#the vocalization on our prayer

[petergabrielyuri]

this specific part of perfect day by lou reed really fucking hurts in the context of ed's situation in ep 9 man...

[skyward-floored]

Oh goodie today is gonna be rough

[probablyasocialecologist]

Europe’s oldest and last remaining Indigenous people are under grave threat as a result of borders, land seizures, construction projects dedicated to the extraction of natural resources and systematic discrimination. Yet, that creeping sense of suffocation has made the Sami reach out to another set of Indigenous people nearly 4,000km (2,500 miles) away, whose fight for survival they identify with: the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip and the occupied West Bank. Their own struggle for Indigenous rights and self-determination has turned the Sami into vocal advocates for the Palestinian cause.

[...]

In front of the Norwegian Parliament on a cold October day, surrounded by hundreds of Palestinian and Sami flags, Isaksen held a mic and performed the “joik”, a traditional Sami song performed without instruments. Her lilting sounds brought the noisy demonstrators to a standstill, carrying a prayer that she hoped would somehow reach the besieged children of Gaza. “I’m physically so far away from them, but I just want to grab them, hold them and take them out of this nightmare,” Isaksen says. “Without trying to compare situations, Indigenous peoples all over the world have stood up for the Palestinian people because our bodies know the pain of being displaced from our homes and forced out of our own lands,” Isaksen says.

[...]

“We live in a settler colonial society,” Holmberg says. “The Sami know how it is to be marginalised and lose our lands. The levels of violence are different in Palestine, but a lot of the underlying mindset is similar. The US and Europe have shown they are not able to fully acknowledge their own colonial history.” Holmberg delivers a stark warning that sounds eerily similar to the voices heard in Palestine. “We are at the edge now. Any more push, and we collapse.”

[azrielslightintheshadows]

Heyoo! Can i request az x reader where they're mates and vowed to each other that till death do them apart. But az started questioning if he would die for his mate ever since elain came into picture, bcos of the 3 brothers for 3 sisters thing. And reader sort of found out about az's feelings and wanted time off from each other. Then all of a sudden war broke out in the court and everything was crazy. Reader went out to look for az making sure he is safe when she saw an arrow shot towards him and reader took the hit for az. And az started to regret his doubt in thie relationship and begging for his mate's forgiveness. Major angst pls and the ending is up to you! Thank you and have a great day 💖

Scattered Vows.

Azriel x f!Reader

Warnings; way too much angst, mentions of death and battle. Mental illness.

Masterlist.

Uhm my heart broke. I think you will need a tissue box.

You watched the door of your bedroom for what felt like hours. A sigh escaped your lips, and you pressed your head on your mate’s pillow, his scent so faint like he hadn’t slept in your bed for weeks. And he probably hadn’t, you couldn’t remember the last time he stayed in bed for more than three hours.

The city was bright and warm offering a perfect view from the hill you were currently standing on. Your friends’ eyes were filled with tears as they watched you and your mate standing in front of the priestess.

“What do you vow to each other?” She asked.

“I vow to be by your side, protecting you and loving you until my last breath.” Azriel’s eyes watered as he spoke, his scarred hands grabbed your own and he pressed a soft kiss on your skin.

“I vow to always support you and love you. To always shield you from any harm, heck I would even take an arrow for you.” You chuckled and Azriel smiled.

“May the Mother bless this union and let it bloom like the most precious flowers” the priestess shouted and started murmuring a prayer.

“I love you my angel” Azriel whispered.

“I love you” you whispered back as the tears streamed down your face.

You teared up at the memory. Those vows meant something right? Even though he reeked of jasmine when he came back, he loved you right?

You heard the door open, and your mate’s footsteps filled the silence, making you wipe your tears and sit up. He removed his boots to not wake you and you suppressed the urge to scoff, you slowly slipped out of bed and walked down the hall to find him.

He was standing at the middle of the kitchen watching the two cold plates on the table with a frown.

“You’re here” you noted, and he glanced at you.

“Please don’t start I’m not in the mood.” He huffed.

“Don’t start what Azriel? You stood me up AGAIN” you threw your hands in the air.

“Fine you want to do this now? Okay” he yelled, and you flinched.

Azriel had never raised his voice at you, it was one of the things you loved about him, how you could always talk things out without wrecking your vocal cords.

“Where were you?” You asked and stepped closer.

“I had to finish some reports” he replied and you stepped even closer making him back off, you quirked a brow knowing exactly why he did it and marched to him sniffing. Jasmine.

Your hands clenched into fists, and you growled “you were finishing off reports or Elain’s cunt?”

His eyes widened and he bared his teeth “don’t speak for her like that”.

Your heart broke into million pieces, every fear suddenly felt real and deep down you realized that the union bloomed like a beautiful flower, but in Elain’s garden.

“You’re defending her?” You gaped at him, your face pale.

“I can’t do this anymore y/n. Lately I’ve been thinking about everything and especially our vows…” he trailed off and you felt like his feet were stepping over the pieces of your heart, crushing them into even smaller fragments.

“Go on” you whispered and let the tears escape.

“I’ve been thinking about Cassian and Rhys…they are mated with two of the sisters and I wonder if I should be mated to the third one. Three brothers and three sisters.” He explained and his eyes watered.

“What?” You asked him.

“I just don’t feel like I want to protect you until my last breath…. Because I can’t protect both of you at the same time…” he avoided your eyes

“You want to protect her until your last breath” you whispered and he nodded.

“Okay, please pack your things and leave.” You continued.

“Don’t do this” he breathed “I’m so confused, I’m not even sure if this is what I want. I just spend time with her to see if I’m really interested or if it’s just a sick thought”

“You want me to stay with you until you decide which one you want?” You gasped at his nerve.

“I-i don’t know. Can we just take a break? I won’t touch her I promise I just need some time to think.” He pleaded.

You felt numb, and an adamant wall fell on your side of the bond, blocking him entirely.

You just wanted to be alone, you didn’t have any more power to argue. “Okay. Pack your things and leave and we will speak again when you make your decision.” You lied hoping it will get him out of the house as soon as possible.

“Thank you” he gave you a sad smile and walked into your bedroom. The small cottage you two had built a few months before the ceremony felt empty and dull now as every promise of love died slowly.

You covered your mouth with your palm to keep the sobs in as you clenched your eyes shut and let the tears flow. Azriel reached the door with a small bag thrown over his shoulder and glanced back at you. You turned your back on him and waited to hear the door shutting.

“I’ll be back” he promised and left.

When you couldn’t hear the beating sound of his wings anymore you let it all out, a heartbreaking scream wrecked your throat and you dropped on your knees. Every kiss, every touch, every promise pierced your skin and escaped to the darkness of the sky.

You remained on the kitchen floor for two days, letting every feeling out hoping that it would stop hurting so bad. You reached a point of numbness, where even your love for him was dull now, cursing at yourself for trusting him. He had your fragile heart in his hands, and he crushed it into mist, without a care, without a hint of regret. You pictured him in her arms and rage made your body tremble, you despised her even though it wasn’t her fault. She sure was a wicked female for leading on a mated male but then again why should she care? He was the one who should have said no.

A booming sound pulled you out of your thoughts and you felt the ground shaking making you furrow your eyebrows and peek out the window. Velaris' shield was gone, you couldn’t feel the magic anymore and winged creatures descended from the sky, slaughtering everyone in their path. The autumn court’s banners emerged from the mountains, with an army behind them. You gasped and quickly grabbed a dagger, running out of the cottage and winnowing to the main square, Feyre and Mor were there holding swords and shouting at people to hide.

“Where’s Azriel?” you shouted at Feyre.

“He….” She paused “He took Elain out of the city, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

You shook your head, not letting your family’s betrayal cloud your senses. They knew and they supported them, like you never existed.

You ran towards the creatures letting all your feelings out as you sliced their necks, your vision clouding and the image of Azriel flying Elain to safety was the only thing you could see. You crouched and placed your hand on the ground screaming, your eyes became white, and your power flowed out of you, destroying creatures and buildings on its way. You gasped for air and glanced around you, Azriel had landed a few steps behind you, his eyes wide as he stared at you and what you did. You noticed a creature lurking in the corner with a bow in its hands, it grabbed an arrow and pointed it to your mate making your face pale.

“Az” you screamed and ran… ran like your life depended on it, the arrow was shot, Azriel whipped his head to the direction, and you jumped, using the remaining power to lunge yourself in front of him. Silence, deafening silence, a cry, pain, fear and darkness.

Azriel watched the arrow piercing your skin and the tip emerging from your back.

“I vow to always support you and love you. To always shield you from any harm, heck I would even take an arrow for you.” It rang in his mind.

“I would even take an arrow for you.” He cried out your name.

"I would even take an arrow for you.” “Stop” he ordered himself.

“I would even take an arrow for you.” He grabbed his head, his hands covering his ears.

“I would even take an arrow for you.” “No” he screamed and started hitting his head.

“I vow to be by your side, protecting you and loving you until my last breath.” He fell on his knees.

“Lately I’ve been thinking about everything and especially our vows… I just don’t feel like I want to protect you until my last breath…. Because I can’t protect both of you at the same time…”  Darkness.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Azriel woke up with a groan, he was in his room in the house of wind. He glanced around and noticed Elain sitting on a chair by his bed, her hand holding his own.

He stirred a bit and pulled his hand back making her flinch and open her eyes.

“Az” she whispered and tried to pull him in her arms.

“No! Where is she?” he shouted.

Rhysand entered his room and nodded at Elain to get out.

“Rhys where is she?” Azriel raised his voice again.

“Calm down, you need to rest, your shadows almost strangled you to death” his brother spoke.

“What? Why?” he gaped.

Rhys sighed “I went into your mind while you were asleep, you ordered them to strangle you because you wanted the thoughts to go away”.

Azriel’s eyes watered “Where is she? I have to go to her, I have to apologize. I need to beg her not to leave me”.

“I’m sorry brother, you’ve been out for five days. We couldn’t wait any longer so we buried her at the garden of your cottage”

“No!” Azriel screamed “No no no”

“I vow to always support you and love you. To always shield you from any harm, heck I would even take an arrow for you.”  “NO” he screamed again as his body started seizing.

“Lately I’ve been thinking about everything and especially our vows… I just don’t feel like I want to protect you until my last breath…. Because I can’t protect both of you at the same time…”  “Make it stop, please make it stop” he cried out.

Rhysand quickly moved to his side and grabbed his head making him go to sleep again.

“I’m sorry brother” he whispered and glanced at Feyre who was standing at the door, tears were streaming down her face.

“It’s done” she informed him and let him in her mind.

“Are you sure you want to do this y/n?” She asked you.

“Yes, this is for the best. Just tell him I’m dead.” You replied.

“Okay, please take care of her.” She spoke.

“I will, I promise to give her a place in my court” Eris nodded.

“Thank you” Feyre replied, “for everything, we wouldn’t defeat Beron without you”.

“It was my pleasure” Eris smirked and grabbed your hand.

Feyre let a tear slip as she watched you disappearing with Eris.

“Do you think he will survive this?” She asked Rhysand.

“I doubt it.” He sighed and they walked out, closing the door and locking it.

Sorry <3

[pixiiipie]

Would love to see what happens when reader actually does make Zayne wear a vibrator when they play kitty cards. Maybe add some extra rules to the game, but not too unfair. It's only on when it's readers turn, but she takes an awfully long time to decide which cards to play.

hmm what would be better? turning it on during our turn or his? i love both so much!

during our turn, we can play for as long as we’d like and enjoy him squirming. he definitely won’t be paying attention to our action cards so you could easily throw whatever you’d like at him and there is a very low chance he’ll stop it. maybe keep it on a low setting where, when you start, it’s enough for him and all he can do is whine but as the game goes on it just makes him crave more! maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get little breathless “please”s accompanied with the cutest expression. zayne tries very hard to not be too desperate but you’ve said how you love it and he can’t get that out of his head. he’s trying so hard not to hump his hand and pay attention to you.

or turn it on during his turn. once he plays a card he can’t undo it so he’ll end up making stupid mistakes and missing out on points. mess with the intensity and listen to his breathing change and how he has to keep himself upright on his arms and the table. he tries to keep his breathing steady but every breath is shaky and it’s very difficult not to whine. he tries to make his turn go on for as long as he can to enjoy the vibrations but as soon as you catch on, you turn it off. it’s easy to see the disappointment in his eyes though he tries his hardest not to show it. he’ll quickly finish his go after that. spend as long as you need on your turn here too! make him wait and tease him by being indecisive but just not too much. he can only take so much before he winds himself up and stops enjoying himself.

he’s not super vocal and especially since he knows if he tries to speak it’ll be embarrassing but his attempts at surprising his moans get worse and worse as time goes on. maybe ‘forget’ it’s your turn to have a drink. he’ll have to talk then. “mmmngh i-it’s your turn.” zayne cringes at how pathetic he sounds but you just replay it over an over. no need though. just pretend you didn’t hear him or didn’t understand what he said. he knows your game but will repeat himself as many times as you want him too. such a good boy.

is he allowed to cum when you win? that’s too easy. he won’t be playing well anyway. he can only cum when he wins since he’s so good at this game. he can barely concentrate though! all he wants is you he doesn’t care about the game but he has to be good and follow your orders. you (sometimes) follow his when he’s being your doctor, now you’re both not working, he must listen to you (something he finds very easy though he won’t admit it). if he does manage to win (you may need to throw a round if he’s struggling a little) please reward him with lots of praise! such a clever boy you have and he’s been so good not cumming i think we need to change that. he’ll babble ‘i love you’ and ‘thank you’ like a prayer and cling onto you when he does finish.

even sitting across from him makes you feel like you’re worlds apart. he loves it when you touch him- sexual or sweetly- so only being able to stare at you from across the table is painful (for both of you honestly. he looks utterly delicious you wish you could kiss him). make sure to praise him lots!! such a sweet boy he deserves it and he’s doing so well for you. maybe some degrading mixed in- he’s heard lots of praise in the workplace so switch it up a little. make sure to be careful though, he’s very vulnerable with you so you’ll just have to gage how far you can go. try call him a pretty slut though <3 he has something in his ass/on his cock yet he still wants more? greedy boy. he’ll do anything for your hands on him. he needs to feel your warmth all over him in any way.

“p-please… i just-haaah… n-need you hnng ple-ease.”

[hindahoney]

What would even be the point of a Judaism without Israel? It's in the prayers, the holidays, the remembrances, the history, it's everywhere. Without Israel, so much ritual loses purpose. Do these people not understand it is inextricable? Nobody tries to erase the fundamental components of other faiths and yet these idiots on here think they have the right to erase Jewish identity? None of them know the most basic information. None of them have ever heard the Sh'ma, I guess...?

Do they think that when we pray "If I forget thee, oh Yerushalayim, let my right hand wither" it's an implicit support for Netanyahu or something? It's very silly. It's never going to catch on though, so I'm not that worried about it. It's disappointing to see but they're just a very vocal minority. Israel has been in our practice and prayers since before we were called Jews and they aren't a direct reflection of the modern state of Israel. I don't think they understand that most Jews would still pray for, visit, and live in Israel no matter what politics they have, because the politics are not the reason why Jews care about Israel.

[flyingwithclippedwings]

showing love to my seraphs / seraphims !

you are here. you are valid. you are one of us !

ʚ all angels are divine ɞ

.♡.

love to my seraphs who can sing, your voices sound sweet like ambrosia and bring me closer to home. keep showing the world your angelic voice, youre divine and you deserve to know it.

love to my seraphs who maybe can't sing like we did, you are still one of us and you are just as angelic. your divinity shines through and all voices are beautiful amongst the choir, no matter how they may sound.

love to my seraphs who are sweet and soft, i adore you. i see your delicate smile and your beautiful eyes, they catch the light and enchant all those who view them. i see the rosiness of your cheeks and the way your hair sways on the breeze, and the grace and elegance you carry yourself with are something i admire.

love to my seraphs who are rough and battered, i admire you. i hear the thunder in your footsteps and the power in your voice, like the most triumphant vocals in our beautiful choir. i see the scrapes on your knees and the bruises on your knuckles, i acknowledge your battles and i know how hard you fought with win them, my angel.

love to my fallen seraphs, no matter your trial and your pain you are divine in my eyes. your beauty still shows, and you are still apart of our choir no matter what, my angel. my heart bleeds for you, and my wings shield you from the dangers of the world. you are safe. you are loved. you will always have a place in my heart, in my head, and in my arms. i sing my songs for you.

love to my seraphs who are young, your youth is a blessing and it radiates through you! the softness of your voice and the kindness in your eyes are unparalleled, your wings will grow and stretch across the skies, and i cant wait to see how you learn and expand and watch you fly, I'll make sure to keep you close under my wings, young one !

love to my seraphs who are old, your age changes not your elegance and beauty, and the stories and lessons you bring with you are important and appreciated. you know knowledge we may only hope to learn and we see the wiseness in your gaze and the power you have. i admire you, and i see how you've lived and thrived. you are divine.

love to my religious seraphs, i admire your faith and i see your devotion. you are divine, and your voices echo in our choir and fill me with happiness. you are a believer, and valid no matter what it is you choose to believe in. id love to learn about your faith, join you in prayer and sing with you!

love to my non-religious seraphs, you are valid and divine. worship does not define you, and no matter what anyone says you are an angel in our choir ! you are beautiful and tolerant, and i welcome you with open arms, and wings!

[scarletsaphire]

Our Death Was The Start (Til Death Do Us Part)

When two similar people die at the same time in similar ways, their souls may end up tied together in the afterlife, connecting them in a way that almost nothing can break. Danny Fenton dies screaming in pain, hoping for help that won't come. At the same time, Jason Todd dies with a scream caught in his throat, hoping for help that comes too late. Danny comes back to half life. Not even the boundary of death will stop Jason from doing the same

Danny did not remember much from the moments when he died. He remembered pain, a searing, burning, tearing pain that was impossible to put into words. He remembered green unlike he had ever seen before, a green that seemed to be more than just color as it pushed its way into his eyes, his nose, his throat. He remembered screams. One was his, but he couldn’t tell you which one it was. He remembered some small part of his mind, the only part not drowned out by green and pain and noise, praying and hoping and dreaming that someone would come and help him, to save him, to stop the pain. 

Nobody came.

(That doesn’t mean nobody answered)

—

Jason remembered far too much about how he died. He remembered every broken bone, every maniacal laugh from a split, bleach white face. He remembered every thought and prayer and plea he sent to the shadows on the ceiling, that one of them would morph into Batman, into Bruce, into his father. He remembered how even as the timer on the bomb ticked lower and lower, and the shadows remained stubbornly unmoving, how he had still had hope. He remembered the fire and the force of the explosion, and he remembered his scream, channeling everything he could into calling out for help, for someone to save him.

Nobody came.

(That doesn’t mean nobody heard.)

—

Sam and Tucker had tried their best to calm him down afterwards, swallowing down their own horrified expressions to try and comfort him. They helped! They really did. But they didn’t know what was going on anymore than he did. They were lucky that his parents had gone out with Jazz when it all went down. If they had been home, there would be no hiding it. If they had been scheduled to come back soon, they would have noticed something.

Instead, the three of them had a few hours before anyone else would arrive at the Fenton house, and the few hours was enough for Danny to change back into himself (it was both relieving and horrifying that he could do that. A relief because that meant he wasn’t dead, right? But if he could do that, what did that make him?) and for his breathing to return to normal (Five breaths a minute was not normal, but anymore and he felt like he was panicking, gasping for air that he didn’t need. At least he was still breathing.) 

His parents came home a little happier than they had been when they left, but their heads still hung low. Jazz didn’t look much better. 

“So we have some good news,” Tucker said from his spot on the couch almost the moment they walked through the door. They had talked for a while about how to break the news to the Fenton’s. Danny had tried to convince them that he should be the one to say it, but he couldn’t get through it without his voice cracking and his body shaking. That, and his voice was almost gone, vocal cords screamed raw.

“We know that you said we weren’t supposed to go downstairs without you guys, but we were just so curious about how it worked, and we wanted to see,” Sam said. “Turns out, you forgot to plug it in! It’s working now.”

As Danny had expected, neither of his parents verbally responded to that, instead opting to run down to the basement, nearly walking over each other in their rush to get down the stairs. Jazz did not follow them.

“You three really shouldn’t have gone down there!” she stated, pointing at the three of them. “You especially, mister!” Her gaze landed on Danny, and he suppressed a flinch. “I know that Mom and Dad have always been lax about lab safety and all of that, but you should still know better than to go down to a potential electrical hazard without supervision. What if one of you had gotten hurt?” None of them could stop the looks they sent to each other, and Jazz didn’t miss them. Her gaze hardened further. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing serious!” Tucker said quickly. Too quickly. “Danny got a little shocked. But it was like, nothing more than static electricity type shock, you know?”

Jazz’s gaze softened just a little. “Are you ok?” Danny nodded his head. “Are you sure? How about mentally? Even a small shock can be traumatizing if it was in the wrong situation.” 

“I’m fine, Jazz,” Danny said. He kept his voice soft, so the unhealthy rasp to it wasn’t noticeable. Her eyes softened as she reached over the back of the couch to hug him. He bit his tongue to suppress a flinch, and returned the hug the best he could at the awkward angle. 

“I’ll trust you,” Jazz said as she pulled away. “Don’t make me regret that. Now, what do you want for dinner? I doubt Mom and Dad will be emerging from the basement any time soon.”

Sam and Tucker decided to stay for a dinner of chinese takeout from a place Sam chose. One of them was always pressed up against his side, always talking in easy, light hearted conversations. It was easy, to lose himself in the conversation, to not think about what happened to him. 

It was less easy, when they both went home for the night. They had wanted to sleep over, but neither of them were able to get their parents to allow them on such short notice. (They both offered to sneak out and stay with him anyway, parents be damned. He told them not to. Amity Park was not a dangerous city, but they still shouldn’t be walking around alone in the middle of the night. It wouldn’t be safe. He needed them to be safe.)

Sleep did not come easily to Danny. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blinding, burning, searing green. Every time he opened them again, his ceiling was illuminated with the same green, illuminated by a light that came from his eyes. It took hours for Danny to fall into an uneasy sleep, and he’s certain it will be full of nightmares.

It’s not. Instead, Danny dreams of a boy.

He looked to be just barely older than Danny, and just as scrawny, at least at first glance. His hair was black, with a single white streak towards the front, draping over his sleeping face. The weirdest thing about him was the outfit, all bright yellows, reds and greens, with a very noticeable lack of pants and an equally noticeable domino mask covering his eyes. In any other circumstance, it would have been an incredibly memorable, and likely concerning, outfit. But with everything that had been happening, it was so far down on his list of “Weird Things Happening Recently” that he barely even processed it.

He was much more distracted to find himself with snow white hair and the hazmat suit he had been wearing when- he stopped the thought there. He spent an hour trying to change back to himself, then panicking about not being able to, then calming himself down after he figured out that it was a dream. After all, what else could it be? 

Danny would have started to explore the dream, or do literally anything else besides sit there, if there was anything else to do. All that surrounded him was an empty black void, broken only by the sleeping boy. Maybe there was something further away from the boy, off into the darkness, but Danny didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave him alone. The boy looked peaceful, but something in his chest insisted that he wasn’t, that something was terribly wrong, so Danny sat next to him, cross legged, and waited.

It was an odd dream, one that seemed to drag on for hours and hours. Danny awoke from it slowly. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, clearing the face that he had been staring at for who knows how long out of his vision. He didn’t recognize where he was. 

Danny was wide awake in a heartbeat, sitting upright with a start, only to hit his head against the wooden beams mere inches above him. He muffled a cry of pain, reaching his hand up to his head, and taking stock of his surroundings. Now that he was more awake, he began to recognize bits and pieces of his room. He had somehow managed to get under his bed.

He tried to roll to the side, only to find that his leg was stuck. Danny’s eyes traced his leg in the not-quite darkness, finding it stuck in his bed. His breath caught in his lungs. It wasn’t stuck in the covers, or tangled in the boards of his bed frame. It went straight through all of them, as if they weren’t even there. He tried to pull his leg out from the bed, but it was completely stuck.

It took Danny the better part of 15 minutes to get his leg free. It didn’t calm him any when he did, seeing as he had pushed his leg through the bed, once again as if it wasn’t even there. He rolled out from the bottom of the bed, grabbing at his carpet and coughing away the dust that had accumulated under the bed. Danny scrambled for the phone, typing in Tucker’s number as quickly as he could with his shaking hands.

It had barely rung before Tucker picked up. “Are you ok? What happened?” 

“I don’t even know,” Danny said, his voice shaky, his words coming to fast. “I woke up under my bed with my leg stuck through the mattress. I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out. I can get my parents to pick you up if you don’t want to walk. I assume your parents won’t mind?”

Danny didn’t even need to check where his parents were; he could hear the sound of them clanging around in the lab downstairs. (He could hear the whirring of copious amounts of electricity. He could hear the swirling sounds of the portal. He could hear Jazz shifting in her bed in the next room over. He shouldn’t be able to hear all of this.) “Yea. Call Sam?”

“Of course man.”

—

The day was long, and hectic, but Danny was able to keep himself from falling through anything solid for the whole day. Tucker had offered to let him sleep over his house to try and help him, and while Sam’s parents had vehemently refused, she had promised to sneak out sometime during the night to hang out for a while. So when Danny fell asleep that night, it was in a sleeping bag on Tucker’s floor, closer to sunrise than sunset, with the soothing sounds of Doom’s start up menu playing in the background.

Danny dreamed of the boy again. This time, he didn’t panic over his hair or his outfit. He didn’t bother trying to look around the area to figure out where he was. He didn’t bother with much of anything besides settling into the same place he had taken last night. Knowing that this was a dream, that none of this was real, made it far easier for him to put aside the parts of him protesting that this was wrong. It didn’t need to make sense, didn’t need to be right, since none of it was real. 

(It allowed him to write off the vibrations coming from just below his chest, tucked behind his ribcage, as an oddity from his dream. It allowed him to excuse the soul deep satisfaction that staying vigil by the boy’s side filled him with. Dreams were weird. This one was no different.)

The hours passed slowly, at least for a dream, but Danny didn’t mind it. The tranquility ended abruptly by the sound of Mrs. Foley’s voice.

“What are you doing down here?” Her voice cut through Danny’s dream, and he opened his eyes to see the Foley’s living room ceiling, with Mrs. Foley’s concerned face looking down at him. He sat up quickly, looking down at himself. None of his limbs were stuck through the floor, which was a good thing, and the couch was next to him.

“Uhh…” Danny fumbled through his sleep-addled brain for a believable lie. “I didn’t feel like sleeping on the floor, so I slept on the couch instead. Fat lot of luck that did me?” Danny gave an awkward laugh. Relief flooded him when Mrs. Foley joined in. 

“I think that we have a yoga mat in the attic somewhere,” she said, helping Danny to his feet. “If it’s an issue next time, I’m sure one of us can find it. We don’t need any more tripping hazards in this house!” She made her way into the kitchen. “I’m thinking of making pancakes for breakfast. Let Tucker know that if he’s up and ready in the next 10 minutes, I’ll make bacon for him too.” 

Danny gave a quick thumbs up, before scurrying back to Tucker’s room, directly above where he had woken up. He was lucky; he didn’t want to know what would have happened if he had been found on the kitchen floor. Or worse, halfway through the kitchen ceiling. 

Tucker was, as Danny had expected, still passed out on his bed, drool gathering in a little puddle on his pillow and blankets tangled around his feet. And the bed posts, somehow. Danny didn’t bother trying to wake him up quietly. Nothing short of an earthquake would wake Tucker up. And maybe the promise of bacon, but that was more a “stay awake” bribe than a “wake up” bribe. So Danny did what he’d done at almost every sleepover he’d had with Tucker over the years. He climbed up on the bed and started jumping.

The bedframe creaked protestingly at Danny’s weight, the mattress shaking violently beneath him. Still, Tucker didn’t stir. Danny jumped harder, and higher, putting more force into each of his bounces, determined to get Tucker out of bed. Tucker rolled over in his sleep, grabbing the non-drool soaked pillow and flipping it over his head. That was a good sign; just a little while longer and-

Danny’s feet didn’t touch the bed. They didn’t touch anything. He just hung, suspended in air, hovering over Tucker’s bed. He’d gone ziplining before, knew how it felt to be strung up, still feeling the tug of gravity even as you’re safely tucked in a mess of lines and harnesses. He’d been in a low gravity chamber, once, when he was little, and that still didn’t seem comparable to this. He couldn’t describe it. He’d never experienced anything like this before.

(That was a lie. He remembered when he couldn’t get himself to the ground right after the portal. He didn’t think about that. He wouldn’t. But the memory brought with it a scream echoing in the back of his head, in the back of his throat, and it took all his power to bite it back down.)

Tucker sat up in the bed, rubbing at his still closed eyes, hair pointing every possible direction. “And here I thought you’d never give up,” he said through a yawn. 

“Tucker,” Danny said, voice nothing more than a panicked, strained whisper. 

“Mhum?” Tucker mumbled. Finally, he opened his eyes. He wasn’t able to suppress the yelp of surprise, before he clamped his hands shut over his mouth. Slowly, he removed them. “How are you doing that?”

“I don’t know,” Danny hissed. “I don’t know how to stop doing it either!” 

“You’re not going to like, drift away or anything? Because I don’t know what I’d do if you started floating away like a lost balloon.”

“I don’t think so?” Danny said. He gave a hesitant spin in the air. It was easy. Far easier than it should have been. “I think I can control it ok? Maybe if I just…” He moved over to the side of the bed so that he was hovering over the floor, and slowly started to will himself to the ground. It worked, his descent slow, controlled. And then his foot met the floor, and kept going.

Danny froze with the floor up to his ankle. “Tuck…” The two of them met eyes. Tucker drew in a sharp breath. He reached out with one hand, grabbing onto Danny’s shoulder. His grip tightened when his hand didn’t phase through Danny’s shoulder, grabbing tightly and pulling. Danny’s foot came out of the floor, and the two of them stumbled back. This time, Danny didn’t slip through the floor.

Danny blinked back panicked tears. “What’s wrong with me?” 

Tucker was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out, ok? You’ll be ok.” Danny nodded. 

“Boys! If you want bacon, you have two minutes to get your butts downstairs!” Mrs. Foley’s voice called out from downstairs. Tucker and Danny shared a look. They’d figure it out. Right now, bacon was more important.

—

Over the next few weeks, Danny’s life only got more and more chaotic. He’d had to go home after spending the night with Tucker, mostly because Danny couldn’t get a hold of his parents over the phone. He wasn’t surprised at that; he doubted they’d come up from the lab since the portal turned on, doubted that they’d even slept since then. They wouldn’t stop their research for something like the phone ringing. 

(They wouldn’t stop their research for him.)

It was lucky, in some ways, that they stayed sequestered away in the basement over the next week before school started back up, because Danny’s powers had only gotten progressively worse. He had taken to using straws and only straws whenever he got a drink, to minimize the amount of time he was holding the glasses. He’d deep cleaned the bottom of his bed, pulled out the old hoodie and battered up shoe box of model parts he’d had spares of. It was uncomfortable to wake up every night in a pile of dust and junk every night, especially when he still had to wrestle various body parts out of his bed frame.

The only part that had stayed consistent and peaceful since the “accident”, as Sam, Tucker, and he started calling it, was the dream. It was always the same; the boy sleeping, the darkness, comforting in its completeness, and Danny, keeping watch over him. After the third night, Danny started to talk. It wasn’t quite to the boy; that would insinuate that the boy could hear him, and Danny didn’t think that he could. Even if he wasn’t talking to the boy, he was talking at him.

It was never anything serious, at least to begin with. It was little details, about Danny’s life, his friends, his family. Once school started back up, he talked about classes and teachers, about Dash. 

And then the ghost animals started coming through, and Danny’s dreaming rambles became a lot more serious. He had talked about it with Sam and Tucker, of course, but he couldn’t tell them everything. He couldn’t tell them about the sensation in his chest, so cold it burned, when the two of them had been in danger. He couldn’t tell them about the fear that was gnawing at him from the inside when the creatures scratched him and he bled the same color they did. He couldn’t tell them about how the newly functioning Fenton Thermos always seemed to draw him in too, when he used it. He couldn’t tell them how scared he was about what it all meant.

(How was Danny supposed to say that he thought he had died? That they had watched him die? His heart still beat, he knew that much. He tested it himself, when he was awake. But he was like these creatures, and these creatures were dead. What did that make him?)

The boy did not move during any of the nights. He just slept on, with an expression far too peaceful on his face. The boy listened, even if he didn’t react. 

(The boy hadn’t always listened. Danny didn’t know why he knew, with such undying certainty, that the boy was listening now. But he was. Danny was sure of it.)

Maybe it was because it was the only sense of routine that Danny had anymore that made him not tell Sam and Tucker about it. The reasoning sounded like something Jazz would say, which tended to mean it was at least somewhat correct, even if it was annoying. It wasn’t that Danny didn’t trust the two of them about it, but every other part of his new powers was something that the three of them had spent picking apart. They had spent hours trying to figure out how they worked and how to control them, and Danny was incredibly grateful. He didn’t know how he’d go through it alone. But the dreams…

They seemed intimate in a way he couldn’t describe. Personal. He didn’t want anyone else to go poking around the dreams, didn’t want anyone to disturb them or the boy that slept inside of them. They were just dreams, after all. What harm could they do?

It was the night after the Lunch Lady fiasco. Danny had gone to bed with a nasty bruise on his side and an existential crisis a mile wide. He’d never seen a humanoid ghost before that. He’d never been recognized as a ghost before, especially not by someone who would, presumably, have that same “ghost sense” that he did.

Danny laid back in the darkness, hovering next to where the boy laid. He spoke softly, even as his thoughts ran away from him. It was hard to panic, next to him. 

And then the boy sat up, and panic suddenly came a whole lot easier.

---

@maddoxarcane @justhauntley @silicon-puppy-pudding @isis-

I won't be doing a tag list past this first chapter. I'll be tagging it on my blog as ODWTS, and am aiming to post updates every other Wednesday. We'll see how that goes.

[anxiousfanchild]

Tyrion Drabble

Word Count: 288

Content Warnings: NSFW- MINORS DNI.

Requests are open and encouraged!

Donations towards my wedding are accepted: Ko-fi

A/N: I'm going to start pumping out smutty drabbles when I don't have requests, just to bring more attention to the account.

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·..·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·..·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·..·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

Tyrion was never very vocal in bed, so when you hear the soft groans that tumbled from his lips as you rode him slowly, you couldn’t stop the butterflies in your stomach. Your hips jutted down and rolled sloppily as your slowly approached your orgasm. You look down at your lover, his eyes closed, lips slightly parted as he simply enjoyed you taking control for once. His hands laid loosely on your hips, nails slightly digging into your delicate skin. 

Your lips part, and you tilt your head back to moan softly. With you going so slow, you could feel his cock twitch in you, which in turn caused our pussy to spasm slightly. The knot in your stomach began to tighten, and you move your hips a little faster. 

“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t do that.” Tyrion scolds softly, digging his nails deeper into your hips. He stopped your movements completely, a pathetic whine leaving your throat. “I don’t want you to finish yet, love.”

Looking back down at him, his eyes catching your own. His hands start to move you again, slowly. Your head tips down, chin to your chest as you give another groan. Fast enough to keep you stimulated, but slow enough to keep you teetering on the edge of an orgasm. 

“Tyrion, please.” You mutter, voice barely audible. “Please, I’ve been so good for you.”

He seems to consider this, a half smirk gracing his features.

“That is true, but it gets you nowhere, my dear. You forget, while you may be above me now, you are still whimpering my name, as if it was a prayer to the gods. Now shut your pretty little mouth, and let me take care of you, yes?”

[gayerthanevertbh]

say your prayers - one.

pairings | dark!priestess!natasha romanoff x reader

– summary: your school have church service once every week. of course, as a good little schoolgirl you are, you attend to it. which means you always have to see your priestess, natasha, who you are secretly infatuated with. until there was an unexpected turn that made you feel something else other than good. but maybe, even better.  

– warnings: smut/dark taboo themes - 18+ YOU’VE BEEN WARNED! non-con/dub-con, religious themes, sacrilegious acts, blasphemy of religion, biblical references, rough sex, loss of virginity, dark!natasha, oral sex (r receiving), Mother kink, heavily detailed smut, natasha being a creep, and more.

– notes: this was so well written i’m actually kind of happy about this chapter. there will be more in the future, for now this. enjoy! <3

series masterlist | navigation | taglist for this series

I attend the chapel every week. The school requires you to, so I don’t really have a choice. Usually, my choices are: to drop my scholarship and move to a new school so I don’t have to do all the religious routine or suck it up. And mostly, I do suck it up. Mainly because my parents are believers of God and would be a saint when it comes to him. I’m like that too, I pray and confess my sins and sometimes even ask for help when I do need it. I’m a good girl, as they say. And I am a good girl.

It just simply goes away once I see my priestess once a week.

Ruther Catholic College has been my high school life, I’ve been in boarding school ever since I turned fifteen years old. My parents, who are religious people, think that Catholic schools do good for schoolgirls like me. I am a good schoolgirl, I just have issues that I’d rather not talk about. I have never been vocal about it either, not finding a sense in it since I don’t talk to a lot of people. I do have friends, but I skip my time with them so that I could read my books. I’m an aspiring writer, a journalist. I write the simplest stories that are book worthy and it makes me think that I am talented and educationally smart–since I was raised that way. I’m a Rogers, for Christ’s sake. Of course, being academically smart has to be on the charts.

But I cannot shake off my infatuation with my priestess, Natasha, who is twice my age. She has the kindest eyes that I’ve ever laid my eyes on, all my teachers are bastards and have soggy jawlines. But Mother Natasha has a face of a babe with the maturity that comes with it. Her lips are subtle and thick, and her hands are quite long and neat. She wears this attire every Friday and does the chapel, preaches the word of God, and makes us go to the confession room to reveal our sins with no shame. I still have to wonder who was behind that divider, because there are many women in that church that could possibly be forgiving my sins. I’ve blatantly confessed to many women, not knowing who they are.

Anyway, the humanities building is the largest dorm of all in New York. We have our own rooms, our own food too. But we are still required to go to the cafeteria to say our prayers, to bond with other schoolgirls. I, personally, do like having my own space. The context of someone being in your room can be very intrusive, which I am not fond of. I have a desk that has most of my writings, and poems that are short. On the other side, my single bed was there as well as my long rectangular-shaped window. Beside the door are my bookshelves which have the cross of Jesus Christ above the wooden shelf. I’d invite a friend or two to have a book date, but never less sleep there. There would be a couple of nuns on the watch, especially at night. That means we aren’t allowed to even get out of the building without permission and say where we are headed. Only our parents can pick us up from our school.

Today is Friday which is my luck to see Mother Natasha again. I hiked my white long socks all the way to my knees and got into my black shoes that felt hard on my heels. Though, I have no choice but not to wear them. When I was in the hallway, I could feel the cold breeze of the air. It’s September and it’s the start of my year, I turned eighteen a week ago and spent it with my parents. Some of them say I still act like a fifteen-year-old kid, but I don’t think that way. With how smart I am, I felt like an adult once I reached this age. I see Wanda with her hair tied up that shows off her brunette locks, she smiles at me and brings her arm inside mine.

“Guess what?”

“What?” I asked while trying to stop the itch from my feet, making my face scrunched in a weird look.

“I’m getting a laptop soon!” she says joyfully, squealing with her arms tightening around mine. It hurt, but it didn’t matter. I smiled to silently tell Wanda that I was happy for her, truly I was.

“That’s nice,” I responded with a huff because of the cold wind. “I was wondering when I’m going to get mine. I could write better stories there.”

“You’re always writing and reading, don’t you ever get bored?”

“No,” I huffed again. “Not really. It only keeps me away from reality, I get to choose what it feels like to be loved and unloved. I also get to choose whether I’m religious or not.”

I was a good girl but never came to terms with my religion. I believe in God, though. I truly do think he’s capable of all of us sinners and people, it’s just hard to believe when your teacher says something about the world ending. Revelation is not the best chapter in the Bible, it never was. Truly because I think it’s fictional and hypothetical for these things to happen, it has been said for many years. I still don’t see it happening.

Maybe that makes me a sinner of not being afraid of death. I'm not afraid of the underground world once I die, because I know that it’s a place for me and other people who go through my struggle. I’d rather not admit it, it makes me feel ashamed of myself.

When we reached the big wooden doors that lead to the chapel, I gulped. I could feel my throat restraining as if I’m not allowed to talk–which was the case, you aren’t allowed to talk in the chapel. Once it opens, all of us schoolgirls come rushing in quietly. Of course in line. I see my teachers being in the back row while there are a few nuns in the front row, and the section of my class sits in the right row in the middle of the church. So I sat there quietly with Wanda, who had her feet pressed together. A nun was at the altar playing the piano that was ringing in our ears beautifully, and I do find it relaxing. And once everyone was in the chapel, the priestess made her entrance.

Mother Natasha.

I could hear Wanda mumbling, “I wonder if she has a husband. She seems lonely, I mean look at her stance. It screams I want a husband. Do you think she wants one? Or does she have one already?”

I imagine Mother Natasha bringing her husband, who is possibly a priest. And I almost made a grimace look because of that imagination. I’d like to think Natasha is a lonely person who has her personal space and has a wonderful mind. And even if I don’t know her, she radiates that kind of mood. Especially how well-spoken she was, even if they are scriptures from the Bible. I responded to her quietly that I don’t think that she wants a husband, and Wanda just shrugs saying with another mumble: “That’s sad, I don’t want that. I would like a husband someday.”

Why do everyone has to think about marriage? Why can’t we just be happy with ourselves? I do personally think that marriage is a waste and something impulsive to do. There’s nothing forever in everything, even with stupid marriage. The thought of the word forever cringes me, it makes my body feel tingly with that word. I hate it, I hate it more than my dad.

“Please stand up for our prayer,” says Mother Natasha with a broad voice, everyone else closing their eyes. I had to do it as well but urged them to open again just to see her, to take a glimpse of her. After a long prayer, the service began. I was holding onto my Bible while still listening to her preaching, appreciating how there was so much power in her voice. I wish I could easily do that, to attract people with just my voice.

“For rebellion is as the sin of divination,

And insubordination is as iniquity and idolatry.

Because you have rejected the word of the Lord,

He has also rejected you from being king.”

When she says those words with such vulnerability, we make eye contact. It was brief, yet it meant so much to me. She looked at me. And I could see her creating a small smile that was so fainted, you could barely see it. My body tensed from the way her eyes were looking at mine, it was like I couldn’t breathe. My heart stopped. How utterly infatuated I was with something sinful that I cannot despair. She was a woman, a grown woman. I was a kid, practically a teenager still. Yet, she still looked at me without meaning.

After the service, we were asked to go to the confession room as always. It had to take a while since there were a lot of students and it took at least a minute or two. I was waiting in line with my fingers playing on the edge of my skirt. I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering about the possibilities that could happen later once I confess. But mostly, I thought about how Mother Natasha looked at me and almost gave me a smile. Was it sinful enough for me to want it from her?

“Y/N Rogers,” a nun calls me. I lifted my head up in response. “You’re up next. Don’t take too long.”

I mumbled a thank you for being polite and walked inside the small booth, closing the curtains. It felt intimate to be here again, to sit on the warm wooden chair and be faced by a divider. I start by saying with a light voice: “Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned. My last confession was about watching sexual films that my friend and I did, and I have thoughts about it. And for my next confession, I began to research abortion so that I could be prepared for the future. I know that it’s sinful to kill a child inside of your womb, but I was very curious. I will never do something like that again. And for my last one, I’m having an infatuation with someone that they do not know me. They barely made eye contact with me, and I’ve been thinking about them for the longest time.”

There was a short pause until the priestess asked, “Is this person a schoolmate?”

I began to shake my head. Lies, full of lies. I can’t confess something like this, it would be sinful enough to commit to it. It was just a stupid girl crush, no big deal. Wrong, it was a big deal–especially at this church. Homophobia is the real issue here, and they ban any homosexual acts from this school. So, I lied through my teeth.

“No, Mother. Someone else outside of school.”

“By the authority vested in me by the church, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. May your confession be a reminder of you, child.”

I then realized how feminine the voice of that woman was. It sounded younger, and not some haggard old voice that you’d usually hear from another priestess. No, this sounded different. It sounded exactly just like Mother Natasha, although more feminine. Much lighter. I overthought this conversation until I made my way back to the room, where I had to do my project in English Class. My teacher, Mrs. Davis, is an outstanding poet. I love learning from her, but she seems too old for me to like. I’m assuming she’s in her sixties or maybe late fifties, but who am I to care about her age? I just simply love her class.

I kiss the small cross from my bracelet as I do a little prayer by the window, apologizing for my sins. It’s a daily ritual, a routine where I knelt down peacefully and talked to God. Whether he’s hearing me or not, I could tell how disappointed he was with my simple infatuation with a woman who was in her forties. I was ashamed, but never truly understood with the exception of being homosexual. Perhaps, I was. But I try my best to push it away, and it’s working.

“Forgive me, Lord Father, for I have sinned today. I know I may have disappointed you, and I will do my best to remain pure to your eyes. In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

                                                       —

Saint as she was on the outside, the devil she was on the inside. Natasha has urges, sexual urges. Maybe infatuation too, but more on the concept of fucking someone has been on her mind. Especially to me, specifically to me. How she’s trying to condemn herself whenever I'm around, how to try not to notice my eyes whenever she preaches. She prays to the Lord every day to push the feeling off, to be a saint in front of his eyes. But her urges continue on as if it was hunting for prey.

Mother Natasha is now inside your room with the door being quietly closed. She holds her clerical collar around her neck, trying to hold off the animalistic self to not grow out immediately. She takes in the coolness of my room, hearing the sounds of the clock ticking as well as the lights outside from the window are yellow. She looks at my desk and places a finger down, swiping across from the wood. She brings her finger to her tongue and licks it–rolling her eyes back at her head at the image of me on her desk. It’s getting worse day by day whenever she sees me by the halls of Ruther College, she wants to bite me. To simply take me that no one else could. Mother Natasha takes a few steps to my bed and simply admires my slumbered body, smiling to herself and whispering: How beautiful you are, my little lamb. How effortlessly pretty you are.

She takes out her hand and ran her knuckles against my soft cheek, afraid enough that she’ll wake me out of my slumber. Relief left her body when I didn’t stir awake and continued her actions. Mother Natasha has always admired me, especially whenever the teachers would talk about me to her. They would say how well disciplined I am and how much they love my writings, saying that some of my essays could be poetry. She admires that very deeply and takes it in by heart. Before she could do further action, she goes to my desk and starts opening drawers quietly. Something catches her eyes, it’s underwear that has never been washed.

“Perhaps this is yours, little lamb,” she murmurs to herself while touching the cloth of my old juices, running her thumb against it. She brings it to her nose and smells it, almost making a euphoric sound out of it. She’s insane, utterly and completely insane to me. “How beautiful you are, how much you make me crazy.”

Mother Natasha shoves the sheer pink panties inside of her pockets and maneuvers toward me once more, looking down at my body. She takes the ridge of the blanket and moves it down slowly, her eyes staring at my face to see if there are any reactions. None. So she continued until the blanket was at my feet. I was still asleep, deeply in fact. My eyes were so shut that I didn’t even know she was already behind me, her hands remained untouched from my hips. It was as if she was afraid to even hold my arms, to smell my neck. Forgive me, Father, she thought to herself and takes a good amount of smell of my hair. Strawberries. She began to be obsessed with me at this moment and thought about numerous acts that she could do to my body.

I was awoken with a strong pair of hands on my mouth, making me scream from the top of my lungs. Above me, there was a familiar sight and I will never forget this day when I found out that it was Mother Natasha who was on top of me. I was bewildered, scared, and distraught. But scarier if that made sense. I tried pushing her off with my hands fighting against her, but she was unbelievably strong. Was this happening? Am I dreaming? I was infatuated with her and wanted her to notice me, but never like this.

“Shh, baby, please,” her voice sounded like a beg, her eyes are now kind but I could see much evil that was inside her green eyes. “Please stop, quiet down. Shh, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I just want a little taste from you, okay sweetheart? Just a little taste…”

Once she put her hand away, I wanted to scream. But her lips were attached to mine and I simply almost passed out because of it. Is this what it feels like to be kissed by your priestess? Her lips were so soft, so plump. My eyes went from terror to closing them, almost giving in to how well she pressed her lips on mine. My hands went immediately on her chest and pushed her as hard as I could, but her hands were caught on my wrists and her eyes are no longer kind. Her eyes were in pure anger.

“Stay down,” she demanded, hovering over my small body as I tried fighting against her. Tears are starting to form in my eyes, but she didn’t care. She needed to let it all out. “Baby, you’re breaking a poor old woman’s heart. Please stay still. I need to take you, I want you so much.”

I wanted to be freed from her arms, away from her lips. I didn’t want it, I told myself not to want it. It was a sin, an awful sin especially when it comes from another woman. Would’ve it been better if she was a man? Hell, that’s even worse. If I do admit that I like it, I might as well be as sinful as she was. Her hands were absolutely everywhere, she was holding my hips with a grip–making me think there would be a mark as well as her kisses on my neck. She was desperate. So so desperate for me. My face was pressed against the soft pillow as she assaulted my helpless body, smiling faintly to herself when I was only wearing a pink tank top along with white cotton panties.

“How beautiful you are, my little angel…” she whispers to my ears and hooks her fingers to my underwear. My eyes bulged out and I was quick to say something before she could even pull them down.

“I’m not experienced, I don’t–can you please stop what you’re doing to me, Mother?”

She clicks her tongue and juts her lower lip as if feeling bad for me. I started to whimper when she shakes her head a “no”. Meaning, that she doesn’t want to stop. She was about to hurt me and I’m going to like the hell out of it.

“Jus’ be a good girl for me,” Mother Natasha mumbled while kissing the corner of my lips sloppily, trying to pull away from her mouth but she makes a threatening voice: “Stop moving or I will hurt you.”

I quivered from the voice that she erupted, I trembled vigorously when she put her hand on my right breast–her mouth near my ear as she shushes me down, threatening me some more. I wanted her to stop, I wanted her to leave. Because knowing myself, I could lose control once she doesn’t stop. I was inexperienced, I don’t know how to touch a woman or even a man. My lips are no longer a virgin, they have been manipulated by her lips instead of a precious one. But maybe, she is the precious one. Maybe, I was just stubborn to realize that.

“Forgive me, Father,” I whispered to myself while her lips were biting on my neck–hissing myself with a loud whimper and immediately covering my mouth once more. From the corner of my eye, I could see her smirking as she whispers hotly on my face: “There’s no Father here, my little girl. It’s just me, Mother. I will take good care of my precious baby.”

She brings down my panties with a grunt, her other hand still on my mouth as she throws the discarded undergarment onto the ground. Mother Natasha quietly gasps to herself as she sees my unshaven core, her mouth-watering from the sight. I could feel more tears trickling down from my eyes as she touches my cunt, knowing how dry it was.

“I’m going to get you so wet, little lamb… You shall see the ecstasy from the Lord. This is his gift, bringing me to you, kitty.”

With those nicknames, it made me wet. Those words are so foreign in my ears like I’ve never heard of them before. And I never did, so the way her sultry voice speaks to me makes me want her to touch my sensitive parts until I was eaten by her. How much I wanted her and how endlessly I denied it. I continued to cry and so on, letting her dominate my poor body while she was smiling at how much has been revealed to her.

“Recite the whole Hail Mary for me,” she quickly says with a domineering voice, turning me until my back is pressed against the mattress. I looked at her and pulled my tank top upwards with effort. “Detka, stop fighting it. Eventually, your virginity shall be mine. We were meant to be this way, accept it.”

I couldn’t. I thought this was supposed to be different, I thought that she’ll only be my priestess and nothing more than that. But I was so driven by her stamina and her harsh kisses that I’m making myself give in, I must give in to not disappoint her. So I did. She smiled widely once I took off my tank top, throwing it across the room and I was fully naked beneath her. I covered my chest with my arms and shyly said, “I think we’ve had enough, Mother. I–I think we should stop.”

“There’s no stopping here,” she harshly whispers and kisses my lower lip; biting it even, which made me let out a tiny whimper. “Give yourself to me, little lamb. I’ll make sure you’ll be filled with so much love from me, I promise.”

She pushed my legs wide and gasped quietly once she saw the full view of my vagina, I could see her hungry eyes far from here. It’s a sight that I’ll never forget, that I’ll imagine once I go to sleep every night. Her mouth lands on my stomach and makes swirling kisses with her tongue, whispering biblical words that I cannot comprehend due to the fact that I’m a mess. Tears are coming out like a river, as well as my whimpers of mercy. She gives open-mouth heated kisses on my pelvis and finally, her mouth was on my cunt. I arched my back in response, my hand went flying to her hair to grip it; she didn’t mind. To her head, she loved it.

“Please,” I begged and took a deep breath, releasing the tension inside of me. “You have to stop, Mother. I–I can’t do this with you, this is wrong.”

She shakes her head in disagreement with her eyebrows scrunched together, but her eyes are still glued to my clitoris. She whispers with a deeper voice: “This is never wrong for the both of us, my child. It’s meant to be.”

Her tongue squirmed all over my folds as I covered my mouth with my mouth, moaning when her lips were attached to my clitoris. She sucks on it, making a sipping sound while her hands are roaming around my stomach to calm me down. Her mouth was rough, as well as her tongue. Especially her tongue. It’s like she knows what she’s doing with it, and I don’t even understand the techniques that she’s releasing from within her. Mother Natasha continued to eat me from down there as I prayed to the Lord for my sins; quietly.

“You taste divine, my angel…” she praises, her eyes closed as she licks and licks my departed folds, the tip of her tongue prodding against my cunt. “So fucking good, this pussy is so beautiful… Want you to shave it for me.”

I still had my hand gripping her hair tightly and let her assault my cunt with her mouth and her tongue that would draw me from my orgasm. She still had her chapel outfit on, which kind of made my body feel hot. I could still see the clerical collar around her neck, as well as her cross necklace that was made out of wood. But none the less, I was in true heaven while she ate me out like a starved animal.

“I’m so–Lord, Forgive me,” I begged, and I pleaded. My chest starts to heave deeper as my pants become more ragged. “Stop, please stop! It’s too much–I can’t take it…”

“You taste so fucking good,” she groaned against my cunt, admiring my clenching hole. “Look at that, you are nothing but my child. I’m cleansing you away from your sins, I’m the one who listens to them. Don’t be a dumb baby.”

I let out a whining moan at the sound of her voice and how she says them with so much sexual power within her body. I began to whine more once I felt two fingers dipping inside of my vagina, and I immediately lifted myself away.

“No, please. Anything but that. I’m saving myself for the Lord,” I whimpered in pleading but she never wavered. She just kept her arms around my hips as her fingers rubbed my clenching hole. I said with a louder voice, “I said stop, Mother! You’re going to hurt me with your fingers…”

“No, no, baby…” she coos, smiling at me gently while still rubbing smoothly against my hole. She could see how terrified I was, could see how pure I was. And she was grown enough to know that she was taking advantage of me. Should I let her? If I was going, to be honest in the vein of the Lord, yes I wanted her to take my virginity. “Don’t be scared, my child. I’m here to take care of you, remember?”

She thrust two fingers inside my womb without warning, making me scream from my hand. It felt like something broke inside of me, like a river flowing out of my vagina. And to my thoughts, it was my juices. She loved the way I screamed, the way my body squirmed to get away from her. But really, I just wanted more. I needed more even though it stings, it hurts.

“That’s it,” she kisses my clitoris again while pulling out slowly to just pump in again, with more force this time. She could see the way my hips arched and with that, she pushes my lower stomach down with a growl. “Be a good angel, little girl. You’re giving yourself to me, what a saint. Beautiful, just like that… You’re so tight.”

She completely lost her temptation over me, she was a whole new person. And either way, she didn’t care. She wanted me as much as I wanted her–now that I have figured that out. She curls her fingers inside of me with a vigorous moan, latching her mouth once again on my clit while flicking that blud. I start praying once again, asking for forgiveness. Telling to God how much I’ve disobeyed him, it was a sin to commit an affair with a woman0–especially a priestess. I can’t help myself, I’ve fully grown to the feeling of her inside of me. I wanted it, even though on the outside I didn’t.

“Stop,” I whined while I still had my eyes closed, trying to get away from her hungry mouth. But her arms were so strong that you’d think twice if she’s a woman. Maybe she’s just a very strong person. “Please stop, I can’t take it! I’m sorry, forgive me, Father… For I have sinned. Oh god, please–I’m feeling so–”

“You’re loosening up,” she chastises, pulling herself up to smother her wet lips against mine. Our teeth clad together and made a clink, which hurt a bit. But I was so lost from the pain and pleasure that she was giving me, that I couldn’t help but let out a desperate moan. She smiles against my wet lips, almost tasting me. “I broke you in, huh? I love your pretty little body so much…”

She gropes my breasts while thrusting inside of me hard, her fingers curling to hit my special spot. My eyes were shut completely as my mouth gaped open, giving her access to kiss me. I could feel her dark redhead locks against my sweaty skin as she pumps her fingers, feeling my walls not as tight anymore. She loved the feeling of her taking my virginity, the one where she gets to taste a girl first. And god, I have made her crazy. Utterly insane.

I moved my head away from her lips and held onto the headboard steadily, almost coming from an orgasm that I’d never had before. She still has that smile on her face, it was as if she had won some trophy. And then I realized I was that trophy, I was her prize. I could feel the cross dangling onto my face as she whispers harshly, “Good little girls like you make me feel alive, lamb. You have no idea how attracted I am to you, how obsessed I am whenever you pass by. I know your little stares, baby. I’m not dumb enough to not see them.”

Immediately, I was embarrassed. But that feeling was at the corner since there are multiple emotions that I’m going through in just one night. I wanted to hate her, to never see her again. She was a saint that I always praised, but a demonic human being at night. Though, I love her. I love the way she manipulates my body, how she could control it–knowing what she wants. I was just some little girl in her eyes and felt innocent. Maybe those were her type, good little innocent girls like me. Except that, I was at the right age. It would’ve been an awful turn if I was a bit younger.

Our kiss was like an unforbidden fruit, like how Eve finds a beautiful apple from the snake. She was Lucifer, I was Eve. She knew how to manipulate me into some kind of sick action that I really loved, and I hate myself for it. I loathe thinking that this was not destiny because it felt like it did.

“I have so much desire for you,” her breathing becomes hard and I don’t know how to respond to her desperation. Her eyes are closed now, but I felt her forehead against mine as she gropes my right breast with a tight grip. “Forgive me, my child. I just couldn’t help myself any longer… I had to take you.”

Come for me, angel. Come around my fingers.

Those words repeat in my head as her mouth latched now on my nipple, sucking it while still rubbing my clitoris with her thumb–her fingers still inside of me. I felt disgusted. Yet, alive. My cunt was now abused with her power and I wasn’t ashamed of it, but I could still feel my tears falling down from my eyes endlessly, it was as if I am truly ashamed of what is going on. Eventually, I came on her fingers and she had her mouth on me to muffle my screams. She knew what she was doing, she damn knew. I was so lost with the feeling, the mixture of pain and pleasure. My body trembles from her fingers inside of me as my body sweats like crazy.

“That’s it,” she whimpers, kissing my lips harder with her rough mouth. “That’s it, come on… You’re so good to me. You’re such a good little schoolgirl, huh?”

I nodded relentlessly and continued to come around her fingers. Once I am done, she pulls out slowly and brings her lips to her mouth–sucking my come with her eyes closed. I watched the way she lathers her other all over her fingers as if she was starved. And truly, I was too. I panted loudly and laid my head back onto the pillows, sobbing after our sinful encounter.

Her eyes soften and touch my cheek with her knuckles, whispering: “You did good, my child. You did very well. I hope to see you again next week. Will I see you again?”

Why was she acting desperate? She knows she has more power over me, why is she giving me the control to see her? Mother Natasha has the willpower to control me, to make me feel like a bad person. It all felt different, too different. But I gave her a slight nod and tuck myself away from her, still whimpering from the sex that we made. I hear her say: “I made love to you, my child. Don’t act like you don’t like it. You came around my fingers, I hope you get to do that with my cock too someday.”

Someday? And what does she mean by that? Was there something else that I did not know? I felt scared now but wanted her to hold me close. Eventually, I felt the bed dip and watched her as she fixed herself, mumbling a few words that I could barely hear. She turns over her shoulder and gives one last smile before she leaves my room, closing the door quietly.

I cried during that night, feeling ashamed of what I’ve felt or thought. I hate to admit that I loved our sex, I loved the way she took me. But it felt so sinful that I could feel my body as a dirty thing; a dirty creature. I never want to show up in her chapel again, I never want to see those eyes.

But I do, so badly that it aches me.

taglist: @blckwidowsbf @olicity-boo @nickalpatel @sayah13​ @inluvwithfictionalwomen​ @daddynatasha​ @natnutkuy​ @mrs-johansson​ @ageofolsen​ @easybxy​ @natasharomanoffswifeyyy​ @ayyy-lety​ @wandsgurl​ @rt--link​ @pancakefan7529 @korekiyoss​ @natash7456574657646645 @riveravalonsage​ 

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Jewish Song of the Day #19: Psalm 24

Comments:

This week is a special week, because I have decided to post only Tehillim.

Why Psalms? Well, you see there already is such a thing as Jewish Song of the Day that's part of our daily morning liturgy. It's called Shir Shel Yom (Song of the Day) and happens at the end of the service.

Per the Orthodox Union:

One of the last prayers which are recited each morning as part of the shacharit service is the "shir shel yom", the song of the day.[1] The kabbalists teach that through the recitation of the shir shel yom we ensure that our prayers reach heaven in a favorable manner, untainted by harmful forces. It is also noted that the morning is a time of chessed – kindness - which further facilitates the acceptance of prayers that are recited in the morning.[2] Although not immediately apparent, the daily shir shel yom corresponds to the day's significance in the order of creation.[3] The idea of reciting a different song each day is alluded to in Chapter 92 of Tehillim which opens with "A song for the Shabbat day" implying that every day of the week has a chapter of Tehillim which corresponds to it. Additionally, we see from here that the practice of reciting a daily shir shel yom is quite ancient. Each shir shel yom is taken from the book of Tehillim and is reminiscent of the song that the Levites would sing in the Beit Hamikdash each day following the morning offering.[4] No less than twelve Levites would assemble to form a choir whose task was to sing these songs.[5] Although musical instruments were a prominent component of this performance, the mitzva only requires a vocal presentation.[6] Before the Levites would sing the shir shel yom they would recite a preliminary blessing as is common before performing many other mitzvot.[7] While the chapters of Tehillim which are recited as the shir shel yom are fundamentally similar to the songs of the Levites, they are not identical texts.

It seems only fitting that, since there is already a real Jewish Song of the Day, if I'm going to do my own version, I may as well honor this ancient and ongoing practice as part of it!

[bubblesandgutz]

Every Record I Own - Day 827: Shellac 1000 Hurts

This is a long and tough one, so I'll spare your timeline and force you to make the jump.

On February 21, 2001, one of my husband's closest friends was murdered by a man named Michael Gargiulo. She was stabbed 47 times.

Not surprisingly, my husband does not share my appreciation for slasher movies. I still feel like an asshole for dragging him to a midnight screening of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre on my birthday years ago. I was an idiot for not realizing that someone who lost a loved one in a brutal act of violence wouldn't find a film recreating that kind of violence entertaining.

"I don't enjoy the sound of people begging for their lives," he told me after the movie. I can't blame him. Even music with "tortured" vocals tends to get an immediate "can we listen to something else?" from him.

Transgressive art is a weird thing. People will always be drawn towards art that's shocking, forbidden, or taboo, but I also assume most people have a line they don't want crossed. I love Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but I hate Cannibal Holocaust. As far as music goes, I have a much easier time ignoring the cartoonish violence of death metal than I have sitting though music laden with brazen sexism or homophobia in the lyrical department.

Content aside, art gets even trickier when the artist's life comes under scrutiny. Again, I assume most people have a line they won't cross. You might not have an issue listening to Michael Jackson, but you would probably have a major issue listening to an artist who assaulted a member of your family. Or maybe you do have an issue listening to Michael Jackson. Maybe you also have an issue listening to an artist because of their political alignments. And maybe you have an issue with an artist simply because of something they've said in the past. There's no shortage of music out there, so why give your attention and money to assholes? On the other hand, artists are human beings, which means they've inevitably hurt someone in the course of their lifetime, so if we blacklist every artist who's ever done something hurtful, we're eliminating art from our lives. Everyone has a line, but I think any rational individual understands that the line will vary from person to person.

I've been thinking about transgressive art a lot since the passing of Steve Albini. The public overwhelming seems to mourn his loss, but I've seen a few people weigh in online with some valid criticisms: he was in a band called Rapeman; he said some sketchy things about child pornography in a zine back in the '80s; some of his lyrics reflected racist elements of society without taking a clear stance against them. Albini addressed these incidents later in life, acknowledging that though he was not advocating for the kind of behavior he was portraying in his art, the ambiguity that made his songs feel dangerous could also be construed as promoting or celebrating the subject matter.

By the time Albini got around to forming Shellac, he seemed to have shed the dodgiest parts of his confrontational persona. That said, I know a few people who take issue with Shellac's most popular song: 1000 Hurts album opener "Prayer to God." True to the title, the song is a literal prayer to God asking for the Almighty to kill the singer's cheating lover and her partner. It's essentially a murder ballad without the actual murder. Or maybe it's more in line with The Beatles and Elvis singing "I'd rather see you dead, little girl, than to be with another man," except in Albini's case the majority of his ire is aimed at the male lover. It's a visceral song, and while it might feel cathartic for someone who's been betrayed by their romantic partner, it might feel too harrowing for someone who's actually dealt with a potentially dangerous jilted ex.

I played "Prayer to God" for my husband once. He wasn't a fan. To be fair, I don't think Albini's brand of minimalist tone-scrutinizing math rock was ever gonna be his cup of tea, but the lyrics certainly weren't going to help. Consequently, I reserve 1000 Hurts for times when I have the house to myself.

And ultimately, I would hope that his reaction to Shellac would be the kind of response we'd see in people who take issue with Albini. Simply put, it wasn't my husband's cup of tea, but he didn't try to convince me that I shouldn't enjoy it. Yes, Albini dealt with some ugly and uncomfortable themes, and by his own admission he took some of it too far. But his music was both a reflection and a reaction to the things he saw around him. Just as the slasher films of the '80s were a reaction to the era's conservative bent and puritanical attempts at censorship, so were Albini's songs (particularly with Big Black) a rebuttal of that decade's benign soft-rock FM radio staples, PMRC campaigns, and right-wing fundamentalist attempts to whitewash the media.

Much like those slasher films, Big Black has aged with an unexpected patina. Yes, there is something still "dangerous" about it, but that danger seems less rooted in pushing back at "the establishment" and more like it's picking at the wounds of the most vulnerable and injured parts of our society. Given even a minimal amount of context, I'd think the average person could appreciate its attempts to say "no, this world isn't perfect and we're not going to pretend that it is," even if those attempts are admittedly a little ambiguous and sloppy at times. But that kind of context doesn't arrive as a disclaimer on the album packaging, so its reasonable to understand how someone could find Big Black's unflinching first-person villain profiles to be a little problematic.

Consequently, I completely understand why someone would take issue with Big Black's "Jordan Minnesota" or Shellac's "Prayer to God." On the other hand, I want art to be uncomfortable sometimes, even if that unease is unintentional. There's no shortage of art out there that aimed to be progressive but aged to show the inherent biases of its time. Just consider the contingent of people wanting to change the racist language in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I'd argue that sometimes the shortcomings, biases, and outdated perspectives in an artist's work are as much a statement on the times as the actual subject matter.

Everyone has a line. And for a lot of folks, Albini probably crossed it a few times in the course of his career. For me, listening to Big Black or Rapeman or Shellac is like watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre---I don't need Steve Albini to explain his lyrics anymore than I need Tobe Hopper to explain that we shouldn't cut people up with chainsaws and turn them into human barbecue. But Albini also dealt with minor horrors that impacted a far greater percentage of the population, and that's something he had to reconcile and acknowledge later in life. For me, his charity work, fierce advocacy for marginalized people, and willingness to stand up to bullies in public forums offset any of his early artistic missteps, but I also understand that making art about human suffering is always going to elicit pain from people who have endured those particular trials.

Everyone has a line.

[cahootings]

Cannot stop thinking about how perfectly chosen the music was for the two, absolutely parallel scenes - “Our Prayer” in s1 when Stede is on the brink of death, brought back by the appearance of Ed, and “This Woman’s Work” when Ed is literally brought back to life by the love between him and Stede. Two songs dripping with holy reverence, hope, and beauty. Like the scenes complement each other perfectly, and so do their soundtracks. “This Woman’s Work” especially I think is a song like genetically engineered to pull at the sob reflex because man talk about the involuntary response I had as soon as Kate Bush started vocalizing HELLO??? How are they so good at this. I love the way the music is another character in this story.

[riseofamoonycake]

hi there, can you pls write some more about Indra x reader (NSFW version)? ////v//// Thank u sm and have a gud day/night <3

I don’t know why, but whenever you send me requests about someone related to the Hindu Pantheon, this happens: 13 pages of story. 

ANYWAY, thank you for your patience!

The Voice I Love

⚔️Pairing: Indra x Gn!reader

⚔️Warnings: mention of sex (penetration, fingering, oral), kinks (body worship, praising kink, nipple play), violence, death

⚔️

Close your eyes, take a deep breath.

Exhale.

Inhale, and exhale again.

Listen to the sound that comes from the world around you… feel every leaf that grows on the oak trees, every grain of sand between your toes, every animal’s cry that demands respect… you are as sensitive as a newborn baby.

You have the power to become anything, fire or arrow, mercy or despair.

Now, sing what you see.

Sing what you are.

Commander of Terrors,

We pray for your voice: bring Death with you.

They teach you this mantra every time: every battle, every awake, every breath. They tantalize your soul with whispers, they kneel before you but you are a mere tool in their hands: you are their precious slave, not their deadly leader.

You are a thing, the most dangerous artifact in our world, the saddest creature men can see. You are nothing… so how could you choose what to become?

They are driving you insane, inspiring you thoughts that don’t belong to your mind, bending you down under a new form of torture: you can’t run away, no shelter, no sanctuary for a monster like you. You deserve only one destiny, the infinite circularity of blood spilled out. And unfortunately for you, there is always a war where you are called upon to dominate.

The voice: this is the cause of your unhappiness. It is all in the voice, in the language that allows it to express itself, in the vocal cords imbued with magic, enchantment and beauty, which make you less human and more like a dream creature, the emanation of a siren or the fruit of an union with one of them.

The voice… your every word is a curse, it is a command and an illusion: reality can only obey you, and you too must bow down to it. You are only a means that allows it to express itself, it is not up to you to decide anything; and the tyrants and warlords who, one after the other, keep you tightly in their grip make sure that you always keep this in mind, pulling at the strings of your weaknesses but being very careful not to break them.

Don’t ask about your family, your people and the man you loved, you don’t need them and they don’t need you. Your skills cannot be tied to a common life… you would always be someone’s prey.

Do you love the sea? Do what we tell you, and you will see it.

Try to think what dominion you have on the battlefield: everyone reveres you, fears you, you are the strongest. A single word is enough for you to bring victory, you are contested by the strongest, a divinity; is this not enough for you? Isn’t that enough for you?

No, it is not enough for you, because that is not what you want. You repudiate the sight of blood and death, stealing the lives of others and tormenting create a inside of you a nausea so strong that, after each fight, you really convince yourself that you must die, that it will not be possible for you to see a new day, you had overcome any limit; but it never happens, no one brings you this relief.

At least please, Great Gods... make this the last battle for me. Tear me apart, pierce me, here, here is my head, take it! Tear out my tongue, cut my throat, please, no more torment. I want to die. I want to be free in the wind, to beg forgiveness of the innocent souls I’ve reaped. One wish, one wish... givers of honors and fears, please hear my enchanting voice and come to me. I want your destructive hand on me… I want to be devoured by you.

Your prayers are always heartbreaking and could move even the strongest stones, yet you have now come to a conclusion: even if the gods exist, they don’t care about you at all. They don’t love you or they are so angry at your actions that they don’t realize that you are just a victim, the first in a long line. And you have to be careful, because the voice is your worst enemy, like a sentient being it knows your thoughts and prevents you from realizing your desires: it deceives you, it threatens you, it denounces your every action, it is your jailer and torturer; it hates you as badly as you hate it, and it never gives you a chance to hope.

Even today, at the dawn of yet another clash, your throat burns with the desire to incinerate the earth around you, to kill and push to kill, torture, wring out prayers and cries, bring you to your knees, bend to his will; and you are feeling the weight of his desires in the already damp and tense morning, motionless but restless. The air is heavy and electric, a thunderstorm is approaching from the east along with a sun that is as bright as it is huge, supernatural: they seem to guide each other, and for a long moment you stand watching the dark clouds frolicking with the warm golden rays without covering them, just obscuring the world.

Standing at the entrance to your tent, your armor not yet worn but your throat well covered by the gold plates that permanently cover it, you stare at what is happening in the sky with surprise and a slight awe, seeing something inside it that there shouldn’t be. It is a sky only the gods can see, so why is it here, for you? What is happening, who is approaching?

The city you see before you, enclosed by walls, black and threatening like a creature in ambush, must fall; this is the order that comes from outside and within you. However, in addition to feeling the usual loathing towards yourself, today you also feel the terror coursing through your veins as strongly and increasing as the storm advances. You don’t have to take another step, because something horrific awaits you on the other side; it is necessary for you to find a way to escape… even if you know that this is impossible, and you just have to turn your gaze and meet the pleading and fearful eyes of the army, already ready and eager to finish the fight as soon as possible to leave from that wicked place, to confirm it. Trembling with tension and confused, you return to the tent to be armed: the plates around your throat jingle merrily while the attendants enclose your body in a steel wall, unlike you they do not have fear and are only interested in protecting the strongest and bloodiest weapon this land has ever seen.

Even if today the words cause you twice as much suffering, your throat still wants to pronounce them and that is what it commands you: and as soon as you climb the hill overlooking the plain where the city stands, a single voice snakes through the air, a deep sigh that shakes the trees and sweeps the towers, bringing complete silence among men and into the sky. As you take a breath and close your eyes, sinking into the darkness of your sins and asking for forgiveness for the umpteenth time, the spell begins.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale, and exhale again.

When you start to sing your poignant and irresistible melody, a song so hypnotic and wild that it turns the eyes of the stars in your direction and forces the animals to bend down in front of you, Death approaches; you feel It coming, Its steps are clear and deep and the ground resounds with them while its icy breath brushes the back of your neck, and even if you don’t see It you know that It is passing by you to continue towards the city. Soon your ears are struck by the clang of weapons and armor clashing against each other, by the screams of men who conquer and fall, by the invocations of the most disparate entities and by the sound of the blackest fear; your nostrils fill with the smell of blood, a hot and ferrous river that rushes along the city walls ― you know it is like this even if you insist on keeping your eyes closed ―, and even if you don’t want to inhale it deeply, you do it continuing to sing. The stench of flesh burnt to the bone soon comes to keep him company.

But we didn’t light fires… we don’t burn.

Such awareness makes your eyes widen as it penetrates the brain, putting you on alert; and when your gaze manages to fix itself on the plain, it is already too late.

Run.

Stunned, unable to react or even think, you stare at the army of which you are part being hit by the storm, which however does not even touch you with a drop of water, and being reduced to ashes by the power of the fastest and most violent lightnings you have ever seen; the trembling of the lightning-lashed ground and the roar of heavenly rage makes you flinch, but you cannot escape, such is the horror and terror you feel.

Get out of here.

Only your voice persists, it doesn’t give up like you and still continues to impose itself: in doing so, it attracts the attention of the storm, which calms down with the same impetus with which it arrived, leaving only silence.

And in the immobility, someone approaches: someone is looking for you, starting to go up the hill. In the absolute absence of motion, your heart beats like a drum, making you the perfect prey.

Run!

«I have to leave… I have to flee!», you scream inside yourself, digging your nails into the palm of your hand to push the body to shake itself and managing only to crawl a few steps. You are trembling all over, you know whatever awaits you is going to be scary, there is no going back now, «I can’t… I can’t stay…»

Hurry, hurry!

You freeze again, stiffening and eyes widening in surprise, feeling a presence behind you. You dare not turn or look: it is the end now. Whoever he is, so tall that he totally covers you with his shadow and engulfs you like a black hole, you know he is stronger than you: and his gaze is mad, piercing and daggering your soul, his powers unimaginable. His vengeance, ruthless. And yet… a feeling.

Finally, a god did indeed answer your prayers, but not in the way you wished. And yet… a memory.

«Found you…»

The last thing you hear before passing out is the thunderous sound of a lightning, so close to you that it sends jolts of pain throughout your body, and a low, fiery roar into your ear. Below, in the heart of the soul, a flicker of happiness and emotion.

⚔️

Finally, I have found you.

In your eyes, wide open with horror and the rain that has now begun to flood them, Indra reads all the fear that tyrants, sorcerers and slimy humans have managed to instill in your innocent body and mind, and his fury erupts in lightning and thunder without equal, reducing to ashes the whole plain and those who had somehow managed to escape his previous blows: how could they, how? Who helped them in this?

Your body feels heavy in his arms: not from the armor that covers you from head to toe, not from the fact that you fainted the moment you saw him and now lie abandoned against his chest, but because of those cursed gold plates that lock your throat, so full of poison that brown liquid oozes on his skin, burning his fingers just to try to ward off the only entity capable of fighting them. The black spell that your torturers have instilled in the metal battle after battle, the spell that forces your voice to obey their wishes, creaks and hisses every time the god’s hands try to touch the plates: they are afraid, they know they are in danger, and threaten to turn against the only weakness that the Lord of Lightning possesses, ready to squeeze your throat until it takes your breath and with it your life.

«Y/N… Y/N, if you can hear me, I’m here. If your soul recognizes me, rest assured, I will not abandon you», Indra murmurs, refusing to let you go and instead wrapping his arms around you better. He is not used to holding you, not with these features: you, before, didn’t inhabit the body you occupy now, and since you are unconscious, he can’t know if you feel pain at his every touch; but it is you. Even if with another appearance, he could never be wrong. Not after all this time.

«The sea… someone take me to see the sea. I can’t take it anymore…» Your voice is a whisper, it is the last prayer you raise to heaven; but this time, the only god you have always unconsciously called answers, he is not so far from you and forcibly separated from your shadow that he doesn’t hear you. No spell can make him more deaf to your weeping.

«Y/N… hold on, hold on for me», Indra murmurs in your ear, taking you away from the battlefield. He is not the calm, unflappable, reassuring god you knew long ago; this Indra is consumed with anger and hatred, with relief at having you held again and with tension. Merciless: it is the only adjective to define his eyes that sparkle, his mouth with squealing teeth and the sound of his footsteps so similar to a war drum. It is a lion, an animal without sense and made only of ferocity, which roars and silences even the clouds.

The only one who isn’t scared of him is you, who snuggles and rubs your cheek against the tattoos on his chest, seeking warmth. You are unconscious, yet you feel safe now; and this gives him the strength to continue advancing, wide strides that allow him to cover entire kilometers in a few moments, directed towards the smell of the sea and the rustling of its waves. «We are almost there», he murmurs while keeping you constantly under observation, «rest, now I’ll take care of you.»

You obey instinctively, calming down and leaving everything to him; you sink into a black void of thoughts and sensations, a warm and dense pond that keeps you safe, removes all noise and envelops you like a cradle. In that emptiness you rest for a long time, until the rustle of a wave penetrates your mind and slowly brings you back to reality together with the sea’s parfum and the fresh breeze that ruffles your hair like a rude but benevolent caress.

You open your eyes slowly, taking a deep breath, and stare at the blue sky, just dotted by some clouds, above you. You are no longer on the plain, but in a completely new world, where war has never arrived: only foam, blue depths, animals and flowers with a stunning scent. A flight of seagulls and their call catches your attention, and you instinctively throw your head back to follow them; and that is when your neck collides with the softness of a hand, and suddenly, like coming out of a dream, you realize you are in someone’s arms.

Strong fingers support and massage your arms and back, a benevolent face partially hidden by messy white hair is leaning over you, and the splendid gaze, vivid and rolling as if instead of eyes there were two stars, observes your every reaction and plants itself in yours, waiting. While you stare at it in silence many questions arise, but very little fear: there are sensations that prevent you from having any, and the chest against which you are leaning your cheek… those designs engraved on the skin and on the forearms...

I know you. I know who you are… even if I can’t explain how. But I know you, and I’m not afraid of you. «You visit my dreams every night, together with the sea», you murmur with a note of rapture and surprise, «your face, your tattoos… you keep me company through all the storms, you never leave me when I’m scared. I don’t know… or rather, I don’t remember your name, but I know you, you are a mighty and great god, and my heart cries out for you. You have always been with me.»

Indra is no god who weeps, not a tear furrows his cheek; but he has other ways of expressing his emotions, and you can tell it from the fold his mouth takes, his lips parted and trembling and his eyes narrowed. «Welcome back to me, Y/N. Now fear no more, I’m with you again.»

«Y/N? Why are you calling me that? I have another name...» You hesitate, then frown, «or rather, I’ve always been called by a different name. Certainly not with the calm and affection with which you are doing it.»

Indra doesn’t answer right away: first he touches your plates, and you both immediately hear them hiss and moan, almost writhing in revulsion and terror. A light pressure on your throat indicates that one of them has pulled back to grip your skin, but before you can tell, he is slipping a finger between it and your neck, shielding you from contact with the metal. «You may not know it, but Y/N is the name of the creature I loved millennia ago, now… and it is your name, because her voice and her soul are present within you.» A foul-smelling whiff, the stench of burnt flesh, hits your nostrils making you dizzy; with consternation you realize that it is Indra’s fingers that are burned, poisoned by the spell that soaks the gold. «They took and killed her just to get her voice and the abilities associated with it. They ripped out her vocal cords to implant them in human bodies and transform them into weapons to be exploited at will... without any mercy. Without me being able to do anything.»

You hold your breath, your eyes filled with tears from the smoke rising from his hand; moment after moment, while the god’s anger wins every spell at the cost of his own blood and the plates give way under his pressure, falling to the ground like leaves and allowing you to breathe freely for the first time since you were born, the tension completely abandons your shoulders and you find yourself with your head resting on his shoulder, your chest rising and falling continuously and your eyes planted on Indra’s fingers, tortured and dripping dark drops. «My lord…», you murmur without thinking about it ― but deep down you know why, you know ―, grabbing his hand and bringing it to your mouth, smearing yourself with scarlet as you rub your fingers against your lips, then pressing them to your chest, «my sir, and now how can I ever thank you? First you save me from my tormentors, then you free me from my sentence… how am I going to repay you?»

«The curse is over forever», the god murmurs, pointing to the twisted plates with a bitter grin, «and what you suffered has all paid off. You don’t owe me anything.»

«No, it is not true.» To Indra’s surprise, you free yourself from his grip and, leaping to your feet, you kneel in front of him: your hands don’t want to leave his, they squeeze them again while your gaze searches for him. Even if you know you are being rude, your prayer to him is the most heartfelt you have ever asked. «That’s not true, because it’s not over yet: they killed someone you loved to steal her voice and transform me, and only you know how many others before me, into a damned creature. What am I in the end? What importance do I have? Sink your fangs into my flesh and tear it apart, as I have long prayed. I’m ready, I’m not afraid of the consequences. I deserve it and you deserve it too… that way, no one will have to suffer anymore. Do not think it is all over: more accursed tools may be forged, and as long as I have this voice I will always be in danger.» Now it is you who speaks: there are no reminiscences, there are no memories. It is you with your fears, with what they forced you to live, and everything you feel for Indra is kept at bay by terror. You don’t even know who you are, after all… before you were convinced you were just a tool, and now you discover that you possess what remains of another entity. How can you accept the words Indra offers you, the love you feel pulsing under his skin? He is here but not for you, he is talking to what he sees in your eyes. It is not you he is loving, but who you enshrine. «Don’t hold back any longer… do what you have to, please. You cannot ignore my plea now.»

The god doesn’t say anything; first he looks at you for a long time, digging deep into your soul with his swirling eyes, then he frees himself from your grip. The fingers no longer bleed, not a scar covers them, and they are still when they rest on your head, to then descend along your face and caress every feature of it, massaging the cheeks, passing the mouth, following the shape of the eyes, and blowing hard.

You close your eyes instinctively, jolting for an instant; and immediately feel.

You feel that you are not the first to have met the god on your way; you feel that although bad luck has persecuted those who have loved, he has never given up on looking for them. You feel that Indra has loved them fully, deeply, forever; and not because they are containers of the partner he has lost, but as their own identities, people infused with memories but with their souls. You feel that there have been more fortunate entities, not tied to the fate that binds you to those who received the curse before you; but now he is talking about you. You as a person, you as a heart, which can only beat with your feelings, for who you are. The memories you feel smell of songs, laughter and sweetness, but they can’t be your whole person: you are the one who lives, you are the one who feels them and sees the beauty in them. It is you who, now, can decide for yourself.

«Great Indra…», you murmur, recognizing a face and a name, a power and a blessing; and you cling to those hands that now caress your neck and the purplish spots where the plates used to grip tightly, taming your desire; and you sink your face against your chest where the marks seem to open wide and welcome you, engulf you to shine with the light that now you can emanate without fear or limitation.

«Do you still want to die, Y/N? After all this… do you really want to leave?»

You shake your head slightly, feeling tears prick your eyes. Indra repeats the question close to your lips, almost breathing into you, and you deny again; and then you let everything happen, desiring it, calling it to you. If you have to start knowing yourself, everything has to start from here.

⚔️

Tear me apart.

Your deep breaths are capable of overcoming even the impetus of the sea, with all its boiling, breaking and screaming. Lying on the beach and completely naked, a short distance from the waves, under Indra’s hands your flesh looks like clay so much it vibrates and tenses, twists and relaxes, your legs now desensitized by the shivers and tremors that are going through them.

Well planted between them, his fingers holding your thighs in an iron grip, the god licks and sucks your intimacy, wrapping his tongue around the most sensitive points or letting it penetrate deeper and deeper, attacking and tormenting everything he finds, testing your ability to endure. Arms abandoned around your face, you can do nothing against the overwhelming sensations you are feeling: your mind is won, they destroy every barrier, they tear you apart until you are reduced to crumbs. And you love this fall.

Your prayer is being fully heard.

Pierce me.

«Great Indra… please, please!»

Indra thrusts into you one more time, enjoying every moan and prayer that escapes your lips and pressing you closer to his chest, without allowing you escape, rest or pity. Sitting on his lap, arms on his shoulders and legs around his waist, his breath in your ear steals yours. The penetration becomes more and more decisive, slow but hungry: the god’s body is thirsty and at the same time eager to pour all the pleasure you can hold inside you, and his urgency is expressed in the way he bites your lobe ear or sinks his teeth into his neck, greedily clenching the flesh and digging it with his nails, scratching and leaving a constellation of red marks wherever he passes.

Years of absence and distance make him feel an almost painful desire, which is consumed with the violence of a hurricane; never in your life have you felt something like this and you don’t want to see the end of it, not while you are in his arms.

Rip off my tongue, cut my throat.

Your voice dies when Indra caresses your neck and leaves a trail of soft and small kisses, to then seek nourishment in your collarbones and further down, towards your chest that rises to meet him. His hands that grip your hips, yours that squeeze his head sinking into the snow-colored hair, you let him play with your nipples and bite and tug at them like an inexperienced child, moaning and fidgeting but without even thinking about telling him to stop. How could you? You don’t even have the breath left to murmur to him how much heaven he is giving you right now…

A bite stronger than the others, settled in the hollow between the neck and shoulder, makes you squeak like a little mouse, and Indra laughs: a low, deep and vibrant laugh, which could sound both threatening and heralding something important to you. The sensation of something liquid running down your hair makes your eyes widen in surprise, as does the sight of the god licking his freshly reddened lips. «Forgive me… the occasion was too tempting not to take advantage of it. And your blood is delicious.»

A second laugh; this time, all for the blush that has flushed your cheeks, which are not spared from all the bites and marks with which Indra intends to make you his again and again.

I want your destroying hand upon me. I want to be devoured by you.

«Everything is fine, my beloved Y/N?»

You won’t be able to do without his hands: now that you know them, you won’t be able to get rid of them. His bronze fingers dance through your hair and grab it to expose your neck, and here you let his mouth intervene.

«Now you are mine again, don’t worry about anything else…»

You moan softly and gasp as the god shifts position and puts you on all fours, then covers you with his body. You shiver all over as you feel his chest and abdomen rubbing against your back and his erect member seeking relief inside you again, but you truly lose yourself when one of his hands slides along your shoulder and caresses your arm with the tips of his fingers, to then rest on yours and squeeze them tightly, sinking in the hot sand; the other caresses your chest and belly in continuous movements, making your eyes tremble with pleasure. His shadow is your only dress, his lips on the back of your neck and shoulder your jewel, his hands your armor, the only one you desire for all your life.

Finally, yes, all your prayers have been answered.

[the-rain-monster]

Eldritch Jolene

Music by my friend Pretty Boy Floyd, lyrics and vocals by me :D Happy Halloween!

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I'm begging of you please don't take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don't take him just because you can

Your beauty is beyond compare

Each lock of hair a solar flare

With depthless skin and eyes nebula green

Your smile a ragged tear in space

Your voice a lightning bolt embrace

And I can naught but worship you

Jolene

He screams about you in his sleep

And when he wakes, does naught but weep

In terror, as he calls your name

Jolene

And I collapse in ragged awe

As you extend an onyx claw

Please take me first that I may serve

Jolene

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I'm begging of you please embrace my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please rend him of flesh just because you can

You can have your choice of us

We lie prostrate, hope treasonous

Our love for you is ecstasy

Jolene

I dare offer this prayer to you

I've naught to give worthy of you

Take blood and breath give joy and death

Jolene

Jolene, J̷o̴l̶e̸n̷e̴, J̴͖̊́͂ö̵͇͝l̸̺̇͊ĕ̴̯̤̰̏ṅ̵͎ě̶͇̕, J̸͍̋͐̎o̸̼̞̓͌ͅl̴̛̺e̸̺̯̾͝ͅn̸͕͎̻̏ė̸̡͕̉͝

D̷̞̃y̶̜̍e̴̫͝l̶̨̿ ̴̩͂f̷̰̓a̵̢̎h̴͍̅ṅ̸̘ ̸͎̔m̷̞̈́e̴̢͊ ̵̰͛a̷̲̓ ̵̝̅š̴̬ḧ̸͓́k̵͔͝é̶̢n̷̦̋ ̸̜̊n̸͋ͅo̵̅͜ ̸̭͋s̸̜͆v̵͒͜e̷͖͘l̴̠̈ṃ̶͘n̴̗̏ ̵̤̓c̴̟̆à̸͉l̷̬͐j̵̺͝ṟ̵͂a̴͉̓n̶̡͘ ̸̣̃

̶̞̐J̷̍͜ó̷̜l̶̤͆ë̷̙́n̵͓͝ȩ̴͂,̵̼̓ ̷̭̈J̷̩͋o̸̙͛ļ̸̕e̸̤͊n̸̟̂ḛ̷̐,̷̴͇͚̩̃̊͒̂̍̕͜ J̷̧͕͓̝̰̏͂̀̿̽̓̈̚ǫ̸̪̩͆̽̑͜͝l̶͖̜͙͇̳̥̖̩̆̌̈́̾͑̓͒͒e̵̡̨̝̥̼̹̮͑͝n̶̢̲̗̬͍̭̄̍͋̇̄̿̓̐̍̊̐͝ͅẹ̶̺̩̝̾̂̉,̴̢̧̻͕̠̙̼̘̤̀̿̔͌͆͌͝ ̸̢̰͈̝̝̰̎͝͠ͅJ̷̧̨̨̺͔̫͖̉̋͊̀͆̚ơ̵̙̪͚͈̬̈́̈̈l̶̢̖̩͚̬̻̘̘̬̞̈͊́͌̈͠e̴͚͌͑͘͝ͅn̴̡̯̜̜͍̠͇̫̽̓̔̎͊ͅͅe̴̛̛̘̯̟̗̗̬̥͎̭̿̀͒

Ç̷̟̫̯͚̞͙͖̩̰͆̈́̓͠ͅt̷̖̮̝̗͉̱̓̒͆͋͠͠h̷̢̛͔̦̖͍̺̘͍̻͎̥̼͠ú̴̹̫͊l̷̛̛̳͚͕̼̣͗͌̍̈́͒̚͠͝ḫ̸͉̣͇̜̺̪͗̑͛̋͜u̷̢̞͚̗͍̹̠̦̟̯͊̿̉̋́̽͂̓̎̐̈́̿̿̊̀̕͜ͅ ̷̧̡̲̟̙̤̦̰̬͙̥̓͂̑̀͌̒͛̂̎͋́̂̾̄͘̕͝Ŗ̷̡̻͉̘̦̪͇̠͎̯̺̊̅̈́͑̒̾̿̈́̀̾̓̈́̀̆̕͜͠'̵̡̮̺̯̥̗̬̫̱͙̣̳̅̊̀̐̊̇̔̌̔́̓̅̆̓͝͝l̸̢̘̜͉̥͎̹̥̗̼̝̠͊̑ỵ̷̱͈̻͉̬̙͙͉̯͕͖̽̅̏̕͝ě̵̢̧̡̢̙̩͍̪͈͍̞̲̻̞̰͑͂͜h̶͍͂̓̈̅̑̽̓̂́̓̅̚̕͠ ̴̢̛͙̙͚̺̤͕͉̬̹̭͓̳̿̿̈́͂̎̀͊̀̒͌̿͆͝a̴̹̍͊̑̑̈́j̵̨͖̣̯͚̻̦̤̳̗̝̹̜̤̭̀̑̈̆̾͋͜͝ͅṽ̵̧̛̛̥̼̟̤̦̝̟̘͇͉̪̭͚̘̀̿̉̽͐̇͜ͅa̵̛̛͖̮͉̜͙̳̭̳̖̐̀̍̆͑̑n̶̨̨̛̜̯̗̭̹̯̝̤̻͓̖̼̼̎̓̈́̉͐͊̓̾͆̕͝ ̶̨̬͍̟̱̠͙̮͔̲̫͓̜̭̒͜͠d̴̘̰̯̩̘̗̗͈̲̺͓͕̓z̸̡͓͍̭͚̟̝̹̩̖̙͇͆̍͐̌̅̐̈̚ẻ̶̲̙̑͗̆̅̑͌̄͌̐̇̾̽͝ỵ̴͍̝͈̊ ̷̧̻̦̝̥̀̏̐̉̉̅͂͋͂͗̀͊̕ͅv̶̨̮̹͖̻̀̇͆̄̽̏̈̓̆͒͜͠͠ä̶̛̺̗̮̞̣͍͕͓̞̙́̒̅͑͂̃͗͌̋͐̅̆͘͜͝͝ĺ̵̯͇̜̭̩̻̣͗͋͝j̷̢̢͕̹̘̫̫̘͕̹͎̈́̇̐̾̾̉̈̀́̈̓͘̕̕͝ͅͅò̵̞̱̞̾̒̍̔̌͊̔̋͘ ̸̢̢̼̞̝̻̭̥̑ǵ̷̱̙̥͓̪̰̙̜̉̊́̎̂̇̀͝â̴͙̺͇̫̪̙̱̰̖̻̻̠̏̆̔͌̆͆̒͛͆̊͒͘̚͘͜͝n̸̢̛̯̳̘͚͇̩͇͈̱̹͎̞͔̠͍͒͛̔̀̌̅̍͒̓͝͝

̷̛̫͎̥̖͉͕̟͓̦̗̻͍̮͎̻̺͉͌̎͌́̒̉͐̈́

J̴̣̣̼̆́͛̓̌̄̋̄̇̋̇̌o̷̬̱̼͔̲̰̹͎̱͖̩͍̗̝̦̮̤̩͔̞͇̠̬̺̓̽̈́̒̓͋̐̊̽̆͌͒͂͂̐̏͑̂̿͒͒͂̉̾̊̍̕͜͠͝͝l̴̡̺͕̩̳̝̗̳͉̞̲̼̜̰͔̼̜̟͍̤̘̓̾͑̀̅͝ę̴̫̎̇͂̓́̿̍̍͒̏͒̀̔̐̏̏̎̌͊͗̇͌̓̏̈̈́͒͛̎̾̓̂̋͝͝͝͝n̸̢̧̢̳͔̬̪͍͙̳̲͎̮̙̪̦̖̰̤͚̻̾̄̑̽̂̈̔ḙ̴̛͇͚͈̻͉̳̗̺͈̻͉̱̬̞̜̬̞̮̺̯̦͉̩̩̳̝̤̳̤̭̫̖͍͉̮̙̠͔͉̳̪̲̖͎͉͂̉̿͌͗͆͗͗̓͒̑͒̊͂́̆́̒̃̂͊̋̒͜͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅ,̶̡̨̨̡̢̢̥̯͓͓̰͎̙͉͚̟̖͔͓̣̮̻̬͚̠̘͈̳̰̟͚̲̤̗̻̹̰͇͚͖͛̊̓̈́ͅ ̶̧̨̢̢̛̞̥̭͖͙͍͕̜̠̥̪̗̞̣̹̘͉̩̗̜̉̇̈́̅̄̋͌̔̐̓̆͑̕͜͠ͅJ̸̢̛͙̩͉̯̺͔̞̪̘̝̮̲̠̳͇͌͆̔̀́̒̒̈́͐̿̎̐͒̎͒͋̔͝͝ợ̴̩͓̮̤͕͖̅̏̀͛̈́́͒͗͛̄̀̂̈́̀͒̑̿̃̈̉͑̐͠ͅl̴̡̯̜̲̠̖̙̰̮̰̘̣͙͖̲̠̩̦̹̺͍̺̜̦̬̭̲͔͕̣̥̬͕̪̽͗͐͑̍͛̾̏̕̚ͅe̶̢͓͎̼̼͙̺̻̬͚͈̹̭͔̳͔͛̏̏̀̎̓̏̈͒̓̇̆̍̉̅̌͌̒̂͐̈́́̍͂̅͆̏̌̒̕̕̚̚͠͠͠͠n̸̢̨̢̧̰̞̥͍̮̥̠̘̤̤̗͖͈̟̫͖̼̯̺̩̯̟͍̲̼̻͚͎̣̠͚͕̱̲̜̟͖̲̥͙̿͋̾̀̿̿͌̅̇̎͛͂̌͊̎̏̊͐̀̈́̂̄̇̾̃͋̇̽̕͝ͅͅȩ̸̡̢̢̡̡̨̨͈͈̤̣̻͚͈͓̦̠̥̬͙̦͍̟͖͙̤̦̤̻̺̘͚̪̇̄́̇͜͠ͅͅͅͅ

[thurifer-at-heart]

Blog Introduction!

Greetings! I go by Julian (they/she); I'm a queer Episcopalian college student studying philosophy and applying to divinity school/seminary.

This is a blog about open and affirming Christianity, Episcopalian and Anglo-Catholic spirituality, theology, and Christian mysticism. I will be posting passages from books I'm reading, random musings, prayers, reflections, art, poetry, photos, and other nerdy stuff. I love reading, praying the Daily Office, thurifering, musicals, and tea.

I created this blog not only to share my spiritual journey with others, but also to support and connect with other LGBTQ+ Christians and allies. Progressive Christians need to be more vocal about their faith (and existence) because we're often in the difficult position of being rejected or mistrusted by both sides of our identity. Many people don't even know we exist! This blog is an attempt to change that.

It makes me sad and angry that the name of Christ has been so thoroughly misused for bigotry and hatred instead of love. I want to take part in pushing back against this situation. I have hope for a better future, in which we seek and serve Christ in all persons.

Currently reading:

Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer (translated by John W. Doberstein)

The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ by Fleming Rutledge

Life in Christ: Practicing Christian Spirituality by Julia Gatta

Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich

Everything Belongs by Richard Rohr

Recently read (especially recommend the bolded):

How the Bible Actually Works by Peter Enns

Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again by Rachel Held Evans

Contemplative Prayer by Thomas Merton

The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis (translated by William C. Creasy)

Love Wins by Rob Bell

Please feel free to message me anytime, I'd love to chat! Peace be with you. <3