#but the religion / way of life you are desperate to keep alive

[aesoka]

i never really got why ppl are so obsessed with cameos,, ‘ we wanna see cal kestis in kenobi! ‘ why? he has his own game? ? i get wanting fav characters wanting to appear in places where they would contribute to a narrative, however the point of the dark times is that you’re supposed to lay low. no breaking into places, no officiating weddings, no stopping a group of bandits even though you know you could. you know you could help these people, but you can’t. you can’t because if you do? in your mind you’re killing the last remaining survivor of the jedi order. you can’t reach out to those like you because you have force bloodhounds tryna sniff u out, so i mean? that’s the point! that’s the tragedy of it! you’re cut off from everything you grew up with and believe in! you have to make your own way in the galaxy and make your own decisions! do you help and reveal yourself? do you bury your head in the sand and disconnect yourself from the web of life you grow up in? disney ,,, does a piss poor job really weaving these concepts together, moral choices, fear, death of your home, found family, haunted by the past ; all of these things.

[acozysoulwrites]

Buried feelings | Astarion x Tav

Description: Astarion recalls being buried alive when Tav finds a man in the graveyard suffering the same fate. This leads to lots of emotions he isn’t sure what to do with.

Not anyone could say they’ve been buried alive. Even fewer could say that they’d been buried alive for a year. Astarion wondered if anyone else at all could say that. He could. Sometimes he had nightmares of being back in that coffin.

Sometimes it only took the smell of freshly dug dirt, or a stroll past a graveyard to stir the dread deep within. He hated how weak these simple things made him feel.

Earlier today, Tav led them through the graveyard in the lower city. Karlach found her parents gravestones and said a few words to them. Astarion wasn’t sure what he believed, but he could tell she felt the things she spoke.

On their way out, they noticed a freshly filled grave, a pipe stuck from the mound, and Gale was the first to notice the faint cries for help that erupted from it. As Tav dug into the shallow grave, Astarion’s throat tightened, his mouth grew dry, and he fought the urge to look away as the all too familiar feeling crept into him.

“It’s probably nothing, we should just go” He scowled, a glint of desperation flicked across his face.

“Star, if someone’s in there…” She gave him a look, the same look one would give when begging their beloved to keep a stray puppy or kitten, and despite how badly he wanted to be anywhere else right now, a sigh escaped him, and he submitted.

“Go on then, since you need to be everyone’s hero” Astarion grumbled, guilt running through him at the hurt expression that crossed Tav’s face. He meant to speak those words more softly just now.

The shovel soon came into contact with something hard. Surely enough, a coffin. Karlach helped Tav pry the lid open, before it could even open half way, a man shot up, nearly knocking the two back onto their arse. He gasped for air, clenching his chest as panic filled his frantic gaze.

Astarion stayed back while the other’s spoke with the stranger, asking him all sorts of questions and receiving few answers. His mind was elsewhere, it was distant and stuck. He couldn’t help but feel anger. Why hadn’t anyone noticed him? Not once during all those years did anyone come to his rescue, not a single God, not an angel such as his beloved Tav, no one. For a year, he waited, cried, and begged. Screaming as loud as he could until his voice was but a rasp and he swore he could taste blood.

Suddenly, tears were gathered at the corners of his eyes, glistening in the sunlight, they threatened to fall as he looked upon the man they’d saved. The man with a second chance at life so much earlier than Astarion had been given his.

Tav was finally satisfied with the explanation the man gave her as to why he had been buried, and she turned. Astarion watched as the man scurried off into the bustling city, gifted another chance at life. Surely he wouldn’t waste it on getting into squabbles with the higher ups.

“Gods, what an idiot” Tav scoffed, earning nods of agreement from Gale and Karlach.

“Can’t believe the things we run into sometimes” Karlach chuckled.

Astarion remained quiet, and it wasn’t until he felt Tav’s eyes on him that he spoke. He quickly fixed himself, his face fell, his eyes rolled and he spoke.

“Are you quite done saving every sad sop you come across?”

Karlach and Gale laughed and walked on, they were tired and heading back to camp. Astarion began to follow, but Tav stopped him, her hand gently grabbing his arm.

“Star…”

“I’m fine, love” He affirmed, his typical response to her pity. Pulling away from her grip, he takes off in camp’s direction.

-

The sun had begun to set. The smell of Gale’s stew traveled through the air, exciting those who actually ate in camp. Tav sits by the fire, listening as Lae’zel and Shadowheart discuss the gods and other religions. She couldn’t help but smile at their relationship and how it had gone from hate to well… whatever they were now.

As the others in camp chatter and buzz about the day’s adventures, Tav feels a sudden emptiness where someone is missing. Astarion. She stands, brushing herself off as she glances around camp. Her vampire companion was no where to be seen, so she knew where he must be.

“Star?” Tav pushes the flap of his tent open and finds him lying in the dark with only a candle by his side.

She creeps inside, letting the flap close, leaving the sun behind as she settles next to him.

“Talk to me”

Astarion’s eyes flick from the fire to his hand, then back again. “I’m fine”

Tav raises an eyebrow, her disbelief so strong that Astarion can feel it, and he sits up. “That’s not true.”

Astarion shoots her a look, but it falls short when he sees the genuine concern in her eyes. “It’s nothing” He had lost all fight in disguising the discomfort that lie deep in his heart.

Tav sighs and she scoots closer, when he doesn’t scuffle away in disgust, she settles close to him. He was doing it again, shutting down. He did this when things were too much in his head, he locked himself within. It was the only way he knew, the only escape.

“Is this about earlier? That silly man who got himself buried alive?”

He doesn’t move and that answers her question. Tav’s heart breaks. Gods, how she wishes she were around back then, how she wishes she could have found him. She’d have dug him up with her bare hands if that were all she had.

“My sweet, you know i’d have come for you, you know i’d have saved you in a heartbeat”

Astarion’s lips part, anger sparks like a dying fire inside him. “You… You didn’t though” he frowns, eyeing her as guilt sets in, he knows it was impossible, that she didn’t know, and a part of him fears he didn’t deserve to be saved, not then and not now.

His voice wavers as he speaks, “No one did.”

He knew he couldn’t blame Tav for the abandonment, yet a part of him seethed. It clawed at him from the inside. He wondered if she’d ever passed him in the streets of Baldur’s Gate, if she’d have noticed the lifelessness in his eyes as he gazed her hungrily. If she’d have turned and ran from him and his plans to take her into the night, back to Cazador like many others before.

Tav reaches out and places her hand onto his cheek, she rubs her thumb gently underneath his eye, just across his cheekbone.

“You know, some people don’t deserve to be saved”

Her words send an ache through him, the next words she’d speak would surely come with a heaviness. He didn’t either, did he?

“But you? You deserve it most” She hums

With this, he leans into her touch, warmth spreads across his face and into his limbs and he nearly goes weak under her skin. His hand slips around her wrist and he holds her there, taking in her scent, listening as her blood runs through her veins.

“It gets better, i promise” she whispers, pulling him into her arms, she leans back and he lays atop her, his arm around her neck as he hugs into her body.

“You seem so sure” He hums, inhaling deeply from her neck.

“As long as i’m here, i’ll make sure” Tav hums, placing a kiss atop his curly hair.

[mellowsaturns]

religion’s in your lips

JOEL MILLER X FEM!READER

summary: after a quick brush with death, you start to see your life in a new light

warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, angst, established relationship, love as a religion, religion talk, corruptification of reader if you squint, fingering, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), past traumatic experience, smut takes place in jackson

wc: 1k

— — —

It was silly, you think. How you used to pray for the world. How you made bargains with God for small slices of normalcy, for the virus to stop, to just make it through the night alive. All blind faith when you truly think about it.

Because where was he when you were inches away from death, begging with your last breath?

God didn’t help you. Not the God you knew, anyways.

With the amount of blood spilling out of your wound, you should’ve died. Would have just been another body count for the assholes who attacked you, but to your surprise, a hand rolled your body over. There were gasps and subtle arguing before someone lifted you off the cold pavement. With your head lolled to the side, you managed to take a peak from the corner of your eyes. All you saw were brown curls and a patchy beard before you blacked out.

Days later, you woke in a haze to find that same person looking over you.

All those nights of praying were utterly useless, you realized. Now, you know better because it wasn’t God who saved you. This man did.

Now, Joel Miller was the only person you’d go on your knees for.

Looking up from your position, Joel’s head is pulled back in bliss as your mouth works his length. You hum in satisfaction when he lets out those guttural groans. It was like melodies to your ears.

“Fuck, darlin’ you’re doing so good for me,” he praises, looking down at you. He tugs onto your hair and pushes you deeper. “Just like that,” he moans. “Just a little more,” he says as he starts to fuck himself into your mouth, an indication that he was nearing his climax. “You gon’ take me like a good girl?”

You struggle to nod with his cock deep down your throat. He chuckles before wiping away your tears and finishes in your mouth, spilling that sweet salty taste of him into you.

Pulling back, you smile when you see the pleasure in his eyes and swallow every last drop of him like it was the sweetest wine.

It takes no time for him to lay you on the bed, peeling off every single piece of clothing that touched your skin.

Running his large rough hands over your body, you shutter against his touch. He makes his way up, gently kissing the spot where your thighs and hip meet before scattering more kisses across your stomach and breasts—especially on that old jagged scar where every single kiss of his felt like your revival.

You audibly gasp when he cups your sex, pressing onto it with just enough pressure to tease you. “Joel,” you whisper with steadying breaths. “Joel, please.”

“Hmm?” he mumbles against your neck.

“Want you,” you beg, eyes pleading. “I want to feel you.”

At that, he dips a finger into your core and you let out a desperate whimper. “So wet already,” he teases. “This what you needed, darlin’?” he asks, adding another digit.

It was pathetic how quickly you succumbed to his touches.

You nod. “Feels so good,” you breathe out. “Want you so bad.”

Joel groans, cock hardening once again against your body. When he enters you all the way with a grunt, your eyes roll to the back of your head. No matter how wet you are or how much he preps you, you always feel the stretch because he was so fucking big.

“Keep your pretty eyes on me,” he gruffs, and you slowly steer your eyes back to his. “Good girl,” he says, voice low before picking up his pace and fucking you senseless. “Don’t cover your mouth, wanna hear you.”

His name on your tongue sounds holy, almost like a prayer echoed throughout the empty house. Joel. Joel. Joel.

“I know, darlin’, I know,” he murmurs. “Fuck. Love it when you say my name like that.”

“I can’t,” you breathe out, feeling like you were about to rip in half with the way he’s rutting into you. “Joel,” you whimper, “I can’t tak—”

“You can,” he rasps, “I know you can. Said you’d do anything for me, right? Be good for me. I’ll make you feel good, promise.”

You do what he says and take all of him. And just like he said, it was good. So good that it only takes a few minutes before you’re blinded by your own orgasm. He comes shortly after, filling you up with his essence before resting his forehead against yours while he fucks his spend into you.

Taking your mouth with his, he pulls you into a deep kiss. “Did so well for me, sweet girl.”

Your arms find their way around his torso as the two of you lay there coming off your high. Sometime after, Joel gets up and comes back with a wet towel to help you clean up. You couldn’t help but admire him from your spot on the bed as the warm light from the lamp illuminates him from behind.

Grabbing onto his arm, you pull him back to you, not caring about the mess you made on the mattress because right now, nothing matters. All you wanted was him.

He smirks at your neediness. “What would you do without me?” he jests.

But it’s true, you think. You wouldn’t be here without him. After recovering from your injury, you had nowhere to go, you didn’t even know where you were so he let you tag along with him and Ellie all the way back to Jackson which ended up giving you the normalcy you had always wanted.

Then came the first touch. The way his fingers played between your thighs and the feeling of him against you for the first time beneath tangled sheets showing you what true heaven felt like. And it was something akin to being reborn again.

Joel saved you in more ways than one.

You already knew it then. Knew it the moment you woke up after your mere brush with death and saw those beautiful brown eyes staring back at you. Knew it then that he had become your purpose.

That you’d devote your entire life to him.

Joel had become your God.

[turnnblurb]

You’re The One I Want

pairing - Rhett Abbott x OC (Odelia Graves)

wc - 4k

warnings - mentions of death, talks of sex, tobacco use, emotional abuse, religion, eventual smut

synopsis - Odelia Graves has never been the first pick in anything until she rekindles her relationship with her childhood friend Rhett Abbott.

notes - I am such a sucker for childhood friends to strangers to lovers. Thank you for reading!!! Love you, mean it!!

Loneliness was a common word around Amelia County. Uttered expression of it would earn someone a polite, but disingenuous, bless your heart. It was an emotion that Odelia Graves felt more often than not.

She found it hard to recall a moment in her life that was inhabited by human nature and warmth, those were buried only in the years before her mother’s passing. Bless your hearts.

Those three words were thrown at the Graves sisters for years. Eventually, the population of Wabang found themselves too enchanted with their own indulgences to bless the hearts of the grieving family any longer.

The oldest Graves, Anna Mae, was a degreed nurse at Wabang General. Sophisticated and damn good with a needle and stitch, what did she need the blessings for? Layla, the second born, seemed to be having her fun with her bull riders and bonfires. Nothing like a distraction to swallow down the big pill of grief. The youngest, Daisy, had to be the most well-mannered sixteen year old girl to grace the small town. No blessings needed there.

Odelia fit somewhere in there, she herself just wasn’t sure where. Third born, not exactly the middle, but not first or last. It was more beneficial to the town for them to disregard the daughter that was a spitting image of her slain mother. Better to forget the unsolved case than to dwell on how her daughter’s amber red hair matched her own at that age.

She was sure that if her father could still open his eyes he would even look right through her.

Earl Graves, once the best nine-ball shooter to step foot into The Handsome Gambler, was now being kept alive with machinery on the second floor of the family’s home. Odelia didn’t truly believe someone could be killed by heartbreak before her mother’s death. She knew now that if the sheriff hadn’t knocked on their door into the late hours of the night to personally deliver the dreadful news, her father would be tending to their cattle. Not a lifeless bag of bones laying in a hospice bed that insurance refused to cover.

So, with her sisters’ endeavors and family ranch to upkeep, Odelia did find herself awfully, terribly lonely.

Her time was spent treating ill hooves, harvesting, herding, delivering hen eggs, and working on other ranches when time allowed. Anna Mae would hand her a measly check every month. A meek $200 to be spent strictly on whatever was needed to keep the ranch from plummeting into the ground.

It was her duty, everything seemed to be her damned duty. She didn’t mind looking after Daisy. In fact, she cherished it. At times it seemed to be the only thing holding her together. She would bring her to school in the morning when she woke up too late to catch the bus. Laugh and blush with her over Dean Martin movies and a homemade Digiorno's pizza. Braid her hair for when they went riding together. Nurturing the youngest of the Graves was a glimpse into a life she once so desperately wanted.

Like most things she once believed in, the concept of love had been altered by the nasty realities of life. The boys stopped looking to her for entertainment when their voices dropped and their visions were clouded by lust. Layla had straighter hair and wider hips around the same time this occurred. Even the youngest Abbott, whom Odelia was so desperately in love with at the age of thirteen, had grown into his own teenage ways. It didn’t take long for her to realize that he only started coming over when Layla was drinking sweet tea on the front porch in one of her sundresses.

Even now at twenty-three, him at twenty-four, she had enough sense to know that there was nothing there for him within her scrawny figure and purple under eyes. Had enough sense to know that there was nothing there for anyone’s longing.

His Ma had always loved Odelia. Greeting her with open arms and rushing her to their dinner table to stuff her full of the sweet treats he had minutes before been denied. Begging him to go check up on her when things headed south. Things had changed. Odelia ran a bit colder from what she did when she was younger, but Cecilia fed and doted over her all the same.

When Perry’s girl, Rebecca, turned up missing it got harder for Odelia to make the weekly egg delivery. She nearly couldn’t bring herself to witness the ache within the house that once and still did echoed in her own. But, it was her duty. Her duty to muffle the selfish pain in order to provide the Abbott family their order of a dozen eggs. They had their own coop, but Royal insisted nonetheless. Telling her each time that her hens had the best eggs in Wabang. Not telling her that he once witnessed her walking from the mailbox with a stack of bills and tears in her eyes when he was working on the fence in the north pasture.

If any of the Abbott’s truly loved the girl, it was Amy. She just had to jump up and down in joy on the front porch when she saw that green bronco pull into the drive every Sunday. Greeting Odelia with a tighter hug each time. Odelia would have to tuck the girl’s head in a little longer so as to not let her see the tears pooling in her hazel eyes. Perry saw. He saw them fall a few times too after Rebecca had gone missing.

Amy hadn’t any verbal clue that Odelia had lost her mom, but the girl wondered sometimes if the younger one somehow felt it within her.

Their relationship even softened a certain cowboy’s gruff heart. He’d catch some moments from the dining table at breakfast. Go along with Amy’s pleas to ride with him out to the north pasture when there was work needing tending to at the fence. She’d call for her, and he would lift her over barbed wire when she met them. Silently praying that a hug for her from his niece would allow her at least one good moment in her day.

He never meant to become such a stranger to Odelia. But, by the time he was long and done with her sister it had already been too late. He was no good at comfort. Nothing he could ever say would make her situation any better, so he chose silence. And she did too. He wasn’t proud of it. He especially wasn’t proud of how he stood behind that group of guys back in school. Hands in his pockets when they pointed a cruel joke at Odelia when they should’ve been around their necks. At that age the only way he knew of getting into the riding crowd was to be uncomfortably stuck up the asses of ignorant teenage boys.

He still shivers when he thinks about what his Ma would do to him if she knew he were the reason she didn’t come around for months. Had her worried sick, riding out to Odelia’s house on the third week. She didn’t tell her the truth, and he never took her for much of a liar. He hears from his mom that Cash, her horse, just had a bad hoof. He knows he saw Odelia and Cash that same morning when he was driving out to the feed store.

He refused to hardly lay eyes on Layla anymore. Not even when she was practically begging him to fuck her under the stands at the Rodeo. He finds himself thinking of Odelia more often than he’d like to admit to anyone. The red halo around her head, the scar on her face from when she would climb through barbed wire to get to his house as a child, the night she caught him sneaking into Layla’s room. He still can’t decide what emotion she held that night, but he thinks it oughta been betrayal.

Not that he had been aware of her tortuous crush on him. He had been oblivious to her loving tendencies at the age of fourteen. How she would shove one of his Ma’s apple fritters into her pocket, giving it to him when they were no longer under Cecilia’s gaze. Always being the first one to check his body for injury when he took a stumble. Still, he could only compare those actions to those of a sister he never had.

While Odelia had found him as a friend at that age, she still remained shy around him. Unlike Layla with her winks and lifting of her skirt in his presence. He had just always figured that Odelia didn’t feel as close to him as he did to her. So, he found a new and different type of friend in her older sister. Luke Tillerson lost his virginity at fourteen, why shouldn’t he be capable of doing that?

He had unintentionally done to Odelia what others had been doing her whole life. Not choosing her.

&

Sunday comes around quicker than it usually does. She’s not sure if that is due to dread or anticipation. Possibly both.

Her days tend to blur when there is more work to be done, but she knows it’s Sunday because she is awoken by the smell of biscuits and the sound of singing from the kitchen. It had become a routine for Daisy to make breakfast on the holy day, singing hymns while she flipped eggs. Odelia had lost her faith a long time ago, and figured her baby sister would too when she came of age. Sure enough when Odelia trudged into the kitchen with one sock a little lower than the other, Daisy was wearing her church dress.

“Morning Odie,” The girl said through a hum. “How’d you sleep?”

“Same as always, lying down.” Odelia stole a biscuit that hadn’t been thrown into gravy from the pan. Earning her a slap with the towel and her favorite teen a kiss on the cheek. “What about you, hun?”

“I slept okay, I had a silly dream.” Daisy spoke as she moved the food to the small dining room table, it had shrunk when Anna moved out and Layla started coming home late into the night, or really not at all. They ate while sharing their dreams.

It wasn’t long until it was time to get in the truck and pay the Abbott’s their usual Sunday morning visit. Odelia to deliver the eggs, and Daisy to catch a ride to church. When they pulled in Amy had been waiting on the porch with a large smile on her face like always.

“Odie, Odie! Grandma, Odie is here!” It was a call that Odelia didn’t think she could ever tire from hearing. Amy had rushed over to her arms immediately. Good thing she had already passed the eggs over to her sister.

“Goodmorning sunshine, what’s got you up so early?” Odelia asked each time just to hear the answer.

“I’ve been waiting on my best friend.” Amy’s wide grin turned into a fake frown, “But, now that she’s here Grandma is gonna make me go to church.”

“Don’t worry, bug.” Odelia leant down to press a kiss to the girls crown, “I know just the person to go with you.”

As if on queue, Amy noticed Daisy’s presence and rushed over to give her a hug. Odelia swiftly grabbed the eggs from her sister’s hands to avoid a mess, and let the two girls follow her as she made her way up the porch. She knocked even though the family was already made well aware of her arrival. She heard a call for her from inside the house and let herself, and the two girls in.

“Oh, bless you. We just ran out.” Cecilia greeted her in the kitchen, taking the eggs from her hands and placing a kiss to her cheek. The dining table held an unfamiliar sight. All three Abbott men sat down waiting for their breakfast, something that typically occurred on special occasions.

“Mornin’ Odelia,” Royal didn’t look up from the morning paper as he greeted her, she didn’t mind one bit. They had an established relationship. Him helping her out when she needed it. Her pretending not to notice that he was anything more than a gruff old grandpa. The small smiles they shared every now and then were enough for her to know that he saw her, and enough for him to know that she was thankful for it.

Perry gave Odelia a slight wave, knowing that if he didn’t he’d have his daughter to answer to. Rhett sat stoic, seeming to pause at Odelia’s arrival. He rested his eyes on her own as a form of greeting, nodding at her gently to which she returned. His hat was on its hook. Hair unruly from a restless sleep. It seemed that all of them were in their church clothes, what a strange sight.

“Is today a holiday?” Odelia muttered outloud with a wrinkled forehead, louder than she meant to.

“Nope.” Cecilia gave her eggs a break on the stove before placing her hands on her hips and turning to Odelia. “Told them I wouldn’t cook their supper for a week. Equally dire.”

A gasp from Amy had Odelia regretting saying those words a little too loud.

“Please come Odie!” Amy looked up to her with her hands wrapped in one another, a begging motion as if Odelia held the name she was baptized under.

“Oh, I don’t know bug. I’m not necessarily in my Sunday best.” She huffed, looking down at her dirty jeans and Carhart jacket. Odie looked at the pout fall upon Amy’s face.

“Even Uncle Rhett is coming! He never comes to church.” Both Amy and Odelia’s eyes shot up to the younger Abbott, who just shrugged under the attention.

“You’ve still got…” Cecilia looked to her wrist, “45 minutes to change. We can meet you there if you need more than ‘at.”

It seemed like everyone’s eyes were on her, awaiting an answer. Odelia hadn’t stepped foot into the church in nearly seven years, not since her mother’s funeral. She gave her cross necklace to Daisy on her 16th birthday.

“Fine, but I’m buying lunch.” Odelia looked back at Cecilia pointedly until her eyes were drawn to Royal by the quiet chuckle leaving his body.

“Like we would ever let you drop a penny on us. Go get dressed, girl.” He waved her off with the Stetson in his hand. As she turned to give Amy and Daisy quick hugs she heard the unforgivable sound of a wooden chair scraping against ceramic. She didn’t turn to see which one of the boys had stood up.

Odelia didn’t have time to register the heat behind her as Rhett grabbed his hat and pushed the door open for her. Her walking past him as he softly spoke a ‘Good Morning’, eyes looking right into hers.

&

It’s just a church. It’s just a church. It’s just a church.

A mantra Odelia replayed in her head as she drove to the white building blessed by God in ways she never had been. The mantra doubled in speed as she parked her bronco. She spotted Daisy helping little Abbott out of Royal’s tall truck, she had no time to chicken out because Amy had already started running over. The sons had drove separately, but had already arrived as well. There was no out.

It didn’t take her forty five minutes to change, only twenty to fix the mess of amber curls under her hat and pull one of her old sundresses out of the closet she hadn’t touched in years. Ten to check on her father. Another ten to sit in the drivers seat and convince herself that she wouldn’t burn up upon entering the double doors. At least she impressed Amy with her appearance.

“You look like a princess.” The nine year old even opened the door for her to get out of the truck. Showing Odelia more respect than any man probably had ever in her life. Before she knew it Amy began dragging her by the wrist to show everyone, hardly giving Odelia time to shut her driver door

“I remember that dress!” Daisy pulled on the sleeves of it, before patting down the wrinkles Odelia couldn’t care to get out. Always the perfectionist. With all eyes on her she blushed profusely, cursing her genes as she felt her skin burn with embarrassment. She also felt the burning stare of a certain blue pair of eyes.

“‘S probably the nicest one I own.” Odelia looked down at herself. There were a few tears in the dress, and she couldn’t stand the way it was just low enough for everyone to see the freckles on her chest. She didn’t know of any princess that looked like this.

“Oh angel, you look wonderful,” Cecilia gently rested her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Rhe—”

“You look beautiful.” The cowboy’s jaw was clenched around the dip in his mouth. Even though Odelia knew he had only said it for his mother’s ears, she felt her heart jump only slightly. Only slightly.

“Thank you, Rhett.” She couldn’t meet his eyes when she said it, not wanting to see the roll of them. Not wanting to know that he didn’t mean it.

If Odelia had looked she wouldn’t have missed the softening of his eyes as they scanned her flushing body. As they both dragged their attention to anything besides each other, both became ignorant to the beaming smile on Amy’s face as she looked between them.

The congregation had seemed happy enough to see her. Pulling her into polite hugs and intruding questions about her whereabouts. She was being pestered and prodded by seventy year old Lou Ann Williams when she caught the Abbott’s and her sister standing on the second to last pew. So much for looking out for her.

She dismissed her conversation with the woman as politely as she could, pointing to the pew and smiling as she walked away. The bench was hardly long enough to hold the group of them, Royal at one end and Daisy at the other. It seemed there was only enough room for her to squeeze between Rhett and Amy. Great.

Royal stepped out upon her return, making way for her to squeeze right in. Getting past Cecilia’s small stature was no trouble. Perry leaned backwards an awful bit to let the girl through. When Odelia got to Rhett she had nearly made up her mind of turning back around to go sit with Lou Ann.

It was no secret that with age and riding bulls the younger Abbott had acquired himself quite the build. His chest poked out with his straightened back, and his height was nothing but intimidating. The smell of leather and tobacco dizzied her before she stepped in front of him. She decided that rubbing her ass on him to get by wouldn’t be so appropriate in the middle of a church. She excused herself as their chests touched, clearly taking no example from his brother on letting a lady through. His eyes flickered to hers for a brief second, but it might have been longer. Odelia had no clue.

“Sorry.” She whispered, not missing the quiet swallow of spit she got in return. She had made it to her spot, but at what cost.

She sat through the sermon. A full hour of Rhett’s denim knee touching her’s, it seems he was given just enough space to man spread. It was harder to ignore that than the shared giggles between Daisy and little Amy, who was all too happy with her conniving actions.

After final prayer had concluded, the group shuffled out the same way they shuffled in. Minus Odelia being a mere inch from meeting her hips with Rhett’s.

The sun had found it’s place in the middle of the sky, making the Wyoming fall feel that much warmer. Which made it that much easier for Odelia to conceal her blushing cheeks when she caught those blue eyes on her face.

“Meeting at the diner, Odie.” Cecilia rushed, wanting to beat the crowd.

“I’d love to, but I really gotta get home.” Odelia’s nose scrunched. “‘Ave been putting off moving the cattle for days now.”

“Nonsense, no work on the lord’s day. Rhett will help you tomorrow morning.” She turned to the truck before the girl could so much as get another word out.

“Ma—”

“Rhett Abbott. If your father doesn’t even move cattle alone what makes you think Odie should.” Cecilia turned to her son with a look that should’ve made thunder roll out of the clouds.

“I’ve done it before, Cecilia. It’s no problem, really.” Odelia raised her hands and waved both of them off, but the mother was too caught up in staring down her son to notice. Rhett’s eyes were on her though, the longer he looked at her the more he started to forget about what the hell he even had to do on a Monday morning.

“I’ll be there at 7.” His words pushed Odelia’s hands down back to her sides. All she could do was shake her head at him. Cecilia was quick to turn back and point at her next.

“You need to learn how to accept help, missy,” then back to Rhett. “And, you need to prioritize what really matters.”

What really matters.

“Yes Ma’am.” Odelia couldn’t figure out for the life of her why Rhett’s eyes never left her face.

[grimaussiewitch]

100 warlock patron pack ideas: part 7

61: You were sentence to death. In your many months of waiting out for your final day, rotting away in a damp cell, a voice called out. A fiend? Litch? Fey? Who knows what. As long as you kill for them, they will let you escape. All of those guards never stood a chance. Neither did your soul.

62: This is your third time your patron has sent you back in time. You’re back with your original level 1 party until you perfectly convert most of your party members to your patrons cause. How did you end up in this situation? You were seeking out for a strong magical mentor and accidentally called upon chuthulu-esq creatures. They can not keep breaking time and space for you or else they’ll break the cosmic world. As punishment for your failure, you are aware that you are back in time but have no clue what the previous timelines were like.

63: You are a bodyguard for hire. You will protect someone for coins. One night, a powerful fiend lord comes into your residence. His child is about to go adventuring and he does not trust them enough to life past day one. A spoil rich brat one might say. Your task is to keep them alive until they retire or the fiend lord feels satisfied in your work. Bonus points if the child doesn’t know of their demon heritage. Bonus bonus they don’t know you were hired to protect them.

64: Please do not make deals with weird slime that hangs out in a dirt hole. Yes they offered you knowledge from what they have seen over the last how many years. But please don’t trust their “dap me up” or their funny little quirks. It may be goopy but it has seen god and you’ll probably see god too.

65: You and your party were fighting a devil. Both you and your enemy go down in critical condition. You drift off into a dream full of flames and a fiend is there. You both know you’re dying, they tell you the only way for either of you to live is for them to be sealed inside you. You’re desperate to live, so you accept. You wake up in a bed surrounded by your team. They are so glad you’re alive. You are not.

66: Your patron has tricked you into believing that you are a special type of cleric or paladin. You are none the wiser. You met them in your dreams and made a deal with them to protect people.

67: You are the chosen one and to fulfil that duty, you had to be sacrificed. In the end you got some cool warlock powers but you’re not free. Your patron demands for you to hunt anyone that will hurt the religion. Little do you know, you’re not the only “chosen one”.

68: You were once a toy that was magically created to be sentient. You resided in an orphanage. Over the years being played with many different children, you wished you could move. You truely wanted to be a real person and look after these kids. When the lights went out for bedtime, a glowing orb appeared in front of you. That is your patron. There was a giant flash of light, then nothing. You felt strange and groggy. Slowly, you realised you could blink, breathe and move your limbs. A real person. In the morning, you greeted the owner of the home and asked for a job. Much to your surprise you got the job! However, it didn’t last forever. Over the next few years, the orphanage wasn’t receiving as much funding or care. Slowly but surely, the orphanage closed down. What do you do now? Welp, that glowing orb came again, explained that it made you real and now you’re it’s puppet. You can freely do whatever you want, but if there’s something that’s needed, you have to listen to your patron. If you fail after one too many times, you can always return back to your original state. A toy.

69: You are literally the worst bard ever. Big cringe fail energy. You’re too lazy to actually improve on your music so just make a bargain with a fiend instead. Who cares, you can make sweet tunes now. Screw having a soul.

70: Mystical angels put you into a death game. You made allies and enemies in that bloody game. But only one could win. After a brutal battle, you were victorious. Crowned the winner of the death game. As your prize, you get to live and have a “guardian angel” as your patron. You did not sign up for that game or this pack. You were forced into it. Now you live with scars and a patron that always watches.

[ladywhumplady]

Elodie's Final Hunt

Elodie grasped desperately at her greasy hair, soggy strands escaping from every finger. Though she had no way of seeing it, Elodie was quite aware she was in a state of utter disarray, as she’d been for far too long. Her knife, which had been carved with all the necessary verse of The Varelous, twitched in her hands, raring for a fight.

It was quite the miracle she hadn’t yet been caught, that none of the vampires below had spotted her despite being perfectly poised to see the merciless slaughter of her kin from above. The rafters had become her new home, a hundred metres above the main cathedral where hundreds of vampires appeared to wander to and fro without a care in the world.

Elodie hated it; hated that her species were seen as entertainment or food. That it was all a game to them. That what her family had laid their life down for was nothing to them. But there was little she could do, especially now so high up on the rafters. Paranoia told her that she’d be slaughtered if ever she so much as moved an inch, and grease and sweat and starvation had made their home inside of her. She did not wish to move more than the necessary breaths required for her continued living.

Her mouth was dry as the desert, her shirt wet as the sea, but her every try at transferring these liquids had been in vain, instead stealing more of her precious saliva for waste on her shirt. Elodie knew she couldn’t keep up her post for long, but in the few days that had gone by, she hadn’t yet seen a worthy vampire to face her blade’s last.

The urge to simply drop her knife onto the heads of one of those disgusting creatures, to get their ichor all over their ‘church’ floor and laugh as she was drained to death, was something between a desire and an inevitability; Elodie knew she’d not make it out of the rafters alive from the moment she entered them, or the cathedral for that matter. 

In fact, every man and woman who’d gone with her had known they’d not make it back home yet they’d gone anyway, preferring to die as a martyr than as a drained body on the streets. Martyrdom was the only honourable death for a human; none that survived past five lived to get sick, and everyone knew your death came by the hands of a vampire in some form. But it was the choice of the individual how many vampires you took out with you, as Elodie knew well.

And for those with very little? For those with no family, no friends and years worth of combat training on their side, with enchanted blades and (if Elodie were to be generous to herself) wit as a hunter needed? For Elodie, it was not even a question to take out another vampire - after all, if you live to kill the first, you always went after a second.

But so far, no creature well-dressed enough, no creature Elodie deemed worth her life had traversed the path to the altar and back, so she’d kept deathly silent as she lay twitching in wait. For the first time in her life, Elodie had allowed herself standards, and standards she’d follow.

If she peeked her head out for a cautious second, Elodie could see the gathering below her. In hushed voices, the animals below her were conducting some kind of whispered sermon as they all hunched over as if praying. But Vampires didn’t pray - or, at least, didn’t pray to a worthwhile deity. Vampires lived in sin so deeply layers of their skin had been removed until all that remained was a thin pale sheet akin to a corpse. Elodie wished Vampires were still like a corpse.

Vampires seemed to have a lot of sermons, Elodie had found. Around thrice a day they all gathered in the cavernous hall as even more vampires walked around the pews - tourists. The actual content of the sermons was a mystery to Elodie, though she assumed they were just as sinful as the rest of their existence, likely following some form of devil-worship to keep their bodies moving. 

Their ‘religion’ was built off of the backs of the humans who’d laboured hard and heavy to build the cathedral for them, the poor thralls who scuttled around, necks bare. Elodie could never. Her neck was kept heavily guarded by several thin layers of armour and clothing that she’d spent years saving up for. Though not a lot, many a vampire wouldn’t take the effort to remove all five layers if  there was an easier target available, such as the poor innocents trapped with them.

Elodie glanced down once again, ceasing all breath for caution. More vampires meandered through the hall, taking advantage of their having all the time in the world. More random vampires (probably all prancing around and calling themselves ‘Lord’ and ‘Lady’ despite their inhuman nature) that Elodie couldn’t find herself to care about with their old-fashioned clothes and short stature wandering around like fools. 

At first, this had filled her with rage. The sheer callousness required to forgo all morality and offer tours around the place that only three days before had been a bloody massacre was not understandable to Elodie. This, Elodie considered, was for the better. It was surely all the better of her to have no way of understanding how a whole species could behave so blase about the slaughter of thousands of humans than to understand it. Elodie was sure she’d never understand such cruelty, even if that wasn’t much considering her self-predicted lifespan.

But even if it had little effect on the vampires, the memories clung to her at all times. The arms and legs of her Lieutenant stretched out by some four bloodsuckers until they tore from their sockets; the screams as she was dragged from vampire to vampire? Teeth ripped from her colleague, eyes popped out, every little piece that could be torn off taken from Jason’s person until all that was left was an armless, earless, noseless, legless lump who seemed still able to sniffle as blood entered his lungs? The way he slowly choked? The way they laughed as if it was comedic in any way to see someone so sentient, so alive to be desecrated in such a way? Had Elodie not known vampires, it would have seemed unreal.

Elodie stared down at the pews that had been moved for such torture, the pews that now resumed their normal role as if nothing had happened there before, holding a hand over her mouth in the case she were to churn out what little liquid she had in her stomach. It all appeared so… so normal…

Directly below her, an aisle where the undead trampled over the place dead bodies had been piled. She had to crane her neck out to view it, and some sick part of her took some form of adrenaline-inducing pleasure at the sight if only as  it served as motivation for some more vindictive part of her.Hate, she’d learnt, was the strongest fuel there was. The strongest, most valuable fuel for any young hunter as it allowed them to activate parts of themselves a weaker person would hide away. But a hunter could not afford to be weak, nor innocent, nor merciful. A hunter could not afford to retain all of their humanity, rather tearing at it in chunks to keep those around them safe.

A good hunter killed even the smallest of monsters.

“Of course, we have a special guest…” The vampire at the altar exclaimed, “And I think we’ve all seen them before.” It declared, louder than anything it had said before.

Elodie almost jolted off the rafters at those words. For a short moment, Elodie debated whether or not they could ever mean her, though it seemed ridiculous. Surely they just wanted all those with poor attention spans to pay attention? Elodie grabbed at her hair, pulling the slippy, greasy wetness over and over again as if that would ever properly soothe her.

She could be calm for a moment longer, she could, she- ‘Elodie was calm under pressure, she’ll make a fine hunter’, her Lieutenant had said to the examiners. A ‘fine hunter’. She was calm under stress, even if what she was stressing about was all in her head. Because it had to all be in her head, right? There was no way it meant her.

Elodie breathed a hefty sigh as the vampire once again resumed his whispery sermon. It seemed her fear was all for naught and that (though she couldn’t bring herself to look down) a new vampire had no doubt entered to begin their own ten-hour sermon.

Of course, cautiousness was never a bad thing, per say. Quite the opposite, even. No, Elodie’s cautious and paranoid nature had earned her many a promotion when she’d returned back after yet another mission. Her knife in her pocket had been hard-earned through years of training and practice. Sure, she perhaps bordered on neurotic in some areas, but her attention to detail and risks had kept her alive thus far and was considered too useful to be an annoyance for her community. Her community she’d never see again, the community ravaged by their mission.

“I am sure we all know what to do, correct?” A new voice questioned, smooth and pretty. The kind of voice Elodie was unsure whether she was envious or partially attracted to. Or, would have been had it not been owned by a vampire. Because Elodie could never be attracted to a freakish parasite. It was high, like a melody, but had a strange accent to it that she couldn’t place. Old, Elodie settled on. ‘Old’ accent.

“Yes, Mother.” The whole room chorused in unison, thousands of years worth of practice paying off.

But… Elodie was almost too frightened to ask-

What were they all tasked to do?

It happened that Elodie didn’t have to wait long for her answer. Both hands wrapped around the blade as a figure walked through the double-doors.

Their hair was long and smooth, like that of an elf in the stories the elders had told when she was younger. Their eyes had the same beady, blood-transfixed glean as all the others of their kind yet they seemed perfectly well-fitting, as if they’d had such an intensity before their turning. Their pale skin was unblemished and ghostly, though no veins seemed visible. The cloak wrapped around them was a deep purple shade, loose and draped in jewels and gold. The shadows hit their neck which was shrouded from view under their hood. 

Elodie couldn’t figure out whether they were man, woman, or something else entirely, but what she did know was that this vampire was dangerous.

Unlike before, the slight whisper of the crowd had died to the point you could hear an ant die. Yes, Elodie thought to herself, this was it; this was the vampire she would kill, this was who she’d take out with her last.

[filthyrottenworm]

🪱oh my! What’s this, our third intro post? Lawl, this time it’s complete. I don’t really want to rewrite everything again. TLDW we’re bad for you, we have every red flag in existence, we love hard. Diagnosed with DiD. Not pro or anti anything, we care very little about discourse. We want friends. Love of all things taboo.

Every alter uses a different emoji to indicate that they’re fronting. We call these “proxies”. I’ll make a list of the alters that’ll use this account. I’m Tazelein, btw.

🐁Fobi, it/she/they. Little prey. Skittish and nervous, fervently decides when we need to leave a situation. Has an overwhelming will to run and/or hide, depending on the nature of the threat it senses. She is our survival instincts and her only goal is keeping us alive. They won’t be convinced to stay in a dangerous situation, no matter what. I appreciate its desire to keep us alive, but its risk-aversion is a bit disappointing.

🦇Grim, it/any. A cutely fascinating specimen! Has a fascination with torture and abuse, just like me, but in a very different way. Can only process love through being hurt. Has an immense well of self-loathing, guilt, and shame. Hates us, but in a way that it desperately craves approval to fill the pit of self-loathing. Unfortunately, nothing ever will. Panics and lashes out desperately at any sign of betrayal or abandonment.

🎊Jynx, any. My cute niece! Well, he’s all grown up now, and really I couldn’t be more proud. Unless he was my own offspring, then I’d be more proud. She’s got a god complex and a strong desire to rule the world and make it all burn. Describes herself as a spiteful smiter. Vengeful and petty and all those good things. It also craves approval, but in the sense that it’ll destroy everyone who doesn’t worship it.

🚀Oscar, he/him. Bitter and angry, he’s completely done with relationships. Believes our system would be better off by ourselves, without anyone else. He’ll be cold and blunt. Holds no punches. He does, however, hold grudges. Will point out everything he doesn’t like about you, and everything he doesn’t like about us, and everything he thinks you won’t like about us, in an attempt to drive you away.

🥀Quasiren, they/them. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss! They will do whatever they deem necessary to get what they think the system needs. Right now, that’s relationships! Friendships, or romance if necessary. They specifically want very intense, codependent relationships. Maybe even toxic ones! Formerly 🌟

🥩Raptorse, it/its. Our carnivore. Really more of an omnivore, it’ll eat anything, but it’s particularly obsessed with eating moving things. Very animalistic, views everything that moves as food. Constantly hungry and won’t hesitate to bite down. Sometimes goes digging outside and swallows live insects. Only really fronts when we’re hungry, and we usually aren’t hungry, unless Quasi tries to starve us <3

🎆Starbound, she/any. Our righteous anger! Won’t hesitate to jump to defending one of our alters, even those she doesn’t like, if she thinks someone is wronging us in some way. Will even defend people outside of the system. She can get a bit violent, aggressive, and intense, though. To the point where she won’t stop at anything to prove a point.

🪱Tazelein, he/any. Me! Yours truly. The one and only. The marvelous! I value life and suffering. If I had my way, everyone would live forever and suffer forever. No one would ever die. Everyone would suffer with me, forever! I hate death with a burning passion that you wouldn’t believe.

🕊️Utopia, they/them. My grandchild! Also all grown. Has a fascination with religions. Wants to start their own. Is confident that they can make the world a better place if they were in charge of it, and desires to rule the world, but for different reasons than Jynx. Genuinely believes they can make the world the better place.

🦠Vitriol, it/its. All of the system’s self-loathing, guilt, shame, and suicidal ideation rolled into one. Hates our system more than anything in the world and believes we’re the scum of the earth. Wants to kill us feverishly. Has the ideology that we’ll abuse people if we aren’t killed off, and that’s a horrible and evil and bad thing. Personally, I don’t care about abuse, and I don’t think we should die, but Vitriol vehemently believes that we’re evil. Will push people away with the intention of protecting them from us, rather than protecting us from them (like Oscar).

🕸️Webber, any. My son! She’s such a wonderful cutiepie sweetheart. My darling Websie. Has the intent of keeping people in our lives at all costs to us and them. Hates abandonment and goodbyes and won’t let anyone go. For that reason, he is fascinated by kidnapping, stalking, and physical restraints. Doesn’t want to hurt anyone, however, and holds quite a lot of guilt for our actions. It doesn’t want to make people suffer or use people, it just doesn’t want to be abandoned.

🔥Xray, he/xe (xe/xim/xis, like he/him/his). Omnipotent primordial eldritch deity 1/3. God of destruction. Represented by fire, the sun, death, light, sharp angles, spikes, stone, blades, gore, and metal. Values truth, bravery, closure, curiosity, finality, persistence, and order. Has a composed demeanor and authoritative role in the system.

🌲Yarrow, it/they/yey (yey/yem/yeir, like they/them/their). Omnipotent primordial eldritch deity 2/3. Goddex of transformation. Represented by greenery, clouds, fungi, insects, the moon, mirrors, frost, trees, armor, and mountains. Values empathy, change, introspection, attentiveness, observation, rebellion, and protection. Has a guarded demeanor and informative role in the system.

🌊Zenith, ze/zer (ze/zer/zers, like she/her/hers). Omnipotent primordial eldritch deity 3/3. Goddess of creation. Represented by the ocean, cosmos, feathers, fur, scales, flowers, rainbows, shadows, eggs, and pens. Values humility, kindness, creativity, adventure, exertion, passion, and beauty. Has a loving demeanor and supportive role in the system.

[emmie-time]

Tw mention of current world events, murder, personal anxieties, and transphobia.

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Hey all, I really don't know how to talk about this kind of stuff so I'm just going to try to go off the cuff about how I'm feeling as of late.

There are so many horrible things happening in the world and I am so deeply saddened and scared by the way people are reacting to things that seem to me like obvious things.

The Genocide in Gaza is horrendous. Day in and day out innocent men women and children are brutalized by an oppressive government and murdered in the streets. This is not new for Gaza, this is just the most public the information has been to many Americans. It is horrendous to see people on every social media site act like describing a genocide as a genocide is somehow an act of antisemitism. There are orthodox Jewish people in New York protesting this genocide, there are many people in Israel who speak out against the genocide are those people also antisemitism by that standard? The notion of equating a governmental body and a landmass with a single religion as a point of fact so you can dismiss out of hand the actions of people who wish for a free Palestine is barbarism and rhetorically bankrupt.

FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA PALESTINE WILL BE FREE 🇵🇸

Now onto some other thoughts regarding Nex and the response of media at large again please be aware I will be discussing transphobia and the response to the obvious murder of a nonbinary child.

I do not understand the media and public at large. A 16 year old was murdered, they can not see their friends, they will never hug their family, they will never go to school, college, life outside of what they knew they never got to be anything but what they were as a child. How can we argue over whether or not they were murdered. Why does it matter that they splashed water on someone to get them to leave them alone? Why is an apropriate response to that to kill someone? Why are you as a people so desperate to paint Nex as a drug user and an instegater? They're the one who is dead not the people that attacked them. Those people got a little wet and are getting away with a murder as far as I am concerned.

The media was quick to froth at the mouth and play the 911 calls where Nex was misgendered and interview people who willfully use incorrect pronouns. (Please let me know if I have gotten Nex's pronouns wrong the sources and posts I've seen all use they them so that is what I'm using but please correct me I'd I'm wrong.)

Why do we always let this kind of mistreatment and mischaracterization stand when discussing a minority victim? Why is it OK to misgender a dead trans person, or attribute criminality to a dead black person, or paint a dead disabled person like they were simply lazy or a faker? Why is this behavior so widely accepted?

I say to you again Nex was a child, regardless of the circumstances or the events leading to their death they were a child and indigenous child who is now dead. This can not continue. We can not let this happen again and again to so many people who don't get media coverage. I never want another trans person let alone a child to die at the hands of another person or their government.

I love you all. Please, please , please don't let the fear or sadness of these things eat you alive. We are the bulwark against which bigotry will meet its end. We must stand firm and do all that we can to protect each other and stay safe. We can affect change. Each and every one of us is a miraculous being, and I do not want the gears of the world government and the media cycle to crush us under its weight. Together, we can be strong, and we can hold each other up. Please do what you can and keep your loved ones close. You are all loved even if it feels distant, and if you feel like you can't do anything, please remember you just living is an act of beautiful rebellion and strength!

[nyx-thedragon]

my last religion-related creative writing piece (for now).

"Does God?"

I grew up in the Church, being told every week that God loves everyone. That He is merciful and kind. That He loves all his children so much He sent His only son, Jesus, to earth to die for our sins so that we may go to Heaven when we die. I never really bought it. If God is so loving, why would He send His children to Hell simply for not believing in Him? For not praying enough? For wearing mixed fabrics or growing two different crops next to each other? I understand He must punish sinners, but the things that qualify as sins are so great, and broad.

If God is the only god, why is the first commandment "there shall be no other gods before me"? If God knows how things are going to play out, why did He give Adam and Eve the Garden of Eden in the first place? Why did He place the trees in the Garden? If He knew that humans were going to end up suffering, why would He create us?

If God is all-powerful and He loves us so much, why does He let so much suffering happen? Why so much murder? And unnecessary death? Why so many wars? Why the genocides? And slavery? And violence?

Did Cain, before he hit Abel, know that his brother would die? Did he know that humans could die? Was he aware of that fact? Did Adam and Eve know that humans could die from a strike to the head? Did they mourn their son, and curse God, and turn away from Him like He turned away from them? Did they feel lost? Hopeless?

If God loves His children so much and doesn't want us to suffer, then why does He call for the souls of children to join Him in Heaven? Why is His plan for some children to die before they can grow up? Why is His plan to curse their families with grief for the rest of their lives?

Why is His plan for good people to suffer?

If God is really out there, and He loves us and supposedly listens to our prayers, why did He not answer mine? Were my desperate pleas to keep my grandma alive long enough for me to see her one last time not enough? Were my cries to help my dad through his grief, to comfort him in his time of need, not enough? Were any prayers that I sent up to Him even listened to? Or has He abandoned me?

Maybe He's trying to show His presence in my life in little ways. Maybe the feeling I got when my parents went to see my grandma the night she died that I wouldn't see her again was a gift from Him, to prepare me. Maybe that same feeling I had before my great grandma died was the same. Maybe He sends these feelings to me to help me, and prove to me that He's there.

Maybe He is listening.

Maybe He's just too busy to fix everything.

Does God cry? Does He shed a tear when He sees His children suffering? Does He greet the new souls into Heaven with tears running down His face? Does He grieve every life lost? Does He feel emotions in the same way humans do? He did make us in His image, after all.

Does God ever wish He hadn't made the covenant with Noah, to not flood the earth again? Does He wish He could do it again? Wash away the population and start over? To stop all of the awful things happening?

Does God ever regret creating humans?

Does God feel regret?

Does God feel?

this one was a bit more of a train of thoughts than the other ones. It's also a bit more personal. but I need to share it with someone. to strangers on the internet, because that's a lot easier than sharing things like this with my family.

Thank you for reading this. And if you read my other ones, thank you for that as well. I may decide to share more of my creative writing pieces in the future, but I do not know as of right now.

Have a good and safe day or night <3

[lightningandfireinmybones]

okay i had a thought?

Disclaimer I have been listening to this while studying (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qw9_FJv2oAY&list=PLjFwUFnGRUqOtc9INZDomQlb0D-4Eu0QI&index=3&ab_channel=ASMRrooms). so you understand... i got carried away

What if in the canon universe, we gave Val the Saera treatment but with a few tweaks? She isnt related to Daemyra at all and is just a valyrian bastard from Essos? We can pretend she is the daughter of one of Saera's many sons. She has inherited the valyrian looks though. Now what if Val having grown up in Lys had been taken as an.. apprentice (?), a ward (?) at one of the pillowhouses there? Maybe even Saera's (although i think she moved to volantis later in life?)

She works the work. She is the best. Men and Women travel from across the continent just to spend a night with her. They sell their fleets, they offer their jewels and gold. Forgotten weapons made from valyrian steel are given to her just so she'll spare them a glance. Not only does she have the blood of old valyria - being a targaryen bastard- but also she is distantly related to the Targs ruling over Westeros. She is a big deal. Now, after a while she gets bored there. Everyone is eating off the palm of her hands, she was them wrapped around her fingers. It's the same song over and over again. So she decides to pack up a few things and make her way west, just to see what that strange place is like, where everyone is so uptight and where her family of old rule.

She eventually makes her way to King's Landing. She decides to visit one of the brothels there and act like a complete novice at first. (maybe though she tells them who she is so that they will hire her?)

She meets Aegon though she keeps her distance. She doesn't really want to Know these people. It's like sight seeing for her. So she uses what sway she has to ensure Aegon is kept away from her.

One night Aemond shows up to pick up aegon as one does. She sees him and she's fucked. While aemond is waiting she approaches him, starts nonchalantly singing in valyrian, wanting him to notice her but without looking too desperate. And he does.

a young valyrian woman speaking their tongue, how does she even know how?

poor, faith guilt ridden, sexualy aversed by the brothel (understandably so)and also frustrated Aemond feels for the first time ever attracted to another person. (one who looks just like him how's that for Therapy?)

he visits more often just to see her. She keeps being subtle about it. he isnt. eventually he finds the inner strength to introduce himself (one can only get So frustrated before snapping).

im not thinking that aemond will stay guilt ridden for too long. there's a mean bad very horrible dom in there hiding. fuck the faith. all he needs is some guidance (corruption) by someone who cares about him. and Val has been game since moment 1. besides -ive never been religious so idk- aren't people who come from very restrictive religions the most delectable closeted sinners?

NAUR BESTIE PLS I LOVE THIS THINKING MANY THOTS I GOT CARRIED AWAY

because valaena without her grounding family and brothers is completely unhinged, without real self preservation and impulse control,,, so she's out here doing whatever the fuck she wants

in this world, we have valaena groomed to be the very best courtesan, trained in seduction and manipulation, to use her looks as a weapon and keep her mind sharp and deadly behind walls nobody else can get past

and val is good at that,,, she's good at getting her lovers to give up their whole lives, to throw fortunes at her, but she never really feels fulfilled, like she's seen or done it all,,, still, her fame grows as word of the bastard targaryen beauty spreads,,, even making it as far as to westeros, to the family that is not that distantly removed from her

the whole song and dance of being a world famous courtesan is starting to grow old,,, she longs for adventure, for adrenaline, to feel alive again, to experience something new that will make her blood sing

rumors reach her of war in westeros, of the rogue prince and the one-eyed prince, of the dragons that bond and bow to targaryen blood

in the dead of the night, she disappears from essos, nothing more than a memory and a rumor, talks of pale targaryen ghosts haunting each port she sails through on her way to king's landing

word of her reputation and skill make it to westeros before she does, and she has her pick of brothels to work at, to make her home there

she chooses something classy but discreet, that is willing to let her observe at first, to linger back and learn the ropes of this strange place where her silver hair and purple eyes get bows and looks of fear, in addition to the lust and the excitement she's used to in essos

the first targaryen she sees and meets is aegon, of course, but he almost ruins the experience for her,,, this is the legacy of her family? a drunk who likes to watch children fight??? content to linger in the shadows, valaena continues to observe, still searching for that spark of excitement she was chasing when she came here

but then,,, aemond comes to pick up aegon

and he's everything she was hoping for, the one-eyed prince in the flesh and its like being struck by lightning,,, he doesn't look twice at any of the women or men in the brothel, content to glower and twirl a dagger between his fingers as he broods and waits for his brother,,, she has to have him, but she knows he will not be easy

but valaena is talented and patient and knows how to manipulate men,,, she drapes herself over the windowsill, making sure the moonlight catches the silver of her curls just right, and sings the most haunting valyrian lullaby

aemond, for his end, is also fucked,,, there's this woman, something out of his deepest darkest dreams, looking like a goddess and singing a language she's not supposed to know, curly hair drifting over an exposed shoulder, the sleeve of her gown slipping down

then, she stands and sails past him, walking so gracefully it almost looks like she's gliding over the cobblestones, leaving nothing but a hint of jasmine and lemon perfume in the air

for the first time, aemond wants. he knows clinically about attraction and sex, has studied up until he has mastered even his own disinterest, but she blows up his carefully structured walls, one haunting note at a time,,,, he's wrapped up in confusion and guilt and frustrated and angry that the first time he wants a woman like this, it's a courtesan who looks like a targaryen bastard who paid him no mind at all

that doesn't stop him from coming back, collecting aemond personally night after night in hopes of catching a glimpse of that courtesan, a hint of that perfume

when he gets worked up enough to finally ask aegon about her, he's surprised when his brother laughs, telling him that "her name is valaena, and no, she won't fuck you. she doesn't fuck anyone here,,, believe me i tried"

the glimpses he catches of her at the brothel are confusing,,, a bruise on her collarbone that makes something inside of him ache, a quick laugh with another girl that stops him in his tracks, a flash of lavender eyes hiding a razor-sharp intelligence

he prays for guidance, but finds his mind wandering to her little gasp of surprise when he'd passed her in the hallways, the glimpse of cleavage in her gowns, the flash of thigh as she'd hopped down from a horse (ASTRIDE,,,, THE AUDACITY),,, he loses the relief of religion, for she has sullied even that for him,,, he gets angrier and angrier the more she is so close but never actually touching him or speaking to him past a few casual words in Valyrian

she's always just out of reach, but so close,,, valaena grinds aemond down until one day he snaps, approaching her in the rose gardens as she trims some blossoms, determined to finally solve the mystery of the seemingly celibate valyrian courtesan, paying a small fortune for the privilege of a night in her bedroom

he doesn't mean to throw her against the wall when he enters her chambers, doesn't mean to let his hands slide down her hips with a proprietary grip,,, but he also can't seem to help himself when it comes to her

layer by layer, valaena peels him until the unhinged dom emerges:')

[rockislandadultreads]

Bittersweet Books: Fiction Picks

The Scent of Burnt Flowers by Blitz Bazawule

When the windshield of his Chevy Impala shatters in a dark diner parking lot in Alabama, Melvin moves without thinking. A split-second reaction marrows in his bones from the days of war, but this time it is the safety of his fiance, Bernadette, at stake. Impulse keeps them alive, and yet they flee with blood on their hands. What is life like now that they are fugitives? Pack passports. Empty bank accounts. Set their old life on fire. The couple disguise themselves as a pastor and a reluctant pastor's wife who's hiding a secret from her fiance. With a persistent FBI agent on their trail, they travel to Ghana to seek the help of Melvin's old college friend who happens to be the country's embattled president, Kwame Nkrumah. The couple's chance encounter with Ghana's most beloved highlife musician, Kwesi Kwayson, who's on his way to perform for the president, sparks a journey full of suspense, lust, magic, and danger as Nkrumah's regime crumbles around them. What was meant to be a fresh start quickly spirals into chaos, threatening both their relationship and their lives. Kwesi and Bernadette's undeniable attraction and otherworldly bond cascades during their three-day trek, and so does Melvin's intense jealousy. All three must confront one another and their secrets, setting off a series of cataclysmic events. Steeped in the history and mythology of postcolonial West Africa at the intersection of the civil rights movement in America, this gripping and ambitious debut merges political intrigue, magical encounters, and forbidden romance in an epic collision of morality and power.

The Next Thing You Know by Jessica Strawser

As an end-of-life doula, Nova Huston’s job—her calling, her purpose, her life—is to help terminally ill people make peace with their impending death. Unlike her business partner, who swears by her system of checklists, free-spirited Nova doesn’t shy away from difficult clients: the ones who are heartbreakingly young, or prickly, or desperate for a caregiver or companion. When Mason Shaylor shows up at her door, Nova doesn’t recognize him as the indie-favorite singer-songwriter who recently vanished from the public eye. She knows only what he’s told her: That life as he knows it is over. His deteriorating condition makes playing his guitar physically impossible—as far as Mason is concerned, he might as well be dead already. Except he doesn’t know how to say goodbye. Helping him is Nova’s biggest challenge yet. She knows she should keep clients at arm’s length. But she and Mason have more in common than anyone could guess… and meeting him might turn out to be the hardest, best thing that’s ever happened to them both.

Monster in the Middle by Tiphanie Yanique

When Fly and Stela meet in 21st Century New York City, it seems like fate. He's a Black American musician from a mixed-religious background who knows all about heartbreak. She's a Catholic science teacher from the Caribbean, looking for lasting love. But are they meant to be? The answer goes back decades--all the way to their parents' earliest loves. Vibrant and emotionally riveting, Monster in the Middle moves across decades, from the U.S. to the Virgin Islands to Ghana and back again, to show how one couple's romance is intrinsically influenced by the family lore and love stories that preceded their own pairing. What challenges and traumas must this new couple inherit, what hopes and ambitions will keep them moving forward? Exploring desire and identity, religion and class, passion and obligation, the novel posits that in order to answer the question "who are we meant to be with?" we must first understand who we are and how we came to be.

Bitter Orange Tree by Jokha Alharthi, Marilyn Booth (Translator)

The eagerly awaiting new novel by the winner of the Man Booker International Prize, Bitter Orange Tree is an extraordinary exploration of social status, wealth, desire, and female agency. In prose that is at once restless and profound, it presents a mosaic portrait of one young woman’s attempt to understand the roots she has grown from, and to envisage an adulthood in which her own power and happiness might find the freedom necessary to bear fruit and flourish. Bitter Orange Tree tells the story of Zuhur, an Omani student at a British university who is caught between the past and the present. As she attempts to form friendships and assimilate in Britain, she reflects on the relationships that have been central to her life. Most prominent is her bond with Bint Amir, a woman she has always thought of as her grandmother, who passed away just after Zuhur left the Arabian Peninsula. Bint Amir was not, we learn, related to Zuhur by blood, but by an emotional connection far stronger. As the historical narrative of Bint Amir’s challenged circumstances unfurls in captivating fragments, so too does Zuhur’s isolated and unfulfilled present, one narrative segueing into another as time slips, and dreams mingle with memories.

[lovelyjujubean]

(For my english hw I spliced some old poems of mine together, reworked them, and finished the final verse. kinda proud of my work (,: )

One day I was in an old red bug my papa let me buy off of him

I am 16

Young, wild, and reckless, like the baskin robbins flavor

And I am damaged and unrecognizable to myself

One random day I am driving, no one in the passenger

I felt free and this sudden surge of relief that's floods through me

I began living life based off the next experience I was going to make

I'm listening to music and im on my way to first period art

Im happy, yet in the same environment and place as before

I keep moving forward no thought of going back just driving 20 over the speed limit on a residential road

Tears are streaming down my face

My mouth is curled up acting as a gutter

And all I can I can think about is there is a reason to be here and that reason is to be alive

4 years go by in a pill laced blur, skin and bones with a hint of desperation

I have returned to the house where I grew up, every ounce of my childhood has been covered by renovations

There I sit in what used to be my fathers childhood bedroom, gathering my thoughts and scribbling away to no other but God,

I am on my hands n knees

I am begging for forgiveness

“God I feel your wrath, I feel the anger bubbling from beneath”

The ground shakes vigorously

“I hear your cries in my dreams and I feel the pain within the ones you call your children”

I look in the mirror my eyes hang low, my lips trembling

“God, I am disappointed in myself”

I shake my head as if I was staring into their eyes

“I should've been up there with you, I feel as an angel in disguise”

God, Hello. It's been a while

I don’t pray like i used to, go to church like I used to, or even think about religion anymore

My nana says the rapture is coming

Is it too late?

I’ve spent 20 years so disappointed by life that I forgot to be grateful for what I do have

‘The universe works in mysterious ways’ the easiest way to not accept a consequence

Last night I swore I had seen the four horsemen tailing my car while I made my way home

I took extra turns and drove the whole city before I accepted the fate I was given

I can see how little time we have, I can feel the age old myth making way for reality

Last night I got out of my car and gave death a lighter for his cigarette, We shared a moment of silence while we both took our drags, i'd rather make friends with my enemies

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

p5 asks !!!!!

johanna, robin hood, kamu susano-o, and adam kadmon for emil

anat, johanna, carmen, and seiten taisei for katsumi? :3

Ask Game!

johanna: what are your oc's religious beliefs, if they have any? are these beliefs commonplace where they live? do they practice this religion?

Emil acknowledges the existence of Gods but he doesn't believe in them. To believe in something means you put hope or stock into them. He doesn't. He knows they're there, but.. How can he believe in a greater being that allows such suffering?

robin hood: did your oc have any childhood heroes, real or fictional? do they still look up to them now? why?

His grandmother, Juliette Baudelaire. Before her.. Accident.. She always felt like the only one who really believed in him. He always admired her. He still does.

kamu susano-o: what's your oc's true passion? how do they pursue it? how did they acquire it? at what cost does it come?

Writing! He wanted to be a writer, make mystery novels. He still writes of all the places he's seen, but he'll probably never publish anything. Still, years reading has led to a healthy love of writing.

adam kadmon: does your oc yearn for control? why? of what? do they have it, could they ever have it? should they be in control?

Yeah, of course. When you're shaped after somebody else, you search so desperately for yourself. And you exert control where you can because its all you can do. Emil just wants to be in control of his own life. But it never quite feels like he can be.

johanna: what are your oc's religious beliefs, if they have any? are these beliefs commonplace where they live? do they practice this religion?

Katsumi prays to the spirits, asks for their protection. Its kind of hard, because his beliefs don't exactly align with Shinto, but they aren't so blatantly different? Anyways, the whole belief system is pretty commonplace in Japan from my understanding.

anat: where's your oc's self esteem at? high? low? why? what, or who, does it depend on?

Its pretty low. Katsumi knows he isn't what he was supposed to be. And that does a number on somebody.

seiten taisei: does your oc feel indebted to anyone? who? could they ever pay that debt back? do they really have to?

The spirits who protected him, to some degree Masuyo too. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to pay back the debt of them protecting him. But he doesn't need to anyway, not that he knows.

carmen: what's your oc's relationship with their own body, in general? do they have any true confidence in their own appearance?

Katsumi is a shapeshifter. But there's still a disconnect to the body he was born with. He's not dysphoric, necessarily. But it doesn't quite fit the way its supposed to. But he promised to keep his form, a promise he made to himself. To retain whatever he can of himself. So he keeps this body. But there's a reason he wears so many fuckin layers.

BONUS GENSHIN KATSUMI!

johanna: what are your oc's religious beliefs, if they have any? are these beliefs commonplace where they live? do they practice this religion?

Katsumi has no tie to the religions of Teyvat. He ignores them. Gods are real, so what. He's respectful, but he doesn't care. Kinda what happens when you get dumped into Enkanomiya.

anat: where's your oc's self esteem at? high? low? why? what, or who, does it depend on?

Relatively low here, as well. He knows hes feared by some people, and he knows hes done something wrong. But he can't even have the dignity to remember? How is he supposed to have any self esteem with those parameters...

seiten taisei: does your oc feel indebted to anyone? who? could they ever pay that debt back? do they really have to?

Masuyo and Eiji! Masuyo is keeping him alive, he.. Recognizes that more here than in Amant. And he knows he doesn't have to pay back that debt, but he feels like he should. Somehow. And with Eiji, well, Eiji taught him so many wonderful things, made him feel so many wonderful things. And his idea of paying that back, is giving Eiji the same.

carmen: what's your oc's relationship with their own body, in general? do they have any true confidence in their own appearance?

Similar to Amant, but a bit better. His body is his body, he still made those promises to himself. But here, his body is loved by another. both physically and emotionally. And through the lens of another, he's able to love it more.

[thedpu]

"ISSUE #177 / DECEMBER 2021

I’m 17 years old, what can you tell me about love?

MAURO, LEUVEN, BELGIUM

SIMEON SOLOMON - LOVE IN AUTUMN, 1866

How do I not have my heart broken?

JENNY, PARIS, FRANCE

Dear Mauro and Jenny,

The surest way to avoid a broken heart is to love nothing and no-one — not your partner, your child, your mother or father, your brothers or sisters; not your friends; not your neighbour; not your dog or your cat; not your football team, your garden, your granny or your job. In short, love not the world and love nothing in it. Beware of the things that draw you to love — music, art, literature, cinema, philosophy, nature and religion. Keep your heart narrow, hard, cynical, invulnerable, impenetrable, and shun small acts of kindness; be not merciful, forgiving, generous or charitable — these acts expand the heart and make you susceptible to love — because as Neil Young so plainly and painfully sings, ‘Only love can break your heart.’ In short, resist love, because real love, big love, true love, fierce love, is a perilous thing, and travels surely towards its devastation. A broken heart — that grief of love — is always love’s true destination. This is the covenant of love.

However, Mauro, to resist love and inoculate yourself against heartbreak is to reject life itself, for to love is your primary human function. It is your duty to love in whatever way you can, and to move boldly into that love — deeply, dangerously and recklessly — and restore the world with your awe and wonder. This world is in urgent need — desperate, crucial need — and is crying out for love, your love. It cannot survive without it.

To love the world is a participatory and reciprocal action — for what you give to the world, the world returns to you, many fold, and you will live days of love that will make your head spin, that you will treasure for all time. You will discover that love, radical love, is a kind of supercharged aliveness, and all that is of true value in the world is animated by it. And, yes, heartache awaits love’s end, but you find in time that this too is a gift — this little death — from which you are reborn, time and again. I have only one piece of advice for you both, and it is the very best that I can give. Love. The world is waiting.

Love, Nick"

[dusky-cathedral]

November 15: Burning

-tw: parent death, religion

Sitting in my car in the parking lot, another text of revelation fired off with trembling fingers to my (so kind, exceptionally patient and understanding) partner. The realizations have been getting worse since my father passed away, but the car rides to work seem to be the only free time I have where I can just think uninterrupted so it's to be expected. 

-it's always been a race to starvation in my life.

How to be the child that needs nothing, that can survive on air, that can give and give and give without fatigue and look Holy while doing so? The eucharist dissolving on my tongue is a bitter pill to swallow, but sacrifice is the highest form of love, isn't it? 

So I did. Fully parentified at nine, eager and willing, changing diapers and desperately trying to keep a house in order while Mom worked late and Dad convalesced. Drying myself off with washcloths because the full size, fluffy towels were reserved for my mother, she works so hard, you wouldn't understand, making myself as useful and self-sufficient as possible, meticulously crushing my young heart into a tiny, creased ball of adult worry. 

The eternal burden of being a child that was a burden, listening to late night conversations I wasn't supposed to hear, pulling the shoebox out from beneath my bed while my siblings slept and counting out the change I had saved with trembling fingers that are oh so familiar now, wondering in childish naivete whether my offering would be enough to stop the fighting. 

I have spent (notably, anyway) the last five years burning myself to death, or close enough to it, to keep the family warm. My mother telling me without a hint of irony or self-awareness that I remind her of Luisa from Encanto, and all I heard was I'm pretty sure I'm worthless if I can't be of service. I remind her of herself, of a missionary martyred for a cause that, quite frankly, wouldn't notice if I was gone. But sacrifice is the highest form of love, and so I give. 

While my father slowly died, I made sure everything was taken care of. The sink full of dishes from meals I was not present for, floors covered in dirt I didn't track in, the bathroom torn apart in the chaos of illness and overuse and the sickly tinge of pink mold to illuminate my shortcomings, as sure to inspire shame as if someone had said outright you missed a spot. 

I just burned and burned and burned, and I was permitted to do so. I am still permitted to do so even after my father has passed on; it's practically expected. We swear by rote, for want of more, and the exhausted chorus rolls in my head: Leave her Johnny, leave her! 

-I guess I'm just tired, I text my siblings instead of shouting I don't have enough, I am not enough, I am drowning, I am burning alive. 

But even that tiny admission is a shortcoming, because when (if) they ask how they can help, anticipating some one-time task, I can't bring myself to answer you'll need to help every day. There is no simple fix for this life, no easy organization tip presented by someone with a picture-perfect living room decked out in tones of Builder Beige. I have been burning for so long I don't know what it feels like to not be required, to not be obligated and expected and only loved in the way that one would love a hammer or a pair of garden shears. 

What's an extra hour or two, right? I'll go to bed exhausted and wake up just as tired, and nobody ever asked me to do it, nobody expected me to do it, and why didn't I ask for help?

Flames pouring from my eyes and mouth, ever-so-Holy with that oh-so-coveted servant's heart, the next load of laundry put in the dryer amidst my choking, ash-filled reply to every sentence issued towards my (their, our) never-ending tasks, “No worries.” 

Even if I did ask for help, they'd never believe it.

//-ATLAS

[faithfromanewperspective]

I visited my old church over the weekend, and it must be something about coming back with fresh eyes that made me realise—my current church is absolutely lovely and definitely not perfect but it’s certainly alive, and I can see now how this group of burnt out people (who are each lovely in their own part, most of them, just together they seem so desperate and hungry for connection and love and seem so unable to give it) feel a lot like Charn (I read the magician’s nephew recently and now it’s the only thing I use for metaphors). Like I remember how everything I had to give fit like a puzzle piece if it was an ecosystem and I remember the wide-eyed optimism for what we could create and I remember ignoring my unmet needs for years on end for the sake of the vision, a vision that’s only expanded since then: a vision of people fully experiencing liberation and connection because to me that’s what the religion we have in common is about at its core.

I remember being disappointed by the people around me who went from the friend group of my late teens and young adult years to colleagues I tried to be understanding of the limitations of, I remember trying to be there as the people I love fell apart trying to be there covering all the need we saw in people around us, trying to live that life we’re supposedly called to where we care. Never questioning why there was so much need—who does in their altruistic optimism? Who wants to end up like the people who don’t care? We can do better we think. We’re dumb and passionate, me more than most when I’m so time and energy blind I forget how to predict when I have the spoons and I rely on the sense of community and purpose I get there to power my entire life. But with so much need how the hell on God’s green earth was I meant to tell them how to care for me? I remember spending services crying in the bathroom between somehow keeping the place going, I remember every time someone came and felt like they belonged for the first time ever, the secondary joy could distract me and make me forget I didn’t really want to be alive. I also remember every single person who left, hurt by something I didn’t know and would wonder about ever since. Needs of people around me stuffing my brain so full so that I couldn’t vocalise what I needed because I just didn’t know. I now know I get sensory overload from other people’s unmet needs, and I can see everything they hide. But why are there so many?

it makes perfect sense now actually, when you think about the church as a whole and all the fear and shame so many of those people grew up with and the tribal insecurity that somehow missed me because I always thought we had a faith of liberation and connection (why did we not live like that?) which meant I was never scared of people and if they insulted me I wouldn’t even notice unless it was funny, so curious to take in everyone else’s perspectives and feel whatever they were feeling that if it elicited an emotion in me it’d get lost in the fray. We used to insult American Christians for being weird about politics and lgbtqia+ people, when did we become like that too? But it makes perfect sense, for fear of different feeds on fear and shame and insecurity. We say we’re a safe space for everyone, but it ends up being somewhere people who don’t feel safe themselves make others feel unsafe and I didn’t even realise they were doing that to me. Maybe I can fix it, because I know what’s underneath. Maybe I can prioritise better and do better than I did. Most dangerous idea I ever had.

I know my limits now, all the things I can’t do, and I pray for these people. Pray for the day where maybe I can make a difference without destroying myself because I finally have the ability to see that that’s not now and there’s no ‘easy’ way to do a little, not for me at least. The tidal wave of ideas takes over. I only know how to go too far and think I can work and study and volunteer all at once. No one could do what I was trying and if they could, why should I have to? I don’t have to. That’s the point of my religion. And you can see why it gets confusing. Why it seems impossible and sometimes I just have to wait and hope that somehow people will come together in ways that can make it better. More accessible.