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m3lodyxo · 2 months

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Salvation for the damned

Priest!Sanji x fem!Reader smut

Minors, do not interact!!!

Author's note: This is my first smut, go easy on me. I'm not used to actually posting what I write. Ever since I saw @hunnismokah 's fanart of Sanji as a priest I haven't had a WINK of sleep. She has unleashed something feral into the world.

Warning: if you're uncomfortable with themes of religion, I'll advise you to scroll away.

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"What is troubling you, my child?"

Sanji fancied himself a man of God. From a young age, he knew his role in life was to serve The All Mighty and help lost souls find the right path again.

He gave an Oath, and swore his body, mind and soul to The Lord, in promise to never stray from the path of light. And Sanji was a man of his word. Hence why he was sure you were sent by the Judge Of All, to test his strength and devotion.

Oh, you were the most angelic being he had ever laid eyes upon. Or at least so he thought, because, in truth, he saw you as a temptation crafted by The Devil specifically to torture him. And as much as he prayed and kneeled before God, begging for expiation, you wouldn't leave. As hard as he cried out to the heavens for a chance to atone, his screams were never heard.

You would always creep into his dreams, where he was most vulnerable, and force him into sin. You were a foul succubus, the daughter of Satan, and you have come to ensure his fall.

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"Father, I must atone for these terrible sins I've committed against the Holy One."

He hadn't expected you to turn up so late, looking deeply troubled near the Church's entrance. He let you in without a second thought, and as soon as you reached the altar, you dropped down to your knees, your hands clasped together, looking up at him in desperation.

His face softened and he smiled ever so slightly. He was glad you finally decided to turn yourself over to The Light. Sanji lifted his hand over your head and spoke with firmness in his voice.

"Speak now child, lay yourself bare before The Lord and share your troubles. Pray that He may forgive you."

He felt closest to God during confessions. It was as if The All Mighty spoke through him, accepting the wrongs of those before him into his heart and engulfing them in pure holy light.

"I've been plagued by impure thoughts, Father. The sin of Lust and Desire has claimed me and shackled me in its repulsive hold and I have become its slave."

Through the silence, a shaky breath was all that could be heard. Sanji felt his body shudder and pool in a cold sweat, a chill running down his spine. His knees were so weak he thought he might keel over any moment now, had he not been holding Saint Patrick's Cross so tightly in his other hand.

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Sanji composed himself. Right now, he had to help this poor woman redeem herself before The Lord.

"Very good, my child. The first step to redemption is seeking out the forgiveness of God. Stand."

You did as you were told immediately, without asking a single question. Good. The expectant look in your eyes could melt the resolve of the most cold-hearted man, had you only wished to do so.

"For your heinous crimes, you shall face punishment, and you shall suffer, and you shall be freed. Now, are you ready to carry out God's task?"

Oh, that spark in your eyes. He could almost feel the devotion radiate off your body into zaps of energy. Almost. "I am ready, Father. I swear that I will do whatever it is The Lord asks of me."

Before you even finished speaking, he had already turned around and instructed you to follow him.

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Not before long, you found yourself in his private quarters. Just as you were about to question why, he called out to you, and you answered. Sanji was sat at the edge of his bed, looking up at you with a gentle smile adorning his face.

"Kneel, child."

You sank back to your knees, reaching out with your hands and hesitantly placing them atop his own, all while looking at him. He extended his hand to you and gently cupped your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

Breath caught in your throat, you dared not utter a word, lest all kinds of sinful thoughts escape through, in-between your teeth.

"Do you know what you must do?" You could feel his thumb brush across your plush lips and pull the bottom one down.

"Yes, Father."

Sanji felt your hands drag up his thighs and settle on the zipper of his pants. He held back a groan at the feeling of your hands on him, inhaling sharply once you pulled his cock out and sat up on your knees to press a featherlight kiss to the tip.

You licked your lips and pressed one more kiss to it before wrapping them around the head, sucking lightly. He let out a gasp and shut his eyes, basking in the way your perfect lips wrapped so well around the head of his dick. Sanji felt you pull away and opened his eyes only to see you spit on his cock and wrap a hand around to stroke him. Your palm so soft and gentle, your pace slow and sensual, easing him into the feeling of your skin pressed to his. He was trying so hard not to let out soft moans of pleasure as you touched him, your skin igniting a spark in him that ate away at his soul deliciously so.

He could feel sin seep through his skin and into his heart, pulling him away from all that he deemed right, enticing him to beg for more. But he couldn't allow it, couldn't allow to lose himself to such carnal desires.

His resolve, however, faltered the second you took him into your mouth again. Enveloping his cock in its warmth and continuing to stroke whatever you failed to fit with your hand. Sanji let out a whine, and pressed his palm to the back of your head, keeping you in place. You had long since closed your eyes, basking in the feeling of him filling up your mouth, making you imagine what it would feel like for him to bury himself deep inside you and claim you as his.

Oh, you've dreamed of him for so long. You knew it was wrong to want a man of God, selfish, to wish he'd devote himself to you instead. You'd stay awake at night, desperately pumping your fingers to feel even the slightest relief, but your body knew what it wanted. And it wanted it badly.

Whatever you did, you couldn't satisfy your hunger for the man, and tonight, after hopelessly trying to chaise you high for hours and failing miserably, you decided enough was enough. You had to have him.

Snapping back into the present, you moved your tongue against him, hearing him let out yet another sinful cry, tears threatening to spill over his eyes. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing. Sanji tugged on your hair, and a moan escaped your throat, making him mewl in ecstasy.

He could feel a knot begin to form, like a balloon ready to burst, so he pushed you away, panting.

You looked up at him, confused. Had he not enjoyed himself? Did he perhaps change his mind? Maybe he finally realised how wretched you were.

"Come, sit." You wasted no time in hastily removing your bottoms and straddling his lap. Sanji placed both his hands on your hips, pressing gentle kisses to your neck and collarbone. A sigh left his lips when he felt your fingers swiftly undoing his ponytail and running your fingers through his long, golden locks of hair.

You aligned yourself up with his cock and sank, taking him in inch by delicious inch, filling yourself. Once you finally fit him all inside, a breath of relief left you.

He was still pressed closely to your chest, holding you tightly and squeezing your hips as if you'd disappear should he let go. And his grip became tighter once you started moving. Sanji felt like he'd lose his mind by how tight, wet and warm your walls were, pulsating and squeezing around him and greedily sucking him in.

"Father...please." Your voice was so weak as if the wind was knocked out of you, leaving you gasping and craving for more. He groaned and tried to meet your hips with his, thrusting up into your cunt in chase of the pleasure engulfing him whole.

"Fuck, you feel so good my sweet." He was quickly losing himself in you. Breathing in your scent and feeling it fill up his lungs, it was almost as if his mind was spiralling into insanity.

"Call me by my name...Let me hear you say it." You could barely register what he was asking of you, too drunk on the feeling of the man you've been craving for so long finally giving you what you've been wanting.

"Sanji, please don't stop." A shameless whine interrupted you. You couldn't form coherent thoughts anymore. All you could think about was him and how good he was making you feel.

He just kissed your forehead and began fucking into you harder, hitting that special spot deep inside you every time. He knew you were close by the way you tightened so much around him, it was evident.

"I know darling, 'm close too. Fuck- Been dreaming about this pussy for months. Been dreaming of filling it up to the brim with my cum. Is that what you want love? For me to paint your insides white?"

All you could do was throw your head back and moan like an animal in heat, desperately moving your hips to chase that high.

"Use your words, sweetness. Tell me you want it." He didn't falter in his movements, keeping up the brutal pace and abusing your cunt, set on hearing you.

You locked your eyes with his, barely able to keep them open. "Want your cum Sanji, please give it to me. Want you to fill me up." He groaned, hearing you barely get out the words, too focused on the pleasure he was giving you.

"Since you asked so nicely, you better take it all." You could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as you tipped over the edge, his words alone making you lose your mind. You moaned out his name again and again, like a prayer and he felt that knot finally snap.

With a final thrust of his hips, Sanji came, spilling deep inside you, painting your walls white. You felt your insides warm up as you milked him of every last drop until he was spent.

With both of you panting, he gripped your face with one hand to make you face him again and asked. "What do you say now?"

"Thank you, Father."

#18+ mdni #priest sanji #priest sanji x reader #priest kink #x reader #one piece x reader #one piece sanji #one piece sanji x reader #sanji x reader #sanji x you #black leg sanji #sanji smut #sanji x reader smut #letting the voices win #awooga #deranged melody hours #idk what im doin lol #what is this

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therobotmonster · 3 months

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Chosen for What?

A short tale about chosen ones.

"There it is."

Johann's voice was barely a whisper but in the unnatural silence of the forest it might as well have been a shout. The knight took a step forward, oblivious to the crunch of his footsteps on the dry leaves or the sharp, almost metallic smell of the coming snow.

His focus was entirely upon the spear. It's shaft was made of white wood, polished so smooth he had mistaken it for marble, and the bronze spearhead was shaped like a elegantly stylized shark.

It was presently stuck within the ribcage of an obscenely oversized humanlike skeleton, which was itself entangled in the gnarled roots of a tree the size of a watchtower. The giant's bones were twice the size of a man's. More remarkably, they were made of pitted, rust-flecked iron.

Johann reached forward.

"HOLD!"

Johann froze. Even though the salvation of his people was mere inches away from his outstreched hand, he dared not ignore the voice behind him. He felt the wizard's hand grip him by the shoulder.

"You know it is not meant for you." Aldara said. She squeezed hard enough for Johann to feel it through his mail shirt. He remembered her saying that wizards aged only on the outside. He had no reason to doubt her on that point.

"And who is it for?" Johann hissed under his breath. "That scum?"

The scum in question was already walking toward the spear. Galen VonZent, the cutpurse and murderer. Galen VonZent, the spoiled, cruel son of a merchant house who killed his own father and nearly bought his way to freedom. Galen VonZent, who Alex 'sacrificed himself to save.'

"Galan, take the spear. You're ready." Aldara said, her voice heavy with the import of the moment. When Galan moved to obey, she slowly pulled Johann back away from the spear, step-by-step.

The tall, golden-haired man grabbed the spear with both hands, and began slowly pulling it free of the iron skeleton. To Johann's shock and disgust, the shark-shaped spearhead bent this way and that in a swaying motion, aiding in its release.

"The gods must be insane, or cruel beyond reasoning. If that beast is their chosen one."

"You aren't incorrect." The old woman chuckled. "But why say that now? Why not when we found him?"

"I had faith the gods had chosen well, that he'd grow into the role. But since we saved him from the gallows he has done nothing but confirm that he was right to be there. He has been cruel, selfish, cowardly, and petty at every turn." Johann's voice was a barely subdued growl. "And even if you do not believe me, he murdered Alex."

"I told you to give him a chance." Aldara said. Johann braced to be lectured about some hidden goodness or potential for redemption. "I'm glad you took my advice."

"What? You agree with me?" Johann gritted his teeth. "You should have let me at least try to pull the spear free. If he can do it, I certainly can!"

"Why is a prophecy like a worm on a line?"

"Again with your riddles! I don't know!" Johann barely managed to suppress a shout. "Is that why I am unworthy? A riddle?"

Aldara sighed. She smiled in that way that made Johann think of his grandmother, and his anger faltered. She spoke, clear and gentle. "Do you think the Gods would leave something this important up to chance?"

"Obviously not, that's why the prophecy-"

She squeezed again.

"Tell me, how do you ensure that a chosen hero isn't killed before they can save the world?"

Johann glanced back at Galan. The brute had managed to free the spear halfway, and was taking a self-congratulatory break. "Whisk him away as a child to be raised in safety? Assign a wizard to watch over him? Place other heroes along the path to help him?"

"So many moving parts." The wizard laughed. "The gods can try and play us like puppets, but free will is a wildcat in a burlap sack-"

"-you can take it wherever you want until the sack tears." Johann continued the adage. "And you'll get cut along the way regardless."

"The task gets no easier by adding more cats."

"Then how?" Johann asked, somewhere between sullen and frustrated.

"If you need to make sure only someone who is worthy can take the spear, you make the spear ensure that anyone who takes it-"

The wizard paused, a wide satisfied smile on her face. It was not the smile she had worn when they were joyously feasting with the elf-folk five days into the quest. It was the smile she had worn when she made Vorn the Destroyer's blood turn to water in his veins.

Johann's gaze was thusly occupied when the sound of Galan's sharp, anguished scream ripped through the air.

"-is worthy."

Johann turned slowly. As a knight he had heard enough death rattles and screams to know that he didn't want to witness the cause Galan's banshee-like shriek.

When he finally did turn fully, his gaze did not meet a horrifying eldritch mutilation as he expected. Instead, there stood Galan, holding the spear reverently with both hands.

Though nothing outward had changed, every aspect that Johann had found lacking was now plainly there in the lines of his face and posture of his body: compassion, thoughtfulness, maturity, competence, sincerity... even hope. Everything was there behind those eyes.

Everything except Galan VonZent.

#short story #mini-fiction #free will #chosen ones #fantasy story #drabble #tropes

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eroguron0nsense · 3 months

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Perhaps my brain isn't braining or I'm assigning undue significance to this but I kinda feel like One Piece seemed to shift more toward exploring what real familial love means or looks like after the timeskip? We get Ace's death, the postwar arc, and Luffy coming to the conclusion that despite having lost both of his brothers, he's still got the Straw Hats and he can move forward with his ragtag crew of siblings, Team Mom and Dad, and an eccentric skeleton Uncle, and then right after that, we get several arcs defined overwhelmingly by either the destruction or salvation of various families.

One of the main inciting incidents–if not the inciting incident–of all the political intrigue inherent to the Fishman Island arc is the assassination of Otohime and its ramifications for Shirahoshi and the entire Ryugu Kingdom (not to mention Luffy trying really fucking hard to imitate Ace and be a big brother to Shirahoshi and Surume as a means of processing his own loss).

Dressrossa's where we first see a true perversion of all the lovely found family tropes that have long been established in One Piece (villains have destroyed families but few if any are depicted as having one in the same way Luffy does; pre-time skip villains are more likely to be loners or self-interested tyrants and their followers aren't really referred to as "family"), giving us self fashioned patriarch in Doffy who completed the destruction of his bio family and spent the rest of his life building a grotesque, failed imitation of it through manipulating and indoctrinating a group of followers he doesn't truly care for, only to be brought down by a combination of his brother's final actions, the little boy Cora saved and loved, the bonds of the Riku family he brutalized, the brothers of the guy whose devil fruit he acquired and tried to entrap his enemies with, and an actual Found Family Crew who genuinely love each other and are willing to sacrifice for each other in a way Doffy cannot possibly understand.

The entirety of WCI involves almost every conceivable permutation of multiple families plotting against, exploiting, abusing, and defiantly loving each other, from Judge discarding any hope he ever had of having an actual family that could love him by literally stripping away their ability to do so in the name of facism/conquest, to Chiffon betraying her abusive mom for her loving husband and in-laws, to Linlin being failed by every parental figure in her life and constructing the most bizarre, fundamentally horrifying political/military structure out of her army of bio children.

Wano's main villain is also an abusive father and tyrannical crew leader, and that does, in fact, contribute to his eventual downfall, but more to the point, the arc opens and closes with the initial destruction and eventual restoration of the Kozuki family in Momo, Hiyori, and Sukiyaki, Luffy's kinship with Momo and Tama, circling back to reminders of Ace yet again (for the third arc so far) and Hiyori literally closing out the arc mirroring her father's catchphrase/dying words (and to a lesser extent, plot fuelled by the destruction of the Kurozumi clan). By the time we end what I personally consider to be Part 2 of One Piece, Luffy's family has picked up another uncle, he's been confronted repeatedly with the spectre of his brother and come out stronger for it (also filling the big brother role for multiple characters), he's reunited with Sabo, and has confronted and defeated multiple villains who act as the antithesis to everything One Piece has told us so far about the joy and love and unity that the Straw Hats and their friends and true families exemplify. And by the time he tells everyone his real dream and shares what he'd previously only told Ace, Sabo, and Shanks, it feels like we've finally gotten some closure for Marineford

#one piece #monkey d luffy #portgas d ace #marineford #donquixote doflamingo #straw hat pirates #kaido one piece #charlotte linlin #fishman island #flame emperor sabo

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franzkafkagf · 3 days

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Imagine you're a fifteen-year-old girl, your father is the second most powerful man in the realm, and your life is not your own. You're fifteen and your father sends you to the king's chambers to keep him company. He says that he wants to marry you now, you're fifteen and you closest friend's father wants to marry you. Your father wanted this for you so you wanted this for you.

You're thrust into the role of queen, and wife, and mother before you even really got to know yourself. So then you had three children before the age of twenty and you don't know how to love them properly. You don't even know how to love yourself properly. Your friend (or is it step-daughter now?) resents you for it and somehow you can't blame her. And you're so lonely and you don't know where to find somebody.

Your husband crumbles before your eyes. He never really cared about you that much, you know. He doesn't even care for your children that much. You feel misunderstood and used and weren't they what you wanted? What did I do wrong?

Your children, your precious children. You love them fiercely, of course you do, but sometimes you don't like them very much. They remind you too much of yourself, of the mistakes you've made, of the person you've become.

Your eldest son, the reason for it all. He's your curse, you know? And your salvation. And he is your son. You tell him he isn't yours, but as you say it your entire being is staring back at you.

Your daughter is a mystery you cannot solve, she slips through your fingers like water sometimes. You reach out to her, try to connect, but you never quite get to touch her.

Your son is maimed before your very eyes. You watch in horror as his father doesn't seem to care. Is anybody else seeing this? No one seems to care. Why isn't anyone doing something?

And your youngest, you barely know him (it's okay, he barely knows you too). Sometimes you wonder if he sees your face when he thinks of the word mother.

You're consumed by fear and resentment, you're practically drowning in it; no one seems to notice. There's blood on your hands, or is there? You question every decision, every action, wondering if it was all for naught.

You lost your youth, your decency, everything that made you you. All in an attempt to save your children; you lost your children, too.

You are Alicent Hightower.

#alicent hightower #yeah......#house of the dragon #olivia cooke #targtowers #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #daeron targaryen #hotd #asoiaf #hotd s2 #house of the dragon season 2 #ales.txt

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miyamiwu · 18 days

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On Kaiser’s Trauma

I’ve thought it over, and I think there’s really no way for Kaiser to awaken this match. Be it scoring a goal or getting one over Isagi, he is not winning. I don’t see it at all.

I’ve reviewed the previous character development arcs, and one thing Kaneshiro has been staunch about is that internal development comes first before external development:

Chigiri - Chigiri had to get over his fear of losing his old self by putting his leg at risk again before the narrative rewarded him with a goal.

Bachira - Bachira had to overcome his fear of being alone before being rewarded with, not a goal, but with a friend who met him where he was.

Barou - Barou had to experience his arrogance being crushed and overcome the subsequent resignation he felt before he could reclaim his role as “main character.”

Hiori - Hiori had to first come at peace with giving up soccer entirely—something he had been hesitant to do, even when it hurt him, because he didn’t know what else to do—before discovering what soccer really means to him.

Yukimiya - Yukimiya found salvation when Isagi saw him as he was desperately fighting for a chance while he could still see.

It’s a bit different for Isagi’s main rivals, though:

Nagi - Nagi got motivated to put in an effort because of Isagi -> Got stronger during Second Selection -> Went back to old habits just to beat Isagi once -> Regressing in the rest of the NEL arc

Rin - Rin had to stop seeking answers outside of himself -> Unleashed his true ego during the U20 match -> Subconsciously sought affirmation from Sae at the end of the match -> Felt rejected by Sae -> ??? (The current match against PxG is ongoing, so I don’t know how he is right now)

Nagi’s and Rin’s development arcs are not linear, and currently both are in the lower curves of their arcs. This is because they haven’t fully solved their internal problems. Until Nagi finds a reason to push himself outside of beating Isagi and until Rin gets over his brother issues, they can never fully grow.

Likewise, Kaiser, who is undoubtedly also a main rival, has to first fucking get therapy process his childhood trauma before he can truly awaken.

But trauma is not easy to overcome. In fact, you don’t even really “heal.” Kaiser “getting over it” in just one match is impossible. As such, I don’t see him winning. At least not now.

Isagi throwing Kaiser’s words back at him by calling him a “clown” has gotten some people to think that Kaiser’s awakening is imminent. After all, a similar thing had happened to Barou before when Isagi called him “donkey.”

But Kaiser is not Barou. Both may be arrogant, but one of them didn’t grow up under violence. And as I’ve said before, internal development comes first. Barou’s internal problems, compared to Kaiser’s, are much easier to resolve.

And unlike Barou’s, Kaiser’s problems are not confined within soccer. They seep into his every being and in all aspects of his life, as we can see in how he treats himself and others off the field.

To begin, let’s talk about what Kaiser thinks of himself:

Alternatively, Hoshi’s translation of Kaiser’s monologue goes like this:

These guys are “humans.” Different from me, they were born wanted “humans.”

Having been abandoned by his mother and growing up abused by his father, Kaiser’s sense of worth is so low that he thinks he was born without it—which is wrong. Everybody is born deserving to live.

But Kaiser thinks otherwise. He sees himself as not even human because nobody wanted him alive. Still, he has this strong desire to live—a desire that had first made itself known to him at this moment:

Right before this, he had looked so dead inside:

He didn’t flinch when the cops came to arrest him. He didn’t try to fight for the escape money he had stashed away. He was so passive and tired and helpless that he might as well be truly dead.

But at that moment his father was about to destroy his soccer ball? A fire lit up inside him. A fire so bright and strong that he got to beat seven cops while handcuffed.

That fire was the love he had for soccer. All his life he’d been in a passive position, but when he fought for what he love, the reins of his life got transferred into his hands.

And in that moment, Michael Kaiser, for once, was truly alive.

Now, he’s living his life in constant search of that fire—or “proof of his existence,” as he puts it.

However, Kaiser has misunderstood what that fire is. After all, how can he recognize love when he’s never been loved?

Only pain and violence are familiar. Thus, it is honestly no surprise when he misattributes “proof of existence” to “inflicting malice on others, living on inside them as a scar.”

For Kaiser to grow, he has to redefine “proof of existence.” How can his own existence depend on the number of people he defeats? That’s unhealthy. And as with Rin’s problem, it’s just seeking answers outside of himself.

But for Kaiser to even begin redefining it, he must first learn to recognize love for what it is.

Love was the fire that was lit inside him. He must go back to it. (Like how Bachira awakened by going back to how he used to play as a child.)

Love is also the main thing that sets Isagi apart from him—the former having been raised by loving parents and having companions sincere to him—so it’s crucial that he learns this if he wants to defeat Isagi.

How can he do this? With the way he was raised, I don’t think Kaiser can learn love on his own. He has to learn it from others. But before that, he must see himself as “human.” While he still views himself as “non-human,” Kaiser won’t be able to connect deeply with “humans” and welcome any love from them.

And this is the crux of his problem...

Kaiser has made attempts to be more “human,” but...

... he’s going about it so horribly wrong 😭😭😭

@galaxynajma also sent this question:

What do you think is the new reason for why kaiser does this every morning: His morning routine consists of: standing before the mirror naked, gazing at himself while having a conversation (to himself), getting into the mindset that nothing is impossible, and then smiling while thinking ‘this is me’. (Trivia from Blue Lock wiki)

“This is me” is Kaiser reaffirming to himself that he is becoming more “human” when he sets out to achieve the “impossible.”

How to be Human 101

Okay, fuck, to be completely honest, I have no idea! I didn’t expect to get this psychological while I was writing 🫠

I had… written myself into a corner. But anyways, I’m gonna try seeing this through...

So, I’m no psychologist, but… I relate on a deeply personal level with Kaiser’s “human vs non-human.” But in my case, I had used the words “normal vs not normal.”

(This is gonna get a little bit personal, but bear with me!)

This distinction was something I strongly felt during my peak depression years. I felt like nobody truly understood me because they hadn’t been through what I had been through. Whatever the doctors said just went from one ear to another because I couldn’t trust them. In my head, I had categorized them as one of the “normal” people—their lives were so put-together and they were so in control and on top of things! Not like me, who was drowning.

I also slowly distanced myself from friends because they, too, were the “normal” ones.

One friend, however, stuck around. She didn’t mind me going missing for months without a word. And whenever I showed up again from who knows where, she would always excitedly welcome me back as if I never even left. And this was the friend who I thought to be always better than me in every way because she was prettier, smarter, and had a better financial status. So I never really expected her to get me.

But oh, she did. I found out that she wasn’t “normal,” too. She too had her own problems, and we got to share our sorrow with each other...

So, I guess what I’m trying to say here is that...

It’s not really a matter of erasing the distinction between “human” and “non-human.” It’s enough, for now, that Kaiser finds another “non-human” like him, and with whom he will slowly start to feel “human”—worthy of living and being loved.

I know Kaneshiro isn’t fond of therapy talk, but for Kaiser, I think it’s a must that he gets to open up to someone. He doesn’t have to share the full story. He just has to be sincere about it.

And who is the closest “non-human” that we have around Kaiser who’s also unwanted by his family?

Ness.

This doesn’t even have to be about shipping. And I know their relationship is looking pretty grim right now because of how Kaiser has been treating Ness since the beginning, but...

...I still believe that this, at least, was real.

Together, they can learn what it is to be “human.”

In summary, for Kaiser to awaken, he must first resolve his internal problems. To do this, he must...

Find a fellow “non-human.”

See himself as “human.”

Recognize love for what it is.

Redefine his “proof of existence”

Thank you for coming to my TED talk, *bows

---

Okay, so I don’t normally do this at the end of my posts, but I just recently launched my Alpha Reading Service. If you liked my analysis above and would like me to review your story the same way, do check it out!

Or, if you don’t need any alpha reading, consider tipping me on Ko-fi instead. Thank you!

#*checks time #THIS TOOK ME ELEVEN HOURS TO WRITE HOLY SHIT #AAAAAH #I still have to prepare for my classes 🥲#i’m going back to reality folks #take this and go!#michael kaiser #blue lock #michael kaiser meta #blue lock meta #michael kaiser analysis #blue lock manga #miyamiwu.meta #miyamiwu.src #kainess #alexis ness

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coochiequeens · 8 months

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Women's history just got richer

By Mindy Weisberger, CNN

More than 1,000 years ago, carvers in what is now Denmark set their chisels to rock to etch runestones — monuments to Viking leaders naming their deeds and achievements. Two groups of runestones mention a woman named Thyra, and new analysis of the carvings suggests that the runes on both sets of stones were inscribed by the same artisan and refer to the same woman: a Viking queen of considerable power.

Researchers from Denmark and Sweden used 3D scans to analyze carvings on the runestones, finding telltale clues that marked the individual style of the person who carved them. That carver’s repeated mention of Thyra’s name — a rare occurrence for Viking-era women — suggested that Thyra was a powerful sovereign who likely played a pivotal role in the birth of the Danish realm, the scientists reported Wednesday in the journal Antiquity.

“To learn more about the rune-carver and those named on the stone is fascinating,” said Dr. Katherine Cross, a lecturer at York St. John University in the UK who researches and teaches the history of early medieval northern Europe. She was not involved in the study.

“We can only understand early medieval sources once we can think about who made them and why,” Cross told CNN in an email.

One set of runes came from a pair of monuments known as the Jelling stones, erected in the town of Jelling around 965. The larger Jelling stone is often referred to as “Denmark’s birth certificate,” as it’s the first monument to name the land as its people pivoted to Christianity, according to the National Museum of Denmark in Copenhagen.

Both Jelling runestones also named a royal figure: Queen Thyra, mother of then-reigning King Harald Bluetooth. The smaller stone was raised in her honor by her husband (and Harald’s father) King Gorm, calling her “Denmark’s strength/salvation” (or “Denmark’s adornment,” depending on the translation, the researchers noted in the study). Harald commissioned the larger stone, to honor both of his royal parents.

In another set of four Viking-era monuments, known collectively as the Bække-Læborg group, two runestones mention a woman named Thyra. Those stones are associated with a carver named Ravnunge-Tue, but experts disagreed on whether that Thyra was Harald’s mother, said lead study author Dr. Lisbeth Imer, a curator and senior researcher at the National Museum of Denmark specializing in the study of runes and ancient inscriptions.

Before the new investigation, it was unknown who had carved the Jelling stones. Confirming that their carver was Ravnunge-Tue would strengthen the connection between the Jelling and Bække-Læborg runestones, Imer told CNN in an email.

“Then it is much more reasonable to suggest that it was in fact the same Thyra,” she said.

A question of style

Some details in ancient runestones that indicate a carver’s individual style are visible to a trained expert’s eye, such as the language or the basic shape of the runes. Other details are harder to detect, Imer said.

“What you cannot see with the naked eye is the carving technique,” she said.

To get a closer look at the carvings, the researchers took scans of the stones and created 3D digital models, then measured the runes’ grooves with a software tool that weighed variables such as angle, depth and cutting rhythm. Together, these variables can create a unique profile for a carver.

“Every rune carver develops his own motor skill and holds the tools in a certain angle, strikes with a certain strength,” Imer said. “The motor skill is individual and other individuals cannot copy that.”

When the researchers compared runes from Jelling 2 (the larger of the two Jelling stones) and the Læborg stone from the Bække-Læborg group, they found striking similarities, such as height of the runes, straightness of the main staves and length and placement of rune branches.

“In the Læborg and Jelling inscriptions you can follow the cutting rhythm of Ravnunge-Tue as one deep stroke of the chisel followed by two not so deep ones: DAK, dak-dak, DAK, dak-dak,” Imer said via email. “It is ALMOST like hearing the heartbeat of a person that lived so long ago.”

Jelling 1 was more eroded, so its markings were harder to analyze. But if the Læborg runestone was Ravnunge-Tue’s handiwork, Jelling 2 was likely his as well, Imer said. It would mean that the Queen Thyra mentioned twice in the Bække-Læborg group — on Læborg and on the stone Bække 1 — was the same person commemorated on the Jelling stones, the study authors concluded.

In recent years, archaeologists have revised prior interpretations of Viking warrior burials as exclusively male, finding that Viking women were fighters, too. The new findings add to the picture of influential Viking women holding prominent roles in statecraft as well as on the battlefield.

“This research highlights how Viking-Age women wielded power through political authority and patronage, not just violence,” Cross said.

What’s more, the fact that Thyra is mentioned on four runestones offers strong evidence of her importance, Imer added. Fewer than 10 runestones in Denmark from the pre-Christian era mention women at all — and four of those are of Queen Thyra.

“Runestones in Denmark were mostly erected in honour of men, but Thyra is commemorated on more runestones than any other person in Viking Age Denmark,” Imer said. “She must have held extreme power and social position.”

Mindy Weisberger is a science writer and media producer whose work has appeared in Live Science, Scientific American and How It Works magazine.

#Denmark #women in history #Queen Thyra #Viking Queen #Jelling Stones #King Harald Bluetooth #King Gorm #Bække-Læborg group #a carver named Ravnunge-Tue

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dottores · 2 years

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ONWARD & UPWARD

pairings: cyno x fem!reader x tighnari, tartaglia x fem!reader

summary: the last thing you were supposed to do was fall in love. now a decision must be made—one that you are not yet prepared to deal with the consequences of.

genre: antagonist!reader, fatui!reader, canon divergence, strangers to lovers to enemies (cyno & tighnari), lowkey enemies/rivals to lovers to enemies (cyno), khaenri’ahn royal!reader (diamond pupil), childhood friends to fwb (tartaglia), right person wrong time (tartaglia), un(?)requited love (tartaglia), obsessive and v lowkey yandere behavior (tartaglia)

chapter specific warnings: semi-graphic descriptions of blood/violence. mentions of hunger/starvation, neglect, manipulation, near death experience, character death (no main characters).

— featured characters (chapter): kaeya alberich and his parents, “gold”, pierro.

notes: i’m so excited for this y’all you have no idea, a short prologue before we get heavy into the plot and characters. almost all worldbuilding will be done in the fic itself for my readers not familiar w genshin. as always reblogs for boost very much appreciated <3.

previous chapter -> masterlist -> next chapter

PROLOGUE. MEMENTO VIVERE

“Please do not send him away.”

Your vision blurred as you rested on your knees in front of the man, body folded into a bow, eyes squeezed shut to try to force the tears away. Around you, the few survivors that made up your group whispered and you knew they had nothing good to say--the last surviving member of the Eclipse Dynasty on her hands and knees in front of a lesser family, begging and pleading with them to listen to you…

You hated that they still put so much weight on your blood, your should-be station. They called you ‘princess’, looked at you to lead them--but you were a princess of a kingdom that had long been destroyed, and you were only a child. The world around you crumbled and burned, poison seeped through the land and monsters roamed, starving and viscous, the sun never rose and you were meant to be salvation--the one to lead them from the darkness, to a livable world.

Sometimes you wished that they had never found you outside of the ruins of the Tungl palace after your father had passed, you wished that they had let the rifthounds tear you to pieces, you wished they had let the draugr devour you. You wondered if you would be better off dead than forced into a role that you knew you were not meant for.

Except the dead did not die in Khaenri’ah, you reminded yourself, they rose again without mind, hungrier, savage. Was that really the fate you would have preferred?

You did not have time to linger on the question. Aina Alberich was tugging at your bicep, trying to force you to your feet. You did not rise, remaining in the bent over, kneeling position. Your hands shook against the ground, chest heaving.

“Do not send him away.”

A pair of boots shifted in front of you, and you flinched as a hand came atop of your shoulder.

“Look at me,” the heavy voice of Osmin Alberich met your ears, and you forced yourself to look up, unable to blink away the tears before they began spilling down your cheeks. “We must take advantage of the passage to Teyvat. We cannot survive he-”

“I will go,” you interrupted loudly. “I will go to Teyvat.”

“That is not an option,” Osmin shook his head, brows furrowed deep. “We do not know what Teyvat is like, how dangerous it will be-”

“So instead you send your son?” you cried out, rising to your feet. “To an unknown continent, with dangers we’ve never seen before? For all we know, it could be worse than our current situation.”

“And such is the duty of the Alberich clan,” Osmin said firmly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye, unable to stand the cold and unmoving look in them. Instead, you dragged your gaze to Kaeya, who stood behind his father doing his best to stand strong but you could see the fear hidden beneath his eyes. “We’ve stood at the side of the Eclipse Dynasty for millenia, protecting and serving. Kaeya will travel to Teyvat and he will make sure the land is safe. Once he confirms it, we will follow.”

“Why don’t you go?” you accused, finally looking back at Osmin. “You are an adult, a seasoned warrior, and yet-”

“Someone needs to stay back and protect the group, to protect you,” Osmin didn’t let you finish, and you faltered, eyes darting around to the rest of the group--the elderly, the crippled, a pregnant woman and her infant son. No one strong enough to defend against an attack from a pack of rifthounds or the draugr.

“Princess,” Osmin knelt in front of you, voice quiet so no one else could overhear. “I do not want to send my son to a foreign land but I must put our people first. Always. He will return, and we will see brighter days. Have faith.”

You swallowed thickly, your fingers trembled as you nodded. You inhaled sharply, straightening your shoulders as you stepped around Osmin to stand in front of Kaeya.

“May-” your voice cracked, you exhaled and closed your eyes, trying to calm yourself down. You rose your right hand and began again. “May you be given the knowledge to follow your path, may you be granted the strength and courage to complete your journey, and may you find your way back home at the end of your travels.”

You fumbled to unpin the Inteyvat flower from your top, to signal the completion of the ancient rite of blessings that the Eclipse Dynasty bestowed on Khanerians traveling to foreign lands--a rite that had not been performed since before the Cataclysm. Your ears rung as you listened to Osmin and Aina murmur to each other in the background.

“I will bring him to the passage,” Aina said. “I would like to be the one to see him off, you stay with the princess and the others.”

Your fingers trembled as you pinned the flower onto Kaeya’s shirt, clasping his hands in yours as you looked him in the eye.

“We will meet again.”

---

Blood stained your hands and your face, your body shook like a leaf as you knelt at the corpse of Siriana, who had shielded you from the claws of a rifthound whelp that had appeared from behind the group.

It was supposed to be safe. You felt sick as you tried to hold pressure on the wound, even though you knew deep down that Sirana had passed. The path to the palace was supposed to be safe.

“Princess!” you could hear Osmin roaring your name, fighting through the pack of hounds to get to you. “Princess, move.”

You looked up, lips wobbly and vision teary as you tried to spot Osmin but you were only met with the slaughter that had taken place surrounding you--the bodies of your companions torn to pieces by the rifthound whelps, the gore strewn across the dark ground, the blood fertilizing the dead earth.

Everyone was dead.

A particularly loud shrieking noise came from behind you, a whoosh of air, and your eyes widened as you spun, coming face to face with an adult rifthound, electricity crackling around its body as it swiped at you. You couldn’t move, from all of the training that Osmin had given you, now faced with an actual enemy you were frozen in place, waiting for death to fall upon you.

Except it didn’t.

Someone slammed into you from behind, sending you careening toward the cold, damp ground. A sharp cry came from above you and you scrambled back to your feet, fear tugging at your chest as you tried to figure out what happened. “Osmin!” you cried out, watching the rifthound claw into his chest, a damning blow. “No!”

Osmin was undeterred, driving his sword through the rifthound and forcing it to portal away. He didn’t hesitate as he reached for you, grabbing you by the arm and hauling you up, half-carrying, half-dragging you away from the remaining rifthounds and the massacre. Your gaze trained on the blood dripping down his chest, the armor that was shredded by the rifthound--the skin was already rotting around it.

“Osmin,” your voice came out as weak and wary, but the man didn’t care, stopping behind a crumbled pillar, grabbing you by the face and forcing you to look at him.

“You must run to the palace,” his voice was hoarse and harsh. “The rifthounds will not follow you in.”

“Osmin, come with me,” you were trying to bite back your tears. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I will not survive,” the words were bitter to your ears, a scraping noise that made you want to cover your ears and run, “and it’s only a matter of time before the others return. You have to be long gone by then.”

“Osmin, I’m not ready to be alone,” you gasped, the fear and panic finally starting to hit you. You had been alone once, for weeks after your father’s death--you couldn’t survive that again. “Osmin, don’t leave me.”

His grip on your face tightened, “You must focus, princess,” he said sharply. “Run to the palace, take refuge there. Remember that you must live.”

You wanted to shake your head, you wanted to refuse, but Osmin was pushing you away, in the distance, through a crumbled arch, you watched as Sirana’s arm jerked.

“Go,” he said, drawing his sword to turn around. When you didn’t move, his voice sharpened, “Go!”

With a sob at your lips, you took off in the direction of the palace, shaking, refusing to look back as the sound of Osmin’s blade clashing against the claws of another rifthound whelp met your ears. Your lungs burned against the cold air, like knives scraping your insides--each breath you took tore against your throat, your feet slammed against the ground so hard it sent shocks up your shins to your knees.

You could see the palace in the distance through your blurry gaze--the crumbling white and gold walls, the large silver arch.

You would make it, you realized, hope blooming in your chest. You would make it.

But even as the words drifted through your head, there was a strange whooshing noise from behind you. You turned on your heel, eyes wide as you spun around to figure out what had appeared behind you.

A rifthound?

You realized too late, you were too slow to bring your hands up to block the blow to your face, one of its claws coming down to catch your forehead, dragging down through your right eye to your cheekbone. You let out a terrible shriek, hands flying to your face, blood dripped through your fingers as you tried to scramble away. It burned, your head spun as the pain began to envelop you.

Your breath was sharp and ragged, nails digging into the dirt to try to push yourself up, Osmin’s plea for you to live ringing through your head on repeat, but the skin that was slowly rotting around your eye was a death sentence. You couldn’t bite back the next sob, the pain beginning to be too much for your body to handle. You pressed your hand to the right side of your face harder, trying to stop the bleeding but your hand only slipped against the skin. You looked up and you swore everything around you slowed as the rifthound twisted in the air to come back and finish you off.

You tried to move, you did, but your arms and legs were too weak, and the pain was clouding your head. You were unable to look away as it came down on you but right before its claws made contact with your neck, it was being sucked back into a vortex.

Your breath shuddered, your good eye widened. Osmin? Did he survive and come back to help? Hope bloomed in your chest as you tried to figure out who had sent the rifthound away. But it was not Osmin whom your eyes landed on.

A woman with long hair, a dark cloak and golden eyes that burned bright against the darkness of Khaenri’ah. Her gaze was curious as she drew closer to you, standing above where you were crumpled on the ground.

“A child of the Eclipse dynasty, how fascinating,” she murmured, kneeling down in front of you to grab your chin and tilt your face up toward her, swiping away the hand you had covering your wounded eye. “I had been under the impression your entire bloodline had died out.”

“Who are you?” your voice shook as you asked her the question, trying to push away the pain that was exhausting all of your senses. The woman smiled at your question.

“You may call me Gold.”

“The Eclipse Dynasty was known for its proficiency in the Art of Khemia prior to the Cataclysm. When Khaenri’ah fell, the form of alchemy was all but lost to the world.”

“I will do better,” your voice shook as you stared down at another failed experiment. You could feel the judging eyes of Gold bearing down on your back. You forced your shoulders not to shake as you took in another breath. “Next time will be a success.”

“Once we teach you to harness the power of Khemia, I will take you from this place--bring you into the Order that will overthrow the rule of the gods that led to the fall of our home.”

“There will be no next time.”

Gold’s words were harsh and cold, knives dragging down your bones. You froze, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around to look at her, even as you heard her packing up her tools.

“What?”

“Do not fail me.”

“The Abyss Order has no room for failures, I told you this in the beginning. I gave you many chances, more than what I would give others.”

She spoke so matter of factly that your arguments dissolved--that even as you rose to shaky feet, you weren’t sure you knew what to say. You caught sight of yourself in the broken mirror across from yourself, faltering at the scar cutting across your eye. It had healed for the most part, thanks to Gold’s alchemic abilities, but right above your eyelid and below your eye was stubborn, it wouldn’t fade away, and your vision would never properly heal, Gold had claimed--haunted by blurs and shadows for the rest of your life.

You forced yourself to look away, turning to face Gold, whose back was already turned to you as she finished packing up her things.

“I will not fail next time,” you told her, voice pleading as she began to walk away from you. You chased after, tears pooling in your eyes. “I won’t fail, I was close, I felt it this time. I’ll get it, don’t leave me.”

It was a lie, and you knew Gold knew it. This time had felt no different than the last time she had tried to teach simple Khemiac alchemy to you. It had been nearly a year since she had taken you under her wing and you had made no progress.

Could you blame her for giving up?

A sob bubbled in your chest, you tried to bite it back--Gold despised signs of weakness. You couldn’t blame her. You had heard her talk about the Abyss Order and its grand plans, and she had been wasting time in the ruins of Khaenri’ah trying to teach you the Art of Khemia when she should have been planning with the other executives of the Order.

But why can’t she take you with her? Leaving you here…

“Take me with you,” you begged as she stepped outside of the ruins of the palace, “Take me with you.”

… it was a death sentence.

Gold turned on her heel, chin raised, expression hard and you froze where you were standing on the steps of the palace. You knew what her answer would be before she even spoke. Your heart sunk deep in your chest, your body trembled, you bit down on your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling.

“There is no room for failures in the Abyss Order,” she repeated, “blood of the old dynasty or not. We do not have the resources to spare and even if we did…”

Even if we did, failures were not welcomed.

“Give me one more chance,” your voice was little over a whisper, and Gold ignored you. You watched as a portal formed behind her, you watched as she stepped into it. Your panic rose, invading all of your senses as you chased after her. You stumbled down the steps, tripping over debris on the bottom one and falling to your hands and knees.

“Don’t leave me here!” the desperate shrill of a cry escaped your lips just as the vortex shut behind her.

The following silence was cold and empty, a heavy realization weighed on your shoulders as the distant howls of rifthounds and savage cries of the draugr met your ear--you were alone.

You weren’t sure how long you had remained in that spot wasting away. The rifthounds and draugr had begun to gather, stopped only by the old enchantments that protected the palace--as long as the blood of the Eclipse Dynasty remained, they would not be able to break through… but they were waiting, they knew you were on death’s doorstep, they knew it was only a matter of time before the enchantments fell.

You were hungry, and you were cold, and you weren’t sure why you were cold because the city around the palace was the only place in Khaenri’ah that burned eternally--remnants of the old war that would not fade.

You could feel yourself dying, you could feel the way your body weakened with each passing second, the way ice spread through your veins and your skin felt numb to the touch. Osmin’s words rang through your head: “remember you must live.”

But you didn’t think you’d be able to rise to your feet even if you wanted to--and a part of you wondered what the point would even be. You were trapped in Khaenri’ah, surrounded by rifthounds and draugr, you were out of food and you were out of willpower. You would die here, you were certain of it.

So lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even hear the commotion coming from the courtyard, not until the head of a draugr rolled to the ground in front of you. You could barely bring yourself to look up, your head felt light at the movement, it strained your neck.

A man, you recognized in the distance, drawing closer to you. In your state of half delusion, you could almost imagine Osmin rushing toward you, cursing the gods for having let him be separated from you for so long, promising that he would take you from this wretched place to go find Kaeya.

Almost.

The man was not Osmin. Osmin was dead, likely a draugr prowling the ruins of Khaenri’ah by this point unless another group of survivors had managed to stumble across him and put him out of his misery, free him from the husk he’d spend the rest of eternity as otherwise.

You didn’t recognize the older man even as he kneeled in front of you, pulling his cloak off and laying it across your shoulders. You could not feel the warmth. He laid a hand against your cheek, lips twisting down.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, eyes searching your face momentarily before recognition swept through his face, you couldn’t gather the strength to respond. “You are-”

He cut himself off, swallowing as he let his head drop into a bow. “Princess,” he murmured, and you swore that if you could cry, you would have--you couldn’t stand the cursed title and all of the misfortune it had brought you. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

He didn’t wait for a response, scooping you into his arms as he rose to his feet. Your head rested against his bicep as you looked up at him. His gaze drifted around the ruins of the palace in a way that was nothing short of longing, as if he were reminiscing old memories.

“Who are you?” your voice was weak and scratchy, and you wondered if he hadn’t heard you because he didn’t acknowledge your words. After a few moments, he let his eyes fall back down to you, and your eyes widened as you recognized the diamond-shaped pupil of his left eye.

“Pierro. I go by Pierro.”

wordcount: 3.3k

RB FOR BOOST AND FEEDBACK APPRECIATED

-- pls do not nitpick tiny mistakes or stuff like that, i'd like feedback on plot/characterization & eventually character development

#genshin x reader #genshin smut #cyno x reader #cyno smut #tighnari x reader #tighnari smut #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe smut #tartaglia smut #genshin impact smut #cyno x you #tighnari x you #childe x you #tartaglia x you

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youryurigoddess · 1 month

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The Small Back Room — Hour of Glory (1949)

Good Omens 2 begins with the visit to The Small Back Room not because it was meant to serve as an exposition scene for Maggie and her record shop. It’s a substantial foreshadowing of the main plot and the relationship changes between Aziraphale and Crowley.

As all the other classics referenced throughout the show, this 1949 Powell and Pressburger production is easily available online — whenever you have 100 minutes to spare, I highly encourage you to watch it.

Our story begins with the arrival of Stuart, a British military captain, who makes his way through a labyrinth of offices towards a small building — the research section led by an eccentric, queer-coded, bow tie wearing professor Mair — to ask for help with a secret Nazi weapon.

That’s when the professor calls our hero, Sammy Rice — an engineer and bomb disposal expert in the service of Her Majesty’s government and, not accidentally, the most brooding, wounded man in Powell and Pressburger’s impressive canon of dysfunctional and alienated characters.

Due to a prosthetic foot keeping him from active service and confining to work in the titular back room instead, Rice is dramatically slipping into alcoholism. Haunted by self-loathing and disappointment with the internal politics, he can’t see the point of his research anymore.

Sammy is also conducting a clandestine affair with the secretary of his research unit, Susan. They live in the same building and meet regularly, but can’t openly enjoy their company or even dance due to his injury, which makes him even more bitter and pathologically determined to wear her angelic patience down.

Susan puts up with it until the minister is forced to resign. She knows that if non-scientists take over, their section will become useless, Rice even more difficult, and the war possibly lost. She urges him to take action and when he dramatically refuses to make a difference, she leaves him.

Seemingly at his lowest now, Rice becomes a sudden chance to redeem himself. Captain Stuart calls him about two unexploded booby traps found in Wales, but left to himself, he dies during a heroic attempt to dismantle one of the thermos-like devices before our engineer arrives at the scene.

In a nerve-jangling finale, Stuart’s notes help Rice dismantle the second device. He becomes a hero, gets an officer commission as head of the new scientific unit, and discovers that Susan not only came back in the meantime, but repaired everything he drunkenly destroyed in the apartment after their breakup.

The parallels seem straightforward enough for me to add that in this context the role of Maggie through most of S2 may particularly reflect Crowley’s stagnancy in both work and love life. And if you’re unsure why the demon identifies with the heroic roles and characters, you might want to read this post on the subject.

Now, The Small Back Room was distributed in the US under another title — Hour of Glory. Which happens to be a specific Bible term referring to Christ’s “hour”, the period supposed to consummate all of his work on Earth and reveal God’s ultimate plan of salvation: the Son’s death.

John 12:20-36 Jesus replied, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me. Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name.” Then a voice came from heaven, “I have glorified it, and will glorify it again.” The crowd that was there and heard it said it had thundered; others said an angel had spoken to him. Jesus said, “This voice was for your benefit, not mine. Now is the time for judgment on this world; now the prince of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

Christ’s hour began in the garden — this time the garden of Gethsemane — as he prayed passionately for the cup to be passed from him, similarly to Aziraphale declining Metatron’s offers on screen, both regarding the hot drink and his reinstatement as part of the Heavenly Host:

Luke 22:42 “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.”

All throughout the Old Testament, we see God’s wrath being described as a cup poured out on sin and those guilty of it. By accepting it, Jesus took the toll of all the sins — from Eden up until the last one to be committed right before his Second Coming — on himself, for the sake of his beloved humanity.

The passion of Christ continued as Judas betrayed him with a kiss, his disciples abandoned him, and the high priest accused him of crimes he was not guilty of. Even Pilate, the prefect of Rome, pretended to uphold the law; and remember we already expect a S3 trial based on another Archers movie.

All in all, it’s an hour of great injustice and pain, but also glory of God. We’re led to believe that the Ineffable Plan will similarly triumph over the great one (or whatever Metatron tries to implement at the moment), as it did in S1. And its ending will be a good one, back in a garden.

#bible fanfiction #actually quoting bible #cup of suffering #give me coffee or give me death #the small back room #hour of glory #good omens #good omens meta #good omens analysis #final fifteen #crowley #crowley is a superhero #aziraphale #supreme archangel aziraphale #ineffable husbands #yuri is doing her thing #drinking coffee #an oat milk latte with a dash of almond syrup

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blissfulip · 3 months

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—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of Child SA, allusions to the witch trials

Words: 3.1k

[A/N: Sorry for making the bishop so annoying I made myself angry proof-reading this lmao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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II.

Noon had started to crack, and Viktor sat still at the edge of his bed, his left leg throbbing with a persistent ache and guilt consuming him as he grappled with the weight of his recent actions. His mind swirled in a tumult of self-condemnation and regret as the looming certainty of facing Father Isidore when he would eventually be called up to the kitchen for lunch weighed over him.

How could he, entrusted with the guidance of others, find himself so lost in the labyrinth of his own sin? It was so easy, too, to feel like the absolutions he offered were hollow, his own inability to forgive himself casting a shadow over the sanctity of his role. And amidst this turmoil, the relentless ache in his left leg—probably due to kneeling for a prolonged stretch of time, but that in the wake of what he had just done felt more akin to divine punishment—served as a reminder of his frailty, both physical and spiritual.

But pain is purification, suffering gives way to redemption, and penitence is salvation, so isn’t pleasure the correct response after all? If martyrdom is the ultimate act of love, then why shouldn’t agony be met with enjoyment? That was the lie Viktor soothed himself with before deciding to be a step ahead of the altar boys and make his way to the kitchen.

-----------------------------

His leg protested with each step, but it seemed insignificant compared to the stinging feeling on his back now that he had the rough fabric rubbing against it. What lingered wasn’t nearly as pleasant as before; however, he felt undeserving of making a fuss about it, it being a punishment—ironically—for a self-inflicted punishment that he shouldn’t have delighted in.

As he entered, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that clung to his robes and clashing with the uninviting presence of Father Isidore, who sat at the table, steaming cup in hand.

“Viktor, my son,” he exclaimed in a voice that sounded sweet and as sticky and treacherous as molasses, “I trust you have...repented.”

Viktor clenched his jaw, a wave of trepidation washing over him as he felt his judgmental gaze on him. Viktor severely disliked the special way Father Isidore enunciated; emphasis on certain words never seemed like enough for him; he always made it a point to hiss and spit; his lips thinned out and tense like he was holding in a growl. It didn’t match his childlike guise, and this made Viktor weary of him ever since he was a kid.

“I have,” he replied tersely, taking a seat opposite his superior’s robust presence.

"It seems, however, that some of us struggle more than others with the concept of self-control," he remarked, his words dripping with a subtle veil of aggression.

Viktor's stomach churned with resentment. "I am aware of my shortcomings, Father," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness.

“Don’t misunderstand me, son. It is never my intention to prohibit your studies or peg your enthusiasm for learning; you know our monastery has always valued knowledge of the great arts.”

“Until it challenges one of your universal truths, that is.”

“Precisely, are you trying to imply we should challenge the dogma?”

Viktor stayed silent.

“Tell me, do you think you are above us all?”

“Of course I don’t, father.” but he did, and this whole lecture was starting to get old.

“Then you must clearly think you are above sin. So holy and pure that you are able to read such heretic words and not be tempted by them?” He said this as he got closer to Viktor, his face slowly turning beet red: “unde et corda filiorum hominum implentur malitia et contemptu in vita sua et post haec ad inferos deducentur.”

And then he did the same eyebrow raise he used to do when Viktor was a child, and he was testing his knowledge of the scripture. Viktor sighed, partly in defeat but mostly in annoyance.

“‘Hence the hearts of the sons of men are filled with malice and contempt in their lives, and after this they are brought down to hell’,” he answered as he instinctively leaned back on the chair, the scorching sensation reminding him why it was a terrible idea.

“I can tell you are in pain; why must you still be so stubborn, even when you are enduring your penitence on the flesh?”

“I see no malice in curiosity.”

“Even when you intentionally seek the words of miscreants, knowing full well the danger it presents?”

“I don’t seek dangerous ideals; the universe is, and I simply try to understand it.”

“You are lost, Viktor.” Father Isidore’s lips curled up into a grin of contempt, a show of mockery that made it clear his concern for Viktor’s soul came from a place of scorn.

“Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana, something something, and God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear and, eh, I forgot what comes after,” Viktor recited, quiet but defiant.

“To me, you are nothing but a test of resilience, Viktor. If I have to tear you down myself to build you back up as a God-honoring servant, I will.” He said this as he visibly struggled to disguise his frustration. “Come, I would like you to meet someone.”

--------------------------------

As they made their way through the narrow streets of the small town, the bustling activity of the market greeted them. Vibrant stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their displays of fresh produce and handmade goods drawing Viktor’s attention. All the while, he wondered who this mysterious person and possible weapon of torture would be.

Father Isidore walked with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect as he exchanged warm greetings with anyone who crossed their path. Soon they came upon an elderly woman sitting by a small table, adorned with a meager assortment of goods. Her weathered face bore the deep lines of a life well-lived, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that belied her frailty. She smiled weakly as they approached, her gnarled hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Father!" called out an elderly woman, her face lighting up with a smile as she approached. "Blessings be upon you."

He gave back a smile that could've fooled anyone, but Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that there was something calculated in his demeanor. "And to you as well, my dear," Father Isidore replied, his tone tinged with a hint of forced sincerity. "How are you faring today?"

"Oh, just getting by as best I can, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Times have been hard, but the Lord provides."

"Indeed, He does, and speaking of such, have you been able to fulfill your tithe to the church this month?”

The elderly woman's smile faltered slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with the worn fabric of her apron. "I... I'm afraid not, Father," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Things have been tight lately, with the harvest being poor and all."

His expression hardened imperceptibly, though his tone remained gentle as he pressed the issue. "I understand, my dear," he continued. "But you must remember the importance of supporting the church, especially in these trying times. Perhaps there is something else you could sacrifice to ensure your tithe is met."

Viktor watched in silent anger as the elderly woman's shoulders slumped in resignation, her eyes downcast as she nodded in reluctant agreement. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a surge of rage at the ease with which Father Isidore exploited the vulnerability of this woman for the sake of the church's coffers.

“If I may, Lucida,” Viktor interjected. Different from his superior, he knew the members of their community; he had taken time to know them and had offered his friendship along with his guidance. “You must be forgetting; your daughter has already come to offer lithe on behalf of your family.”

This was a lie, but be it because Lucida’s age was betraying her memory or because she had taken the hint of what Viktor was doing, it didn’t matter. Her mouth shaped into a round O as she nodded at both of them. Father Isidor looked at Viktor with suspicion but did not press the issue any further either, simply dragging Viktor by his free arm to continue on their way.

A modest house was nestled along the path. Father Isidore announced himself with a drawn-out knock on the solid wood of the door, and the figure of a weary woman appeared as the door peered open. When she saw the men, her feeble demeanor swiftly morphed into visible uneasiness.

Viktor knew her; she had been at the cathedral at least once, and multiple times she had made herself present at Viktor’s masses in the small town parish. She had never reacted this way to him before, so Viktor knew it was the man beside him who was causing this woman concern.

“Father Isidore, I’m sorry; I did not expect to see you here,” she cried out, trying to hide the tremble in her voice.

“Fret not, dear; I haven’t come to collect her yet; I simply wanted Viktor to meet her.” He scrutinized the inside of the house from where he stood before gently pushing the woman aside to enter the house, uninvited. Viktor gave her quiet apologies and small awkward smiles, following close behind him when she gave him a sign to invite him in.

The woman took them to the other side of the small house; there, the threshold of what seemed to have been a door in the past separated this expanse from the rest of the house. In the dimly lit chamber, a young teenage girl sat on the edge of her bed, her long black twin braids cascading down her shoulders like a dark veil, so dark that if you looked at it under the right light, it might even look blue.

Her posture was slumped, and her slender frame seemed to wilt under an invisible weight. The room around her felt heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of her shallow breaths. She looked up to look at them as the three entered, but her once vibrant eyes, now dulled and distant, gazed blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Darling, Father Isidore has come to see you; will you say hi to him and his friend?” Her mother asked delicately as she sat down on the bed next to her. Viktor was stumped; he didn’t remember seeing this girl at any of the functions before or around the town as he ran errands. The girl’s hands lay limply in her lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the faded bedspread as she looked at Father Isidore.

And very subtly, her once empty gaze welled up with noticeable rage.

“What do you want, sheep?” Her voice sounded so sweet, yet her words were so filled with venom.

“Careful now; I’m not here to take you yet, but I might change my mind if you decide to get nervy with me.”

She squinted slightly before giving Father Isidore an empty smirk and snapping her head quickly to look directly at Viktor. “Are you in trouble too? I’m only ever used as an example.”

“I-eh, I’m not sure.” Viktor pondered her words for a short second: “An example?”

“For what not to do.” She scoffed; she now seemed unaffected by their presence, giggling at Viktor’s confused expression, like he had told her a joke. “What did you do? Illegal medicine?” she asked, and she continued when she received no response. “You’re a priest; did you lay with a woman? Oh, oh, oh, a man, perhaps?”

The amusement in her tone was not enough to cut the tension in the air. Viktor wondered why no one seemed to care about what she was saying, but he figured Father Isidore was attempting to make a point out of this, and her mother was too afraid to do anything that might upset the bishop.

“I would ask you if you touched a child, but they care considerably less about that than they do about banned...That’s it, isn’t it? You—” She said, now wiggling her feet like she had reverted to an earlier stage of her life. “—are a man of science; I can see in your eyes that you know what heliocentrism is.” She giggled her way through those words and looked at Viktor with wide eyes, awaiting a response.

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards as the mother stood by the door, her expression wrought with fear, while Father Isidore's features were etched with thinly veiled frustration.

Suddenly, the girl spoke, her voice soft but tinged with defiance. "You can't stop me, fawner," she said, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. "I won't let you."

Father Isidore's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he shot the girl a warning glare. "Enough," he admonished. "You know the consequences of disobedience, and you know what awaits you; don’t make an effort to rush your departure."

With a sense of urgency, the mother hurriedly ushered them toward the door, pleading and apologizing on her daughter’s behalf, and in the onslaught of their departure, Viktor felt a small object slip into his hand. Startled, he glanced down only to see the girl’s swift fingers pressing something into his palm and a pair of brazen eyes that quickly snuck back onto the bed, unnoticed.

He didn’t dare to look, not as long as he had eyes on him, so he clenched his fist around it, as if something told him he ought not to lose it. Viktor's mind raced with questions, his confusion mounting with each hurried step as they silently walked the path back to the parish. As they climbed the small steps to go inside the building, the bishop spoke.

“She is being taken to undergo a trial for witchcraft, but I’m sure what you saw made that evident.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“What do witches look like, son?”

“Wretched, evil, hateful...”

“And is it not evil to go against the dogma of our faith? Is it not wretched to seek deranged ideals like ‘heliocentrism’ and ‘geokinesis’, mad, truly mad things for someone who is fearful of God to believe, and especially wicked for a woman to believe?”

Viktor did not answer.

“God has great plans for you, Viktor. Do not stray from your path, and you’ll be able to avoid an end like hers” He said, punctuating the last word with a hefty—and ignobly intentional—pat on his back.

The wounds, still fresh and tender, protested vehemently against the sudden contact, each movement a reminder of the agony that plagued him. He visibly winced and took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, doing his best to suppress the urge to cry out in pain. But it wasn't just the physical discomfort that gnawed at him. Beneath the surface, a simmering anger had been bubbling.

-----------------------------------

Alone again in the confines of his quarters, Viktor sank to his knees in front of the small wooden crucifix that adorned the wall. His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer, his lips moving silently in fervent entreaty.

“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…” He began automatically, but he didn’t know what he had prayed for.

When the prayer ended, there was silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…” He started once again, perhaps a mother would pity him.

Silence.

Anger burned within him like a smoldering ember. The rotund face of Father Isidore plagued his inner thoughts. How could a man of God, a shepherd of the faithful, wield his power with such callous disregard?

But beneath the anger lay a deeper, more insidious emotion: guilt. Guilt for his own weakness, for his depravity, for his inability to rise above the turmoil and find solace in his faith. With a frustrated sigh, Viktor bowed his head lower, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to contain the tempest raging within him.

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. "Why do I pray, day after day, only to be met with silence? Have I been forsaken, abandoned by the very God I serve?"

But as the echoes of his words faded into the darkness, there came no answer, and in that moment of profound solitude, Viktor felt more alone than ever before, until he remembered the small object he had managed to slip into his robes.

A brass coin, small and thin enough that he could break it with his bare hands if he was not careful. It appeared to have worn off with time, the original color having faded into a dark green, corroded shade. As he held it up to the dim candlelight, the symbol etched into its surface seemed to shimmer—a circle with small letters around its circumference that he couldn’t read. In it there was a smaller circle, and inside of it, even smaller, a strange swirly shape with five triangles on its flat top and a cross in the very center.

He knew, deep inside, that he recognized what he knew to be the symbol of a creature of darkness and forbidden knowledge. His instincts screamed at him to cast it aside, to rid himself of its tainted influence, but a curious fascination held him captive. In a surge of frustration and desperation, Viktor closed his eyes and clasped the coin tightly in his hands, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“God has failed me; let this be the time I am acknowledged.” For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whisper of his own breath. But then, just as Viktor's hope began to wane, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the coin, spreading through his fingertips.

Like a heavy shroud enveloping the room, suffusing the air with palpable tension, the atmosphere shifted, thickening with an otherworldly energy that seemed to hum with ancient power. A chill ran down Viktor's spine when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. As he summoned the courage to gaze upon the figure behind him, he found himself confronted by a sight that defied all comprehension.

The figure of a woman, alluring and terrible but terrifyingly familiar, stood before him. A surge of primal terror mixed with a morbid fascination compelled him to stand his ground, and then he heard her voice.

“Curious, very curious.” She whispered.

#viktor #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane #arcane au #legion

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fictionadventurer · 8 months

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For various reasons, I've been spending a lot of time the past few days pondering the purpose, the aims, the point of storytelling, especially of fictional storytelling. In a world with so much reality demanding our attention, fiction needs to have a purpose, to have some role in bringing about our salvation.

And then someone sent me the link to a Catechism in a Year episode about engaging in public life where Father Mike just happens to give an explanation that addresses a lot of the issues I was thinking about.

I think that there's such a need for us to be able to tell those stories that don't just describe the way forward but they paint the way forward, right? They wouldn't just say, "Here's what you need to do next." They show pictures. They show, they reveal stories of, like, "Here's what it is to live justice. Here's what it is to be honest in this world. Here's what it is to be brave or courageous. Here's what it is to choose others before yourself. Here's what it is to lay down your life." And we get those stories in the Gospel. And that's one of the reasons why I think it's so important and so necessary for us to fill our minds with our Biblical stories so that we can shape our lens and see this world, as incumbent upon us, any of us who have any kind of authority over anyone, to tell those stories that say, "This is a good way to live. This is the best way to live. This is the wrong way to live. And this is a great way to live." And I think that's what all of us are called to do when it comes to participating in our community, participating in advancing the common good.

Anyway, I think that's what we're doing when we're writing stories from a Christian worldview. We're using stories to show those truths. Not using it as a soapbox to preach, but using those stories to explore questions and show truths about life in a way that mere preaching can't do. Engaging not just the mind, but the imagination and the heart. Providing examples of problems and showing how people like us face them and solve them or deal with the fallout from failing to solve them.

I'm not saying that authors have to shove in some greater message or purpose to their stories. Stories don't have to--and shouldn't just-- be puppet plays where every character has a role in a parable to teach some abstract concept. But I'm saying that a lot of times, that message will be there naturally--the way the story turns out says a lot about how the author thinks the world works.

And those stories will shape our internal life, and can have an effect on how we view the real world and how we act within it. Showing a character who acts courageously can give us strength to act courageously. Showing us a weak, cowardly character can remind us that we don't want to be like that guy. And so on and so forth. Seeing the characters live out a story can remind us that we have a role to play in the great story of human history, and can shape our approach to that role.

Stories are powerful, and we have to use that power wisely.

#adventures in writing #adventures in the inklings challenge #once again probably not saying anything new but i gotta get my thoughts down

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nepentheisms · 9 months

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Volume 13 - Elendira's number, let's gooooo!

So I was pondering the significance of Livio's big throwdown fight being against Elendira, and it hit me once I looked at it in terms of their abilities: Elendira's weapon is nails; Livio's power is regeneration. This is the Crucifixion battling against the Resurrection - a very Christian metaphor being used to illustrate the conflict of ideas between Knives and Vash. Elendira acts to help carry out Knives' condemnation of humanity; she brings death and visions of death in the wake of Knives' crusade to punish those he sees as sinners. Livio, in contrast, is aligned with Vash's mission to save humanity; he's an agent for Vash's message of redemption and life persevering.

To delve into Christian soteriology for a bit, the significance of the crucifixion in the New Testament is that it is the act of Jesus taking on the punishment for all of humanity's sins. "The wages of sin is death," as Romans 6:23 says, so Jesus dies, but then Jesus rises again to complete the path to humanity's reconciliation with God. The idea is that in becoming followers of Christ, Christians spiritually share in the experience of crucifixion, death, and resurrection with Jesus. To love Jesus is to be changed as though one were raised from the dead. The passage below from Paul's letter to the Romans is an example of that perspective.

Romans 6:4-6 (NRSV):

(4) Therefore we were buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we also might walk in newness of life. (5) For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. (6) We know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be destroyed, so we might no longer be enslaved to sin.

It's very appropriate that Paul's words get brought up here, because I think Livio can be seen as something of a Paul figure. He's a powerful member of a religious order that opposes the followers of the Christ figure, he plays a big role in the death of a "disciple," and he undergoes an intense experience that changes him into one of the most devoted followers of the Christ figure. And the stuff Paul wrote about being crucified with Christ? Livio sure went through a crucifixion alright.

With all that said, when we bring Razlo into the equation, things get really interesting and a bit subversive when viewed through the lens of Paul's teachings in the Christian Bible. In stories that are more straightforwardly Christian in their messaging, a character like Razlo - a personality who acts as someone's darker half- would typically be treated as a force of evil to be overcome. This represents how the pre-salvation self is supposed to die so that a more Christ-like nature can take its place.

In Livio's case, however, Razlo is not extinguished after Livio chooses to live by Wolfwood's and Vash's example. Instead of being framed as the more sinful aspect of Livio that needed to be purified out of him, Razlo is portrayed as a powerful asset in preserving Livio's life, and that's something that really resonated with me - the way that Livio didn't need to erase his darker half but instead learned to work in harmony with it. In doing so, he found wholeness.

#trigunbookclub #trigun #trigun maximum #elendira the crimsonnail #livio the double fang #religion mention #christianity mention #trigun book club sure has been an exercise in dusting off my old bible knowledge #this is the most I've thought about christianity and the bible in a long time lol #Guns&God meta

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farfromstrange · 7 months

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Lizzi's Kinktober 2023

Day 13: Roleplay

October 28th, 2023

Main Masterlist | Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You and Matt sneak into the church for a little roleplay.

Warnings: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT (18+ MINORS DNI), religious imagery, blasphemy (like, this is blasphemous beyond compare), blowjob in a church, mentions of oral afab!receiving, mentions of body worship, roleplay (Matt plays a priest), hair pulling, face-fucking, wrong use of a confessional booth

Word Count: ~1.5k

A/n: I... I need holy water.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”

This is wrong. This is so wrong. But if it’s wrong, why does it feel so right?

It is filthy, perhaps even perverted, but you can’t help it.

You are doomed.

He is the apple and the snake that compelled Eve to break the most important rule in the Garden of Eden. He is the forbidden fruit and the devil himself. You weren’t supposed to have a bite of him, and still, you did because he was so convincing. He drew you in from the first word spoken between you. He compelled you to take the apple, and now you are doomed.

Matt is sitting in the confessional booth. There is not a single soul in sight other than your doomed person, on your knees in front of him. He doesn’t need the robe to appear like a priest. He’s dressed in all black, and his demeanor reminds you of the men you have so often seen giving sermons on TV.

What you are doing should guarantee you a place in hell, but right now, you couldn’t care less.

“What do you need to ask forgiveness for?” he asks you.

His hand rests on the back of your head, keeping your head close to his clothed crotch.

You swallow. The rain outside is hitting the church windows. You broke in, which is a crime, but kneeling before the man you love and asking for forgiveness is not. It can’t be.

You are not religious, far from it, and he is the only person in the world that could give you the salvation you need. It isn’t wrong, it is just right. And if you get caught, at least you had a good time.

His cock is straining against his very thin dress pants. This is his fantasy as much as it is yours, maybe even more so. You know he is ridden with guilt, but right now, he is blooming in his new role. There is no way you two would ever leave before he hasn’t finished what he started.

The floor is cold under your knees. They must be bruised by now, but you manage to tune out the pain. That is part of it. Part of life. Part of existence. And it is part of atoning for your sins.

“I have been a bad, bad girl,” you whisper into the dead of the night.

Matt shifts a bit. “How so?” he asks.

“I’ve been having… thoughts. About a man of God.”

“What kind of thoughts?” With every word, his voice grows thicker.

You blink through the fog of your arousal. “I’ve been thinking about him touching me,” you say.

Your eyelids flutter. You look so innocent, and he can’t even see you. Only with his fingers on your face does he get an idea of what your features might look like right now. And you are hungry. Hungry for him. Hungry for more.

“I’ve been thinking about touching him–” Your palms rub his muscular thighs, “Touching him in places I should not think about touching a man of God.”

You can hear him suck in a sharp breath in the darkness of the booth. He shifts again. “And do you think God would forgive you for something like that?” he says. “Wanting a man of God to fuck you senseless? To touch you? To touch him?”

“I’m not sure,” you answer.

“Have you been thinking about him in church?”

“Yes.”

What terrifies you most about this is that if he were a priest, a real priest with a robe and responsibilities, you would still think about him bending you over the altar and worshipping you. You would dream about him taking you to the confessional booth, forcing you to atone for your sins. You would dream about his hands around your neck, choking you to the point you get dizzy, and repeatedly calling you a bad girl. Because that is what you are.

“You really have been bad,” Matt murmurs. He caresses the back of your head. “Luckily, your God is forgiving.”

You blink up at him. “He is?” you ask.

“Yeah. If you are willing to repent for your sins.”

When he shifts this time, his free hand goes to his belt. He unbuckles it, letting the leather fall to the floor. You don’t move. Not even when he opens the button, then his zipper, and then reaches into his boxers to take out his hard cock.

You drool, but you don’t move. It just so happens that the moon shines through the small window and shines a light on him in all his glory, with his cock out and his cheeks flushed.

Matt Murdock is an ethereal sight you can never get enough of, even when he is pretending to be a priest. For him, you will be as bad as you can be. You have no choice. You want to be.

“What’s my sentence, Father?” your voice is barely above a whisper.

He takes his cock into his hand, giving it a few pumps before pulling your head closer. A moment of deafening silence follows. Thunder rumbles. The rain reminds you of the pool in your underwear, making it hard to stay still.

Matt lets out a shaky breath as he guides his cock to your lips. “Open,” he says. His voice wavers slightly.

You do as you’re told, but you look up at him, still awaiting an answer.

A smile finds its way to his lips, and it is as dark as the booth itself. He opens his mouth again. “Atone,” he says.

And in an instant, he has fucked his cock down your throat.

You choke around his girth. Tears spring to your eyes. The head meets the back of your throat, and you gag, but you don’t force him away. You keep your hands on his thighs and your head bowed low, and you let him fuck your mouth like there is no tomorrow.

He asked you to atone. To be forgiven for your sins, you need to do this. You are his to play with. You are his to own. Right now, at least. Right now, that is all you want to be. His fucktoy. His means to get rid of pent-up frustration. His way of living out his darkest fantasies.

You are so wet, you pray to God that you don’t leave a stain on the floor. But does it matter? He will fuck you over the altar later. He will spread your legs and bury his head between your thighs. He will let you pull his hair and fuck his mouth the same way he is doing to you because that is his way of repenting. Then it is his turn to atone, when he is no longer the priest but the disciple, and you are his goddess that he prays to.

“Hail, Mary, full of grace,” Matt chokes out between heavy thrusts into the tight confines of your mouth. He can’t even hear anything but the sound of yours and his breathing, and his needy moans that fill the air. “The Lord is with thee,” he continues, but he is having a hard time forming the words.

You have heard him pray before but during sex? While he is fucking your mouth like a madman? That is new. It makes your pussy clench around thin air, and your nails dig into the flesh of his thighs. The pain only makes him moan louder. It is heaven to your ears.

“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb–” He grits his teeth. “Jesus!”

You gag again, his cock now forced even deeper. You can’t breathe, not even through your nose. The lack of oxygen is making you feel all kinds of things, but certainly none of them bad.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,” he says, “Now and at the hour of our death.”

He thrusts and he thrusts, and with a harsh pull on your hair, he forces you off his cock. “Amen,” he almost cries out as his balls tighten, and he comes all over your face.

There is not an inch that is not covered by his seed, by the very essence of him. His cum slithers down your throat toward your breasts.

Another rumble of thunder strikes the church. The clock strikes midnight.

You look up at him through hooded eyes. He’s panting, his chest heaving, but for the first time in weeks, he looks content.

“Amen,” you whisper back.

So, you have finally atoned, and now, it is his turn.

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hopethroughscriptureministries · 2 months

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The Parable of the Lost Sheep:

Redemption and Restoration

In the parable of the Lost Sheep, Jesus conveys a deep message about the relentless pursuit of redemption and the boundless grace of God. Let us delve into this timeless story and explore its significance in our lives today.

A certain shepherd had a hundred sheep, yet one of them strayed from the fold. Undeterred by the ninety-nine, the shepherd embarked on a relentless search for the lost sheep. He scoured the hills and valleys until, at last, he found the wayward sheep, weary and alone.

Filled with compassion, the shepherd tenderly lifted the sheep onto his shoulders and rejoiced, calling together his friends and neighbors to celebrate the sheep's return. In the same way, Jesus explains, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance (Luke 15:3-7).

This parable reminds us of the depth of God's love and his unwavering commitment to seek out and restore the lost. Just as the shepherd pursued the lost sheep, so too does our Heavenly Father pursue each one of us with relentless love and compassion.

No matter how far we may have strayed, God's arms are always open wide, ready to welcome us back into His embrace. His grace knows no bounds, and His forgiveness is freely offered to all who humble themselves and turn back to Him.

The parable of the Lost Sheep challenges us to reflect on our own lives and consider those areas where we may have wandered away from God's path. It beckons us to return to the fold, to repent of our sins, and to experience the joy of reconciliation with our Heavenly Father.

Just as the shepherd rejoiced over the lost sheep's return, so too does God rejoice over each one of us when we turn back to Him. Our repentance brings joy to heaven, and our restored relationship with God brings fulfillment and purpose to our lives.

Broader context:

Parable of the Lost Sheep (Luke 15:3-7):

This is the main passage where the parable is found.

God's Pursuit of the Lost:

Ezekiel 34:16 - God seeks out the lost and brings them back to safety.

Isaiah 53:6 - We all, like sheep, have gone astray, but the Lord laid on Jesus the iniquity of us all.

Matthew 18:12-14 - Jesus' teaching about the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine to seek the one lost sheep.

Psalm 119:176 - Like a lost sheep, seek your servant, for I have not forgotten your commands.

God's Rejoicing over Repentance:

Luke 15:10 - There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.

Luke 15:32 - It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found.

Acts 3:19 - Repent therefore, and turn back, that your sins may be blotted out.

God's Unfailing Love and Faithfulness:

Psalm 23:1-3 - The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.

Psalm 36:5 - Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds.

Psalm 136:1 - Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.

Lamentations 3:22-23 - The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

The Shepherd's Role as a Metaphor for Jesus:

John 10:11 - I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.

Hebrews 13:20 - Now may the God of peace who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant.

Call to Repentance and Restoration:

Joel 2:12-13 - "Yet even now," declares the Lord, "return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not your garments."

Revelation 3:20 - Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.

The Joy of Salvation:

Romans 15:13 - May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.

Psalm 51:12 - Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Questions:

Have I strayed from God's path, and if so, am I willing to humble myself and turn back to Him?

Do I fully grasp the depth of God's love and His relentless pursuit of me, even in my moments of wandering?

How can I share the message of God's grace and redemption with others who may feel lost or disconnected from Him?

What steps can I take to deepen my relationship with God and experience the fullness of His joy and restoration in my life?

Let us pray:

Heavenly Father, we thank you for your unwavering love and grace, demonstrated to us through the parable of the Lost Sheep. Give us the courage to humble ourselves, repent of our sins, and return to you with open hearts. May we never forget the depth of your love for us and the joy that comes from being reconciled to you. In Jesus' name, amen.

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