a jeweled crown in a cathedral. The priest would not let them near it and in a scuffle he was shot and killed by one of his own guards. Illya ran away with the Kudets and Indika was captured by one of the guards.

She was taken to the gallows where was going to hanged for the murder of a priest. In an effort to save herself she decided to pay the jailer for her release with a sexual favor. When she was getting raped she spoke to the devil in her head who made her realize that god and the devil are only with her own mind, one cannot exist without the other. She managed to trap the jailer by throwing a cupboard on top of him and escape.

In the finale she reunites with Illya who seemed to have been wandering the streets as a lost cause. He sold the Kudets to a pawn shop as it did not perform a miracle. Indika visited the pawn shop and prayed to the Kudets herself in a effort to rid her of the devil but by that time she had already realized that it was all in her head. At the end when she looked at the mirror, she did not see the devil, rather she saw her own reflection.

Thoughts

Indika tells the story a young girl who did not have a direction in life. Just like every child she was not religious but was made to be one. She suffered from schizophrenia but people made her believe it was the devil whispering to her. Throughout her journey there were many events which made her question her faith but she never strayed from her path as she wanted to be a good nun. In the finale, when she stops seeing herself as the devil in her own reflection, the game leaves it for the player to determine if the Kudets actually rid her of the devil, or she realized that it's all a charade and stopped having faith.

[mariacallous]

Georgian woman ordered detained for defacing Stalin icon in Tbilisi

Feb 2 (Reuters) - A court in Georgia has ordered five days' detention for a woman who defaced a religious icon depicting Soviet leader Josef Stalin, an act which ignited large protests last month in the capital Tbilisi, her lawyers said.

The Georgian Young Lawyers' Association confirmed in an email to Reuters that Natalia Peradze, also known as Nata, was convicted on Friday of petty hooliganism.

A thousands-strong protest erupted in mid-January to demand harsh punishment for Peradze, who was accused of splashing blue paint onto an icon on display in Tbilisi's Holy Trinity Cathedral in an act of protest.

A side panel of the icon includes a depiction of the Georgian-born Stalin - an avowed atheist who violently repressed religion across the Soviet Union - being blessed by St Matrona of Moscow, a Russian Orthodox saint, during World War Two.

The icon was subsequently removed from the church following the controversy, Georgian media reported.

Peradze's lawyers added that they had requested a temporary measure of protection last week due to numerous death threats against her.

"After pouring paint on an icon depicting Stalin, Natalia Peradze's life and health were threatened, as she received numerous threatening messages on social networks and violent groups were mobilized near her residence," Veriko Jgerenaia of the Georgian Young Lawyers' Association said.

Orthodox Church activists and believers as well as far-right groups have agitated for Peradze to be subject to further criminal investigation for what they say was an act that insulted the icon and their beliefs.

[kiri-tired]

Art by: えむたろ(EmuTaro) / Emtr-san

Twitter: @emtr_san || Pixiv: user842010 (emu) ||

Art source:

https://mobile.twitter.com/emtr_san/status/1423960268971802628

[brumeraven]

🪫: The Chains That Bind || angels, burnout, commoditization, dehumanization, exhaustion, I know that SCRAM is probably a backronym but it's so stupid I love it

"So, uhh..."

Shit, only three days. Knew I shouldn't have picked four in the pool... At least I didn't go with "Never," like Gloria from HR. Bitch should know better; they always, always ask. Might be a day, might be a week, but they always bring it up.

"You ever, uh, think about what exactly we're doing here?"

There it was. The million dollar question. Suppose that number should be revised well-upwards, honestly, power prices being what they were these days, but I couldn't be arsed to keep up with the current budget...

"Like, with that thing in there, ya know?" He gestured vaguely past the consoles before us towards the observation slit, as if there could be any doubt what he meant. Wasn't anything else to talk about around here, least of all the drab beige plastic that comprised every surface.

"Notice you haven't taken a peek yet, rookie. Superstitious much?" I kept my voice light, despite the lance of hot rage that pierced my breast. Close to a decade of experience meant I'd had practice enough at controlling Extrinsics.

"No! Just, I mean..." With a sigh, he stood and leaned forward to look, pressing forward with a near-reverent hesitance. I'd have to keep an eye on that. That spoke of assumptions, and assumptions lead to sloppy work.

I didn't need to look. Already knew what he was staring at.

And if I hadn't, well, it was painted on his face, plain as daylight. 4 solid inches of recycled cathedral glass lessened the intensity to something just-shy of blinding, but compared to the anemic fluorescence of the control room, he might as well have been staring at the sun.

"....hm." It was a disappointed sort of non-committal noise.

"Not what you expected?" Of course it wasn't, not on this side of the shielding. Anyone too sensitive would never have been allowed this close.

"It's...bright?" Disappointment, and the desire for confirmation.

"It's a toroidal cloud of plasma. What the hell did you expect?" Part of the ritual, this was. Debase, demean, lessen. Pinion its wings with the materialistic, the rational, the objective, the familiar.

I knew what he meant, but that part...that part was buried just out sight.

If a few hundred tons of concrete, ten of graphite, and a cell of industrial diamond could be called "just out of sight." Only been down there once; creeped me out when my clothes changed color. Tiny changes, but you never knew what tiny change in your genes would become cancer.

"Yeah, I, uh, can see. I guess I expected-"

"Arms, legs, wings? Some white robes? Maybe a harp or trumpet?" The first bit was true, at least sometimes. Music was a bad idea though. "It's not a person. It's a machine. A thing that was made to do a job. A car, not a yoked horse."

"Aren't you ...afraid though?"

"Afraid? Hell yes I am." That much was no lie. "I'm afraid my coffee is gonna become decaf in between sips, or my bra won't match my shirt, or some other Slip is gonna fuck up my perfectly good day answering your stupid questions." Easy, steady...

Woof. That was a pained look if I'd ever seen one. Fine, he needed more reassurance than that... "Look, of course I worry. Even without hypocertainty effects, there are ten thousand things that could go wrong here. And our job is to make sure they don't, okay?"

"Okay...but-"

"Look, keep your eyes on the gauges and the protocols in mind. Long as shit's all green, s'all good, yeah? Been here 11 years; most of the time when the alarms go off, it's just brumeraven buildup. We wet vent it out through the filters and someone gets a flat tire or something."

He nodded, if not with much conviction. "What's, uh, what's the worst that could happen?"

Fuck, where in the hell did they even find this guy?

Fine, if he wanted it... "Worst case, the Void coefficient inverts and goes positive. We end up with a criticality incursion, have to cut the outflows and you..." I leaned over to prod his arm for emphasis. "...you get to take ice cream and stuffed animals downstairs for it."

Well, that got a nervous giggle and a minute of silence. Probably for the best he thought it a joke for the moment. I waited, then, waited for the question he still hadn't asked, the one I knew was coming.

"But what...what if it breaks loose? What if it gets out?"

Bingo. It wouldn't. It couldn't. "It won't. It can't. Besides, that's my job." I tapped the badge clipped to my shirt, right on the crisp, serifed capital letters: SCRMNT. Safety Containment Responsibility Manager/Neutralization Technician. Corporate did love their acronyms...

"I mean, sure, no offense, but what exactly are you gonna do against that thing in there, if it breaks the control bonds?"

Ahhh, and there it was, the root of the misunderstanding. He still thought this was a prison of concrete and rebar, copper and steel.

"You don't understand. All this concrete and shit? That's all just shielding for our benefit. And for the power converters and all that. It's free to leave; not like we could stop it. But if she goes, whole power grid goes down."

It. Fuck.

"I don't understand. Why...?"

"Please, with all the hospitals and homes and hotels that depend on us?"

"..."

"You want to know how you keep an angel bound?"

The question hung in the air as I felt the hairs on my arm prick, and a fleeting sense of sorrow not my own slunk into my heart.

He nodded, waiting.

I smiled slowly.

"Responsibilities."

~🪫

[aspiringsophrosyne]

A Sailor And a Gentleman: Critical Role Campaign 2 And The Misguided Urge to Run.

I'm planning on some in-depth Campaign 2 talk in anticipation of the animated series, but you can only do it in pieces.

Because Campaign 2 of Critical Role, three quarters by accident and a quarter by design, is a beautifully and surprisingly thematically consistent story.

For now, let's look at one of the themes that comes up consistently throughout the Mighty Nein's story that's easy to miss. And that is members of the Nein being tempted to or preparing to run from the group despite either wanting to stay or it being worse for them if they leave.

Spoilers for all of Campaign 2 abound.

Yasha

Now, Yasha is a unique case; she was absent so often mainly due to Ashley's regrettably inconsistent presence at the table. However, intentions are not the focus here. Today we're talking about results. And honestly, how amazing the results became, all considering.

Intentional or not, the theme is more prevalent for Yasha than for some of the others. Before the confrontation at the Cathedral, Yasha flits in and out of the Nein's adventure. She leaves. She comes back. She leaves again. And we can infer that she was also like this when she was with the circus. Molly certainly never seems surprised when she disappears or reappears. But when she's consistently a part of the group, her past is finally confronted and eventually overcome, to the point where she can ultimately start to heal from it. And even fall in love again. 

Caleb

In Caleb's story, this is as prevalent a theme as it is in Yasha's, if not more so. Hobo wizard's ready to run from almost the word go. And given his backstory, that's not surprising. Liam makes it obvious for us at home; shortly before the battle of Glory Run changes everything, Caleb spends his watch talking to himself, trying to psych himself up to leave. Telling himself that no one in the group can help him, and even if opening up to Beau and Nott wasn't a mistake, it won't do anything for him in the long run.

Caleb ultimately decides to stay. Not only that, but it's in traveling with the Nein that he begins to heal, to do good, and to walk towards a kind of redemption. By the end of the story, Caleb is one of the fiercest advocates for the Nein, for the love they have found between themselves, and for their finally becoming nine. And even if it came from a place of practicality (Liam has spoken on Talks Machina about the moment Caleb shared with Essek where the latter was revealed to be a traitor as, if nothing else, an effort to keep a lid on anything that would interfere with the peace talks the Nein were trying to facilitate) Caleb's compassion for Essek inspired him to become a better man than he had been. Which directly leads to his assisting the Nein in saving Exandria.

Beau

In contrast, Beau is less flighty than either Yasha or Caleb and is notably one of the biggest supporters of staying together from the get-go. Her stubborn and unwavering conviction in rescuing Jester, Fjord, and Yasha, alongside her honest and touching eulogy for Mollymauk, goes a long way toward rallying the group to its reunification. She's notable in that, despite her prickly and near-constant cynical attitude, she was one of the few members of the Nein who seemed to enjoy being a part of the group from the start.

Then came her (to quote Matt) asshole dad. And Isharnei.

Even before any other options were brought up with her or considered, Beau offered to walk away from the Nein. She offered to give up the place where she finally felt loved and appreciated: where Beau felt like she belonged. And she did this partially (as Beau makes clear later and Marisha talks about between episodes) because she expected to eventually lose it. Nothing good could last. Because for her, nothing good ever had.

Nott

This is a less obvious and clear-cut case because Nott's abandoning her family was less of a willing choice. She didn't want to leave and always planned to return to her family. Just, hopefully, as herself.

That said, until the Nein were called upon to rescue her husband, Nott was planning to keep her distance. To limit her direct contact with her family for fear of drawing danger to them or being rejected by them. 

Only to discover that her family would've accepted her as she was.

Fjord

Travis has said on the Wrap Up and Talks that Fjord would repeatedly consider running off and unlocking those seals or if Avantika had gotten away with the Cloven Crystal, split from the group to chase after her. Interestingly enough, if he had left for either of those reasons, he would've been the second sailor who left a Lavorre woman named after a corundum, to both his and her detriment. 

Molly

Taliesin has said on Talks that Molly had considered robbing everybody and making a break for it. He was a carnie swindler, after all.

(Although it's interesting to consider deeper character reasons for this. See also: Kingsley stealing a ship the Nein totally would've given him and sailing off into the sunset.) 

And it's not just the Nein. Let's look at Beau's and Jester's dads.

The Gentleman

Jester's father fell in love with the famed Ruby of the Sea and considered himself not good enough for her. To remedy that, he left her, hoping to make himself a better man on the sea. To eventually return, worthy of her affections.

That is, tragically, not how things worked out.

And while Jester's mother and father have reunited and reconciled, it would've saved Jester and her parents a lot of heartache and time if Babenon Dosal had stayed despite his misgivings. If he had, he would've escaped the life of the Gentleman. And not only that, he would've been loved by two damn fine women. He would've gotten to raise his daughter.

Thoreau Lionett

Beau's father's story is eerily similar. Instead of courting Beau's mother as he was, in order to secure her love, he went to Isharnei to seek guidance. And yes, she gave him advice that made him his fortune. But she left him with a prophecy that would lead to years of misery for the rest of his family. If not for him as well. So much of the Lionett family's unhappiness could've been avoided had Thoreau pursued Clara regardless of his status or finances.

And you can even make an argument for Caduceus' family.

The Clays

You could say the Clays' leaving to restore the wood (or at least the way they went about it; individually or in pairs) was a bad idea. Not only did it prove fruitless in the intervening years, and not only did it put them in a position where they could've been destroyed beyond hope of revival, but it left Cad on his own for a decade, with no way of getting help for them or for himself. 

These are just examples off the top of my head, but taking all this together, you could argue that one incidental moral of the Mighty Nein's story is: don't try to handle your trauma alone. Don't try to handle your burdens all by yourself. Don't run off because you think you don't deserve help, you do. People are better and can be better when they work together.

And also the Critical Role table is better when everybody is sitting at it playing together.

[vaexna]

hello everyone . i've been wanting to draw so so so bad but the end of the semester is next week for me and as the dumb college student i am, i decided to cram everything into my brain last minute... so here we are.

but!!! instead, here something i've written !! it's very much about zane and religion because uhhhhhh yeah :D

disclaimer: i didn't proofread. i'm too busy lazy to. thank u for coming to my ted talk <3 if it sounds dumb it's because i'm dumb . it's 1am, and i had the very aggressive urge to write about this dude so here we are, and uhhh my bad LOL

— under the cut ☆ (mwahaha I FIGURED OUT HOW TO DO THIS!!)

If there's one thing he could stand by, without doubt or fleeting conviction, it's the fact that he's seen it all. Pyres and caskets, offerings and tombstones. He's been to small churches in the back of tight-knit towns, made of wood and the faith of believers. And he's been to massive cathedrals in the heart of vast kingdoms, intricately made of limestone and the blood of overworked architects that'll die without an ounce of recognition.

He's seen homes fall and villages rise. He's seen sinners look to him for help, or for the idea that they'll be saved if they begged hard enough. He's seen believers wearing their hearts on their sleeves, a bigger evil looming over their shoulders, their hopeful smiles bright as they greet him.

Sinners disguised as saints. Saints broken down by sinners. People who claim to be neutral, others who don't hold faith in their hearts anymore, some who couldn't find faith no matter how hard they tried or wanted to.

As the High Priest of O'khasis, he's seen just about everything. And after so many years of the light shining in his favor, the line between good and evil blurred in his eyes. Some days, he'll find himself teetering back and forth, trying to figure out if there's meaning to being such a high-standing man in a world where bloodshed is just another means to get by.

Love and hate, sin and faith, matrons and destroyers, what good is any of it when death is not an 'if' but 'when'? He knew life and death like he knew the back of his hand, it surrounded him in all of its glorious forms. He's seen it in his brothers, along with his mother's anguish. In the baptisms and weddings he's been invited to perform, with the death of the past and the birth of better days.

Oh, he's seen it all.

So on rainy days like this, it always came back to the question: Was it worth it? Was it worth the grievances and the anger? The sacrifices and the pain? He's made it this far, something ought to come out of this. Not even his brothers, Irene bless their souls, could reach the heights he's towered over.

Yes, of course, there had to be something at the end of this. It just wasn't time yet— No, the better days he was promised since the dawn of time, since the blessings of his birth, it'll all come soon. Or, one day at least.

It couldn't all be in vain. The lives he reaped couldn't be in vain, the paths he destroyed could not have all been in vain. His name would be remembered forever, a mark in history, he had to be something more. Regret and guilt were things he could overlook for the sake of the man he'll be in the future.

He knew relying on hope wasn't a Ro'meave custom, though. That's why he did what he did — his father taught him that if he wanted something, he had to get it himself. And if someone were to ask, "Zane, what do you want?"

His answer would've been long and descriptive at first. Something that of world peace, or blessings given by Irene herself. But these days, he preferred something much more simple.

"Power."

He's lived and learned.

When the light that shone through carefully colored mosaics kissed his skin, he was sure there had to be a God out there to gift the world such beauty. But when whispers passed around of a greater power lurked in the dimension of a long gone warrior, the idea of being a Godlike man himself tasted sweeter than whatever else he was promised in this lifetime.

The line between good and evil was nonexistent to him—he took advantage of both just to get what he desired. What he deserved. He was a self-proclaimed epiphany, and amongst normal men, Zane Ro'meave was both life and death.

Was it worth it?

After all of this effort, he made sure it was.

— ★

ps. would u guys be interested in both art & writing of mine,,,, i do snippets like these in my free time (when i procrastinate) so like i'd be down to show 'em off if u guys are cool with it...

also one of the paragraphs is like weird in here idk it kept getting deleted so i kept having to rewrite it bc it was too good to scrap and i. just gave up. the text is different for that singular paragraph.

ok thanks for reading this im going to bed goodbye goodnight

[under-the-eye]

You won’t believe it– Adam and Penny are courting!

Damien, the boy from the Revival, came out from Willow Creek to ask about Penny. At first we were hesitant, seeing as his family are Sclerans, and we believe that Penny will require a strong, firm hand to guide, but he explained to us that as he’s gotten to know Penny, she has explained our beliefs to him, and he feels convicted to join the Irisite church! 

Johnathan and I were overjoyed. We’ve had our struggles with Penny in the past, especially with her accepting her role as a woman on the Watcher’s path, so we were so happy to hear that she’s been drawing people to the Gaze of the Watcher!

So we gave him our blessing, and to our delight, Penny was just as delighted as we are! Perhaps she has finally turned the corner in accepting who she is meant to be.

As I expected, Adam has begun courting Chastity Shearer. Since Isla and Zeke are engaged, the Shearers were glad to grant Adam permission to court their daughter, especially as he is such an example of Watcherful masculinity after being taught so well by Johnathan. We’re so happy for both of them! 

Meanwhile, wedding planning is going absolutely swimmingly. I took the girls to a wedding boutique on Magnolia Promenade. It’s run by a Scleran woman who caters to other Watcherful believers on the most important day of their lives– their wedding day.

Isla and Iris experimented with their hair and makeup until they found the exact look they wanted for their special days.

The shop carries many modest options for wedding gowns, thank the Watcher! So many wedding dresses these days follow the pattern of other worldly clothing, low quality and even lower standards! With the owner Catalina’s help, we found two gorgeous dresses for my girls.

Outside they even had an adorable little trailer flower shop where we bought their bouquets! I myself will make the wedding cakes.

Though it would make more sense age-wise to have Iris get married first, our home church had an opening sooner than the Windenburg Cathedral, where Iris wants to get married, and Isla is absolutely chomping at the bit to begin her married life. Luckily Zeke doesn’t mind her enthusiasm– in fact he seems enamored by the fact that she wants to pledge herself to him as quickly as possible. Watcher bless them!

Penny’s Secret Journal

Well, I’m finally courting. Damien from the revival said everything right, and my parents walked right into it. Isla and Iris will be getting married soon, but as soon as I’m 18 I’m going to start preparing for the eventual engagement. Hopefully mom and dad won’t fuss at me too much for my figure, but they probably will. I’ll play along, just enough so that they don’t suspect anything. 

The plan is working.