#well being excommunicated | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

satoruhour · 8 months

Note

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now.

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

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daiziesssart · 2 months

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a humiliatingly long character analysis of lily evans

Someone sent me an ask that briefly mentioned how misunderstood Lily is, and before I knew it I was typing out this monster. I am. sorry. This is literally just me rambling about her, what I find compelling about her character, and why her character is so often misunderstood.

This is long as hell so I'm putting it under a read more lolol

Part of the reason I like Lily so much (other than my being ginger and projecting onto any redheaded female character I see) is that even though she isn’t explored as much as her other Marauders Era counterparts, we know enough about her to start building the framework for her character. And what I see is a girl who was incredibly interesting, kind, and flawed.

One thing I always think about in regards to Lily is that she was dealt with a pretty unfair hand. As soon as she receives her letter, she’s basically torn between two worlds, both of which have been less than welcome to her. On one hand, we have the muggle world that she’s known all her life, but once she starts integrating into the wizarding world, she likely feels a bit of a disconnect with that world. To twist the knife further, her sister- whom she loved dearly and grew up so close with- starts outwardly resenting her with such unbridled hostility that they likely couldn’t even be in a room alone together without major conflict.

On the other hand, we have the wizarding world– a world she’s not as familiar with and one she soon learns holds a demographic of people who hate everything she is and would rather see her excommunicated or even dead. And even though finding out you’re a witch/wizard is probably such an exciting and life-changing moment, I can’t help but also take note of the difficulties, especially if you’re the only one in your family with magic. You’re essentially uprooted from the only way of life you’ve known at an already complicated age, and now you have to quickly become acclimated to this new world that you only just found out existed. Not only that, but now you’re suddenly attending a school with classes that are primarily focused on this world of magic (which is still brand new to you), and you have to work extra hard to play catch up in order to do well. Like, that all seems like… a lot for a kid to handle.

And then I remember how young she was when she was thrown into that mess. She was only 11, and kids that age desperately crave any sense of belonging. I mean, that’s something that still holds true for adults, but it’s especially critical for a developing child. So imagine Lily, ages 11-15, struggling to stay afloat in this weird purgatory between these two parts of herself, both of which have been the cause for major and traumatic experiences relating to rejection in her life.

(I say it was the “cause” even though it’s obvious that those things were never her fault at all, but when you’re a young kid navigating the world, the only thing you’re able to process is that the common denominator is you, therefore you’re the one who must shoulder the blame.)

So now we have this tween-teenaged girl who has a dysfunctional relationship with two major parts of identity and probably feels absolutely lost.

This is why her hesitancy to end her friendship with Snape makes sense to me. Even though by fifth year he’s already well past toeing the line with the dark arts, Lily was willing to overlook some pretty egregious and troubling things in order to maintain the relationship. I kind of interpret that as her way of desperately clinging on to any sense of belonging she has left; her relationship with Petunia has already been poisoned, and now there are people who resent her existence as a witch; if she loses Severus too, what and who else does she have? And what tone does that set for her, if everyone and everything she’s come to hold close to her ends up turning her away?

It’s also important to note that not only is Severus one of her few remaining connections to the muggle world, but he’s also a wizard who grew up in the muggle world; he understands her, and I don’t doubt that he gave her some stability at times when she needed it (her finding out about her being a witch, her having trouble acclimating to the wizarding world, etc).

I see this as being one of her flaws and I can actually appreciate how relatable and realistic it feels. Lily is not a bad person; on the contrary, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone to describe her as such. Not to get all clinical and boring, but the interesting thing about (unhealthy) coping mechanisms is that it can actually be really hard to identify them in your own behavior. Unless you’re in therapy and/or are actively psychoanalyzing yourself, you likely don’t even realize how many of your common behaviors are born from self defense mechanisms put in place by your brain after past events.

To me, it makes sense why she avoided actually confronting the idea that Snape was too far gone. We know that she was aware of the path Severus was taking, but it almost seems like she was still convinced that she could save him, and could possibly steer him back in the right direction. It’s only when she becomes the target of his bigotry that she realizes that the Snape who called her a ‘mudblood’ was not the same Severus who was the one who held her hand and introduced her to this new, exciting world.

In a general sense, yes, it is selfish, to only take a stand when something starts affecting you personally. But I also think it’s important to note that it’s unlikely that this was a conscious decision on Lily’s part. In my eyes, it was easier to delude herself into thinking she still had a chance to save him before it was too late when she was able to separate him from his actions (considering, a lot of the time, she was only hearing about them after the fact, rather than seeing them firsthand). But the elusion is shattered once she sees that the Snape she grew up with– her friend, Severus– is, in fact, the same person who’s out there calling other students slurs, dismissing the malicious use of Dark Magic on others as just “a laugh”. There we see a Lily who is actually revealed to have been somewhat aware of Snape’s involvement with the darker side of magic, and genuinely feels pretty ashamed about her inaction.

Also, this is in no way me being a Snape-anti, and I actually could do an entire separate analysis on his character alone and why I find him so interesting.

Anyways, that moment in SWM is probably somewhat of an epiphany to her. It’s like a dam that’s been broken, and now she’s overwhelmed with the realization of exactly how much she overlooked in order to keep their friendship afloat. And for someone like Lily Evans, someone whom we know is opinionated and unafraid to call others out on their bullshit, that can be hard to swallow and feel pretty mortifying and shameful. And I think this was a huge turning point for her- at that point, she doesn’t have the luxury of avoiding uncomfortable truths anymore and now that she’s getting closer to graduating and being thrown out into the world on the brink of war, this was probably a really sobering discovery.

This is where we don’t have as much info to go off of, and a lot of it is up to interpretation. But we actually have little crumbs to go off of following her graduation and leading up to her death.

One of my favorite little tidbits isn’t in the books, and @seriousbrat's post reminded me about it. Here's the actual entry on Pottermore for anyone who's interested, but I'll summarize: after James and Lily began dating, Lily brings James to meet newly engaged Petunia and Vernon. Everything goes downhill, because Vernon is a smarmy asshole, and James is still pretty immature and can’t help but mess with him (which… fair, I guess). Petunia and Vernon storm out after Petunia letting Lily know that she had no intentions of having her as a bridesmaid, which causes Lily to break down into tears. I mention this because I also think it’s a pretty important aspect of her character; like we’ve seen in her past friendship with Snape, Lily seems more than willing to forgive others most of the time. Petunia is a bit of a complicated character herself, but she was objectively very cruel and unfair to Lily once it became obvious that she was a witch and Petunia was not.

Something that always stands out to me is just how desperate Lily is to earn Petunia’s trust and approval again. Even up until her death, she was more than willing to mend the relationship, were Petunia ever to consider.

This is a detail about Lily that I feel is misunderstood quite a bit. I’ve seen a lot of instances of her character being reduced to a one-dimensional archetype with little to no complexity. And often, that archetype is “know-it-all, prudish, self righteous bookworm who is also a goody two-shoes with a stick up her ass”. What annoys me is that the reason for this is most definitely the scene in which she blows up at James in SWM for bullying Snape, and hurls quite a few insults at him directly after an extremely devastating and overwhelming situation for her. This frustrates me because we know for a fact that she’s the polar opposite of this archetype I’ve seen her reduced to.

In actuality, she’s referred to as popular, charming, witty, bright and kind. From flashbacks we also are shown that she’s opinionated, bold, and not afraid to challenge others. With other context, like her interpersonal relationships, we can also see that she’s pretty emotionally driven and wears her heart on her sleeve.

(I know Remus didn’t mention Lily much in the books, but I really love how he described her in the movies. He tells Harry that the first thing he noticed about him was not his striking resemblance to his father, but his eyes, the same eyes Lily had. He also calls her a “singularly gifted witch” and an “uncommonly kind woman”.

“She had a way of seeing the beauty in others, even and perhaps most especially, when that person could not see it in themselves.”

I know there are mixed feelings on whether or not the films count as canon source material, so take it with a grain of salt, but I personally cannot see a world in which Lily and Remus didn’t become close friends.)

Here we have a direct description of what she was like and who she was, corroborated by recounting of memories of her, and yet for some reason, this feels like the thing that is most commonly lost in translation.

I don’t think I can say why I think that is without mentioning the dreaded M word (misogyny- it’s misogyny), but I also don’t want to get too off topic so I’ll be brief: female characters are typically not given the same grace as male characters. When we have an undeveloped male character, he’s awarded the assumption that despite his lack of depth, there still exists a complex and multifaceted character– it’s merely just potential that hasn’t been tapped into. Whereas when we have underdeveloped female characters, they are taken at face value, meaning that not much exists beyond the little information we have of them. They are not presumed to have a life or a story that exists beyond the surface of what we know like male characters are. That’s why I think characters like Regulus, Evan, or Barty (just to name a few) are more popular than Lily, despite being less developed than she is.

(Before anyone gets defensive, no, I don’t think it’s an individual problem that you alone need to be shamed for. I think it’s the result of a deeper issue regarding misogyny in media as a concept; these are things that we’ve all unknowingly internalized and while it’s not our fault, we still have to do the work to deconstruct those learned prejudices.)

What I find really cool about her character is that despite how much she’s been hurt, she’s also still known as one of the most loving, kind, and considerate characters. There were so many times in her life where the love she received was conditional and ripped away from her– and I think that’s what makes her sacrifice even more poignant. She was able to protect her infant son from an extremely powerful dark wizard, wand-less, knowing that her husband was just murdered in cold blood, just from how much love she felt for Harry. Her love was a force of nature on its own, and I just think that’s such an amazing thing about her.

I know I’m biased, given that she’s one of my favorite characters, but even upon delving into this, I still just find it so incredibly hard to understand how anyone can actively hate her (not indifference, but actual dislike). In my opinion (again, no one is unbiased, and she is a favorite character of mine, but trust me when I say that I’m trying to be objective as possible when I say this), she’s probably one of the most likable characters of the Marauders Era. I think perhaps a lot of people haven’t given her a chance or really taken the time to learn about her character, but it could be a myriad of other reasons that I’ll never understand.

There's so much more I could say but this is long enough and I will stop myself

Lily Evans, u will always be famous to me

#lily evans #character analysis #harry potter #i am a little embarrassed that i got so invested in this. i hope at least one person enjoys this insane essay that no one asked for

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chungledown-bimothy · 2 months

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god i want to pick brennan's brain about the details of sol and helio's followers with regards to each other so bad.

bobby dawn clearly accepts helio's followers as being part of the fold- buddy's a cleric of helio, and bobby has pushed for kristen to come back as helio's chosen one. (for the sake of brevity, i'm gonna be using helioic and solian- if we have canonical alternatives like helian or solic, i'm blanking on them)

how does one choose, then, which group to be in? because they are still distinct divinities. my first instinct was that it's a generational thing, since bobby's the only person of that generation we've met and everyone of later generations has been helioic, but then there are the biscottos on leviathan.

and since the sample size is so small, we can't draw any conclusions there.

was there any kerfuffle when buddy chose helio? or if whichever parent is bobby's child and they're helioc, when they did?

there is inherent acceptance of some amount of polytheism in both religions. and i know it's getting into the cognitive distortions required to have that evangelical belief system, but that's such a glaring one, it's gotta break a lot of shelves, right?

were the harvestmen just helioic, or were there solians there as well? (was dayne blayde helioc or solian, for example) if not, is there an official solian stance on them? or do they just pretend they never existed? (which seems impossible to reasonably do, but not seeing things they don't want to is their forte)

i get writing galicaea and especially cassandra off as prodigal daughters, but there IS a kinder world where they're accepted as part of the divine family as well. and it seems possible, with bucky's interest in kristen's cassandra shards.

but is reform, like tracker is doing with galicaea, even possible? "wait for the older generations to die" isn't exactly a viable religious reform plan, but with how both helioicism and solism are, let's call a spade a spade, cults, is there any other option? how would that look or work, when questions will get immediately and harshly shut down, like we saw with bucky, or outright excommunicated?

i have even more thoughts and questions but this is already extremely long. so i'm gonna leave it there, but it's all i'm thinking about this morning.

#dimension 20 #fhjy #fantasy high junior year #fhjy spoilers #bobby dawn #buddy dawn #bucky applebees #kristen applebees #brennan lee mulligan

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

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Do Puppets Dream of Electric Sheep?

Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mild not SFW implications. Word count: 2.1k.

“What am I to you?”

He stills. Your voice is as gentle as a mother crooning a lullaby to her newborn. Sweet, mild. Not intending to startle the sensitive creature who is unaccustomed to this world. It regurgitates memories of his progenitor. He can never clearly recall her countenance or the exact pitch of her voice, there are only formless blurs and warbled words that sounded far away.

It is a small mercy that he never made out the specifics of her face. For it allows him to envision her in whatever manner suits him best. She can be the scheming Niwa Hisahide who sought to manipulate him, the sickly child who left him behind, or the mendacious kitsune whose promises for aid went unkept. His mother is the locus of his rage that branches out and bears rotten fruit.

You cease your previous task of combing his hair from behind. Artificial heat burns his cheeks when your chest presses against his back, your arms coiling around his slender shoulders like tendrils. The hold is tight enough to almost hurt.

“Say, are you listening?” Your lips brush against his ear. He shivers. “Well, puppet?”

Furniture clatters in a cacophony of noise.

He stares at you, incredulous, his lips parting only to close again. He cycles through emotions and is unable to settle on one.

How do…? You shouldn’t know that!

You pay him no mind. You fix the victims of his outburst, setting the stool upright and straightening the vanity’s various implements. Then you sit where he sat, smoothing the wrinkles in your skirt as you do so. You face him instead of the mirror, which has cracked into three disjointed fragments.

The scene before him arouses confusion, then suspicion. His eyes eventually find their way to the mirror behind you. He barks a laugh at what he sees. The sound reverberates in the tiny room. Electro concentrates in his hands, crackling and ready to stain his surroundings crimson. He gives a malicious grin.

It reflects in the cracked mirror, whereas your form does not.

“A cheap parlor trick,” he muses. “I should’ve figured.”

You aren’t her, he thinks. And how grateful he is to realize it.

“I’m not?” You challenge, raising an eyebrow. What is this being capable of hearing his thoughts? The curve of your smile epitomizes everything you’ve never been: cruel and provocative. This ignis fatuus who dares to assume your form makes no attempt to flee from the attack writhing in his palms. “Well, I suppose there’s some truth to that. What you’re looking at now is what I am to become, not my present, corporeal self.”

He studies “you” carefully. The pigmentation of your eyes, your intonation, and your body language; it lines up uncannily well, but your word choice is peculiar. There’s a callousness begotten to those burdened by esoteric knowledge, an experience he’s intimately familiar with. This can’t be a poorly executed emulation devised by that medical charlatan excommunicated by his peers, or an experience that aligns with the continuity of Teyvat’s laws.

Is his conscious being tampered with by the gods?

“I’m afraid not. We both know that panopticon has no interest in you. No, discarded prototype, think back to your creation. When was it determined you’d be of no use to Beelzebul?”

He grits his teeth. That intrusive introspection is coming into play again. It’s as if his innermost sentiments have been printed out in large lettering for you to scrutinize.

“So you’ve finally realized, although you’re hesitant to think it. I can’t blame you, nothing good ever comes from your dreams. Since you don’t require sleep, you were able to avoid this for some time… in trying to play human with me in reality, you’ll be judged by me in the one state where you are utterly powerless.”

The energy gathering in his hand dissipates without him willing it. He tries in vain to summon it again, but the element no longer heeds his command. Clicking his tongue, he sits on the edge of the bed, then crosses his arms over his chest. He chastises himself for not noticing sooner. This room may appear to be an exact replica of the one you share, but the slightest details in its geometry betray the realm of possibility. Certain angles bend in inconceivable ways, the ceiling itself is drooping down like a viscous gel, the descent so slow, it’s near imperceptible.

Dreams, pesky as they may be, are always destined to end. He need only wait for this torment to run its course.

“If that’s the stance you’ve decided to take, why not answer my question?”

He feigns ignorance for a beat, despite knowing full well the inquiry you’re referring to. You allow him his temporary repose.

“What you are to me is a nuisance. A meaningless manifestation that I’ll forget about as soon as I wake,” he replies. How strange it is, taking this baleful tone toward an image of you. You are the sole individual he doesn’t regard with pure loathing, and as such, he treats you with a tenderness he thought himself previously incapable of. He can’t recall a time when contempt felt unnatural, like the first time he mimicked human breathing.

This veneer of nonchalance is forced and he knows it. The mirage taking on your comely likeness is seeping under his synthetic skin, spreading malaise and decay.

“Oh? That’s an awfully bold statement, but, nevertheless, let’s entertain it a while longer.”

You clap twice and the surroundings shift.

His limbs are dragged upward by an unrelenting force — red strings as formidable as piano wire. He struggles out of instinct. This futile act only serves to tighten the binds. Upon realizing this, he goes limp, noting that your presence is no longer visible.

He has an unobstructed view of the cracked mirror, its jagged edges displaying three different images.

To the left, he sees himself wearing the outfit he first awoke with, the golden feather dangling from his neck. The middlemost portion is accurate in its portrayal, unlike the others. It shows the glint of the mitsudomoe symbol upon his chest which he considers his birthright. The right fragment is nearly indiscernible, aside from hues of teal that swirl as if spurred on by the wind.

The mirror shatters.

Light footsteps circle around him. He wrenches his head in the direction of the ambient sounds, identifying no clear source.

“Even if you forget about me now, according to your designs, we’ll meet again. This “me” that’s been tainted and corrupted by your selfish intent. In trying to preserve me, you’ll be my ruin. You already know that though, don’t you? That your desperate clinging will drag us both down to unfathomable depths. It’s true, that by never letting me die, you’ll have an eternity with me…”

You materialize in front of him, standing with your hands behind your back. The casual stance is at odds with the venom you spew forth. Just as before, everything about your physical appearance is correct, save for a single, damning detail. Your eyes glow a luminescent violet — that of Inazuma’s reclusive deity, whose gnosis he intends to commandeer, even if he must tear it from her himself.

“But is that the eternity you truly wish for?”

It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.

What else was he to do?

Watch helplessly as your biological clock ticks on while the hands on his remain frozen in place? Witness your final until you breathe your last breath, then allow your husk to be buried in the cold, unfeeling ground? His is a life of apprehension. That by some cruel twist of fate, you’ll fall victim to the many pitfalls mortals are vulnerable to. Illness, injury, violence, the list goes on and on. His overactive imagination serves as a personal purgatory that churns out images of your downfall every moment he is not by your side.

Upon returning to your quaint little cottage on the outskirts of civilization, trepidation eats at him like maggots upon a corpse. If he can’t find you tending to your garden, baking in your kitchen, or lounging on the swing hanging from the old oak tree in your front yard, madness slithers at his heels, ready to pierce him with its fangs.

You may never forgive him, but he couldn’t forgive himself if he let the one thing he cherishes in this joke of a world leave him behind.

“I won't look at you the way I once did. The me who speaks your true name, spends days wondering when you’ll return from your traveling ‘job’, gladly welcomes you into her bed, granting you access to her most sacred body and soul; you will never see her again. She will exist in your memory alone.”

Your pointer finger hovers over his trembling lower lip, then descends, over his Adam’s apple and in between his collarbones.

“Having savored these pleasures once freely given, you’ll have no choice but to take them by force. You’ll defile me and insist it’s worship. Bitterness might whet your palate, but you’ll never have your fill. Can you call that love, poor puppet? Or will you rightfully refer to it as ownership?”

All verbal exchanges cease.��

In this nightmare blurring the lines of what if, where he is but a spectator rather than an active participant, he laughs. It echoes in his hollow chest cavity where no fleshly heart beats. Your physiognomy goes blank in the face of such blatant malignity. He hangs here, a tossed-aside marionette, consumed by a paroxysm of emotion he once swore to wipe clean from his chest.

“If this is an attempt to appeal to my conscience, it won’t work,” his grin nearly splits his face in two. “Harass me every night, for all I care. I’ll accept it. I’ll accept anything. Every form of you… every possible iteration, no matter how unsightly, beautiful, indifferent, or anything in between, I want it. There isn’t a version of you that can deter me. The real you offered herself to me for a lifetime — who am I to turn down such an alluring offer?”

You pull away from him.

The absence of your touch is worse than any physical torture you could inflict. He’ll take your loving caresses, your hand ripping into his chest, so long as he can familiarize himself with your genuine warmth. Such is the resolve of a puppet who has endured the biting blizzard of loneliness. Destroy him and he’d rebuild. Ignore him and he’ll pry the words from your mouth. Attempt to leave him and he’ll ensnare you in a trap that neither of you can escape from.

This advocate for your future is washed away in a sea of ink, black as night, untouchable and ever-present as a shadow. The cascading wave swallows you whole.

You depart with a final threnody.

“Until we meet again, then.”

…

Something brushes over his cheek.

“... Kuni? Kunikuzushi? Ah, what do I do, you aren’t waking up…! Insults? Do I try insults? Uh, you’re of less than average height—”

“Quiet down, woman, you’re loud,” Scaramouche complains with a groan.

You’re hovering above him. It’s a heavenly sight — if he were a believer in such things — the upturning of your eyebrows, the flow of your hair tousled by interrupted sleep, and the temptation of your soft, parted lips. Warmth emanates from your body. He delights in it. Swears a silent oath to himself that he’ll never be without it.

“The insult worked,” you whisper, content with your quick thinking. Then, remembering the situation, you’re back to fussing over him. “Are you okay? You must’ve been having an awful nightmare.”

His lips form a thin line. “... Something like that.”

“What was it about?”

“You,” he forces an unperturbed tone. Although he’s still hazy from sleep, he’s used to bending the truth. Or in this case, covering the parts he doesn’t want you to see. “I have to deal with you in the realm of conscious and unconscious now. Terrifying, right?”

The sarcasm successfully draws your attention elsewhere.

“Absolutely. So terrifying, in fact, I better sleep elsewhere so as not to frighten my— oof!”

“Oh no you don’t,” he pulls you against his chest, preemptively ending your getaway, “You’re not going anywhere.”

You willingly collapse into his hold, laughing softly. Though you’re no longer trying to wriggle away, his grip is ironclad, his arms trembling. He interweaves himself into you with a tangle of limbs. Once he’s content, he presses his face against the thrumming pulse in your neck. This stream that maintains your life is temporary — a subpar placeholder until you’re imbued with immortality. Still, he cherishes it, this special rhythm that has sustained you long enough for your paths to interconnect.

He gives your pulse a chaste, reverent kiss.

Your paths are bound to never diverge, even if damnation is where they'll lead.

#scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouhe x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere kunikuzushi x reader #my stuff

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collapsedsquid · 1 year

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Was listening to a thing on King Charles and his political views, his traditionalist anti-modernist political views weren't too interesting in themselves but they did address the issue of "disenchantment," that unlike classic kings and churches the modern world of companies and markets seems very disenchanting, and for him that's why we need to RETVRN.

But this does hit on one of my recurring thoughts, why are companies so disenchanting? "They are abusive and exploitative" you say, well I've got news for you about kings, churches, and families, being abusive does not stop people from being enchanted. This is one those things that I think we don't even consider that anyone could be enchanted with them so we don't think to ask why we are not. (I should say that this does happen a bit at the consumer end but not at the employee end)

There's a simple answer and that's "time," these aren't old enough. Maybe in the year 2200 the people will crave a return to the traditional values of Amazon.com.

Never felt satisfied with that though, and the other answer I've had is that, unlike church, family, and king, a fundamental part of how corporations work is firing. You can be cut loose from a family or excommunicated from a church, but this is not core to how those institutions work.

Don't really know if this even makes sense to wonder about, but I return to it every once in a while

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dellalyra · 1 year

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Family Formation Part Four

Summary: A special moment follows you and Satoru going full protective parents on the kids Principal.

CW: mentions of fighting, misogyny (not from anyone we like lol) swearing

A/N: ngl actually proud of this one. i really wanna make the reader like endlessly warm and loving, but also badass and powerful because women are amazing - and show how much the reader and gojo love each other after all they're only early twenties and still completely lovesick

Recommended listening:

Vigilante Shit - Taylor Swift

Paris, Texas - Lana Del Rey ft. SYML (for the ending)

Requests open <; 3

Series Masterlist

"Good afternoon, am I speaking to Ms. Y/L?" Echoes through your phone as you step out of the meeting Satoru and you were having with the higher-ups, who were busy telling you how to teach and do your jobs.

"Hi, yeah, that's me. How can I help?" You reply.

"This is Principal Ito, I'm afraid there's been some... trouble with Megumi at school today. Would you be able to come to the school to collect him and have a discussion?"

"Is he alright? What happened?" Panic rose in your chest. Was he sick? He was fine this morning, ate his porridge and drank his juice and flipped Satoru off when he tried to kiss his chubby cheeks and squish his face - so absolutely average Megumi behaviour.

"He is perfectly fine, we'll discuss more in detail when you arrive."

"Okay, his dad and I will be there in 15 minutes." You had recently taken to just saying you were his parents because explained that you had taken in the children and were hoping to formally adopt the children of the man who killed your boyfriend and your boyfriend then actually killed came back to life, after the father and sold his son to the family he excommunicated himself from.

You stroll back into the meeting, bending to tell Satoru the situation who immediately stood up.

"We're leaving - parenting shit to do, bye-bye wrinklies." He said, taking your hand and waving to the higher-ups as he lead you outside. Teleporting you both to the school gates so you didn't just appear out of thin air in a middle school.

Greeting the school secretary, she leads you to the principal's office - where you find a sullen, scowling Megumi looking defiant with his 9-year-old legs swinging from the middle of the three chairs facing the desk. He doesn't even look up when you and Satoru walk-in, staring straight at the principal.

Principal Ito, a greying, pot-bellied man sits behind his desk.

"Ah, Megumi's guardians, yes?" He asks shaking Satoru's hand first, then yours.

"In the process of legal adoption, but yes we're his guardians. What's going on? You okay, 'Gumi?" You sit beside the boy on one side as Satoru sits on the other side, taking a lollipop from his pocket and popping it into his mouth, and handing one to you and the kid between you.

Megumi shrugs in response to your question.

"Mr. Gojo, Ms. L/N, I'm afraid Megumi here is in some serious trouble. At lunch break today, he started a fight and participated which resulted in 4 other boys being brought to the nurse for injuries, extensive injuries." Your jaw dropped, your Megumi? Sure, he had attitude, and was Toji's son being raised by Satoru Gojo (you'll ignore any part regarding your temper's influence), but he was a quiet, introverted boy, taking comfort in books and animals, traits he was learning and inheriting from seeing you seek comfort in the same things.

"Is this true, Megumi?" and "Wait, you beat up for other kids and haven't a scratch. Well done kid! Proud of you lil' man, fist bump!" Coming from you and Satoru, respectively. The principal looks completely shocked, but for once, Megumi actually does a fist bump Satoru, showing no remorse for his actions. You rolled your eyes at the two boys fist-bumping, both with their candy hanging from their mouths, your fiancé was mentally 9. Unwrapping your own lollipop, you turned back to Ito.

"Megumi will be suspended for two we-" The principal began but you stopped him.

"Excuse me, shouldn't we hear Megumi's side of the story before any choices are made without us here?" You interject, as the principal waves his hand toward Megumi, signalling him to speak.

"I'm not gonna say sorry. They were pulling on a girl's hair and calling her names and saying mean stuff about her so I stopped them, but then they started doing the same to me so I hit them." The boy shrugs the words out, quiet yet wholly confident in his actions.

"Ah! See, completely valid - good job bud, let's get your sister and head for lunch together. C'mon babygirl, let's have a fun family afternoon with the kids!" Satoru says as he ruffles the child's hair and moves to stand.

"Mr. Gojo, this behavior is totally unacceptable, and your lack of condemning it and disciple is wholly reprehensible. Megumi will be suspended for two weeks while the board makes the decision whether or not expulsion will be the route we proceed with." Ito declares .

Now, after hearing, and trusting the word of your child - you turn to the principal.

"I'm sorry, am I misunderstanding the situation? A child was being bullied, physically and emotionally in the schoolyard - with no teacher intervening with a total obvious lack of monitoring, so my son stood up to the bullies, who then turned on him and began to physically assault him and he defended himself - yet he is being punished? What of the other boys? I assume immediate expulsion - no deliberation needed?" You lean forward toward the desk, passing your lollipop to a smirking Satoru, who knew that edge in your voice never ended well for the recipient. After all, he'd heard the same measured, cold, clipped, and endlessly terrifying tone when the higher-ups had told you to revise your curriculum on differentiating curses this morning (if he remembered, the exact words were: "I appreciate that you have a clearcut, if antiquated, unrealistic and frankly idiotic vision for how you expect these topics to be taught, however, as a special grade sorcerer I feel I am wholly equipped and far more prepared to decide how I teach my students that the majority of this board who have been solely directing from this room for the entire duration of their exceptionally long tenure." God you were especially sexy when you diss the higher-ups).

"The boys are quite seriously injured Ms. L/N, which we feel is punishment enough - and it is Megumi's word against the four other boys and I'm afraid we must listen to the majority." The principal eyed your flaring nostrils and smirking fiance.

"You've gotta be kidding me! The kid did the right thing, if anything give him an award, school hero!" Satoru interjected.

"I am absolutely floored by the words I'm hearing, Principal Ito, I'm afraid it's all difficult to swallow." You respond.

"I'm sure it is, but perhaps this will teach Megumi a lesson in behaviour and I suggest stronger discipline at home - I know you are not his parents and it must be challenging figuring out what to do."

"First of all, what I'm shocked by Principal, isn't Megumi's behavior - but your sheer ignorance and lack of accountability for the obvious failings of your faculty. I cannot believe a school would allow such behavior to continue, especially since both Megumi and his sister have mentioned four boys who are notorious bullies on previous occasions so rather than dealing with the root problem, you choose a scapegoat to shoulder the blame. Second, how dare you insinuate we are not fit to raise a child, we may be young, hell were 22, but these two children are our son and daughter, we are their parents. We raise these children to be brave, stand up for others and know right from wrong and protect those who cannot protect themselves." You take a breather, and the principal turns to Satoru.

"Mr. Gojo, perhaps you would care to calm your partner down, before things escalate." Ito directs at Satoru, who only smirks and says to Megumi "He's done it now. Watch this."

"How DARE you tell him to calm me down! Why don't you just say 'get your woman under control' and be done with it? Christ, I thought the board of the school we teach was misogynist, avoidant, antiquarian, hostile, and cowardly but you, sir, 'toru baby cover Megumi's ears, take the fucking cake. I'll save you the paperwork, I'm withdrawing my kids from this damn school, no kids of mine will go to a school led by a like you an absolute prick like you. Boys, we're leaving, and we'll be taking Tsumiki." You stand, pushing the chair back as Satoru cackles laughing at the indignation on the man's face. Megumi grabs his backpack and your hand, and you both walk out of the room.

Before he leaves, Satoru turns to the man, "Isn't my girl awesome? She's the best mom! No wonder I wanna marry her!" He throws a lollipop on the desk, and saunters out winking at the stuttering man.

The three of you grab Tsumiki from her class and walk toward the exit when she turns and asks what's going on.

"Why are we leaving, it's only 1pm? Did something happen, Satoru why are you smiling that that? Wait, Megumi, why are you smiling?" She spews looking between you all.

"I got into a fight and they tried to blame it and Ito told Dad to calm mama down on me so mama got mad at Ito and called him a prick." Megumi said to his sister as you and Satoru froze.

He called you mom, he called him dad.

Satoru and you just stared at each other, your eyes welling up with tears and pride. You guys had spoken about if the moment happened. Tsumiki had asked one night when Megumi was sleeping if she could call you guys mom and dad, you both said of course, you'd be privileged (Satoru cried, a lot), she then said she would wait for Megumi so as not to make him feel out of place or uncomfortable, ever the sweet, kind girl. You warned Satoru sternly to not make a big deal of it when he did, as you'd never spoken to the little boy about it, not wanting to push him and telling Satoru to not follow through by planning a 'mom and dad' party, knowing it would only mortify Megumi and make him uncomfortable, he had reluctantly agreed with you.

Knowing this came from you both standing up for him and speaking up for him, you mouthed 'I love you' to him and he responded 'I love you too' over the heads of the chattering kids.

"What? Are you hurt? Dad what did you say? Mom did you really call him a prick?" Tsumiki added.

"Your mama's a badass, kids!" Gojo added.

"We take no shit from men, Tsumiki, remember. Plus, he was being an ass to your brother so it was me doing that or your dad hollow purpled him for disrespecting me and you two." You grab Megumi's hand, rubbing circles into it as he looks up at you.

As Gojo recounted the events to Tsumiki, Megumi turned his little head to you.

"Thank you, mama." He said quietly, shy as ever, into your side.

Willing yourself not to cry, you kiss his forehead.

"Always, darling boy."

Taglist: @madam-ri @vesta-ro

@lilithlunas @sassy-cat-in-town

#gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk #geto suguru #gojo fluff #anime #dad!gojo #jujutsu kaisen megumi #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro tsumiki

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bookworm551 · 1 year

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Of Duty and Desire | Chapter 5 | Neteyam x Metkayina!reader

A/N: sorry this took so long!!!! I wish I had a good excuse but really it was just writers block. Anyways, I appreciate your patience, I love you all <33

Word Count: 6.8k words

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6 Epilogue

When you woke up the next day, you had a few blissful seconds where everything felt normal. You stretched as the light reflected on your face, and you enjoyed the sounds of the village waking up for a moment. Then, the memories of the previous night hit you all at once, and all the guilt came rushing back.

Memories replayed in your head over and over again. His hungry lips trailing down your neck, your eager hands pulling him close, the sound of your heavy breathing echoing around you. It was like a dream that never should have come to life.

You ran your hands over your face. This was not good. You thought you could still be friends, that you could maintain some form of friendship with him, but last night was clear evidence that it wasn't possible. Being alone with him, seeing him with the blue-green cast of colors on his face, and hearing him say how much he wanted to be with you had all been too much for you to think and act rationally.

Now, you had to get up and go about your day pretending as if nothing had happened. And that's exactly what you did.

You threw yourself into your chores, doing everything in your power to distract yourself from the night before. You even asked Ronal for more work when you finished your chores in record time. It was terrible for you to look her in the eye knowing that if she found out about last night, she would unleash a flood of fury on you.

Everything was going relatively smoothly up until late in the afternoon when Aonung found you on the beach mid-errand. "I've been looking for you," he stated as he came up behind you. You looked up at him in alarm, your heart speeding up anxiously. "Oh?" you managed to reply quietly, trying to appear unfazed by his presence.

"I am about to leave with Rotxo and the others," he explained. "There is still time for you to join if you'd like." The anxious tension in your chest subsided somewhat at his question. You had forgotten that he and the others were planning on going hunting, even though they had talked about it just last night. You also remembered that Neteyam had also been invited to go as well.

Forcing a smile, you replied, "Thank you, but I think I will stay inside the sea wall today." Aonung shrugged casually. "Very well," he said. "We'll be back by eclipse." You nodded and watched him walk off, taking a breath to steady your heart.

You needed to figure out some way to reconcile what had happened between you and Neteyam, but you didn't know what to do. You knew how upset Aonung would be if you confessed what you had done with Neteyam and how you felt about him. You knew how upset Ronal would be if she knew that you were in love with someone other than her son. To stay silent would mean you would be eaten up by guilt, but to speak would surely mean severe consequences.

You wouldn't mind facing the repercussions of your actions. In fact, you felt that you should, but you hesitated out of fear of what would happen to Neteyam. If you were to be in trouble, you still had some level of protection through Ronal's connection with your mother, but with Neteyam, there was no doubt that your mentor would be angry enough with him to try something as drastic as excommunication. You would never be able to forgive yourself if he had to face punishment like that.

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you headed back to the village. You returned to distracting yourself through work, braiding, weaving, and organizing anything you could find. You hadn't even realized the hours that had flown by until you stepped outside to go diving for sea grass.

You had initially planned on swimming out to the edge of the sea wall on your own, but now, you considered taking an ilu. Glancing at the sky, you figured you had less than an hour before eclipse. After deliberating for a moment, you decided that it was enough time for you to gather what you needed without one. As much as you enjoyed riding, swimming on your own was more relaxing.

Swimming out to the edge of the sea wall, you became distracted from your thoughts by the graceful creatures darting around you. Nothing cleared your mind from plaguing thoughts better than floating in the warm water while the glowing dots and stripes of the sea animals swirling around you.

You swam down to the sea floor where the sea grass swayed lazily with the movement of the water. You began pulling up the grass from its roots, tying each bundle tightly before placing it in your pouch. While you were gathering, you were blissfully unaware of a creature nestled in the grass around you.

Reaching for another handful of grass, you touched the fin of what you quickly learned was a viper ray. Defensive and vicious, viper rays typically avoided the reef and rarely came in past the sea wall. Though they were beautiful to watch, being so close to one was dangerous. Their venomous sting had been known to kill Na'vi in the past, and even if it wasn't fatal, it was definitely a very painful experience.

Your touch startled the hiding creature. Faster than you could process, the viper ray whipped around and slashed its thick tail at you, swiping across your ribs.

You immediately flinched and released much of the air you were holding. The pain was immediate, a deep burning sensation that outweighed any sort of injury you had ever experienced. The viper ray darted away back into the grass, leaving you clutching your side as you felt you air supply depleting. Desperately, you began kicking towards the surface as quickly as you could.

When you broke above the water, you gasped in pain. You instinctively clutched at your side, the sting burning like a fire across your body. You looked back at the village, a decently long swim even without being injured. You cursed at yourself for not bringing an ilu. Now, you had no idea how you would get back on your own.

Still, you began kicking towards the beach, your breathing too fast and frantic to dive back down again. From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Turning your head, you made out several figures in the distance on skimwings leisurely heading back to the village. Blinking through the pain, you recognized the people passing by as the group of your friends who had gone hunting earlier. They must have just returned.

In the dying light, you could make out Neteyam and Aonung side-by-side on their skimwings. Pain was coursing through your side as your breathing came in shallow breaths. You finally managed to inhale enough to call out as loudly as you could, "Neteyam!"

He must have heard your voice because his head immediately whipped around to find you. After a moment, he spotted your bobbing form in the water and swiftly moved to where you were floating.

What took less than a minute for him to cross over to you felt like an eternity with the viper ray venom coursing through you. You were grimacing in pain, the salt water causing your sting to burn even worse. Already, you were feeling the fatigue that came with viper ray stings.

"What's wrong?" Neteyam asked in concern, noticing your face contorted in pain. Right behind him, Aonung came up to you on his skimwing. "I've been stung," you managed to gasp as you struggled to stay above the water. "Viper ray."

Neteyam's face shifted from concern to panicked realization. He had heard the stories of the infamous creature and knew the potentially fatal effects it had. Aonung, too, realized the severity of your injury. "She needs to go to my mother now," he told his friend urgently.

Both boys jumped off of their mounts to take you, and you reached a weak hand out to Neteyam. He took it and pulled you over to his skimwing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, squeezing your eyes shut and resting your head on his chest as he hoisted the two of you onto the back of his skimwing.

Your breathing came in sharp gasps as you took off towards the village. In your mind, your thoughts were growing hazy, and it became difficult for you to understand the reassuring words Neteyam was whispering in your ear. Everything was blurring, and the only thing that somewhat distracted you from the pain in your side was the comfort of Neteyam's arms holding you tightly.

You didn't realize it at the time, but the rest of the hunting party that Neteyam and Aonung were with had noticed the two of them speeding off toward the village and quickly followed suit. When you reached the beach, they all pooled around you to figure out what was happening.

"Find Ronal," Neteyam told the group of them as he carefully slid you off of his skimwing. They all hesitated for a moment, recognizing you curled up in pain in his arms.

"What happened to—,"

"Now," Neteyam snapped, his composure cracking over the panicked desperation he was fighting. The group of hunters scattered across the village, but Aonung remained behind in the water with the two of you.

"Let me take her," he told Neteyam, reaching for your form resting in his arms, but he didn't let you go. "I've got her," he said sharply, wading through the water quickly. Aonung was taken aback somewhat, but he didn't press it since he didn't want to waste precious time arguing.

It wasn't long before Ronal came rushing out to meet you all on the beach. She took a moment to assess you, feeling how your skin was growing unusually warm. "Come quickly," she told Neteyam urgently as she moved back to her pod.

Neteyam stepped after her towards the village. You were groaning in pain, your vision coming in and out of focus. You were still aware of the fact that you were in his arms, but your thoughts were becoming increasingly disorganized. You had felt his strong arms around you before, but when? You had been upset about him earlier, but why?

You tried to focus, but the pain radiating from your ribs made it impossible for you to think clearly. Still, in your cloudy mind, you had a lingering memory of something scandalous.

"What are you doing here?" You mumbled quietly to Neteyam, your speech slurring a little bit. He looked down at you for a second before replying, "You are hurt, and you need help." You groaned again as if to prove his point and turned your face into his chest. "It's okay," he soothed in a low voice, "I will take care of you."

When you had made it to Ronal's tent, Neteyam set you down carefully on the mat. He stayed by your side while Aonung crouched on your other side. Ronal quickly set to work, pouring water over your sting and wiping away the bleeding. You hissed in pain as she inspected the gash in your side.

Grabbing Neteyam's arm tightly, you cried out through clenched teeth, "It burns." He ran a soothing hand over your forehead. "I know it does," he replied, trying to keep his voice calm for you and failing miserably. "You'll be okay." Your breathing was labored as you looked up at his with glassy eyes. "Every day, it burns," you murmured. "How can I stop it, Neteyam?"

Neteyam's heart ached. You weren't just talking about your sting. Your words were echoing what you had said the previous night. It had been weighing on Neteyam the whole day. He had been unable to shake your words from his mind, and he replayed the memory of kissing you over and over again. He would never forget the blissful moment you shared, but he could never forget the look of horror and heartbreak on your face when you had realized what you had done. It burned, indeed.

"What is she saying?" Aonung asked sharply, staring at Neteyam's longing face with suspicion. He looked up at him, pulled from his thoughts, and said dismissively, "She's hallucinating."

"I don't want to stop it," you whispered in a breathy voice. "I wish it could be real." Neteyam tensed at your words and prayed that you would stop talking in front of Ronal and Aonung. Ronal didn't seem to heed your babbling as she worked, but Aonung was looking back and forth between your face and Neteyam's.

"What is she saying?" Aonung repeated in a hard voice. Neteyam's voice felt stuck, and his silence was only made worse when you reached out your hand up from Neteyam's arm to trace his cheek gently with your fingers. He brought his hand up to hold yours and closed his eyes in guilt. There was no way he could justify this.

Ronal's working hands stilled as she witnessed him grabbing your hand, her eyes flashing to Neteyam and then to her son. Neteyam kept his eyes on your face, but he could feel Aonung's burning glare.

He was putting the pieces together. He had known for a while that you were good friends with Neteyam ever since he first came to the reef, but Aonung had never felt any reason to suspect anything else. Recently, though, he had noticed a shift in his friend’s behavior. He had inexplicably started avoiding your friend group, and it didn’t escape his notice the way that Neteyam had been much more reserved recently.

All this, Aonung would have ignored, but now, he reconsidered everything. He had noted how you had called for Neteyam in the water. He saw how you had reached out for him and how you wrapped your arms around him tightly. He noticed the defensive way that Neteyam held onto you, refusing to let go. Now, hearing your mutterings and seeing you reach out for Neteyam, Aonung felt anger bubble in his chest.

"What did you do?" He seethed. Neteyam looked up at him and held up his free hand. "Aonung, please, I can expl—" Aonung shot up quickly and repeated in a harsh voice, "What did you do?!"

The tension was palpable in the silence. "Take this outside," Ronal ordered sharply, and Neteyam could feel the tsahik's anger in her voice. He got up slowly, dropping your hand. You whimpered as he pulled away from you. "No," you pleaded softly. "Stay." Neteyam could see that your words made Aonung even angrier, so he got up and darted out of the tent, closely followed by the other boy.

Outside, the young Metkayina warrior shoved Neteyam's shoulder. "What was that?" Aonung demanded, his chest heaving in anger. Neteyam held up his hands as a pacifying gesture. "Please, let's just—"

"Did you mate with her?" Aonung cut him off furiously. His forwardness caught Neteyam a little off-guard, and his denial seemed to be stuck in his throat. Just then, Kiri, Tsireya, and Lo'ak came around after hearing that you were injured, and Neteyam groaned internally. Having an audience would make this so much worse.

"Did you?" Aonung pressed, ignoring the others. Turning his focus away from his siblings, Neteyam replied, "No, I would never dishonor you like that." Tsireya looked questioningly between him and her brother. "What is going on?" She asked in confusion.

Aonung ignored his sister. "But you want to," he accused Neteyam. Already uncomfortable with having his family present, he stepped towards Aonung. "Let's talk about this alone," he said in a low voice. The other young warrior shoved him back. "Why?" He demanded. "Because it's true? You want her?"

Kiri took in a sharp breath, and Neteyam heard his brother curse loudly. Neteyam felt trapped. "My friend, please," he implored quietly. Aonung scoffed. "You are no friend of mine," he spat in a loud voice. "How long have you been sneaking around behind my back?"

As if things couldn't get any worse, Jake, Neytiri, and Tonowari came up behind their children, alarmed by the shouting. "What is the meaning of this?" The Olo'eyktan demanded to know. Pointing an accusatory finger at Neteyam, Aonung replied, "He has fallen in love with the woman intended for me."

There was a short, stunned silence, and Neteyam saw the look of disappointed frustration on his father's face. "Is this true?" Tonowari inquired severely. Neteyam hesitated for a moment, but he quickly realized he was in too deep to deny anything. "Yes," he admitted quietly.

Everyone present reacted differently. Aonung looked ready to kill Neteyam, Tsireya gasped softly, and Kiri put her face in her hand. Lo'ak looked half-impressed while Neytiri closed her eyes and began muttering under her breath either prayers or profanities. Tonowari and Jake exchanged uneasy glances and shifted uncomfortably.

"Do not blame her," Neteyam continued insistently. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have—," Jake raised his hand, cutting off his son. "Stop talking," he said harshly. Neteyam remained obediently silent while Jake ran a frustrated hand over his face. "Did you two...?"

Neteyam shook his head hastily. "No," he stated. "We are not bonded." A small sigh of relief came from both of his parents before Neytiri stepped forward toward her son. "I never expected this from you," she said in a low, harsh whisper. "You have brought shame upon yourself, upon this family."

Neteyam stood quietly as his mother began her rant. He knew this was coming, and it hurt just as much as he expected it to. Disappointing his parents was the worst feeling for him, and now he was getting the scolding of a lifetime in front of the rest of his family as well as the chief's.

Ronal stepped out of the tent just then, looking extremely displeased, and everybody turned to her expectantly. "She is asleep," the tsahik explained. "Her body will burn away the venom in time." Neteyam breathed a quick sigh of relief, but he was quickly filled with the apprehension of having to face Ronal's fury.

She pointed her glare at him. "Now, what is going on with you?" She asked in a displeased voice. Aonung stepped forward before Neteyam could respond and interjected, "He is in love with her." Ronal turned sharply to face Neteyam, and her scathing glare deepened. "We bring you into our home," she began in a slow, seething voice, "show you our ways, offer protection, and you return it by blatantly disrespecting us, my son, by trying to enamor his intended mate?"

Neteyam shook his head again. "No," he insisted, working hard to maintain a composed voice. "That was never my intention." Ronal look away from him and back at the healing tent. "And what about her?" She asked, gesturing to where you were sleeping. "Does she return your affections?"

Neteyam hesitated, not wanting to bring you into the mess of trouble he was already in. "I cannot speak for her," he said finally. Aonung scoffed at his words. "You heard what she was saying," he told his mother. "Of course she does."

Neteyam didn't say anything—there was no point. Jake stepped up to him, his face hardened in aggravation. "I told you to back off," he reminded harshly in English. "I said not to cause trouble." Neteyam nodded solemnly and muttered, "I know."

Jake huffed an exasperated sigh. "I'll take care of this," he muttered to Tonowari. Neteyam closed his eyes in shame. This was exactly the thing he was trying to avoid in leaving you alone. Now, he was in for a long night of listening to his parents berate him for hours.

Ronal scoffed. "We cannot allow this," she stated in outrage. "Your son has dishonored our son. He cannot go unpunished." Jake held up a reassuring hand. "Believe me, he will be dealt with," he told her earnestly.

"And how do you suppose he is to be punished?" She shot back. "He cannot be allowed anywhere near her again." Neytiri took a heated step towards Ronal. "You cannot exile my son," she asserted angrily. The tsahik glared at her. "Perhaps that would be the best solution," she countered in a haughty voice.

The two sets of parents all began arguing over each other. Neteyam watched in silent guilt. All of this fighting and contempt stemmed from him falling for you. He should have been more careful. He never should have taken you flying. He never should have danced with you. He knew better than that, but he couldn't help himself. He had wanted to thrill you, please you, any way he could, but now, his indiscretion had caused this dispute between his family and Aonung's.

While Neteyam was dwelling on his guilt, Aonung was glaring at him in resentment.

In the time that the Sullys had been in the reef, Aonung had gone from viewing Neteyam as a rival to seeing him as one of his closest friends. He had taught him the ways of the Metkayina. They had hunted together. They killed the akula together. And it was true that Aonung had no romantic feelings toward you, but he still held great respect for you and thought of you as his future tsahik with satisfaction.

Now, everything was changing. It was one thing for you not to feel anything romantically toward him, but it was something else entirely for you to be in love with someone else, especially when that someone else was in love with you. These bitter thoughts swirled in his mind until his voice finally called out above the bickering parents.

"I call for First Blood."

Everyone froze.

The Rite of First Blood was a dangerous and rarely used rite amongst the Na'vi that is only invoked in the most serious of disagreements. When someone called for First Blood with another, they fought in close combat until one of the participants drew blood from their opponent. The victor's conditions were binding and unimpeachable. What made it dangerous was that there were no stipulations other than requiring blood to be drawn, so the victor could go as far as mortally wounding their opponent if they so chose.

"Aonung, are you sure?" Ronal questioned after recovering from her stunned silence. Even she was startled by her son's call for such a serious matter. Aonung held a level glare at Neteyam as he replied firmly, "Yes."

Ronal shot her mate a reluctant look. "Very well," Tonowari conceded after a moment. "What are your conditions?" Everybody stared at Aonung, waiting expectantly to hear what he would demand if he was the victor. "If I win," he began slowly, staring at Neteyam. "You will leave the reef and never come back."

Immediate protestations arose from each of the Sullys except Neteyam, who silently held Aonung's glare with his own level gaze. "Silence!" Tonowari roared, cutting off the forest family sharply. Aonung continued as though he hadn't been cut off, "And I will be with the woman I am betrothed to."

All eyes were on Neteyam for his reaction, but he remained still, face impassive. "I accept," he responded evenly.

"Neteyam," Tonowari addressed. "What are your conditions?" He didn't respond for a second, thinking carefully about what to say, and Aonung scoffed. "We already know," he huffed. "If you win, she is yours."

"No," Neteyam replied resolutely.

Everybody blinked in surprise and exchanged uneasy glances. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "She has already had so many decisions made for her," he explained slowly, shooting a look at Ronal's scowling face. "She deserves to have a choice for once in her life."

He looked back over at Tonowari. "That is my condition," he said decidedly. "If I win, she chooses if she wants to be tsakarem. If so, then she will continue her duties without reprimand, but if not, then she can renounce her title honorably, without shame, and without fear of retribution."

Ronal hissed in anger, but Neteyam was waiting for Aonung's reaction expectantly. The young Metkayina warrior nodded slowly and stated, "I accept." Tonowari was not pleased in the slightest about the arrangement, but he nodded gravely. "The Rite of First Blood shall take place at high noon tomorrow," he confirmed before turning to Jake.

"I suggest you keep your son away from here until then," he muttered in a low voice to him, but Neteyam could still hear him. Jake was glaring at his son as he responded, "Believe me, he won't leave my sight." Neteyam's stomach sank at the reality of having to face his parents' wrath for the rest of the night until noon. All he wanted was to see you and make sure you were alright, but there was absolutely no way anybody was going to let that happen now.

The good thing was that you were actually alright. You slept for a few hours before you began to stir again. Strange dreams and voices in your head made your sleep turbulent, so it was a relief to open your eyes again. Through your hazy vision, you could see a person sitting next to you, wiping the sweat off of your forehead.

You tried to say something, but your voice felt stuck, and all that came out was a quiet groan. "It's okay," a soft voice whispered. "You are still fighting off the venom." You blinked several times before your sight focused, and you were able to see who it was.

Tsireya's face was full of concern as she gazed down at you sadly. You mumbled her name, and she ran her hand over your hair comfortingly. "What happened?" you asked, your voice rough as a result of a dry throat.

She didn't respond, instead reaching for a bowl of fresh water for you to drink. She held your head up as you took a few eager gulps of it before laying you back down gently. "What happened?" you repeated, sounding clearer now that you had slaked your thirst.

"What do you remember?" Tsireya asked instead, taking the bowl back from your hand. You thought back, the memory of the viper ray flashing in your mind. "I remember getting stung," you began slowly. "I remember finding Aonung and Neteyam." You paused as the memory of Neteyam's arms carrying you replayed in your head. "That's about it," you finished quietly.

Tsireya studied your face for a moment. "Neteyam brought you back here," she explained nervously. "But you started saying strange things." Your face scrunched in confusion. "What kind of things?" You asked. Tsireya hesitated. "I am not sure," she confessed. "But Aonung—," she hesitated for a moment. "Aonung thinks that you are in love with Neteyam."

You blanched. Your mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. You were entirely unprepared for this accusation and could not think of how to defend yourself.

"It is true, isn't it?" She asked quietly. Your mind was reeling, and you were trying to think of something to say, but there was no way for you to justify what you had done. Your heart started pounding, and you began taking uneasy breaths. "Breathe," she implored, taking your hand comfortingly. Her touch helped ground you, and you tried your best to regain your composure.

"Tsireya," you began, "I— I never meant for anything to happen. I never meant to betray your brother." You could see the sadness and sympathy she had for you on her face. "I do not blame you," she told you gently, but you could see that she was torn. "But Aonung is very angry, as is my mother."

You closed your eyes, feeling the bitter sting of knowing you've disappointed the very people you sought to impress. "What did they have to say?" You questioned, not sure you wanted to hear the answer. Tsireya hesitated a moment before answering.

"Aonung has called for the Rite of First Blood with Neteyam."

Your blood ran cold. You immediately propped yourself upright, but you still felt weak from the venom, and your arms buckled. "What?" You whispered, horrified. Tsireya pressed gently on your shoulders to get you to lie back down before she nodded reluctantly. "It has been set for noon tomorrow," she explained.

You stared up at her face, mortified by what she had said. "What are the conditions?" You managed to whisper finally. She took your hand again, and you braced yourself for whatever she was going to say.

"Aonung's conditions are that Neteyam must leave the reef forever," she stated quietly. Your stomach twisted at her words. You closed your eyes and squeezed her hand. This couldn't be happening. It was just yesterday that you had been wrapped in his arms. You had run away out of guilt, but now the very real possibility of never seeing him again made your chest tighten with fear.

"And Neteyam's?" You whispered, trying your best to remain calm. Tsireya sighed. "If Neteyam is the victor, then you are free to leave your duties as tsakarem if you so choose," she explained.

You blinked. "What?" You questioned, unable to process what she just said. "Neteyam said you should be able to choose whether you want to keep training to be tsahik or not," she repeated. "He also says that you will not face any repercussions for your choice, whatever it may be."

You stared up at Tsireya for a moment, completely stunned. Then, you felt your throat tighten as tears gathered in your eyes. It all hit you so suddenly, you couldn't help but let them fall.

He was fighting for you. And not only to be with you, but to give you the opportunity to decide for yourself what you wanted to do with your life. It was so selfless and considerate. Nobody had ever given you that before.

Tsireya ran her free hand over your forehead again, a look of distress on her face. "I did not know you were so unhappy," she said mournfully. "I wish you would have told me." You shook your head as you took ragged breaths to calm yourself. "I could not," you whispered in a hoarse voice. "Your mother is my mentor, and I am betrothed to your brother. To tell you would mean you would need to keep secrets from both."

She didn't say anything as you took another breath to calm yourself. What you had said made sense, but it didn't make her feel any better knowing that you had been hiding your misery from her.

"I need to speak to him," you said at last, moving to prop yourself up again. Tsireya's eyes widened, and she shook her head vigorously. "No," she replied quickly. "My mother would be furious." You sat upright, the sting on your ribs burning as you moved. She must have seen how you winced because she pushed you back down and said, "You need to stay and rest. You are not fit to move around."

You didn't fight her, but you weren't giving up. "Please, let me see him," you begged. "This is all my fault. I need to talk to him, and I won't be able to tomorrow." She sighed regretfully. "I can't let you do that," she said. "Even if you were well enough, Neteyam's parents will not let him leave their home. Lo'ak said that they are very upset with him as well."

You closed your eyes remorsefully. You hadn't even thought about what his parents would think about a situation like this. You remembered Lo'ak's words to you just a few days prior. If this gets out, Neteyam would be in more trouble than I've ever been in. How had it all gone wrong so quickly?

"The best thing you can do is try to get some rest," Tsireya told you gently. "Especially if you want to be there for the Rite tomorrow." With your eyes still closed, you let out a defeated sigh and nodded. You weren't going to win this argument with her, and since you were already in a heap of trouble as it was, you decided not to press the issue.

Still, sleep was the last thing on your mind. A torrent of thoughts whirled in your head. There were no way you could rest when the possibility of losing Neteyam was looming over you. If he lost, then not only would he have to leave, but you knew that the rest of his family would go with him. After all that they went through to acclimate to the reef, they would be forced to pack up their lives again.

With your thoughts, you were resolved to see Neteyam, consequences be damned. Tsireya had left after about an hour, and it was late enough that most people would be preparing to go to sleep right now.

You sat up slowly, trying not to irritate the sting in your ribs. Standing up, you felt a little dizzy, but it passed after a couple of seconds. Carefully, you stepped out of the tent. You checked that there was no one around before moving quietly down to the beach. You waded into waist deep water before softly calling out to an ilu.

You felt too weak to swim out on your own, so you decided that having an ilu to help was in your best interest. It would also allow you to keep your sting clean and dry. When one of the ilus answered your call, you attached your queue and slowly made your way to the Sullys.

As you came around to where the Sullys lived, you were relieved by the sight before you. Neteyam was sitting at the edge of his home out above the water, an arm resting on his knee while his other leg dangled over the water. He was staring up at the night sky. You had often seen him there, gazing up at the bright stars littering the sky, and you had hoped that he would be out there tonight as well.

With his gaze turned upwards, he didn't see you approaching slowly in the water. You glanced around to ensure nobody was nearby to see or hear you. You noticed that his pod was dark and quiet, indicating that everyone had gone to sleep, so you called his name out softly.

He must have heard you because his head snapped down and fixated on your form in the water. When he recognized you, he immediately turned to look behind him and check that none of his family had heard too. "What are you doing?" He whispered in alarm. "Why are you not resting?"

"I wanted to see you," you whispered back. "Can you come down?" He glanced back over his should for a moment before turning back to face you. "The beach," he said softly.

It was all he needed to say in order for you to understand. You nodded before turning your ilu in the water and swimming back toward the beach. As you stepped out onto the wet sand, he was walking stealthily across the suspended walkways toward you. Leaping down onto the sand, he quickly crossed over to you with a concerned face.

"What are you doing here?" He asked quietly, bringing his hands up to hold your shoulders carefully. "You should be resting, healing." You shook your head as you looked up at him. "I could not rest after what Tsireya told me," you replied quickly.

Raising your own hands, you held his arms by the crook of his elbow. "Is it true? Has Aonung challenged you to First Blood?" You questioned, already knowing in your heart it was true. He let out a small sigh, looking down at you in regret.

"It is," he confirmed in a whisper. "We fight at noon." You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to calm yourself. "And the conditions?" You continued. "Tsireya said that if Aonung wins, you...," you trailed off, unable to speak anymore.

"I must leave the reef," he finished for you solemnly. You clenched your jaw in an effort to keep from tearing up. "But if I am the victor," he continued softly, "you will be free to choose the life you want. Whether you remain as the tsakarem or not, the choice will be yours with no consequences."

Your throat tightened at his words, and tears filled your eyes. Nobody had ever advocated for you to have a say in your own life. Ever since you could remember, things had always been arranged for you, and you had been too young to know what you actually wanted. Now, you had something that you wanted, and Neteyam was going to fight with everything in him for you to have it.

You shook your head sadly, looking down from his face. "You shouldn't have to do this," you sighed, squeezing his arms in concern. There was a small pause between you before his hands moved up from your shoulders to hold your face, making you look right up at him. His face softened, and his eyes moved back and forth between yours as he shook his head slowly.

"I would do anything for you."

Your breath faltered at his words, and you leaned into his touch with closed eyes. “I was so worried for you,” he continued softly. “I know what you said last night, but when I saw you in the water, I—,” he paused, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said finally, “but I can’t bear being away from you anymore. When I saw an opportunity to be with you, I couldn’t turn it aside.” The corner of his mouth turned upward before he added softly, “If you will have me, that is.”

His voice was so gentle and sincere, and he looked almost nervous waiting for your reply. You couldn't think of anything to say that fully encapsulated how you felt, so you stepped forward and pressed your lips against his.

Neteyam still held your face as he kissed you gently. You leaned into him, savoring the feeling of his soft lips against yours. He pulled away after what felt like too short a time, a faint smile on his face.

"I will have you," you whispered to him, the corners of your mouth tugging upward. You looked up at him, his face inches from yours. "But you better win.” His own smile widened in amusement. "I will," he promised, lowering his forehead to rest against yours. "I'm not going to stay away from you anymore."

You closed your eyes and relished the moment of peace between you. For a second, you were able to forget about the guilt and worry you were feeling about everything and imagined the life you could have with Neteyam, the life you wanted so bad, it hurt.

He pulled you back into another soft kiss. His hands left your face to wrap around your torso and wander up your back, exploring as much of your skin as possible. His touch left you breathless, and you eagerly pulled him as close to you as possible.

You could feel how much he wanted you, but he eventually pulled away from your lips, his eyes closed as he moved away. "I need to go," he whispered quietly, his forehead resting against yours. "My parents will know I've gone."

The reality of the situation returned, and you felt all the fear and anxiety of everything stirring in your chest. You sighed regretfully, not wanting to let him go. Neteyam must have sensed your apprehensions because his hands pulled you into a tight embrace, and he whispered in your ear, "It will be alright."

You buried your face in his neck and repeated the words in your mind, but it was difficult to believe when so much was on the line. It was cruel that this was only the first time you had let yourself hold him like this, and if Aonung won the next day, this may very well be the last time, too.

Gently, he pulled away from you. You let your arms slide off his shoulders, unable to meet his eyes. There was a moment of silence between you, neither of you wanting to leave the other. Finally, he sighed, raised a hand up to your head, and brought his lips against your forehead. You closed your eyes and tried to hold onto the moment while it lasted.

"It will be alright," he murmured against your skin. You nodded faintly. "It will be alright," you echoed. You looked up at him, and he had a small smile on his face. "I will see you tomorrow," he said at last as he began stepping backward toward his home. You could only nod as he moved away. Watching him go, you wrapped your arms around yourself and repeated his words over and over again in your mind.

It will be alright.

Chapter 6

_________

Taglist: @mashiromochi @eywas-heir @kafanizdakicokiyi @plzfeedmebread @afro-hispwriter @fanboyluvr @anm3mi @sadexact @peachinsomnia @fluroescentxadolescent @doulcha @crazy4books1 @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @thatonegirlwiththebeanie367 @alicetweven @sarasapen @sadexact

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canisalbus · 2 months

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hey another anon following up on Machete info, /why/ is Machete so disliked by his peers and held so tightly by the church?

I'm simplifying a little, but a lot of it has to do with how much of an outsider he is in his circles. The college of cardinals is composed of nobility and a significant portion of it operates on nepotism. Machete managed to get in mostly on his own merits. He doesn't have prestigious background, but he was mentored by an esteemed priest (and later bishop), studied and worked exceedingly hard and had excellent recommendations and a reputation as a dedicated, diligent, meticulous and obedient person. He landed a position as the Pope's personal assistant and was eventually created a cardinal by the said Pope. He has low tolerance for those of his peers that are incompetent or lazy, play dirty or abuse their power. He despises the flagrant corruption going on around him and actively tries to expose and weed it out whenever possible. His colleagues find him suspicious, overly strict, hard to work with and think he's either a deceitful social climber who got into his position by manipulating and sucking up to the Pope, or a foolish lowborn who doesn't know what he's gotten himself into.

After the Pope dies Machete loses his title as the secretary of state and is relegated into inquisition duty, which doesn't do his severe public image any favors. He starts to get infamous among laity as well, people generally don't think fondly of someone who deals with and oversees trials, excommunications and executions. Since he doesn't have a powerful family to back him up and he's never been that good at making allies, he's an easy scapegoat whenever other cardinals need someone to take the blame for their numerous scandals.

Machete was raised in a monastery after being left there by his parents at age 3 or 4 due to his sickliness, and started his training as a priest's apprentice at age 7 or so. The church has been a constant presence in his life for as long as he can remember and the only source of care and security he's had. He was driven to become a priest because he believed it would make him worthy of keeping around and provide him the respect, purpose and protection he needed.

#answered #anonymous #Vaschete lore

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flowers-of-io · 21 days

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Tithe (to) me baby one more time

This post is my personal attempt to understand Season of the Witch, and potentially defend my hypothesis that at its core it doesn't make sense. I may yet change my opinion on this as I write and research, because here at flowers of io dot tumblr dot com we do real science and do not let ourselves be blinded by prior assumptions, prejudice, and bitterness. Maybe there is yet something there that I don't see.

Disclaimer: This essay is nearly 4k words long and has not been beta read, so any typos, tangents and formatting issues you may find here are my fault only and I preemptively apologise for them. Please tell me if anything is unclear or worded weirdly! I haven’t written a longer lore analysis in a good while and I may have got a little rusty.

With that out of the way, let's take a look at how Hive tithes, tributes, and willpower actually work!

1) Anthem Anatheme

Over three years ago in this post I wrote a bit about anthem anatheme, which is the way both worms and ahamkara feed. I did not explain it well, though (and I was being very comically exasperated over Truth to Power), so let me try again.

From the Merriam-Webster:

First appearing in Old English in the form antefn, anthem derives ultimately from Greek antiphōnos—a word meaning "responsive" that is a combination of anti-, meaning "over" or "against," and phōnē, "sound" or "voice." The Greek root gives a hint as to what the musical form of early anthems was like. Originally, anthems were devotional verses sung as a response during a religious service.

French anathème and English anathema is the formal exclusion from the community of Christians (in the New Testament) or the Catholic Church (in contemporary canon law). The original meaning of the word was a little different, though. I'll quote the Wikipedia article because I don't think I'd be able to word it better than it is explained there:

The word anathema has two main meanings. One is to describe that something or someone is being hated or avoided. The other refers to a formal excommunication by a church. These meanings come from the New Testament, where an Anathema was a person or thing cursed or condemned by God. In the Old Testament, an Anathema was something or someone dedicated to God as a sacrifice, or cursed and separated from God because of sin. These represent two types of settings, one for devotion, the other for destruction.

Anathema derives from Ancient Greek: ἀνάθεμα, anáthema, meaning "an offering" or "anything dedicated", itself derived from the verb ἀνατίθημι, anatíthēmi, meaning "to offer up". In the Old Testament, חֵרֶם (chērem) referred to both objects consecrated to divine use and those dedicated to destruction in the Lord's name, such as enemies and their weapons during religious wars. Since weapons of the enemy were considered unholy, the meaning became "anything dedicated to evil" or "a curse".

Combining these two meanings would give us something like ‘a hymn of offering’, the ‘offering’ part having a derogatory ring to it.

In the most recent Destiny loretab on the topic (Queensfoil Censer) Anthem Anatheme is explained as "a manner of subjecting reality to one's will, similar to a Lightbearer's ability to affect paracausality", and this is in line with the prior, much more vague definitions that we've had. It is both the invocation and the act of changing reality to match your will. It does have a similar vibe to aiat, which I wrote about here: "Ahamkara drive power from the space between ‘what-is’ and ‘what-is-desired’. Stating ‘aiat’ creates this connection between ‘what-is’, ‘why-it-is’ and the space in between: ‘why-it-is-?’."

It is also what worms and ahamkara feed on. The reason ahamkara "tweak" the wishes they grant is precisely to widen that gap between how the universe was before the wish and how it will be after it - the impact it will make on the universe - how much it will change.

2) Tithe to Power

Worms feed in the same way, except they are not the ones invoking Anthem Anatheme, and instead it is their hosts who do that. Contrary to the popular belief, worms do not feed on *killing*, per say--but killing is one of, if not the most efficient way of reshaping universe according to your will. Toland says: "This is the shape of victory: to rule the universe so absolutely that nothing will ever exist except by your consent".

The worms sort of... cede the ability(?) to invoke Anthem Anatheme to their hosts, and so also it is the host who gains power from that — the worm feeds, yes, but there is also something else there, something I don't quite understand but it's tied to the Darkness, Ascendant Plane, and Taking. The power that allows you to will things into existence, to define and dictate the rules. "Nothing will ever exist except by your consent".

Ergo: the more powerful—or rather... impactful, or influential—entity you kill, the bigger is the space of their absence; the more sustenance the worm gets, and the more power you gain — because you've asserted your will over them, you did not permit them to exist. As Toland explains: "Oryx inhabits a world where power is truth. To win is to be noble, and to be real. [...] The echoes of Oryx go forth to ask a question: are you the truth?"

So what I will be referring to in this essay as power is the total sum of your impact on the universe, which (thanks to your worm's paracausal abilities) gives you paracausal abilities. Willpower given shape, sort of. That is the foundation the entire Hive system is built on: magic, runes, philosophy, everything.

Now, I used to think tribute and tithe were two different things, but they are apparently used interchangeably in the lore: "The Worm within demands tribute. Now you shall kill what you can and take what killing you need to grow—or for your own purposes, if you dare—and tithe the rest to that which rules you. Thus, tribute will ascend the chain and the excess shall pool at the height, as unlike a river to an ocean" (Truth to Power: Injection). This entry is supposed to quote Oryx in the Books of Sorrow, but it doesn't repeat the words exactly, and omits something very interesting (and confusing). In Carved in Ruin, where Oryx dictates his law, he actually says: "You Thrall, each of you will claw and scream, and kill what you can. Take enough killing to feed your worm, and a little more to grow. Tithe the rest to the Acolyte who commands you."

"Take enough killing to feed your worm, and a little more to grow" seems to suggest the Hive-host and the worm feed on the same thing, or at least that the same thing that the worms feed on is what allows the Hive to grow. The whole shtick with the worm pact was supposed to give the Krill power over their own flesh and the world around them, so we can presume they grow physically as they attain more (will)power - to will their form to change. The lore about it is very vaguely worded though, and a lot of this is my own interpretation, so don't take it as indubitably true.

What I want to make extremely clear, though, is that neither tribute/tithe nor (will)power is a physical thing. Of course the power you have can manifest as paracausal abilities, but it's like with hitting something really hard with your fist - the stronger you are, the more impact you will have on what you're hitting, and the effects are very tangible, but your physical strength itself is not an, I don't know, physical object. It's the potential energy in your muscles I'm struggling to word it better, but I hope you understand the metaphor. The more you affect the world, the stronger your paracausal muscles get, so to say.

The way I understand the logic behind tithing, then, is that in the Hive pyramid scheme you transfer some of your power to your direct commander because they have power over you. Your will is subservient to the one above you, so they demand a cut of its potential growth. It's a way to organise the Hive society, really, because without this system in place everyone would be mindlessly killing each other to survive, while now the ones in command have an incentive not to slaughter all their soldiers if those soldiers are a source of power. It's delicate calculation - is it more beneficial for me to kill my underling and gain the entirety of their power in a single slurp, or allow them to live and transfer to you a percentage of their own power gain? How risky is it to leave them alive, in case they get too powerful and strike against you? But then again - the more power they gain, the bigger the percentage that you get. Is it worth to kill them now, or wait for them to get more powerful, so you can then gobble up a larger meal? It's like fattening a pig but the fatter it gets the more it is able (and willing) to kill you. At which point does the risk outweigh the potential future gain?

2.1) Nature

This part of Hive gods lore also ties into the way aiat works, and the whole thing with definitions and essences that I wrote about in that essay, so I won't go into this right now. What is essential to remember for the purpose of this post is that the Hive gods emulate their natures, or are their natures, and by invoking those natures they can be fed power, summoned into a given place, and even brought back from beyond the grave. I’ll just put a few lore quotes that sort of explain this concept, or at least illustrate it. It will be important later.

You must obey your nature forever. In your immortality, Aurash, you may never cease to explore and inquire, for the sake of your children. In your immortality, Xi Ro, you may never cease to test your strength. In your immortality, Sathona, you may never abandon cunning. (IX: The Bargain)

Oryx made war on the Ecumene for a hundred years. At the end of those hundred years he killed the Ecumene Council on the Fractal Wreath, and from their blood rose Xivu Arath, saying, “I am war, and you have conjured me back with war.” […] He drove the Dakaua Nest into a trap, and they were made extinct. From their ashes rose cunning Savathûn, saying, “I am trickery, and you have conjured me back with trickery.” (XXIX: Carved in Ruin)

In each act of His power Oryx seeks to incarnate the self-sustaining, immortal suzerainty that He worships. The power that He uses to wash his Taken clean and etch them into useful shapes. (Echo of Oryx)

He is not a simple thing to kill. He wants to be isomorphic to conquest, to triumph, to killing and death.** He is a syllogism, now, but in time He hopes to become an axiom. (Oryx: Rebuked)

[Xivu Arath, hear me.]

[You are war, and I conjure you with war and blood.]

[A gift for my favorite sister.]

(Empress: CHAPTER 5: NEW GODS)

MY HOME IS WAR. MY VOICE IS A BATTLE SONG. FOR AS LONG AS YOU HAVE WORSHIPPED WAR, YOU HAVE WORSHIPPED ME. I AM HERE TO CLAIM MY TRIBUTE. IT IS OVERDUE. (Empress: CHAPTER 6: BATTLE SONG)

3) Season of the Witch

So now let's talk about the premise of Season of the Witch.

We don't know what Savathûn's plan was exactly; we didn't get a scene of Immaru dictating it to Eris or Ikora, only scraps of it mentioned by various characters. But the gist of it, pretty much, was this: Eris plugs herself into the tithing system through the ritual in the first cutscene, and we - using the Acolyte's Staff, which contains worms - transfer the power we generate through killing to her. I say generate because I'm not sure we would've been able to actually use that power (for example, to create a throne world) if we're not connected to the system, but then again Hiraks had done it somehow, so idk.

Another thing, which I hadn't caught while playing the season, but either @winnower-winnower or @the-goldendragon pointed it out to me when we were talking about this, is Eris' nature as the god of vengeance. Every act of violence done in revenge against the Hive and/or the Witness, either by her hand or ours, should technically give her additional power.

So what was the goal of all of this?

Well, apparently the whole point of Eris becoming a Hive god and plugging into the tithing system was that she could become more powerful than Xivu Arath and beat her at her own game. And how would she get all that power? Why, by killing, of course! That's the sword logic, right? Nothing is permitted to exist except by your consent. That's power. And Eris already has so much power, as the hand wielding the blade which ended both Crota and Oryx, and possibly Nokris, and Hashladûn, and Alak-Hul, and countless other Hive. She did not perform these feats alone, granted (something that very cool sword logic cutscene seems to have forgotten), but she was the inciter, guide, and main motivator for them.

And this is all true, except for the one small detail which is exactly the reason why Xivu is (used to be?) such a compelling antagonist: this is not how you beat her at her own game.

3.1) Xivu and War

Remember imbaru? Remember how Savathûn made an entire power-generating scheme based around the idea that she, the god of cunning, cannot be outsmarted or outwitted, and every wrong guess about her would only feed her power? It was conveniently forgotten for the duration of The Witch Queen, an investigation-based campaign, but it HAD BEEN a thing.

And Xivu Arath had done her homework, and copied this idea. If she is war, then every act of war will invoke her and so give her power.

I AM THE WAR YOU CRAVE. PURPOSE ETERNAL. A LEGACY IN BLOOD. WHEN YOU DRAW BLADES, YOU DRAW ME. YOU CANNOT RESIST WITHOUT INVOKING MY BANNER. (Immolant Pt. 2)

And earlier seasons remembered this! The whole reason why Rasputin sacrificed himself was because Mara had enlightened everybody on the idea that Xivu would've gained power from any act of war and slaughter, regardless if it'd been against ours or her own soldiers. She'd set herself up to be struck against, and it would've been a power factory for her. Rasputin had no other choice than to fold and disable the weapons entirely. That was his sacrifice, that was what set him apart from the god of war in the end.

Season of the Deep had some insight on that too:

Zavala: Rasputin proved we can't beat Xivu Arath in direct conflict, but..

Sloane: Zavala, I tried every which way to fight her when Titan went dark. I never managed to put a dent in her plans. Just survive.

Zavala: So it is truly it. [sighs] And all that's left is for us to accept it.

(Deep Dives, Week Six)

And my absolute favourite:

Sloane: This report is interesting. Xivu Arath intended to use Rasputin's Warsat network as an unwinning scenario. We fire the Warsats on her army, she gains power through death. She fires the Warsats on the City, everyone dies. We only achieved victory through defeat. Through a... moment of sacrifice. It makes me wonder about our approach to defeating her.

Lord Saladin: Winning without fighting. Philosophers of war have contemplated this very thing, both in our culture and, as I've learned, those beyond Earth.

Sloane: How do you defeat the undefeatable? That's an interesting problem.

(Salvage, Week Three)

...But then we got Season of the Witch, and it turned out the way to defeat the undefeatable is simply to hit it harder.

Okay, but why shouldn't it work? I've said before Eris was extremely powerful by herself, and with the plan to boost her with our tithes, she'd be even more beefed up on sword logic. Why couldn't she hit Xivu Arath harder?

Well, for the simple reason that Xivu gets power from war--all war, or at least all war against herself. Even disregarding the sheer disparity in power at the start, the billions of years of tithes that Xivu was ahead of Eris, this idea was doomed at the start, because for every ounce of killing-power we passed over to Eris, Xivu got the same amount of tribute. We were making war on her, for Eir's sake, what else were we expecting?

Same goes for the idea that we cut off the tribute Xivu was getting from her powerful lieutenants like Ir Uulxal and took it for ourselves/Eris. Yeah, that's probable, but at the same time we were powering Xivu up by making war on her. That had been the whole point of her as an undefeatable antagonist.

I've heard people argue that what we were doing in Witch wasn't direct violence against Xivu, so it didn't count as war. And to those people I say that hybrid warfare is a thing. Seriously, my country neighbours both Russia and Belarus, and I don't want go on an IRL tangent but claiming the only act that count as war is the direct clashing of blades is some extremely medieval thinking. It's like saying the Cold War wasn't a war. Planning, plotting and strategising how to destroy an enemy absolutely is war, gathering power in order to destroy the enemy is war, trying to outmaneouver and outplay the enemy tactically is war. If the point is aggression or counteraggression, if there is An Enemy, it is war.

I'm willing to accept Eris got some amount of power from Xivu invoking her nature of vengeance in her acts of war against us, but still, it would be ridiculous to believe that would've been enough to match and surpass the might of Xivu herself. I'm sorry, it's simply unrealistic. In her acts of vengeance Xivu did not alter the universe in any meaningful way, she just threw a few beefed up Taken at us and that was it. If she'd, idk, kicked Venus into the Sun in her vengeful rage, then maybe we could've talked about Eris gaining a substantial boost of tribute, but as things stand there was barely anything to go by.

3.2) Savathûn and Death

Alright, but what about that extremely sexy assassination of Savathûn that Eris performed after the final mission? The game said that this was the source for the missing chunk of power Eris needed to defeat Xivu! Savathûn had been super powerful, right? Why wouldn't that be enough?

There are two problems here, and let's tackle the smaller one first. We don't really know how powerful Savathûn was after she had been raised as a Lightbearer, exactly. The tactical obliviousness of the entirety of Witch Queen to imbaru suggests post-rez Sav is no longer in the tithe system and cannot gain power through the Hive magic means because she doesn't have a worm anymore. That doesn't mind she isn't powerful, and that by deposing her one wouldn't make an enormous change in the universe, but we don't know if she can get more powerful anymore. SotWitch reintroduced the imbaru engine, but doesn't elaborate on what it even does now that Sav doesn't have a worm, or how it works.

And now the bigger problem: Eris did not claim Savathûn's power when she killed her.

This whole system is based on Anthem Anatheme, remember? Making ripples in the universe. Creating spaces between what-is and what-is-wanted. What Toland says after we kill Ascendant Oryx puts it well:

Dwell a moment on the weight of what you’ve done. Contemplate the story you just ended. Will you ever do anything that screams down the millennia? Will you ever hammer your will on the universe until it rings and rings and rings? Oryx was an awesome power. Show reverence. (Oryx: Defeated)

There is a reason why the Grimoire card unlocked by killing Oryx in Regicide is called "Oryx: Rebuked", and the one we get after killing him in King's Fall is "Oryx: Defeated". We did not defeat him in Regicide. We put a dent in his plans, sure, we weakened him, but we did not kill him. That's the point of Ascendance, of throne world and oversouls and other means of hiding death: they make you harder to kill permanently.

Ghosts are funny, because they serve pretty much the same purpose. They hide their Guardians' death. The Guardian isn't dead as long as their Ghost lives. That's our conditional immortality - we depend on our Ghosts just as Ascendant Hive depend on their throne worlds.

Death doesn't stick unless it's permanent and irreversible. I'll even risk the claim that the power Mara generated (and would've assumed, has she been in the tithing system) by indirectly causing Savathûn's death—immense power—was removed from her tally, so to say, in the moment of either Savathûn's resurrection, or when she got her memories back and decided she was still herself and not a new person with a clean record.

Eris couldn't have claimed Savathûn's power for herself without killing Immaru, just as she couldn't have taken the power generated by Oryx's death if he'd been killed in the physical world only. This wasn't an "interesting sword logic stunt", this was a suspension of logic priory established in-universe and it infuriates me to the point of pulling out hair. There is no way this can work. If it DID work, Ascendant Hive would've created power batteries for themselves by killing each other in the physical world and coming back to life as if nothing had happened eons ago. The Books of Sorrow go out of their way to point out that Savathûn and Xivu's deaths in star by star by star were "true deaths" and that's why Auryx was able to claim his sisters' power.

This is either a lazy retcon serving to nerf a character too powerful for the narrative to handle, or the writers not understanding how their own universe works. It's infuriating, it's stupid, and it does Xivu Arath so dirty I struggle to find words for it. It strips her of the most compelling part of her as an antagonist. And down at its core, it's a lack of creative courage. Did her undefeatability make Xivu Arath an extremely difficult antagonist to handle? Of course!! But when you write characters like that, you should be brave about it. You should commit. And as things stand now, it appears the creators had been challenged by their own story and instead of picking up a fight they backed out and changed the rules. They were been defeated by their own creation. Which is, of course, a note of praise to how good the creation was, but in the end it leads to a sad conclusion. Bungie can no longer handle the story they're telling; and whether that is because of the seasonal model, or the speed at which they've forced themselves to update at, or a lack of communication in the writing team, or any other reason, I sincerely don't care. The result remains the same either way.

#i like my lore with coffee #destiny 2 #hive #the darkness #season of the witch #xivu arath #eris morn #aunt savathûn #eris morning #little war sister #worm #worm gods #ahamkara

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