#prayers and damnations? one and the same

[generalb]

Don’t forget, someone damning you is also a prayer

[devourable]

† church boy

[ sfw | tw : religion (not named but heavily implied), sacrilege, potential religious trauma? as well as general yandere content but it’s v tame ]

male yandere x gender neutral reader! only pronoun used for reader is ‘you’. i havent written like this in a very long time so i apologize if this is bad ;_;

abraham lived a simple life for the majority of his 21 years on this planet. he was born and raised in a religious household, the only son of a wealthy pastor, surrounded by typical bible-thumping folk who taught him that *** was above everything, above him, above the things he loved, and putting anything (or anyone) above his faith would surely result in his damnation. and his whole life, he believed that.

that was… until you entered his life.

it happened at a fundraiser he was volunteering at. it was any other day for the boy, handing out advertisements and chatting with everyone that came and went. an average, mundane event for him where he’d talk about the same things he did every day, smile, wave, everything that was expected of him.

after the last person in his line had left, he looked down to begin organizing his things so he could join the rest of the party. when he was shadowed by someone stepping in front of him again, he expected to see a familiar face — maybe someone that might’ve forgotten something? but when he looked up…

abraham’s breath caught in his throat. he swore the earth had stopped spinning the second your eyes locked.

whether if you were there because you shared the same religion, was dragged there by a friend/family member, or simply because there was free food, he had no clue - but it didn't matter. your looks, the way you moved, the sound of your voice — why was it all so... enchanting?

he couldn’t help the slight stutter in his words as he hastily offered you a pamphlet, quickly introducing himself and inquiring about you. what was your name? were you new to the church? why haven’t you met before?

the soft laugh you emitted as you spoke and the feeling of your skin grazing his felt like fire. and your name... oh, the poor boy didn’t even realize it, but he couldn’t help it — within moments of knowing you, he had grown totally enamored!

abraham found himself hovering by your side for the rest of the event. he was awkward, you’d quickly realize, but it was in that sort of sweet, inexperienced way. he was desperate to know you, to get closer to you, hoping that maybe if he could understand you, he’d figure out how to quell these intense feelings that had built within him — but to you and everyone else, he was simply making sure a new face wasn’t alone during the event. he was just being a good little pastor’s boy! that’s what he told himself too, over and over again.

he was being good by making you laugh. he was being good by giving you his number. and it was good that he grew elated by the idea of getting to see you again after this. he was a good person, so what if he was neglecting his duties to be around you? he did what he was supposed to all the time, surely he could be forgiven just this once.

right?

his obsession with you didn’t take long to blossom after that first meeting. you started to infiltrate every part of his life in one way or another. his prayers became tangled up with thoughts of you. rather than reading the bible, he’d reread the texts between the two of you while he waited for you to respond to them. when he went to church, he found himself scanning the pews in hopes of spotting you among the congregation rather than finding a seat right away. when service began, he couldn’t focus on the preaching taking place because he was too busy thinking of ways to see you again.

despite the utter adoration abraham had grown to feel for you.. at some point, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t help but wonder — was he becoming sinful? was he growing gluttonous for your attention? he couldn’t have been, he had been so devout his entire life! it was fine for him to miss a few services to see you as long as he made up for it later…

he couldn’t tell if you were an angel, as heaven-sent as he felt you to be, or if you were the embodiment of temptation, pulling him away from his faith and beckoning him to sin. were you both? could you be both? with the progression of his obsession with you, his conflicted feelings about his relationship with his faith grew alongside it.

maybe you just weren’t any good for him.

but your name and god seemed to always come up at the same time…

so maybe, it was a sign that he had someone new to worship.

[dancewithdeath11]

Damnation

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller knew he was damned, why would a pretty thing like you be with a man like him anyways?

Warnings: Smut 18+, lowkey religious undertones (talks of damnation, sin, using god's name in vain (lol)), just fuckin’, not too dirty, more like poetic smut? Love dirty old man poety rizz, fem-anatomy, unprotected sex, use of pull out method 

Wordcount: 1.5K

======

Breathing never sounded so loud. So frantic. Steeped in carnal lust and punctuated by growling grunts. 

He knew. He knew it deep down. Knew this was something bad. Something that shouldn’t happen. Something that would spell out going to hell together hand in hand by the mock of the angels. 

But something like this was worth the damnation. 

It made sense that sins like this were associated with hell. It’s hot, his greedy hands wandering across the sweltering expanses of your skin. The choked moans against one another's lips. Half hooded eyes of a man almost twice your age taking it all in.

How your innocent, ditsy fucking haltertop was bunching around your waist from when he untied it from the pretty bow that you had it in. Although, his hands were shoving the pathetic excuse for clothing back up. It got trapped under your tits, unintentionally, all so he could dig his worn fingers into your supple waist. His jeans were pushed down just enough, your shorts on the ground somewhere. It was almost unfair how you were left so exposed while he was almost fully dressed. 

Joel Miller knew from the second you came up to him that he was screwed. 

At first he thought it was a delusion. Seeing something that wasn’t there. A mirage of an oasis out in the desert that he wanted nothing more than to drown in. In what world would he guess your silent infatuation? Occasionally catching your gaze at the Tipsy Bison or around town. Of course, Joel would spare a small smile for a pretty thing like you. You would return it, beaming at him from where you were, lifting a hand to waggle your fingers at him. 

But he was knocked out when you came up to him for the first time. Your charm broke him quicker than he’d like to admit. After that you were a pleasurable constant in his life. The two of you run into each other quite often. Either quick hellos or long talks. His eyes were fixed on you and only you. 

He couldn’t, shouldn’t.. He swore to himself he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t tarnish you like that. Touch you with his bloodied hands that had taken too many lives. They were permanently stained, a fixed reminder. That should’ve been all it took. No way could Joel Miller do anything with someone pure like you. He was a sinner. 

But oh..

When you came up to him. Sweet you asked for help. How could he deny? 

More importantly, how could he foresee the future? How would he know that you’d pout up at him with the same kissable lips he knew spoke prayers in that house of worship they had in Jackson. He knew you went every Sunday. Was he supposed to know what to do when you flirted shyly, smiling and batting your eyelashes? What about when you grabbed his tainted hand with your soft one? 

Joel was just a man. A weak sinful man who hasn’t touched a woman in years and now here he is. With you. 

He told himself. Just one kiss couldn’t hurt..

But after he had a taste, it was too much. He was diving right into the mirage of water. Drowning in you. Entirely and wholly. 

You’d moan, it was a saccharine sound. Deep and raw like fresh honey, “Oh God..” 

“Takin’ the lord’s name in vain, honey?” Joel chuckled, but it turned into a groan as he felt you clench at his chastising tone. Your nose scrunched in a way that Joel quickly came to love. Face pinched in pleasure as you struggled to keep your eyes open, occasionally slipping up and closing them. But you would open them back up just as quickly. 

Joel watched as you panted and squirmed beneath him, hair fanned out like a halo around you on the rug. “S-Shut-” You didn’t even get to finish before you interrupted yourself with a moan. 

You let out a low whine of frustration as you reached back behind you and grabbed at a fallen pillow. A reminder to Joel of how bad he was. Taking you on the couch like a desperate teenager at first, but when switching around the two of you ended up on the ground. A well loved rug scratching at your bare back, the hard floor making his knees hurt. 

Everything felt rough though. The rough scratch of Joel’s beard as he shoved his face into your neck. Kissing over the sweaty skin and marking you with purpose. Sloppy wet open mouth kisses that makes you tilt your head back and to the side to give him more access. Dirty girl.. Sinful. 

Joel’s rough thrusting was practically sending you up the wall. The head of his cock knocking something deep inside you. That something had you arching under him. Frantically reaching for a different kind of purchase every time, unable to decide where you should put your hands through the haze of lust. But at the same time he was sending you away, he’d drag you back with a tug to your waist.

Joel grunted as he looked down at you. Watching as your face screwed up in pleasure. The flush that covered your cheeks and spread down to your chest where your tits were slick with sweat and littered with hickeys. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth with want, but again, Joel was a weak man. 

He took your nipple in his mouth, nipping at the hard bud before laving over it with his tongue. His other hand skates up your side to give your other breast attention. Pinching and tugging your nipple, twisting it till you let out a whimper of pleasure. Your hands found their way into his hair, tugging just as greedily as he had been grabbing at you before. It’s all his fault. You’re tarnished. Greedy, lustful, desperation showing through with the way you bucked your hips against his and held his head in place from where he had his mouth on your breast. Breathless moans leaving your lips as he scraped his teeth over the plush skin. 

“Joel-” It was a weak call, pitched in a vaguely familiar way. But he could tell why you were calling to him. 

He could feel it all in the way that you were rolling your hips back against his a little weaker than before. You were clenching his dick in a way that had him grabbing your waist a little tighter. The erotic sound of your moans filled the room. Accompanied by the dirty wet slapping of skin on skin from where your slick coated the inside of your thighs. “Shit, sweetheart, ya sound like a goddamn pornstar..” He entertained himself with a smirk, then pressed another kiss to your sternum. 

Idly thinking of you in one of those dirty old films. Maybe he could find a camera, make a little home film of the two of you.. Joel cursed the thought because of how much he liked it. 

“What’s that?” 

Another fucking reminder of how much younger you are than him. 

He elects to ignore your question rather than explaining it, baring his teeth as he sucked in a sharp breath. You open your mouth to ask him again, but he shuts it down as he begins to thumb over your clit. Fingers splaying across your mound as he swipes his thumb over the too sensitive bundle of nerves. 

A broken cry leaves your lips. He leans up to be face to face with you. Wide innocent eyes meeting his, tears just balancing on your lash line. Joel cooed at you, “You close, baby?” He slowed the rocking of his hips, instead focusing on thrusting harder. Shoving his cock back into your dripping abused pussy like he was mad at you. 

Tears streaked into your hairline. A quick nod followed by a weak uh-huh, that was overtaken by a moan. It didn’t take long.. One, two, three good thrusts later and your legs were trembling as they tightened around Joel’s waist. You tenses and looked about ready to fold in on yourself as you cried out like a woman possessed. “Shit- fuck, joel! Oh Joel-” it was a hiccuping kind of cry. Your hands finding his biceps and nails biting into his skin as he sped up again. Searching for his own release. Getting off on how much slicker you got as your tight cunt spasmed and clenched around is cock. 

“I know, baby, I know..” He gritted out. Pinching his eyes shut as he tried to find some kind of self control. Hissing as he dropped his head, chin to chest as he pulled out and fisted his cock. Shooting his spend all over your throbbing pussy and stomach. “Fuck…” He sighed and opened his eyes again. 

There you were, taking quick shallow breaths as you looked at his cum pooling on your skin. And he watched as you took your delicate finger and swiped it up, bringing it up to your mouth. A flash of pink as your tongue darted out to lick it. Then you sucked your finger into your mouth, licking it clean as you finally made eye contact with him. 

You pulled your finger from your mouth with a pop, smiling up at him innocently, “Can we..do it again? Please, Joel?” It was innocent. You were innocent. But how could he not? Especially when you asked him so nicely. 

He licked his lips. 

Oh, he’s going to hell…

======

[hellenicrisis]

A Collection of Greek Keywords for Hellenic Pagans (kharis, miasma, etc.)

Kharis:

Kharis means 'grace' or 'favour' and it is in reference to the reciprocal nature of our relationships with the gods.

Liddell and Scott describe it as, "A grace or favour felt on the part of the doer but more frequently on the part of the receiver in the form or thankfulness and gratitude."

It essentially means a favour done in delight. This can be both the offering we give to the gods, and the favours and blessings the gods bestow upon us.

Kharis is both the action of offering and worshipping and also what is built between a worshipper and a god through the actions of offering and reverence. It can be used like this:

'Giving an offering to the gods is an example of kharis.'

Or:

'I have built up kharis with Apollo over the years.'

Khaire/khairete:

Khaire or khairete are words that mean 'hail', 'farewell', or 'blessings'.

It can be used to greet someone, either as hello or farewell (I use it at the end of some of my posts). It can also be used at the end of a prayer.

Khaire is used to address one person or god, and khairete is used to address a group.

Miasma:

Miasma means 'stain', 'pollution', 'defilement', or 'stain of guilt'.

It is a type of spiritual pollution that a person or a place can collect through either happenstance or deliberate action. It makes us spiritually unclean but there is no damnation involved in miasma and thus is not similar to sin. Sin is more comparable to agos, which is mentioned later.

We tend to collect miasma while going about day-to-day life, almost like getting our hands dirty while working. The stain it refers to is always one of a spiritual nature; miasma is a strictly spiritual concept.

It makes a person or place ritually impure, hence it is inappropriate to interact with the divine while in a miasmic state. The gods are said to reject the offerings of a miasmic person or to vacate a miasmic place until it is cleansed.

Human blood is also considered to be miasmic when spilled outside of battle, though this is not the case for menstrual blood (although I tend to avoid praying and doing rituals during that week anyway as I consider it to not be my cleanest state possible. I use this time to tend to my altar physically instead, cleaning it and reorganizing it).

Miasma is very common, everyone gets it, mostly due to plain daily life, though sometimes due to deliberate actions. Miasma can always be cleansed.

Sources of miasma include:

Death in the home - Pollutes the grieving and the home. People and home need to be cleansed before interacting with the gods or going to temple.

Birth - Because of the blood involved. Mother and baby are considered by traditional standards to be miasmic for three days postpartum and both are generally cleansed at five days postpartum.

Intercourse - Both parties are polluted by the act and must be cleansed before interacting with the gods or going to temple.

M*rder/m*nsl*ughter - This collects both miasma and agos. The m*rderer becomes miasmic, and a place can become miasmic if a m*rderer is free and unpunished there. This does not apply to blood spilled in battle.

There is a line in Hesiod's Works and Days that refers to the action of cleansing oneself of miasma before interacting with the gods. It reads, "Never pour a libation of sparkling wine to Zeus after dawn with unwashen hands, nor to others of the deathless gods."

Khernips:

Khernips means 'handwash', or 'lustral water'.

It is basically Hellenic holy water. It is used to purify ourselves of miasma before interacting with the gods.

It can be made by dropping burnt herbs or laurel leaves (bay leaves) in clean water, or by dropping a lit match in clean water. Simply washing our hands in plain water can work symbolically as well if done with the specific intention of purifying oneself.

Agos:

Agos means 'curse', 'pollution', or 'abomination'.

It can be considered as a step up to miasma and, while not quite the same, it could also be considered comparable to sin. It is brought about through deliberate actions and it is very difficult, if not impossible, to cleanse. Agos can also invoke the divine wrath of the gods, so it does involve a form of damnation

Some things that cause/invoke agos include:

Having intercourse inside a temple

Temple robbing

M*rder

Bloodshed inside a temple or on sacred grounds

Broken xenia

The refusal to properly bury a family member or a soldier (even an enemy soldier)

K*lling someone who is under the gods' protection

Offering human blood to the gods (due to its miasmic nature)

Agos is hardly as common as miasma, so it is not something the general practitioner should worry about.

[m2ok]

Golden Salvation Pt.2

pt. 1 Pt.2

cowboy!Ghost x m! reader

A/N: There will be one more part to this just to wrap everything up :)

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the stranger loomed closer, hand gripping lethal iron at his hip. Fight or flight instincts kicked into overdrive - this was no ordinary burglary; you could see it etched in every predatory line of his body.  

This man had come for blood, your blood.  

Slowly, you raised your hands in a gesture of peace even as your mind raced. One wrong move and you’d be pushing up daisies come morn. These were the dark shadows Simon lived in, the enemies he’d made through his notorious work. And now they were coming for him...through you.  

.“Don’t want no trouble, mister,” you said, keeping your tone calm and even like you didn't know why this man was here. As if there could be any other reason for someone to break into a home as dingy as your own. “Just a simple bartender is all – barely got a dollar to my name”  

This snake didn't need to know how deep your bond with Simon went, especially since hiding your relationship was the only way you could see to get out of this situation.  

The man cackled at your words, rolling his eyes as the smile dropped and he stalked closer to the bed, aiming the gun at you as he cocked it back with a sickening crack.  

“ Mhm... as if you weren't all nice and cozied up to him not mere hours ago – ya really think im gonna believe you?” He gave you a mocking grin 

 “No no im not stupid sweetheart. Im not here to collect any of his debts from you – I care more about the eight men o’ mine your Ghostie killed. Those boys were my family, he didnt think twice about that though when he shot em’ dead where they stood. Figure I should make him feel the same hurt I do, hm?”  

“You won’t hurt him none-” You tried to reason “His heart don't belong to me, he won’t spare a second glance past this cabin. Hell, He's probably halfway across the desert by now” Your voice was shaky as you spoke, lies seeping through your lips at the risk of your life. You knew what you meant to Simon, no one else was able to get into his space as you did- at least not if they wanted to walk away with their life.  

The man's smirk dropped, new anger burning in his eyes as the grip on his gun tightened, “I saw the way that mongrel looked at you, you’re his boy and that's clearer than any mountain river” he scoffed, finger moving from the side of the gun to rest on the trigger.  

You closed your eyes, praying in your head, but not to any god. No, your prayers were aiming for Simon's rescue, praying that he would somehow know you were in trouble and come rescue you from it. 

Simon sat astride his horse on a dusty ridge, watching the moon rise silver over the desert wastes. A half-smoked cigarette dangled idly from his lips; he’d been nursing the same thoughts over and over since dusk fell heavy as a shroud across the badlands.  

 Thoughts of you.  

Somewhere deep in his gut, an uneasy feeling roiled. Like an invisible string tugging at his soul, trying to tug him back the way he came. Simon growled low in his throat, frustrated with his own foolish longings. You’d made your stance clear – this life wasn’t for you, not truly. And he had no right to ask you to join him.  

And yet... 

A crack suddenly split the still night air. So faint and far that any lesser man may have missed it entirely, but not Simon.  

In an instant he was vaulting onto his horse’s back, boots pounding twin paths in the dirt as they flew towards the distant lights of your little town. Another shot rang out, louder now, and Simon’s blood turned to ice in his veins.  

He knew that sound – deep in his bones he knew something was horribly wrong.  

Choking the reins in a near stranglehold, Simon rode as if all the demons of hell were nipping at his horse’s hooves. Towards you. Towards salvation or damnation, he did not know. But by God, no son of a bitch was gonna harm one hair on your head if he could still help it.  

Help was coming- you just had to hold on.  

The man fired the gun, a sharp sting hitting your side before it blossomed into agonizing pain. You let out a pained cry, one hand instinctively going to land on your wound while the other covered your mouth to muffle your sobs. Your hand was soon coated in dark crimson, entire body shaking with adrenaline as the man cocked the gun once more.  

“Was gonna just end you, but I figured I should make this painful the same way he did. Should fill you with so many bullets he won’t be able to recognize you” he hissed, aiming the gun at your other side.  

Simon was little more than a blur of dust and primal fury as he crashed through the remains of your splintered front door. For a split second, time seemed to freeze – taking in the scene with a single, piercing gaze.  

You,curled onto the bed clutching a bloody wound. And him. That snake. Gun pressed sickeningly against your body as he spewed his venomous threats. With an almost guttural roar, Simon’s Colt leapt into his hand like it was part of his very being. Two blooming shots rang as one; his aim was true as bible scripture.  

The intruder pitched backwards, scarlets blossoms exploding from where his eyes once were. He was dead before he hit the floor.  

But Simon saw none of it. Already he was at your side, tatty serape ripped and pressed desperately against your weeping injury. Brown eyes wild and scared met your own, and for a moment the steely outlaw facade slipped entirely.  

“Darlin’...” he choked, voice thick. “Talk to me, baby. Stay with me now, ya hear?” Working frantically to stem the flood, Simon tangled scarred fingers gently through your hair, anchoring you to this world with his touch alone. 

“That’s it…keep breathin’, just keep breathin’” His voice dissolved into ragged prayers mere ghosts could hear. Help was still minutes away - but for now, you had Ghost. And he’d be damned before he let the reaper take you from him. 

You were sobbing, your brain mangled with confusion and fear as the adrenaline ran out and the full pain of the bullet lodged in your abdomen had you reeling, 

Red painted everything around you, hands, clothes, and sheets underneath you drenched in it. 

“Simon-” you rasped, breathing labored as you looked around with wide eyes at the gruesome scene in front of you. It was too much, you could feel your head going light- brain fuzzy and ears ringing as you fought not to close your eyes. 

“It hurts” you choked, trying to shove his hand away from where he was pressing down on the wound to stop the torrent of blood flowing out. “Simon I cant-” you said, throat raw from the sobs that came out. 

You wanted so badly to stay with him, to be able to wake up tomorrow with him, but you didn’t know if you’d get that with the way you felt your strength leave your body.

“It hurts- it hurts” You were almost begging, for what you didn’t know. You just wanted the pain to go away. 

You were terrified- not ready to die yet, and especially not like this, not when you had so much left to do. The thought alone sent a new set of tears streaming down your face, hand shaking- clutching the bleeding wound on top of Simon’s own to try and ebb the pain that burrowed deep in your skin. 

Simon felt his world crumbling as your agonized crimes tore through him, sharper than any bullet ever could. Seeing you in such anguish ripped open a fissure in his battered heart, letting the demons of his deepest guilt and self-loathing spill forth in a torrent. 

“I know, baby, I know it hurts…” he choked, pressing you close as if trying in vain to absorb your pain into himself. His own broad shoulders shook with ghosts of rage and grief, tears cutting rivulets through the dirt caked on his cheeks. 

Goddamn it all, he should’ve been here. Should have followed his instincts and never left your side. Now it may be too late to hope for forgiveness, your blood staining his hands a brand of failure he could never outrun. 

“Please, darlin’, please hold on…’ Simon begged, voice breaking as he spoke. His bandana was wrung out and useless now - in desperation he moved to cradle you fully, applying trembling pressure with his bare hands and what remained of his coat. 

Distantly he heard the clatter of the approaching horses, but paid them no heed. You were fading, slipping away before his eyes, and all the strength and guns in the world couldn’t stop it. 

“Don’t ye leave me now…I can’t do this world without ya…” A broken whisper, barely audible above the thunder in his ears. Simon pressed his forehead to yours, sharing the same ragged breaths, two souls more tangled than any root or vine. Hanging on a blade’s edge against the dark. 

You stared up into Simon's eyes, eyebrows cinched in pain and eyes soaked with fear. 

“I don’t wanna die, Simon” you whispered, voice shaky as you clung to him - like he alone could save you from this fate. 

You could feel your heartbeat slowing, breathing ragged as you gasped for air that just wouldn’t enter your lungs….

Soon enough the doctor burst into the room, medical kit in hand as he came barreling over to you. He very carefully took you out of Simon’s arm with some convincing, to lay you back on the bed before he opened up his kit. 

He handed you a flask filled with whiskey “You’re gonna want to drink this - it’ll help ease the pain” He said. 

With shaky hands you drank the bottle, a scream ripping from your lungs as the man began to carefully dig into the wound, grabbing hold of the bullet with sterile tweezers before carefully pulling it free. 

With practiced care he cleaned the wound, a harsh whimper leaving your lips at the sting of pain before the wound was stitched up and bandaged. 

You were shaking, sobbing so hard your throat was raw and your lungs burned - the pain was unbearable and a large part of you wished you could just die to get away from it. 

The doctor had you drink another flask, the alcohol numbing the pain receptors in your brain just enough to allow you to fall into a light sleep. 

Simon sat vigil at your bedside through what felt like hours, not letting go of your limp hand once. Your cries of pain echoing loud and endlessly in his mind, driving spikes of pure anguish deep into his soul.

He watched in heavy silence as the doctor worked, breath caught tight in his chest, hardly daring to hope. But then - your ragged breaths evened out, color returning sluggishly to waxen cheeks. Alive. You were alive. 

It was nearly two hours later when the man was done, wiping his hands on a rag as he stood up on shaky legs. 

“He’s stable” The doctor said simply

Choking back sobs of relief, Simon buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving a trail of gratitude-laced kisses amongst salty tears. “That’s it, darlin’...you fight. Got too much left to do in this world.” he’d whisper to you, voice so soft only you could hear

 “Most important thing now is cleaning that wound twice a day lest it get infected. If it does…” The doctor ordered, his words trialing off though his intentions were clear. He put down a set of bandages and cleaning solution on the nightstand for Simon’s use. 

“It’ll take a long time to heal, I reckon” The doctor said “but my work is done here, y’all know where to reach me should he take a turn for the worst” He said, tilting his hat to Simon before he gathered his tools and headed out of the shabby cabin. 

Simon took the doctor's words as gospel, nodding along to every word before the man left. He spent the next few hours cleaning up the mess that was now your little home. He dragged the body out back to deal with fully in the morning, cleaned your sheets and changed you into new clothes, boarded up the broken window, and finished by fixing the door that he had come barging through. 

His own hands were gentle as churches doing their appointed duty, cleansing and dressing the angry wound each time without fail. Whatever it took to coax your stubborn spirit back to the land of the living. 

Days bled into each other without notice. All that mattered to him now was you. And slowly, so slowly - full color seeped back, fever broke its hold. Eyes fluttered open to meet his own once more, full of pain but oh-so-blessedly alive. 

“Hey there, sunshine…” Simon whispered hoarsely, like a parched man dying of thirst at an oasis. Finally, finally, he allowed himself the ghost of a weary smile. 

You were going to be alright. And by God, he’d spend his last days making sure of it. 

You slowly sat up, a soft whine leaving your lips with the movements as you aggravated the still raw wound. “Simon” you mumbled as you held his hand, reaching over to take a swig of the whiskey on the nightstand to ease the searing pain. 

You rested your head back against the pillows with a soft sigh. It had been a few days now, and the pain was still a dull yet constant ache in your side. 

You took the sight around you in, everything was clean and neat including your bedding and clothes. Even the floor had been mopped, the only reminders of your near death being the hole in your side. 

“Simon you did all this?” You asked simply, eyes wide as you gazed up at him. 

Simon huffed a soft, weary laugh at your question, gently squeezing your hand just to make sure you were really here and he wasn’t hallucinating. 

“Course I did, darlin’. Weren’t about to let ya recover in filth,” He replied gruffly. Truth be told, tending to your every need had been the other thing keeping his demons at bay these long days and nights. 

Keeping busy spared him time to think - and thinking led down paths too bleak to tread. Like how terrifyingly close he’d come to losing you forever.

Holding your gaze with quiet intent, Simon softly brushed calloused knuckles along your cheek “Reckon it’s about time i started pullin’ my weight ‘round here proper. Ain’t no safe place for ya out here alone” A question lingered in the subtle quirk of his brow, the hopeful yet wary gleam in tired eyes. After all that had passed between you both, was there still room for him at your side? A Ghost finally ready to lay his soul to rest, if you’d have him. 

You could only hum softly at his words, sleep still filled in your bones. You didn’t answer him, instead you patted the empty side of the bed “Come sleep next to me, Si. You need the sleep” You said, your words a silent confirmation that you still wanted him. 

Simon gave a soft grunt of approval, too weary in body and soul to do anything but obey your gentle prompting. Careful not to jostle your healing injury, he stretched his long limbs out beside you with a satisfied sigh. 

It felt strange but right, sharing your space in such an intimate way after so long living apart. Like the final piece of a puzzle slipped neatly into place. 

Turning his head, Simon watched you watch him through half-lidded eyes, drinking in every beloved feature as if to confirm this wasn’t some whiskey-fueled dream. Reaching out, he lightly touched the graceful curve of your cheek before letting his hand come to rest against the steady rise and fall of your chest. 

“Sweetest sound there is,” he murmured, voice sleep-roughed and thick with meaning. A tousled head tucked itself beneath your chin with a contented sigh, tension seeping from tense muscles. 

Come what may with the light of dawn, for now all was peaceful. You were alive, you were safe. And against all odds, Simon had finally come home to roost. 

You held him close in your arms, gentle fingers carding through thick hair as you let his head rest against your now steady heartbeat. He needed the comfort, you could tell, and you were more than happy to give it to him. 

“Rest now, Si. I'm not going anywhere. Can’t get rid of me that easy” You assured, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

It was a funny thing, holding such a toughened man in your arms, keeping him close and coddled despite the almost laughable size difference. 

SImon made a low sound of gratitude at your soft reassurance, melting bonelessly into your gentle embrace. Your gentle fingers winding through his hair brought forth a wave of lethargy he’d fought to stave off this long week past. But no more - here in your arms, he was finally allowed to let his guard down. 

It still struck him sometimes how two souls so disparate could fit together so seamlessly. But you’d always had a way of easing even his most ragged edges, soothing demons he thought long beyond taming. Lithe as you were in your current state, your strength ran deeper than any show of force ever could - and he found solace there like nowhere else. 

“Missed this…” he mumbled, so soft it was barely audible even in the stillness enclosing your little world. One arm curled protectively around your middle, thumb brushing idle patterns against the slowly healing wound beneath the bandages. 

A prayer of thanks on parched lips, Simon let weary eyes slide shut. Sleep rose like a gentle tide, carrying him off to oblivion sheltered in the piece of heaven he’d begun to call home. You’d brought him back from the brink of darkness once more, anchor in the storm. And for that, he was eternally grateful. 

[icaruien]

more nanami content with top male reader pls 😩😩

You've got it, Captain!

Nanami Kento was a man on the run.

It was an inescapable hell of his own making. The ghosts of his youth and his failures were a perpetual monster clinging onto his shoulders, curses designated just for him. Kento did not make a habit of being a coward, but he could not afford staying in a place like this.

So, he ran.

He ran, and ran, and ran and he kept on running until Time became a loose construct that could not suspend him; until Space became a volatile concept that could not keep him afloat. The Universe was at a constant state of expansion, and Kento ran as if he was trying to see how far it would go.

('It expands a pretty damn long way,' was what Kento would answer if he were asked that question. But no one did, no one was ever given the chance to. Kento always ran before they could stop him just long enough to ask.)

So, it must be some big cosmic joke that Kento found himself landed back here once again, at the centre of your gravity, pulled in and desperately trying to pull away from the boundaries of your magnetic field. You were his best friend, his favourite What If, his greatest Could Have Been.

You were not supposed to be here, buried hilt deep inside of him and moaning out his name as if it was a prayer worth worship over.

His nails dug into the skin on your back, threatening to break through and into the flesh, but you didn't seem to mind. Your mouth was still on his skin, teeth painting yearning all over the canvas of his skin in shades of purples and blues.

Fuck, he hadn't done missionary in so long. Hell, he hadn't even had anyone like this in a long time. He was always too cautious, too hesitant of what he would reveal. But it was you—you with your charming smile and bright eyes—and if Kento couldn't trust you with himself, then he couldn't trust anyone; not even himself.

Kento should be self-conscious. He had changed across the years since he had left you—gotten better; gotten worse. He was not the boy you knew, then. He had grown out of it, grown into it, grown up into something else entirely.

But you smiled at him the same, held him the same, and he could not find it in himself to grieve the boy he used to be.

Kento had become Schrödinger's Cat, trapped in his youth and in his present. You kissed him the same, but you fucked him different. You cradled his face the same, but your cock dragged against his walls. You liked him the same, but you loved him different.

Kento's back arched, feeling the tip of your cock hit his prostate, and he found he didn't mind it at all. He didn't mind it a single bit as long as you kept painting stars in the dark abyss behind his eyes. He didn't mind it a single bit as long as you kept fucking him as if he was a man precious, a man loved. He didn't mind it a single fucking bit as long as you would just—

"Kento." Your voice was ragged, fucked out, high off endorphins and adrenaline and sex and him. "Fuck, Kento, you feel so good."

And Kento couldn't say a damn thing back, because you were inside him, fucking him good, making him shake, and for a moment, Kento wasn't running anymore. He wasn't running, and he was neither here or there, but he was still in your arms. He still had you.

"Come on," he grunted. His arms tightened around you, forcing your body closer against him. "I wanna feel you."

He felt your breath fan against his skin, soft and incredulous, but you indulged. Your pace picked up, hands wandering from his hips up his chest over to cradle his jaw. Your mouth met his in a sloppy kiss—all tongue and teeth—while your hips snap against him harder.

Kento could barely think, pre-occupied by the feeling of your cock fucking against him, hard and rough, damnation and salvation all at once. You didn't seem to mind, though; tongue fucking into his mouth in rhythm with the way your hips moved.

Kento was not a religious man, but he would believe in the existence of god just for a moment; just for you, just because of you.

Kento didn't believe that he could be saved, but he would like to be for a split-second. He wanted to be divine, wanted to be beautiful all over again, if only so that you would not have to stain yourself with his filth. So that he could have you, over and over again, and there would be no sin in the act of it.

"Kento," you murmured against his skin, as if you still couldn't believe he was quite real. He let out an ugly sound at the way you spoke his name; half a sob, half a whimper. "Kento. God, Kento. You're finally here. I've missed you."

But for now—

For now, perhaps, he could have you. For however short the while, for however mortal the moment is.

[spookieloverslittlemind]

Petnames they call you…

includes: Michael Myers, Pinhead, Brahms Heelshire, Art the Clown, Sun and Moon (fnaf), Marta (Outlast 2)

Michael

Bro does not speak and he most definitely does not sign to you, he doesn’t care to communicate that way, so you have to learn to read his body language. Which isn’t easy when he can stand stock still for literal hours and you can barely tell if he’s breathing, but I digress. You learn. Every slight variation in the tilt of his head, his hands clenching at his sides, the size of his steps, how close he sits to you - everything. That’s how you determine his affections at any given time. You could profess your undying love for this man while he just -_-

And when you’re finished, he’ll place his hand over your knee and you’ll burst into tears because that’s basically his way of conveying a sentiment along the lines of: “you are my sun, my sea, my sky; the only one to ever understand and love me; the only soul I ever desire to know; the love in my heart for you is the only redeemable characteristic I possess for the vessel of evil I am powerless in resisting and yet that love is enough to keep me from damnation because it is you; everything is you; every breath I take behind this mask is a prayer to you; and I love you”. So yeah. Cry more.

Pinhead

This omniscient mf is not about to fall short when it comes to petnames, that’s for sure. He’s busting out the most poetic and long-winded shit known to man. Calling you things like “my divine work of sunshine”, “ethereal delight”, “goddess/god of this pinned heart” - and Pinhead makes them up on the fly, too. Has a new one almost everyday but cycles back through old favourites.

Brahms

Every praiseful and complimentary petname he can think of, quite frankly: “angel”, “darling”, “sweetheart”, “pretty one”, “beautiful”, “princess/prince” - all those typical ones, but Brahms likes to invent petnames that call attention to parts of you, by referring to you as things like “pretty smile”, “pretty eyes”, “angel voice”. He may not have a lot of relationship experience, but there’s no end to Brahms’ creativity when it comes to complimenting you.

Art

Doesn’t speak, but signs petnames to you instead (and it’s never normal petnames either, he’s signing shit like “pet”, “button”, “eyeball”, “, and has specific hand gestures that are reserved for you, like crooking his finger to beckon you over in a certain way, blowing you a kiss, gesturing for you to twirl on the spot and then clapping his hands excitedly over how you look.

Sun and Moon

Surprisingly, these two actually share the petnames they call you because they both feel the same way about you and regard you as such. To them, you are “lovely one”, “sweet one”, and they’ll call you their “favourite smile”, too. Sun and Moon are both inclined to call you “little one”, as well, because they are both very, very tall.

None of your typical petnames apply here. She’ll be calling you things like “righteous one”, “sweet righteousness”, “God’s pure one”, “righteous answer”, “sweet answer”, “divine answer” - Marta believes you are the answer to her life, the path she follows for God in eradicating all heretics and you are her reward, her divine and righteous answer, and she will refer to you as such. To Marta, it isn’t even poetic, it is simple truth.

[sun-snatcher]

Catholic Guilt Murdock Catholic Guilt Murdock Catholic Guilt Murdock

✟ — Rib of Adam ; matt murdock blurb

a/n. " But when I stand before God I'll have one thing to say to weigh against the rest: Lord, you gave me a rare woman; And God! I loved her well. " — Jamie Fraser, 'Outlander'

MATT MURDOCK feels warm. 

He can’t tell if it’s from the blood, or—

“No, no, no, no, Matty, stay with me.”

—or the fact that you’re cradling him to your heart.

( He thinks of Father Lantom raising the Chalice of Salvation during Eucharistic Prayer. He thinks of the blood of the covenant; of forgiveness of sins.

He wonders if he’ll be forgiven. )

Matt tries to speak. 

The blood curdles thick in his throat, sputtering, and the pain ripples through his battered body again. It’s enough to make his senses tunnel into everything and nothing all at once; enough to send you into another desperate spiel of words too quick to follow. 

“Shh, shh, shh.” He hears you choke. “You’re, You're gonna be okay. Stay with me, Matthew, okay?”

Yes, he wants to answer. Always.

Matt wants—

( “And Jesus cried, ‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?'” Father Lantom sermons, “That is to say, 'My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?'” 

The verse is from Matthew-27:46. 

How ironic, Matt thinks, the first time he’d heard it. )

—to say everything. To tell you everything. To thank you, to apologise, to admit that if every single damn one of his universes ended with him being held in your hands— that it’d be a kindness. 

That if he is to be given a single chance, by some divine intervention, to rewrite history: He’d do it all over again the exact same way— without a shadow of a doubt; without any hesitation.

He would move mountains and dry the oceans and split the skies and scorch the earth. 

He would do everything. Anything.

( Penance. Absolution. Damnation. )

The ringing in his ears render your words softer and softer. Somehow, still, he thinks you sound beautiful even when panicked.

If you— his darling, dearest, beloved— are the last thing that the Daredevil hears before being condemned to whatever dark dominion the Lord will cast him to, then let it be known that it is Matt Murdock who will die a happy man.

— send in a blurb request ! — scroll the tag !

[techramonic]

Speak, Hear, and See No Evil; Embody it.

An Essay Analysis on Religious Trauma and its connection to Nihilism through the Case Study of Vladislav Roslyakov

There is a profound intersection in faith and mentality. To uncover one’s whole being, the aspect of spirituality is well within the equation. While many use their faith as a symbol of fortitude, a steadfast hope that guides their way of living – creating practically a coherent path in a world so inconsistent and unpredictable, others see it as the pinpoint of their internal turmoil. Faith is not for all of us. If one rejects the idea of seeking solace in an institute of collective belief, then they do not believe in such a concept as “being saved”. To them, there is no redemption, only pain. 

Some people need a rather tangible and physical form of revelation for an adherence of recognition. It is the ideology: when you look up at the sky and do not see anyone looking back at you, that is when you know it’s not for you. You do not believe in such a thing as self-sacrifice, for you only see the world in a lens of self-slaughter. Often, this strained relationship with faith becomes Religious Trauma. 

Psychotherapist Dr. Alyson M. Stone acknowledges a positive link between religion and mental health but notes a lack of studies on spirituality's impact. According to Stone, “Religious trauma is more prevalent than the research suggests and often is a contributing factor to many of the problems that bring people to therapy, including depression, anxiety, and relationship difficulties. For this reason, religious trauma deserves careful attention” (Stone 2013, p. 324). Furthermore, Marlene Winell (2012) coined "religious trauma syndrome" (RTS) to describe the distress from "toxic theology." This refers to authoritarian religious doctrines demanding strict adherence, often equating disobedience to damnation.

In the case of Vlad, his mother was a Jehovah's Witness. This religious sect is banned under Russian law despite an estimated 175,000 followers in the country. In 2017, Russia’s Supreme Court found the organization guilty of inciting religious hatred by "propagating the exclusivity and supremacy" of their beliefs. Subsequent to  Russian anti-extremism laws extending to non-violent groups in 2007, placing it into the same category as neo-Nazis and members of al Qaeda.

To understand this, we must first look into Vladik’s childhood leading up to this point. Vlad’s father, a former Russian soldier who served in Afghanistan for several years, sustained brain damage from an assault, making him aggressive toward his family, leading to frequent physical abuse over his wife, parents, and even his son. He was also an alcoholic, where his violence would worsen when intoxicated. By the age of 10, his parents had filed for a divorce and he lived under the custody of his mother in a rundown apartment with poor conditions because they could not afford amenities.

Following this, his mother had renowned her faith. Neighbors described her as a devout follower who spent a lot of time in prayer. They recounted that she had barely any concern for Vlad due to being too focused on her faith, but there were many instances of her controlling nature towards her son’s life. According to Vlad’s profile background, his mother would frequently punish him for disobeying rules of her faith. Although he accompanies her in services, he does not recognize himself as a follower. He publicly expressed his contempt on Jehovah’s Witnesses as, “some kind of fools who dance and sing.” A friend of his had also expressed that the two would often make fun of the community. Despite these differences, Vlad still appeared to care for his  mother and understood that she had no other means of coping and did not have a community to interact with since she had no friends or relatives close by. With this, he made sure to spend time with her, yet we can discern that these regulatory rules are merely pushed unto him.

Vlad was not allowed to engage in hobby classes, amateur activities, or even watch movies as the faith forbids these activities. According to his VK chats with Liza Panchenko, his favorite movies were Stand by Me, Pulp-Fiction, and Lost Highway. However, he stated, “I didn’t watch any good movies after 2005”. Though this may be a speculation, one of the possible reasons for this is because he was forbidden by his mother. However, despite her warnings, it is clear that he still would go against her.

Vlad became sports-obsessed and developed an interest in weaponry, violence, neo-nazism, war, and killers. Despite occasionally picking up fights and being placed on the “chair of shame” by his college director, Vlad was reserved and withdrawn from others. His friends had described him as a loner, who was quiet and avoided making friends, rather talking about topics of violence, especially about Columbine. He had no intimate relationships or sense of future and practically only attended school because he was forced by his parents. He did not see any future and saw no escape other than death. Even with an interest in violence and guns himself, he expresses a disdain towards joining occupations like the armed forces.

Moving forward, it is crucial to recognize that the psychological distress caused by religious trauma can manifest into Nihilistic ideology. According to Alfred Alder, a psychoanalyst who founded individual psychology, human behavior is motivated by our unique experiences and the perceptions we garner off of these. To him, humans are driven by goals and we aim for superiority by striving for these goals which are molded by our values and aspirations. These in turn develop into a lifestyle that affects us in different aspects of our behavior.

Furthermore, Alder speculated that psychological development occurs when people pursue meaningful goals, though factors can disrupt this process. Exchanging the feeling of self-superiority with inferiority and emptiness. When one lacks any meaningful goal, they are devoid of any means to stay motivated because they have no inherent cause that may allow them to “live”. 

From a nihilistic perspective, the absence of inherent meaning in existence can lead individuals to view life as a mere distraction. You exist, yet you do not truly live—merely passing time because life feels more like an obligation than a will. This allows you to fade into a concept and lose touch with your humanity. You become a mere entity in this world so vast that it cannot accompany the hatred you bear for it because you are insignificant. You see yourself as nothing, born out of your lack of purpose, therefore you are nothing.

To tie this into the conversation, trauma and abuse can disrupt the process of finding and garnering purpose, hindering the creation of goals and instead, promoting nihilistic attitudes. This includes religion, which can either be an antidote or a poison. 

Religious trauma can be a  catalyst for promoting nihilistic thinking. Taking Vlad as an example, when individuals are subjected to oppressive religious doctrines that instill shame, fear, and guilt – it can lead to an inflated sense of despair. This dread of being trapped in a system that dictates your worth and purpose fuels the tendencies to lean into nihilistic ideologies. You are cornered with no escape despite religion itself being a form of solace and escapism made for believers to feel less in despair. Vlad's strict upbringing in a religious environment and controlling mother contributed to his growing resentment towards religion and humanity itself. This lack of free will over his beliefs and choices only amplified this sense of dread over being powerless. Further alienating him from others because he believes that no one will truly help him, not even God.

If God is not there to help and save him and there are no means of a divine intervention in his life, then he will be the intervention himself. He is the destruction the world has insistently brought upon his life in the form of unforeseen circumstances. He is the “judgment” that he has been taught to fear. He is the delusion that he has created because of his fixation over power. He is hatred. He shall not speak of evil, nor hear it, or see it. So, in turn, he is the embodiment of the evil he is taught to not be. 

Hatred, just like anger, does not come from evil but mistreatment. Though in this case, it is amplified to a point it becomes visceral. Vlad's constant exposure to religious extremism and the trauma he endured further deepened his nihilistic perspective and in turn, developed his trauma into a projection of an image of hatred over things he cannot control: his life and the people around him. Moreover, the trauma from his father's abuse and his mother’s overbearing nature only developed a deep-rooted cynicism towards conventional structures. In his belief, if he is controlled by anything but himself, it is evil.

To conclude, religion has a profound impact on an individual's psyche. It has the ability to either heal a person or destroy them completely. Vlad’s life is a perfect example of how one’s religious trauma can manifest into a distortion of their worldview, ultimately leading to them seeing no other escape in this miserable existence other than death.

[creature-wizard]

The importance of separating belief from practice from economy when criticizing spirituality

I notice that a lot of people who want to criticize harmful expressions of spirituality often conflate the beliefs and practices of those spiritualities together, rather than separating them and asking themselves which one is harmful exactly, and why.

Sometimes, both practice and belief are harmful. For example, going on a highly restrictive detox diet because it will supposedly rid your body of toxins put into regular food by an evil conspiracy. There's no evidence that detox diets actually work as claimed (and if they seem to, it may be that you actually have a food allergy or intolerance, and you feel better because you happen to be cutting out that food for awhile), and they can actually be very harmful. Meanwhile, this sort of conspiratorial worldview has roots in old antisemitic conspiracy theories used to justify violence against Jews in the past, and today, justify queerphobia and ableism by way of suggesting that an evil conspiracy is putting chemicals in our food and water that turn kids gay, transgender, or give them ADHD, autism, or whathveyou.

But other times, it's not quite so simple. For example, let's look at modes of faith healing that hold that you should eschew evidence-based medicine in favor of praying and getting right with God. Meanwhile, studies show that people who rely on faith healing don't exactly have a great recovery rate. Many children have died from treatable diseases because their parents were taught that sickness was a test of faith and God would damn them for seeking conventional medicine. (Can you even imagine how terrified of eternal damnation you'd have to be in order to watch your own child die in agony?)

If we look at most people who believe in prayer, we can see that most of them don't agree with this extreme position. Most people believe in prayer and evidence-based medicine. If anything, prayer gives many people a way to feel like they aren't just sitting around doing nothing while their loved ones are in the hospital, and that itself is arguably beneficial.

Now, if you personally have trauma connected to prayer, or just don't find any meaning or satisfaction in prayer, then it's fine if you don't want to do it. But that doesn't mean it's appropriate to tell everyone else that they shouldn't do it. When you do this, you're just using your own personal feelings as a moral compass, and as we know from observing the "thinking about gay sex grosses me out, therefore it's unnatural and against God's will" crowd, that's no way to go.

So how about beliefs and practices used to extort people? For example, energy healing services often come with steep price tags. But let's be real, so does evidence-based medicine in places like the US. This clearly does not mean people should just stop seeking evidence-based medicine. It does means that we drastically need to change the system, so healthcare is more accessible. Additionally, if there's one thing I've learned from researching alternative medicine, it's that practitioners are more likely to actually offer something for patients' complains, rather than telling them that it's all in their heads or that they need to lose weight. This doesn't mean that an exploitative alternative industry should be allowed to exist, of course. But it does mean that we need to understand how prejudice among doctors fuels it. Moreover, I think we can agree that someone who watches energy healing videos on free YouTube after they've done all they can from an evidence-based medicine standpoint, or offers free energy healing sessions to friends who are in the same boat, are not in the same category as scam victims and scammers.

So yeah, when you're out there criticizing harmful forms of spirituality and religion, remember to separate practice from belief from economy and examine each one separately and in terms of how they connect to each other and to larger issues, rather than putting it all on blast together.

[sovaghoul]

⚠️DISCLAIMER⚠️

This post is meant all in good fun and is not intended to offend anyone's religious or spiritual sensibilities. I'd hope any Ghost fan would realize that, but you never know. I tagged this with "Scooby-Doo Satanism" for that reason. That said, if you DO want to do this in earnest, feel free. Also CW/TW for Catholicism.

So I thought to myself, "Self, Ghost sells Grucifix rosaries. There's also the "Dark Lord’s Prayer" in Ritual. And the "Holy Mother" bridge in Griftwood is kind of like a Hail Mary."

So I researched and embellished upon traditional rosary prayers and came up with this. Based upon the Meliora rosary because that's the one I have.

All prayer/lyrics credit to our Tender Father.

Begin by holding the Grucifix and reciting (or singing, if you prefer) The Depth of Satan's Eyes (Prayer A):

Into the eyes of fire

Into the gaze ablaze

Into the burning light

Of Satan's rays

Into the source of wisdom

Beyond the Bible lies

Into the endless depth

Of Satan's eyes

Next, on the first large bead, recite The Dark Lord’s Prayer (Prayer B):

Our father, who art in Hell

Unhallowed, be Thy name

Cursed be the sons and daughters

Of Thine nemesis who are to blame

Thy kingdom

Come

nemA

On each of the following large beads, recite The Holy Mother (Prayer C, 3x total):

Holy Mother

You washeth the sin from my feet

Holy Mother

You shine like the sun and the moon

And the stars in the sky

The world rests heavy on your shoulders

Holy Mother

You shine like the sun and the moon

And the stars in the sky

In the space before the next large bead, recite Year Zero (Prayer D):

He will tremble the nations

Kingdoms to fall one by one

Victim to fall for temptations

A daughter to fall for a son

The ancient Serpent Deceiver

To masses standing in awe

He will ascend to the heavens

Above the stars of god

Hell Satan, Archangelo

Hell Satan, welcome Year Zero!

Repeat The Dark Lord’s Prayer (B) on the next large bead.

On the space after the bead, recite Per Aspera Ad Inferi (Prayer E):

Oh Satan, devour us all

Hear our desperate call

Per aspera ad inferi (x4)

Continue along the strand widdershins (counter-clockwise), and repeat The Holy Mother (C) on the next 9 large beads (9x total).

Repeat Year Zero (D), Dark Lord’s Prayer (B) and Per Aspera Ad Inferi (E) before, on, and after each single large bead, respectively, as before (3x total).

Repeat Prayers B-E in the same manner until returning to the Bite of Passage (the Y junction leading back to the Grucifix).

Four final prayers, Stand By Him (F), Majesty (G), Con Clavi Con Dio (H), and Satan Prayer (I), end the rosary, again holding the Grucifix:

A moon shone bright above Her trial

As flames ate through Her body defiled

The Witch Hammer struck Her down

On our Sabbath, She's unbound

'Tis the night of the Witch

'Tis the night of the Witch tonight

And the Vengeance is Hers

For as long as She stands by Him

⛧

Old One, Master

All beauty lies within You

Your Infernal Majesty!

⛧

Sathanas, we are One

Out of three, Trinity

Siamo con clavi

Siamo con Dio

Siamo con il nostro Dio scuro

⛧

Believe in one god do we

Satan almighty

The uncreator of heaven and soil

And the unvisable and the visable

And in his Son

Begotten of Father

By whom all things will be unmade

Who for man and his damnation

Incarnated

Rise up from hell

From sitteth on the left hand of his Father

From thense he shall come to judge

Out of one substance

With Satan

Whose kingdom shall haveth no end

nemA

[thedreadvampy]

I find Americans talking about religion fascinating because they think the weird pentecostal/evangelical eschatology cults are Normal Christianity and not like. a really specific thing.

and that is by no means to say Christianity elsewhere is less fucked up but it's different.

like Americans will say stuff like "like most Christians, this cult believes we're in the end times and have to reclaim Zion to bring about Revelations, but what's weird about their beliefs is..." and it's like???? WHAT DO YOU MEAN LIKE MOST CHRISTIANS?????

like Scotland's still a pretty Christian country. some of the biggest sociopolitical divides are Christian sectarianism. we got Presbyterians we got Catholics we got Episcopalians we got Quakers (hi) we got Baptists and Methodists and Jehovah's Witnesses and so on. half of the population are Christian. but I don't think I have ever met more than a handful of people whose Christian belief is focused on Revelations and the end times. that's weird stuff my guys.

my outside appraisal of American Christianity is that it looks really very samey. there doesn't seem to be a lot of significant theological difference, or tbh aesthetic difference, between a good number of the major churches. worship practise, structure, and the focus on sin, evangelism and apocalypse seem to be way more common threads there than in Europe. and I feel like people grow up in that and think that means all Christianity is the same as that. which like. it isn't.

A lot of folks I know who've been to American Quaker communities, for example, have been really surprised at how much some Meetings in the US are cramming into the same episcpentamethodbaptitradcathevangelist church model - fire and brimstone preachers, our god is a great big god songs, focus on end times prophecy - and it just doesn't. line up with the degree of diversity in practise and focus for different Christian sects in most other parts of the world. where like. those types of churches also exist (the evangelical born-again rapture and damnation churches) but they're one approach among many.

and again that's not cause like. Christianity is only bad in the US and not bad anywhere else. Christianity does a lot of social good and a looooooot of social harm everywhere. but it's wild what Americans, Christian or otherwise, seem to take as the baseline beliefs of global Christianity. like I went to a Church of England school and I don't believe I was ever taught about Revelations, let alone the rapture or young earth ideology or biblical literalist creationism, except, eventually, as a thing some other people believe and it's weird. when the young earth creationists came into my secondary school to prostyletize it was a bloodbath cause every 14 year old in that room was like "what r u talking about m8 that's cult shit".

what I'm saying is: there's not a huge amount of universal Christian beliefs across all sectors except like "God is there. There's some Bible which contains some amount of spiritual value for some amount of literal interpretation. Jesus? Pretty great and important guy. Probably the son of God or actually God or some secret third thing." and everything else there's some dissent on. but of the things that are broadly though not fully universal - maybe like heaven, hell, sin, redemption through faith or deed, the resurrection, a physical/spiritual divide, prayer, some key holidays etc - I don't think that 'weirdly intense eschatology involving reclaiming Zion, global warfare, the Antichrist, decades of torturous end times, physical rapture etc' is in that mix. that's your country's weird thing that it's since exported through cultural colonialism, just like Christianity itself was largely exported through European cultural colonialism.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

A/n: I decided to write a song fic using this song using Damnation!Leon

He called her on the road,From a lonely cold hotel room.Just to hear her say "I love you" one more time.

Leon hated taking missions that were halfway across the country, he hated being away from you, being away from the kids. Wrinkling his nose he locked the door to the hotel room then sat on the edge of the bed. Cell phone in hand he dialed the familiar number waiting for you to pick up though a slight chuckle escaped his lips, the voice of his children laughing in the background, Leon quickly brushed a stand tear away.

But when he heard the sound.Of the kids laughin' in the background.He had to wipe away a tear from his eye.

The first voice he heard was is sons voice, he did his best to relax but the man wanted nothing more than to be home. “Daddy! When are you gonna come home?”

A little voice came on the phone.He said, "Daddy, when you coming home?"He said the first thing that came to his mind.

Closing his eyes, Leon felt a small smile form on his lips. He had to reassure his son, he had to let him know so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“I’m all ready there Buddy. You just just to take a look around alright.I'm the sunshine in your hair,I'm the shadow on the ground,I'm the whisper in the wind.I'm your imaginary friend.And I know I'm in your prayers.”

Placing you hand on your sons head you gently took the phone from his fingers as he started to sniffle, giving him a weak smile you ruffled his hair. “Why do you go play sweetie.

She got back on the phone.Said, "I really miss you, darling.Don't worry about the kids, they'll be alright"

Nodding his head, the little boy said his goodbyes followed by an I love you as he rushed out of the room. “You know, I really miss you Leon. But don’t worry about the kids alright. They’re gonna be alright.” Swallowing back some tears you shook your head sitting down in the kitchen chair. “I really wish I was in your arms right now. Laying right beside you but I know I’ll be in your dreams tonight.”

Wish I was in your arms,Lyin' right there beside you.But I know that I'll be in your dreams tonight.

Closing his eyes, Leon relaxing on the bed though his hand clutched the phone tightly. He knew what you were saying was true, he knew his dreams would easily be filled with you, with your smile. Those dreams of you, thoughts were the only thing that helped him through these missions.

And I'll gently kiss your lips.Touch you with my fingertips.So turn out the light and close your eyes.

“I’ll gently kiss your lips, touch you with my fingers tips.” You teased gently though you could feel your eyes stinging with tears. “So just turn out the lights and close your eyes.”

Clearing out his throat, Leon blinked back his own tears. His forced himself to let out a laugh, his body slouching. “I can same to you, ya know.”

I'm already there,Don't make a sound.I'm the beat in your heart.I'm the moonlight shining down.I'm the whisper in the wind.And I'll be there 'til the end.Can you feel the love that we share?Oh, I'm already there.

“I’m already with you Y/n, so don’t make a sound alright. I’m the moonlight shinning down and I’m the whisper in the wind. I’ll be with you until the end, can’t you feel the love that we share, I’m already there.”

Sniffling, you felt the tears streaming down your cheeks as you listened to your husband. The dull ache in your heart, you desperately wished you could see him.

“We may be a thousand miles apart,But I'll be with you wherever you are. Alright, so don’t worry about me. I’ll be home before you know it.” Leon whispered, he couldn’t wait to for this to be his last.

He couldn’t wait to see you and the kids again but right now he was just happy you were thinking of him.

Oh, I'm already!There.

“I love you.”

[blackphanto]

The Hotel is basically Purgatory!

For context I was making a theory about how humans in the Vivzieverse may use Indulgence to get into Heaven until I noticed the similarity between Purgatory and the hotel and now I'm rewriting this.

A bit of history

Back in the 16th century, the Catholic Church 'found' a way for people to undergo a less severe punishment than eternal damnation in Hell and called it Indulgence. Early on you had to perform a certain action to earn said Indulgence; like repeating a prayer, going on pilgrimage or just performing overall good deeds. Yet as time went by, folks were able to buy Indulgence. They became so commercialized that Protestant theologians made it their goal to abolish them ASAP!

The whole point of an Indulgence was 'to reduce the amount of time spent in penance' this was pretty vague, until the idea of Purgatory was introduced. Purgatory is defined as a passing state after physical death for purifying the soul to be let into Heaven. The souls in question were of those who died in the State of Grace. Despite popular believe it was more of a process rather than a place. But once it became one, it was associated with fire therefore you literally needed to boil the hell out of a person to make them holy. Purgatory isn't permanent in most religion who believe in it. Souls were only residing there temporarily, almost like another place that wants to achieve the same out come. I'm of course talking about...

THE HAZBIN HOTEL

The whole fkn reason why Charlie made this hotel is so that souls could check-in in Hell and -out in Heaven. No one believes in that idea, such as how Purgatory isn't fkn canon in most big religion. Coincidence? I think not! This was intentional! The reason why Purgatory was never mentionned is bc of that's what the hotel is, Vivziepop's own interpretation of that passing state. The way Sera is refuses to support Charlie's idea is how Purgatory isn't accepted in most doctrines. Yet, Sir (Saint?) Pentious got redeemed.

The way I see it play out is that Emily would do anything in her power to get the word out that redemption is possible (sinners can be purified), but would be silenced by other angels such as Sera and maybe even Lute. And since Lilith will be back to try and put an end to this, the cast would have to go above and beyond to protect Charlie's dream. This could maybe happen in a fight and I could see it being interupted with a portal from a runaway Emily announcing that redemption IS possible, she'd be stopped by Lute for example maybe stabbing her and pushing her body in Hell, but at least they'd know that Charlie's dream is a reality. Fast forward a few months or less and way more sinners have turned winners. This would give Heaven no then choice than to officially accept the hotel and let it become a Purgatory for those who seek redemption and are ready to change.

[may--hawk]

passive aggressive (ineffable remix)

XVIII. Passive Aggressive - Placebo

Every time I rise I see you falling

Can you find me space inside your bleeding heart?

Aziraphale’d been there when Crowley had Fallen. All the angels had. They’d all been called to witness the ranks of rebel angels, vanquished and manacled, backed up to the very edge of Heaven as their sentence was proclaimed: eternal damnation, torn from Love, no hope of forgiveness. They had been weeping. All of them, the angels and the fallen angels. Gabriel. Uriel. Michael. Aziraphale. Even proud Lucifer. Even Crowley.

Aziraphale had sought him out in the crowd: no longer so springy, so sure, but just as bright and beautiful as before. A cut across his cheek. Aziraphale just couldn’t understand how something so lovely, so clever, so clearly Her creation could stand against her. Aziraphale had wished the angel would look at him for the last time, had wished he won’t. It would have been the last time. He stopped just short of a prayer, because prayers by angels had a way of being heard.

Their sentence was proclaimed, and the angel who would later become Crowley raised his eyes one last time, mouth parting slightly, as if to speak. Aziraphale almost cries out, stepping forward. Aziraphale will never see this angel again; this angel, cast down, will never see the stars again -

And then the entire Heavens shook and shuddered as if crying out in despair, and the rebel angels were Falling, long streaks of light. Aziraphale turned away, unable to watch.

An eternity went by, or perhaps not. Time hadn’t been invented yet. Aziraphale thought of the angel often but tried not to. He was a demon now, the enemy. The angels still in Heaven were told all kinds of things about the demons trapped down in Hell, the prison created specially to hold them. They were told of the rebel angels’ evil, their depravity, their ceaseless machinations to pull Heaven down to their debased level. What hurt Aziraphale the most was hearing that they were monstrous now, half fallen angel, half beast, remade into things that crept and crawled and groveled, a rejection of Her image, Her grace. Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about it. He told himself there must have been something wrong with the other angel, or God would not have cast him out, surely.

And then Aziraphale was sent down to Earth, and the demon was there, in the Garden, and Aziraphale glanced at him once, twice, each time looking away, not wanting to see this beautiful creature’s degradation. Not the new form: Aziraphale found the snake lithe and graceful, the demon’s eyes a beautiful marbled yellow. No, Aziraphale was afraid to look into his eyes and see what he was told he would see: malice, disgust, evil. No trace of the angel that had been all that time ago amongst the stars.

But he found he couldn’t help but look, and look again, and again. For despite what the demon - Crawley, then Crowley - said - he was still himself, still the same angel Aziraphale had met among the stars. Aziraphale could see it with his many eyes. Throughout the years, he looked and looked all over, but every examination, every angle showed the same thing: the angel’s heart, still present, almost exactly the same. A little tarnished, perhaps, but largely unharmed. Merely encased, protected, but inside cracked open, raw and bleeding.

So he reminds Crowley, over and over again, even when Crowley doesn’t want to hear it: reminds Crowley of his past, of his goodness, still so present in him. He forgives Crowley as often as he can, bestowing his one blessing the only way he can, knowing Crowley is incapable of doing the same.

Perhaps Crowley did not see him there, in Heaven, watching, and doing nothing. Perhaps Crowley does not even remember him. Oh, but he remembers Crowley.

Every time he looks at Crowley, he thanks God, because what he has lost has been returned to him. He will not lose it again.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52878844/chapters/136955758

[tuttocenere]

Moment, stay

So Boito's Mefistofele uses the exact Goethe Faust text a lot, and in the epilogue it does something very pleasing / horrible with the line "stay (oh moment), for you are beautiful". This is the phrase that triggers Faust's contract, if he ever says it he's going to hell.

In the second half of Mefistofele, Faust has increasingly distanced himself from the devil's schemes after Margherita's death. In the epilogue, the trigger phrase gets used twice: Once near the start of the scene, Mefistofele says to Faust: Continue having adventures with me, after all, you have not yet said: arrestati, sei bello.

But Faust is already hearing the angelic choirs of heaven and will not be persuaded to go with the devil again. And so at the turning point of the scene, when he knows he's saved, he can confidently say: arrestati, sei bello.

And yeah, if the director is not a coward, Faust will look right at his devil as he says it. Maybe hoping he may accompany Faust to heaven after all. Maybe just for love. Either way, as soon as Mefistofele says "no", Faust starts reciting prayers in the manner of an exorcism, the angels' singing drowns out the devil's complaints, and as Faust dies he says again "moment, stay", and goes to heaven.

Linked below is probably the most famous recording, and while it's extremely over-the-top, it gets the idea across (starting at the "Faust is hearing the angelic choirs" part):

So in this finale, on one hand, the choir of the angels is beautiful and sublime and we're happy that they're taking people to heaven. But at the same time, Mefistofele is our guy, he's the one we've been feeling with from the start of the opera, and now he has to stay behind all wretched like. So this finale is triumphant and miserable at the same time. And honestly, if there was salvation and damnation, it would be exactly like that.