#comparative theology
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Debate: Which is worse, being cornered at a party by someone who wants to spend an hour explaining why Fight Club is their favourite movie, or being cornered at a party by someone who wants to spend an hour explaining why Evangelion is the best anime ever made?
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How Islam differs from Christianity
Good afternoon, I hope you're all taking care of yourself. Let's talk about Christianity. I am not here to insult the faith tradition of our brothers and sisters. This is merely a short essay describing how Islam is different than Christianity from the perspective of a Christian dominant culture. I grew up in America, I know what's in our cultural background noise and what isn't, and I simply want to fill in a few gaps. Insha'Allah, I will do this with as many faith traditions as I can, including polytheistic traditions as well as the history of symbols that have become culturally corrupted. I will probably fumble some of it due to being American, but I'll do my best.
If you get the feeling that I'm writing this entire project with equal parts disappointed-but-not-surprised, exhaustion, disdain, and hope, it's because I am. I can't take anything seriously, I know too much, my brain is exploding, and the only thing I care about is living for the pleasure of God SWT but I'm somehow still pretty bad at it. That is the byproduct of being Autistic and having God as your life-long, special interest. I could tell you the tale of how that came to be, but most people assume I'm lying or that I was dreaming when I say I saw an angel when I was 3 years old, and that gets tiresome so I don't wanna. Maybe later.
Islam is a monotheistic tradition that recognizes all the prophets that Christianity recognizes as well as many others, both named and unnamed. We believe that prophets were sent to all peoples so that they could be warned of the truth and correct their evil ways. Those ways, of course, are worshiping the creation instead of the creator. Idols made by the hands of men that usually represented ancestors who came to be idealized, animals or plants of the Earth's ecosystem, celestial bodies including the Earth itself, or even Jinn disguised as "demi-gods," "ghosts," "powerful spirits," "aliens," or in other ways are all parts of the creation that humans have placed their trust in instead of the Creator Himself. On that note, God is not gendered. There isn't a neuter way to refer to Him in Arabic but using the male pronoun allows differentiation from the goddess-heavy pagan traditions. Before I converted, I used to refer to God as, "It" because I rejected the Christian idea of the "Father" as a Man in the sky.
There is no Trinity concept in Islam, though not all modern Christians believe in the Trinity. We do not refer to Him as Father and we do not believe that Jesus or rather, Isa AS is God incarnate. We DO believe that Jesus is the messiah, but we believe that the crucifixion was a hoax. We DO believe he ascended to Heaven by the will of God and the help of the angels and that he will descend from the Heavens the same way at the end of time to help the people of that time survive the horrific trials that are to come. For those waiting on Christ to be reborn, well, we just don't jive with that. As for the third piece of the trinity, the Holy Spirit, we believe the counselor that came after Isa AS was actually Muhammad ﷺ, and that we've been able to access God through prayer and repentance all along. Unlike every prophet that came before him who were each sent each to their own people with a specific message, Muhammad ﷺ was sent to all mankind with the final revelation meant to be preserved for the rest of human history - the Qur'an. This is because other scriptures have been edited and corrupted, including the Bible. (Like, Paul just decided his letters were as good as gospel? The audacity. And don't even get me started on the rest of it.)
We believe that sins fall only on the doer of the sin. None of humanity bears the weight of the sins of Adam or anyone else and therefore, no great sacrifice was needed to free us in order to serve our Lord or have our repentance accepted. (The only exception to this rule is that Cain or Qabil bears some of the blood of every murder for having been the first to commit this crime.) Instead of original sin, we champion the concept of the fitra and believe that all babies are born Muslim - in submission to the will of God. For this reason, we more often refer to converts to Islam as reverts. This means they are reverting back to the truth. But this sounds scary to the western ear if they've never heard of it before, so I will continue to use the more generic term for changing religions. We believe that Adam was tricked by Satan first, and then shared the fruit with Eve. They both bore the sin equally, and Eve is not blamed for the fall of Man the way she is under the Christian framework.
As for Satan himself, he was not an Angel. Angels are incapable of disobeying God. Satan, or Iblis as he is named, was actually from among the Jinn. He worshiped so fervently that his status was elevated to be allowed to worship among the angels. However, when God created Adam, he commanded the Angels to prostrate to this creation in respect. Iblis refused out of pride and was promised punishment on the day of Judgement. He asked for respite until that day, and God rewarded him with what he asked for. His response was to promise that he would lead as many humans astray as he could with the time he was allotted. He then tricked Adam into eating the fruit and when he and his wife were in turn punished, they asked for forgiveness. God rewarded them with what they asked for.
Jinn and Man alike have free will. All other created beings are considered to be in a constant state of worship. Those of us with freewill volunteered for this test we call life before we were born, hoping to reap the reward of paradise. Those who fail will follow in the footsteps of the Shayatin who serve Iblis and will fall into the Hellfire after Judgement. There are Jinn of all religions just as there are humans of all religions. But just because there are Muslim Jinn does not mean we should seek to mingle or partner with them, as this constitutes a severe form of shirk called, "magic." The animals and plants are smarter than us because they didn't throw their akhira on the line just to experience the dunya.
As for Judgement Day, it only happens once. Not once for each person, but rather, once. After passing, we wait in our graves until the appointed hour and we all go through it together. Even after it comes to a close, we still have the final test before entering heaven: crossing the bridge of Sirat. Christianity has no concept of Sirat, but some other religions do. We don't believe in the rapture and we have very clear descriptions of the signs of the end times so that we don't confuse the Anti-Christ or the Dajjal with Isa. In fact, the pervasive belief that Isa is to be reborn seems to be just one more hazy idea that will allow many people to fall into the trap of wrongly believing the Dajjal is the Messiah.
Most of us do not believe that martyrs will receive 72 virgins in heaven. It's a weak hadith and only became popularized after the western world used it as an excuse to explain its concept of "Islamic t*****ism." We DO believe that men and women alike will be given heavenly spouses along with their earthly spouses, if they had one. This is often misunderstood because of how Arabic is gendered and this can make the translation difficult. Translation errors also account for misunderstanding the hijab. The verse is often translated using the words, "outer garments" to mean, "Jilbabs" which obfuscates the discussion around the veil and the barrier it provides. Even if we are uncovered and casual in our daily lives, we are still required to veil for worship in order to have our prayers accepted. Some modern Christians are beginning to readopt this practice. It was abandoned in the mainstream decades ago with changing fashions. I applaud those who have decided to go the extra mile in returning to this practice.
No dessert today, go eat a vegetable.
#islam#religion#convert to islam#la ilaha illa allah#christianity#spirituality#special interest#autism#actually autistic#autistic adult#comparative theology
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The Devotion of Saint Kristen Applebees
"devoted to [her] mission, is faithful to the call of the gods on [her] life. [She] is willing to sacrifice [her] own interests to those greater interests (...). [She] binds [her] will and [her] heart to that task. This is what it means to be pious."
(bastardization of Alan Jacob, on the origins and early meaning of the term pius)
#no joke i spent hours researching eusebia and pietas and greek mythology for this#and comparing to catholic/ christian theology#as one does#totally normal behaviour#kristen applebees#dimension 20#d20 fantasy high#fantasy high junior year#d20 fanart#dropout#dimension 20 fantasy high#fantasy high fanart#fantasy high#d20 fhjy#ribbittrobbit#rounded out the trilogy my dudes
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Christmas Messages
Christmas has become so strange to me as I get older.
Our Church's Christmas message was about what the incarnation said about God. The point was made that he couldn't just spread the sky, look down on humanity and tell us he was good without coming across as suspicious or creepy; or that he couldn't force us to be like him without diminishing his purpose. The arguments focused on getting us to accept God, not really upon the mystery of the incarnation itself at what it really means for us.
I contrast that message with Orthodox Troparions.
Fr. Barnabas Powell posted this one in his blog today:
“O Bethlehem, prepare, Eden is opened unto all. And be ready, Ephrata, for the Tree of life has in the grotto blossomed forth from the Virgin. Indeed her womb is shown to be spiritually a Paradise, in which is found the God-planted Tree. And if we eat from it we shall live, and shall not die, as did Adam of old. Christ is born, so that He might raise up the formerly fallen image!”
Fr. Basil delved into the theology behind this troparion earlier in his blog. Orthodox Christianity presents a package and this is one example - the Eucharist (Thanksgiving meal) is referenced, eating from the fruit of The Virgin (Christ), and the partaking of the divine nature - raise up what was was fallen.
Yes, he deigned to become one of us, but not just as a magic trick to convince us he was God, but because it was required for communion to take place between God and Man within the body of Christ himself.
In my mind, this is a far more salvific thought than engaging in the sentimental wonder that Christ might demean himself to become human so that we might believe in him.
Lord, have mercy upon me, A Sinner.
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The Judgment Of Solomon / Mike, Walt, & Jesse
5x01 - Live Free or Die / Valentin de Boulogne / “Split the Baby” Negotiations - Philip Krause / William Blake / 1 Kings 3:24-27 - KJV / 5x03 - Hazard Pay / José de Ribera / 5x04 - Fifty-One / Peter Paul Rubens / 5x06 - Buyout / William Dyce / Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino / 5x07 - Say My Name
#oh don’t mind me just feeling. a lot#oh it speaks#breaking bad#web weaving#brba#mike ehrmantraut#jesse pinkman#walter white#art#comparatives#brbabcs#jesse#words#theology#child death tw
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I appreciate how Oda illustrates this gap in cultural understanding. Oda is actually really good at getting to the heart of how people’s preconceived notions get in the way of understanding other cultures.
To Vivi, a fight to the death is pointless. She just listened to Dorry basically explain his religion and her response is to say, “this is stupid.” She’s still looking at this from her way of seeing the world, where a fight is about killing each other. She can’t see that to them this is holy.
#one piece#op ch116#saltey takes on one piece#luffy#dorry#vivi#nefertari vivi#monkey d luffy#please appreciate how hard i struggled to write about this without turning it into a lesson on comparative theology and christian hegemony#i deserve a cookie
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It's the little things in life that help me see God. The deluge that pours just seconds after I'm home safe ─ like a friend who holds an umbrella over my head for just a second more.
In the life of a loved one, helped just a bit more before despair ─ not comfortable, but endurable. Even if there's a late bus.
But also, when compared to others, how taken for granted it all used to be. Before that little spark of something (helped by the mundane), shows me the little ways my life is shaped and veered by will higher than my own.
#Religion#Christianity#Baptist#Theology#Faith#The Lord God#has been#kind to me.#He guides me down a hill with gentle slopes#How fortunate am I!#For my hardships are few compared to others#from writers become plebeians enlightened.
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thanks so much! i'm doing some vc skimming and got to the part in ttotbt where lestat tries to convince louis that he wants to be in lestat's place and louis is like 'actually i don't' and that reminded me about that excerpt you shared about desiring the father. then i started thinking about how louis' only two fledglings were women turned under very dubious circumstances almost like louis was a victim of reverse stealthing, vampire style. and how armand had similar hang ups about becoming the father. sorry for rambling lol
np!! that scene is sooo crazy to me bc lestat is operating off the assumption that his desires are natural and innate and universal and louis is like no you sicko lmfao
reverse stealthing is a WILD way to put it LMFAOO. but no ur right and especially with armand emphatically not siring any vampires for 500 years [although repeating marius cycles w mortals in many ways...] until daniel....i want to watch yellowjackets rn so im not going into it but wow armand character of all time.
also i read through the article again and it's actually very interesting to me like obviously has its limitations but theres really soo much psychoanalytic stuff going on w rice and they (the writers) have a lot of sharp observations. just skimming i found these particularly relevant
#I think i do want to read memnoch also like its soo badly written as a whole but i've been reading caroline walker bynum and#U could really write a whole paper comparing vampire pop mythology to late middle ages theology about blood and christ and gender.#Society if i was physically capable of reading post queen of the damned vc [the picture is worse]#obsessed w repetition and return...the way it is a gothic narrative even on the meta sense bc the author herself cannot envision meaningful#escape from the cycles..
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ive been exposed to some niche drama (marching band related) but in learning the specifics of the situation ive been hit with the realization that not everybody grew up fundie evangelical and might be lacking some of the context that makes this particular incident so strange. that said i have a question for all the non fundies out there
#speak friend and enter#the drama in question surrounds a performance at the national marching band championships#by an arkansas high school who did a tent revival themed performance#which is a very strange choice to say the least but a lot of people seemed very scandalized about what a tent revival actually is?#and im familiar w them so i was a little confused by that reaction but objectively if you dont know abt them then yeah theyre weird as hell#my particular church thought tent revivals as a practice were blasphemous because they relied so heavily on music#(i went to a church that has been compared to the church from footloose bc they're anti instrumental music in services)#but a lot of the same preaching styles used in the church i went to were derived from revival style preaching/theology#bc the movement grew out of revivalism. my grandma used to go to revivals tho
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The producer of HOD ripped women today. Sara Hess is confused why females online love Daemon. Which reminds me a little of the whole Chuck love. I think women in our society have a lot to work on still.
Okay I'm guessing you're referencing this Hollywood Reporter line item. But, okay, I read it bc I was curious, and I don't think she "ripped" anyone, she was just saying she didn't get it, because Daemon, though an interesting and complicated character, is not a good person, and has many qualities that are not...shall I say...desirable in a partner. And like, I agree with her tastes, but like the quote the article gives from Clare Kilner (one of the directors), I don't not get the appeal, because I think the sensation has a lot to do with the performance Matt Smith is giving.
and like, I'm not gonna preach to people what they should or shouldn't like. it's fiction. Daemon rides a dragon and goes cliff climbing for dragon eggs, he ain't real. And maybe it's reminiscent of the chip wiskers billionaire dream boyfriend effect (tm strideofpride), by a simplistic reading of the "bad boy" attraction parallel, but they just...do not read the same to me. maybe that's because I enjoy seeing Smith as Daemon on screen, and I get no joy in seeing the other guy.
The difference is Daemon is a well-written, complex, interesting character portrayed by an exceptionally skilled and talented performer. Chuck Bass had none of those things going for his character.
and I don't think people making memes and jokes about lusting after daemon is indicative of some moral failing in women. idk it's something I've thought about a lot, both here on tumblr and in discussions with friends about HOTD and other shows, that culturally we (in the royal sense of the word) are more secular than ever before, and in the absence of a religion to offload our moral weight-lifting to, we now do it with the media we consume and the media and characters we like, as a way to showcase our virtue. and therefore, liking a "bad" or, should I say, "unvirtuous" character, reflects poorly on us. but that's just not how stories work, or at least, not how they should work. To me, the only kind of bad character is an uninteresting one, one that I don't care to get to know or hear their story. and Daemon is not a bad character, and in the hands of an excellent writing and production team, and series of directors, and a world class performer like Smith, he's become one of the most interesting characters in the series. And, it's worth noting, several of the writers and directors of these first ten episodes are women. HOTD's story is women-led in a way GOT wasn't and I find that SO exciting!
#i'm sorry I know you probs didn't mean to kickstart a post about liz's thoughts on gender studies and media literacy and theology#but I am what I am#and I just think think dismissing women in fandom and their preferences as 'frivolous' and something that needs to be worked on#is a slippery slippery slope#I know I have another hotd/gg ask to answer in my drafts#and I shall#but like...comparing the two...let's not.#(unless it's about blairena & rhaenyra/alicent and women archetypes in stories)#comparing gg - a cw teen soap with the budget to match#to hotd - a high fantasy higher budget hbo prestige tv dragon passion project -- it's just silly#it's not even like comparing apples and oranges it's...apples and hdmi cables.#completely different things with different purposes#(and do I lust after matt smith a little bit? maybe.)#(but like i've said before. it has everything to do with his talent and skill at his craft and little to do with aesthetic attraction#or the character he's portraying here)#not tagging the show so if you filter it I'm sorry but I do not want this in the main tag#still getting notifs from the last time I did that#and I am trying to maintain a state of semi-hiatus here#I'm still answering messages and asks#(I mean I plan to answer asks)#but the goal is to reduce time spent on tumblr for a while#asks#anon
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Here is "progressive evangelical" Kristin Du Mez's "clear as mud" statement about her relationship to evangelical LGBTQphobia.
She is a very good writer. That I am not able to discern what her own evangelical conception of LGBTQ people's status should be within and outside "the Church" is probably intentional on her part.
I post this because this is completely typical of "progressive evangelicals". They describe some other evangelicals as homophobic, but don't say what they themselves think about the "clobber passages" in the Bible.
"Progressive evangelicals" are a new thing since I came out and was involved in gay activism decades ago. Back in the day, they were all straight up homophobes. There was not this current "nuance"/evasiveness.
I have more feelings and hopefully more to say about these people.
#''progressive'' evangelicals#''progressive evangelicals''#progressive evangelicals#Christianity tw#evangelicalism tw#anti-LGBTQ theology tw#To be clear: I don't know if Du Mez would describe herself as a progressive evangelical or not#but i'm pretty sure she thinks of herself as evangelical#and she is undeniably progressive compared to a large group of male supremacist rightist evangelical men#who she gets criticized by frequently
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Smash that Protestant lens
Great piece from John Beckett this morning which covers some really good points about how to write about different religions, why the word “religion” should not be used as a synonym for Christianity, and how not all religions fit the “Protestant lens” (the way people tend to use the Protestant paradigm as a way to try to make sense of other religions—which doesn’t work).
Decentering Christianity…
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"So I'm about to say something really... Hmm... Weird," Joe said as he leaned against the building, arms crossed.
"Is that supposed to be news to me?" Cleo asked, rifling through her bag and pulling out two apples. She passed one to Joe, and he took it.
"If it were, I don't think we'd be friends."
"I figured."
"Anyway it's a little weirder than normal."
"I'll be the judge of that, I think."
Joe shrugged, took a bite of his apple and said, "So, one of the arguments against a benevolent God -- don't look at me like that I told you it was weird -- anyway, so, if God was so nice, would he have put a bomb in the Garden of Eden?"
Cleo blinked at Joe for a long moment.
"Sorry, I'll back up a little," Joe smiled apologetically. "How much do you know about human theology?"
"I've been human before Joe," Cleo glowered, pulling a knife from her pocket and cutting a small piece away from her apple. "That's just a really strong lead."
Joe shrugged. "Did you expect anything different?"
"No, it's just a little early for theology today."
"We can talk about something else, if you want."
A shout interrupted their conversation. Grian sprinted past, laughing maniacally and apologizing in the same breaths. Doc followed quickly after him, shouting curses and insults. Joe and Cleo both took contemplative bites of their apples and watched the two run.
"No, I want to see where this conversation is going," Cleo said finally, slicing another piece of her apple off.
"Okay, so, some people believe God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and also, all-benevolent," Joe continued, twisting his apple stem with every adjective. "But if He were all of those things, why would He make a bunch of curious humans, tell them they could touch everything except one specific big red button, and, knowing they would definitely press it, just sit back and watch?"
"I wasn't aware buttons and bombs existed at the same time as the Garden of Eden."
"One could argue the whole Soddom and Gammorah thing was bomb-like."
"That was definitely, definitely meteors, Joe."
"Also the bomb thing is an analogy, and you know it's an analogy."
"What are we analogy-ing?" Mumbo asked, flaring his elytra as he landed beside them.
Cleo pulled a third apple from her bag and passed it to him, "Pretty sure Joe is comparing you to God."
Mumbo took the apple, looking incredulous. He gave a laugh that was half nervous, half confused. "I-- well that's-- that's very flattering Joe. I didn't realize you thought so highly of me."
"You would think that," Cleo smirked, slicing off another piece of apple.
"What?"
"So the question stands," Joe continued as though neither of the interruptions took place. "If God is good, why did he put a big red button in the Garden of Eden?"
Mumbo opened his mouth, and then deciding he had no idea what this conversation was about, actually, he closed it again.
"Maybe God was feeling optimistic that day," Cleo offered. "Or maybe even gods need to screw around and find out sometimes. For instance, I know this apple is definitely going to rot in me later, but I'm also definitely still eating it."
"Fair point," Joe said, twisting off his apple stem and flicking it to the ground. "So maybe God can make mistakes, or He was curious, or there was something ineffable going on at the time. But if God did it twice," Joe gave Mumbo a sideways glance, "would that be screwed up or what?"
Mumbo opened his mouth again, closed it, opened it again.
"Mumbo a fly is going to buzz in there if you aren't careful," Cleo said.
"Okay, okay. I can see where -- okay. So, first off, I'm not God," Mumbo said, and then paused, because Scar was screaming and running past them now, followed shortly by Grian, who was followed shortly by Doc. Then he continued, "Also this isn't Eden."
"It's an analogy," Joe reminded him unhelpfully, smiling warmly.
"Also how was I supposed to know this would happen again?"
"That Grian would push a button, or that Grian would push a button specifically to mess with Doc?" Cleo asked innocently.
Mumbo opened and closed his mouth again eloquently.
"You've gotta admit, at this point it is starting to look intentional," Joe pointed out.
"What's starting to look intentional?" Jevin interrupted, landing amidst the group standing on the fringes of the shopping district. Cleo offered him another apple.
"A malevolent God," Joe answered.
"My button," Mumbo grumbled at the same time.
"The hubris of man," Cleo added, because it seemed relevant.
"I HAVE BEEN STANDING HERE FOR THIRTY-SIX HOURS GRIAN. THIRTY-SIX." Doc screamed, passing so close to the four onlookers in his chase, they could no longer talk over his yelling. "I WANT THAT CROWN IT BELONGS TO ME."
Grian slid across the grass, narrowly dodging Doc's thrown axe. He threw the gaudy purple crown he'd stolen to Scar, who sprinted off in another direction with it. Doc roared angrily, "I LET YOU TOO OFF EASY LAST TIME BUT NO MORE! I WILL RAIN TNT AND FIRE ON YOUR BASES! I WILL TEAR THEM APART BLOCK BY BLOCK I WILL--!"
"I'm sorry Doc!" Grian cackled, not sounding sorry at all, "It's just -- you're so fun to mess with!"
He and Scar spread their elytras and leaped into the sky, followed shortly by Doc, who was still shouting.
Jevin, Cleo and Joe all turned to look at Mumbo, who rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
"Okay so... Maybe it's possible, yes, I could have foreseen this happening," Mumbo said begrudgingly. "But I mean, it's not all that bad, is it?"
"We do have a lot of fun fighting wars," Jevin agreed, shoving his entire apple into his face. It hovered blue-tinted in his opaque slime for a moment before rapidly dissolving.
"You would, Jevin," Cleo smiled.
"Sleep with one eye open, Cleo," Jevin replied conversationally.
"Some of our best mini games came out of the Mycelium War," Joe observed, taking one more bite out of his apple.
Mumbo looked down at his apple contemplatively.
"So the question still stands," Cleo said, after a long pause had passed between them, "is Mumbo evil for inflicting The Button Game on us the first time, or the second time?"
Joe shrugged, "I think like all religion, the answer is subjective. Doc would argue yes. Grian would argue no."
"That wasn't a yes-or-no question," Jevin said.
"I would argue I'm still not God, so this is a terrible analogy, actually!" Mumbo shouted defensively, and then took a bite of his apple, closing the subject.
#the barking writer#hermitcraft#joe hills#zombiecleo#ijevin#mumbo jumbo#docm77#grian#goodtimeswithscar#the button game#theology#kiiiiiind of#anyway this popped into my head this morning like a fever dream lol
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Title: Profane.
Commissioned by the very lovely, very patient @elsecrytt.
Pairing: Yandere!Diavolo x Reader (Obey Me).
Word Count: 7.0k.
TW: AFAB!Reader, Dub/Con (Coercion + Inebriation), Brief Cannibalism, Wildly Unhealthy Relationships, Manipulation, Torture (No Injury To Reader), No Like Literal Torture, Gore, Blood, Possessiveness, Theology, and Past Trauma (Reader's Got Issues). The Dove Was Dead, Got Resurrected, And Is Once Again Dead. Please Do Not Eat.
Barbatos showed you to the garden himself.
Usually, guests as unremarkable as yourself would be ushered in by some lesser demonic spirit, shown directly to Diavolo’s in-home office, and rushed out as quickly as the prince’s unwavering sense of hospitality would allow. You’d been through the process yourself a handful of times since you came to the underworld, gotten to visit the castle on an errand for RAD often enough for the shocked awe to dull into simple wonder, but you’d never been able to see the prince or Barbatos in their own home, and when you received the prince’s package, when you smelled the fresh scent of roses and felt silk against your hands, a part of you refused to believe this could be anything but another request to run a few files from one location to another, an invitation to discuss an upcoming festival or ceremony somewhere less imposing than the shadowy, stiflingly gothic student council room. Part of you still refused to believe it now, in all honesty, even as you walked arm-in-arm with the prince’s butler. Even as you wore the gown he'd sent to your off-campus apartment, a wine-red train trailing half a meter behind you and the fabric of the corset clinging to your skin like spider silk.
Even as you stepped into his rose garden, the rose garden. The rose garden you’d only ever heard about in gossip and rumors. The rose garden that was supposed to be saved for the prince and his select few.
The rose garden you were never supposed to see, and yet.
And yet.
A pavilion had been erected in the center of the innermost ring and decorated for the occasion, cords of red blossoms strung across the obsidian guardrails and a trail of flower petals left out to guide your way. Barbatos left you a few paces away from the pavilion’s steps, bowing his head as he detangled himself from your rigid hold. He spared you no words of comfort, offered you no advice, only letting out a breath of a chuckle as he slipped away and disappeared into the tangle of the garden. It fell onto you to soothe yourself, so you did – sucking a ragged inhale and balling your shirt in your hands before forcing yourself to relax, driving an ounce of tension out of your shoulders and willing your hands to stop shaking as you took an unsteady step towards the pavilion, then another, then another, until you were starting up the short staircase and it was too late to turn around and hide. There was a table let up on the center of the platform, a teapot and matching cups and saucers laid out among a sugar jar and an adorably quaint cream jug. It would’ve been charmingly simple, if the set hadn’t been crafted from pure obsidian and most likely would have cost more than a year of your salary.
Diavolo was at the head of the table, dressed in a suit that matched your gown. The sound of your footsteps drew his attention, his expression brightening as his eyes might yours and a wide, giddy smile you could only compare to that of a lovestruck schoolboy spread across his lips. He pushed himself to his feet hastily, your name falling from his lips with a slight stutter. There was a rose in his hand, but rather than thrust it into yours, he held onto it, opting to pull you into a brief, bone-crushing hug, instead. “I’m sorry to call you here on such short notice,” he said, his voice breathy and the words spoken quickly enough to blur together. “And I, well—” Now, the rose was presented to you, his smile taken on a shy tilt. “I thought it’d be romantic. Admittedly, it feels a little silly now.”
“No, no, it’s very sweet.” You rushed to reassure him, more afraid of making this more awkward than it had to be than genuinely hurting his feelings. You tried to take the rose by the stem, but your thumb caught on an unpruned thorn and you pulled back out of instinct. There was no pain, but when you glanced down, you found a small bead of scarlet, the injury practically nonexistent but an injury, nonetheless. Diavolo’s expression faltered, but you were quick to take up the rose again and tuck anything that might’ve sown any ill-will away. “You were going to tell me why you asked me to come…?”
Immediately, his smile returned in full force. “Please, have a seat.”
A chair was pulled out, a cup filled and sugar cubes dispensed generously. You took the cup in your hands, but didn’t raise it to your lips, only soaking in the gentle warmth as Prince Diavolo cleared his throat and went on, more nervous than a man of his status, a man with so much power over you had any right to be. “I’m sure you’ve already guessed why you’re here. I know subtly isn’t my strong suit.” A slight pause, a hopeful smile. Somehow, the implication of his anxiety alone was enough to make the knot resting in the pit of your stomach twist that much tighter. “We don’t know each other very well, but… I think I’d like to know you a little better, if you understand what I mean.”
Oh, you did.
You’d understood as soon as you saw the low cut of the dress, as soon as you were told you’d be meeting him in privacy.
Still, you played coy, shaking your head as you leaned back in your seat. “I’m afraid I don’t, your highness.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I don’t want you to feel like royalty, right now.” And yet, he’d asked you to meet him behind his castle, attended to by his butler, wearing the gown he’d had tailor made for you. You would to ask how he got a hold of your measurements later on. Actually, you shouldn’t ask him anything at all – it’d be a mercy if you never had to talk to him again. “I’d like to court you. Officially. With your permission, of course.”
It was a thoughtful gesture, but then again, your permission could only count for so much when a flick of his wrist and a half-baked royal decree would change the meaning of consent by its very definition.
You let your eyes fall to the table, then to the rose in your hand. “I don’t know how to say this,” A pair of pursed lips, a decisive beat of silence. “But, I’m not sure, your highness.”
This time, he didn’t bother to correct you. “You’re not sure?”
“As you said, we don’t know each other very well.” You gaze caught on the spot of blood still welling on the pad of your thumb. A minor inconvenience, but still an inconvenience. It’d make handling much of anything a nuisance for the rest of the day. It’d make you pause the next time you thought about taking a particularly beautiful rose by the stem. “And I’m afraid there might be some parts of me that you wouldn’t be so happy with, if you saw them for yourself.”
That seemed to catch his attention. Whereas you leaned back, he leaned forward, arms crossing over the tabletop. “I have to admit, it’s hard to believe that there’s any part of you I wouldn’t be happy with.”
“It’s just,” A thorn in the right place could ruin the entire rose. Hopefully, if you managed to break the skin, he’d give up on you entirely and move on to less pointed flowers. “I have some… appetites that people have deemed difficult to keep up with, in the past. It’s nothing out of place for those in my profession, but I’d hate for you to have to waste your time tending to my desires.”
You could practically see the excitement spark in his eyes, feel it rolling off of him in waves. “Please, go on.”
“It’s too morbid to discuss in polite company,” you said, sparing a glance towards the walls of the rose garden, as if you were wary that someone might be listening in. “But things tend to get gory rather quickly, and I have been known to get a little carried away when I get something sharp in my hand.”
The tea was put aside completely, forgotten in favor of more interesting topics. He didn’t stand, didn’t do anything to close the limited distance between you, but you could tell he wanted to, that he wasn’t taking your threats seriously enough for intrigue to dip into caution, and that was all you needed. “I think you’d look stunning with something sharp in your hand.”
“But I’d hate to waste your time,” you reiterated, bowing your head. “And your subjects might not care for me, once they see what I’ve done to their ruler.”
“We’ll have to keep this our little secret, then.” While you had your doubts about how secret one of his secrets could stay, he was clearly excited enough to buy into the idea that it would be possible. “And, as for your appetites…”
This time, he stood, rounding the table and falling to one knee at your side. For a second, your heart stopped beating in your chest, your mind forcing you to consider the possibility that your vision of rings and proposal might not have been based entirely in paranoid delusion, but he only gestured for your hand and reluctantly, you gave it to him. His lips ghosted over the curve of your knuckles, then turning your hand over in his own, the apex of your wrist, lingering against your pulse point. Finally, he pulled away, grinning up at you as he went on.
“I’m sure we’ll find a way to satisfy that hunger.”
~
You were starting to wonder if, even in your grandest of schemes, your eyes might’ve been bigger than your stomach.
It was old work. Diavolo – as he insisted you call him, despite your best attempts to keep a semblance of formality between you and him – was eager to please, quick to show you he was just as enthusiastic as you claimed to be and dedicate one of the more expendable rooms in his sprawling castle to your little engagements. The tools of your trade were discussed and crafted into familiar shapes: thorns braided into the lashes of the whips, runic symbols you’d long-since forgotten how to read burnt into the leather of the riding crop, a small vial of holy water waiting beside a gold-lined tub of water. Even the dagger you were holding was of celestial design, the blade symmetrical and gilded with pure silver, the hilt molded but not padded, allowing the chill to seep into your palm without reservation.
It was a relief, however small, that you wouldn’t have to use the demonic weapons you’d nearly gotten used to. In the Devildom, suffering was just another tool, something to be used when convenient and drowned out with needless hedonism when not. In the Celestial Realm, suffering was holy.
There was nothing holy about this, though. You’d had the foresight to restrain him, binding his wrists and ankles to each poster of his grand bed with enchanted chains, but he offered no resistance. Even brought low enough to fall into his demonic form, to show himself with leathery wings sprouting from his back and gold-adorned horns curling upward from his scalp, he retained as much of his composure as you could expect him to, keeping his claws curled into his palms and dulling his fangs with the occasional whimper or sudden gasp. When you dragged the point of the blade from the spine of his wing to the small of his back, he arched as if leaning into your brutal touch and clenched his eyes shut, but he didn’t scream. You almost wished he would. At least then, you’d be able to tell if you were making progress.
It was old work, but more importantly, it was work you’d been good at, once upon a time. Your mind might be out of practice, but your hands remembered how to move, how to cut, at just what angle to hold your dagger as you slid the flat of the blade into the incision. It was a delicate balance; applying enough force to cut through the connective tissue without tearing the epidermis. There was a slick sound from underneath your knife, a half-choked groan from Diavolo, and skin separated from muscle, leaving both intact and swimming in an agony of their own. It was beautifully precise, the kind of workmanship that should’ve gotten you a promotion. You could only regret that it was wasted on Diavolo.
Thick, dark blood washed over his tan skin, spilling out in every direction and distracting you from your task. With a disgruntled sigh, you turned to your supplies and took up the most limited of your precious tools: common table salt, imported from the human world and kept in a simple glass jar. You’d always known it had purifying properties that demons didn’t care for, but it’d surprised you just how difficult it was to get a hold of in the Devildom. Diavolo was strong enough to withstand it without being reduced to a pile of smoldering ash, but hopefully, the burn would be more than he cared to endure.
With great care not to get any on yourself, you took up the vial of holy water and undid the bottle’s seal, dampening the blade of your dagger with a generous portion. “Did you know that holy water can’t be diluted?” You asked, idly, taking one of the larger salt rocks between your thumb and forefinger and crushing it, savoring the slight sting before spreading the fine residue over one side of your blade. “My boss didn’t – used to lecture me for wasting it. You should really be more selective about your staff, down here.” You paused, bringing the point of your dagger back to Diavolo’s skin. You found your target quickly: the flesh over his shoulder blade, where the tissue was thin and the bone prominent. You drove it down with just enough force to break the skin, and in an instant, you were rewarded with the smell of burning flesh. “It was one of the first miracles the guys upstairs performed on Earth, after the humans realized they could it themselves without divine intervention. Remember to spare a drop for the next batch, and you’ve got an endless supply – as good as if it’d come from Micheal himself.”
You returned to the first incision, sliding your blade back into the slit you’d just carved. There was some resistance – Diavolo’s regenerative abilities were second to none, just as you’d expected from demonic royalty – but with grit teeth and a quirk of your wrist, you pushed through it, spreading your little concoction across raw, bleeding muscle. This time, Diavolo screamed, the sound animalistic and agonized and exactly what you were looking for. It reminded you of wind chimes, of church bells, of a timbre voice congratulating you on a job well-done as you stood over the maimed remains of a breathing corpse. Eager to chase that satisfaction, you pressed down harder, cutting into the muscle of his back before jerking your dagger back, ripping through tissue and flesh and leaving carnage in your path. You couldn’t just smell burnt flesh, this time – you could practically taste it, coating your tongue like ash and filling your lungs like smoke. Everything your blade touch seemed to melt, to scorch, leaving a filthy black char slashed across Diavolo’s back, infecting the wound you’d inflicted. If you were at work, if he were anyone else, you’ve taken it further, watched the blisters form down the curve of his back as you slowly and melodically removed each unnecessary vertebra of his spine, but he was a prince, and your goal wasn’t to kill him. You just had to make him wish he was dead when he was with you – that was all.
You dropped the dagger onto the stone floor, sucking in a harsh breath as you shook out your stiff fingers. You considered the whips, elegant in their design and brutal in the affection, then the golden tub, how good it would feel to string your fingers through his hair before you shoved his head below water, but the former would leave too many marks too quickly and the latter would’ve taken more preparation than you’d cared to make. Instead, you chose something you were less familiar with – a length of braided silver, leather handles molded onto either end. You slung it over your shoulder as you climbed onto the bed and straddled his waist. Out of instinct, his wings shuttered, moving to fold themselves against his back, but you grabbed the arch of his left wing’s spine and forced it flat against the velvet sheets, holding it still as the appendage squirmed and thrashed below you. “No fighting back,” you muttered, because it was what you’d agreed on as you stepped over the threshold to his little homemade torture chamber, because it seemed like the last thing you’d want to hear when you were at someone else’s mercy. “Remember why I’m doing this. If you don’t want to take, I don’t need to give.”
“That’s not—” Heavy panting between each word, all attempts at speaking soon forfeited in favor of an airy gasp. You waited for him to settle, driving a nail into the delicate membrane of his wing for each second he failed to spit something out. “I understand,” he said, eventually, marking the first full thought he’d managed to express since you finished restraining him. “Keep going.”
You didn’t move. “Is that how you’re going to talk to me?”
A dry swallow, a moment of hesitation. A demon’s pride was a difficult thing to put aside, even for a demon like Diavolo. “Please.”
If he’d been anyone else, you would’ve made him grovel.
But, you could only ask so much from such a spoiled prince.
“Raise your head.”
No pet names, no dark humor, no purring or cooing or anything spared to soften the words. He obeyed, tilting his head back and letting you wrap the cord once around his neck once, because anything more than that would only spread the agony, make it that much easier to differentiate from the feeling of your weight against his back, dampen the awareness that it was your hands holding the end of his noose. You wanted him to know it was you. As you pulled the cord taut, you pictured him lying in his own bed hours later, blood washed away and wounds bandaged. After the adrenaline was gone, the excitement replaced with hollow exhaustion and the cold absence of affection, would he cry? Would the pain get to him first, or the misery of it all, the aching realization that what you were doing to him wasn’t something people did to those they loved? Would he curse your name, any heartbreak stifled by pure loathing for the person who left him in such a state of desperation? Would he hate you?
“It’s not the tightness that leads to suffocation – another common misconception. Your guys already knew that one, though.” Crossing both ends of the cords over one another, you cranked them tighter, then tighter again. Admittedly, this kind of thing wasn’t your strong-suit – you’d never been the type to rely on raw strength alone – but the sturdiness of the cord did most of the work for you, winding into itself and biting into his skin without cutting into what laid beneath it. Or, without cutting into yet, at least.
“It’s the pressure,” you said as you leaned over him properly, planting your knees in the plush of the down-stuffed mattress. “That’s the real trick - being able to apply enough force to crush the windpipe and cut off the lungs. From there, all you have to do is—” You paused, letting out a soft, strained groan as you pulled the cord ever-tighter. If you let go of the handles, it would’ve held its shape, but it felt cruel to be so impersonal. “—sit back and watch.”
There was a whimper by way of response, more pleading than pained. His mouth fell open, something that could’ve been generously interpreted as the beginning of a word falling past his lips, but you took mercy on him, clicking your tongue as you braced yourself for what came next. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere.” And then, after a second of thought, “Have you ever thought about what it’d be like to hang to death, your highness?”
Even if he could answer, you wouldn’t have let him. You hauled him upward suddenly, letting the cord rise to the sensitive junction just underneath his chin and winding it farther, farther, until it made good on its threats and a thin cut formed across the curve of his throat, a twin laceration appearing on the other side a few seconds later. He struggled underneath you, attempting to maintain his composure and control his breathing until instinct took over and he was left gasping, sputtering, trying to force air back into the lungs you controlled, now. Despite yourself, the corners of your lips curled upward, a profound satisfaction flooding through your veins and momentarily blocking out what little rational thought remained. Diavolo was depraved, but this was your line of work, your field of expertise. You felt phantom hands on your shoulders, lips ghosting over the top of your head. You deserved to be happy, when you were doing so well at what you were meant to do. You deserved to take pride in a job well-done.
Struggling, struggling, then release. His shoulders dropped, his form going limp, and just as his eyes threatened to close and his mind gave out completely, you let go of the cord, letting it fall back to the base of his throat. It took a few more seconds to detangle, another to rub the lingering salt on your fingers into the new cuts on his neck. While he panted, drooled, made a mess of himself, you basked in your holy reverence, newly purified by the sacredness of your responsibilities. You remained there, in that state of simple contentedness, until Diavolo broke the silence.
“Is that—” A harsh breath, a fit of coughing. Your mind supplied the rest of his question automatically. Is that enough? Is it over, now?
You almost smiled, almost told him that it’d be over as soon as he decided that he couldn’t handle you, anymore, but he went on before you could, his tone playful despite the blood now seeping into his sheets. “Is that all?”
You felt something very heavy and very sharp fall into the pit of your stomach. “Of course not,” you said, because that’s what you were supposed to say. Because when they asked for more, you were supposed to give it to them.
Because, if he wanted more, you’d give it to him until he couldn’t stand the thought of ever letting you touch him again.
“We’re just getting started.”
~
You could get to the rose garden on your own, by now.
Lucifer and Barbatos were already seated in their usual places, both looking uncharacteristically relaxed. Barbatos’ smile got a little brighter as you approached, and after you’d slid into your designated seat, Lucifer greeted you with a clap of his hands, a lilt to his posture. “I assumed you and Diavolo would be arriving together.”
You pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth. You’d learned quickly, within the first month of Diavolo’s proposal, that you’d been right to assume you wouldn’t be able to keep it yourselves for very long. Still, it surprised you just how quickly he told Lucifer and Barbatos about your little trysts. “He’s still cleaning up.”
Barbatos’ constant smile took on a teasing quirk. “What a heartless lover you are, to leave him alone in a state like that.”
“He knew I wasn’t the doting type going into this.” It wasn’t a lie. You’d never claimed that any part of your attention would be the loving kind, that whatever polite affection you showed to him when he dragged you out to upper-crust restaurants and diamond-studded nightclubs and parties with only the Devildom’s most elite in attendance wouldn’t extend to the time you spent alone together. Love was a pretense, not a necessity. You could only hope Diavolo was tender hearted enough to be hurt by your callousness. “You’re the babysitter, here. Shouldn’t you be the one patching him up?”
He moved to respond, but Lucifer was quick to cut in, leaning forward as he spoke. “Have you two already—” A coy smile, a vague gesture with a gloved hand. You weren’t sure what’d gotten into him. You’d never seen Lucifer or Barbatos so giddy, even if the extent of their excitement seemed to be a few probing questions and a new willingness to bare their teeth without snapping at your throat. “—well, I’m sure you know.”
You swallowed, dryly. The idea of sex hung over your relationship like a funeral shroud, weighing the heaviest when you stepped over the threshold and into whatever makeshift dungeon he’d chosen for the two of you that night, when he spared you a smile that meant he could only be expecting one thing. You didn’t want to know what would happen if he continued not to get it, but you didn’t want to sleep with him, either. You didn’t want to sleep with him. You didn’t want to give up that much of yourself, to fall that deeply into the den of vipers you couldn’t seem to claw your way out of. You knew, rationally, that you were already as tainted as you could possibly be, that Diavolo couldn’t possibly touch you in way that was worse than how you touched him, but your heart refused to give up on the idea that you weren’t beyond redemption, just yet.
Surprisingly, Barbatos came to your defense, although you couldn’t say he sounded very empathetic. “Keep your mind out of the gutter,” he said, in a way that implied that this was a subject they’d already discussed in-depth. “You know how hard it can be for fallen angels to adjust.”
“Not every fallen angel. It only took me a decade to make a name for myself.” He’d also made the choice to fall, but you thought better than to say that aloud. “It’s just a matter of getting a taste for it. Let them take the plunge now, before our little prince loses patience.”
You opened your mouth, but anything you might’ve said died on your tongue as the weight of two hands settled on each of your shoulders, as you felt Diavolo press a kiss into your cheek. You bit back a grimace, but the contract was mercifully fleeting, gone as soon as Diavolo straightened his back and directed his attention to the rest of the table. “What am I supposed to be so impatience about, exactly?”
Lucifer was quick to change the topic. “I was starting to think that you’d forgotten about us.”
Rather than turn to Lucifer, his eyes fell back to you. You could feel his stare, awful and adoring, boring into you as he spoke.
“As if I could ever think of anything else.”
~
You found yourself undressed and barely conscious on a golden rug in front of a searing fireplace a few days later.
Your body felt lighter than it should’ve been. In hindsight, you’d had too much to drink to be around another person, let alone underneath one. You’d thought, foolishly, that another sip, another glass, another bottle of wine would help to settle your nerves, to make you seem like an easier conquest than Diavolo would’ve liked, but all it’d done was make you too easy to turn up – prey that’d already been left to bleed by some other conveniently absent predator. It might’ve been your own fault, for assuming Diavolo would show more courtesy to you than you’d ever shown to him. It might’ve been your own fault, for going out of your way to pretend you so genuinely couldn’t tell the difference between cruelty and love.
Ah, speak of the devil and he shall appear. You could hear footsteps somewhere in the muddled distance, make out a song of a hum just above the soft crackling of the fireplace, and then, he was back, settling onto the mess of sheets and pillows beneath you, an overfull goblet in one hand and the other suddenly cupping your cheek. He wore nothing, save for the chokingly tight collar of silver chain you’d wrapped around his neck hours ago. You could remember holding a tether, feel the strip of leather biting into your palm, but you must’ve let go of it at some point. Whatever happened, it was gone now.
Drifting lower, you could see where your nails had cut into his chest, his back, his throat. You might’ve bitten him, too – you could taste something heavy and metallic on your tongue, but it would’ve been impossible to tell if it was his blood or your own. He’d made no attempt to hide your marks, to wash the remaining blood and slick and saliva off his skin. They were filthy creatures, demons. Filthy, and sinful, and undeserving. If you had your way, they’d be left to dwell in their vile hedonism for the rest of time, left alone to their self-indulgent wickedness until they all began to rot. Or, better yet, brought to some great altar built to celebrate their demise, their beating hearts carved out and offered up in repentance. You’d do the butchering yourself, if you had to.
You wanted to dip yourself in a vat of acid. You wanted to bathe in light. You wanted to scream and thrash as Diavolo took your hand, then your wrist, dragging you into a sitting position until you could you had to rely on your own unsteady posture to keep yourself up-right, but you didn’t, didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound as he brought the goblet up to your lips. Sacrament, you thought, as you swallowed down as much of the sweet wine as you could before he took that away from you too, replacing the goblet’s mouth with his own. You didn’t kiss back, didn’t throw yourself against him and beg for his love, his attention, but he pulled away with a satisfied hum. “I think this might be when you’re the most beautiful,” he sighed, cupping your cheek. “In my home, painted with my marks, silhouetted by the firelight…” He let his shoulders drop, and his tone took on a wistful lull. “It’s a breath-taking sight, and you don’t know how much relief it brings me to know that I’ll be the only person to ever see it.”
Your eyes fell to the rug, nearly gaudy in its splendor. You swore to yourself that, if you ever managed to get away from Diavolo, you’d never willingly lay your eyes on a single piece of gold again. “Does…” You started, then trailed off, bowing your head before going on. “Does it ever bother you, knowing I don’t feel the same way?”
You wanted to be more transparent, to say that would never love him, to make it clear that all you’d ever try to do was hurt him, but even to your loathing-addled mind, the words sounded too harsh, too cutting with too little to gain from choking them out of your sore throat and past your bruised lips. Then again, what you actually managed to say didn’t seem to hurt him enough – his smile only taking on a softer note as he leaned forward, letting his lips ghost over your forehead. “Sometimes,” he admitted, with less strain than you’d expected. Less strain than you’d known you were looking for, before he responded so easily. “But not often. Not at all, when I have you with me.” He paused, brightened. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to love me?”
He was better than you. He was stronger than you.
You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything at all.
~
You rarely said anything to Diavolo at all, anymore.
Not that he minded. It was the shape of you by his side that he liked, more than anything – the feeling of your eyes on him, the awareness that if you were on top of him, you couldn’t be anywhere else, with anyone else. He was kind enough to explain his obsession in more depth after you first summoned the courage to ask, to tell you about his possessive urges as you raked a barbed whip across his back, to recount the names of those he’d rather die than lose you to in gasped breaths while you forced his head into a vat of holy water. There was sex, sometimes, when you thought you could stomach it, when it seemed like your usual pastimes wouldn’t be enough to stop him from resorting to less mutual shows of affection. You were more distant on those days than most.
You were more distant today than you’d ever been before. It was almost like ascension, astral projection – you couldn’t recall ever feeling so totally disconnected, only vaguely aware of the gentle throbbing in your cunt, the heat dripping down the inside of your thighs, the feeling of Diavolo’s teeth burrowed into your shoulder. You’d been lax in your preparation, too strung-out to really care if he got away. His ankles were unrestrained, his wrists bound behind his back with little more than a length of bronze cord embedded with thorns, not unsimilar to those you’d find in his beloved garden. They were strong enough to cut into his skin, sturdy enough to tear when he thrashed, and if you were more yourself, you might’ve been able to admire the craftsmanship, the thought that must’ve gone into each and every pinprick of suffering. You weren’t, though, and you couldn’t really bring yourself to appreciate much of anything.
He was making those sounds, again. Even in the face of your vow of silence, he was so fucking noisy – always whimpering or whining or moaning unabashedly while you dragged the blade of your dagger up the length of his spine, dispassionately watching skin split open and hot, crimson blood trail down his arched back. There was a raspy groan, a pair of pointed canines lodged that much deeper into your flesh, then you felt his cock twitch inside of you, still hard despite your motionlessness. It’d been months since the last time he let you take someone else apart, make someone cry in agony without having to listen for something less wholesome playing underneath the surface. If it hadn’t been for the raised lash-marks across his chest and thighs, the feeling of his blood washing over your skin, you’d be tempted to think you were the one being tortured.
With a half-swallowed sigh, you rolled your hips against him, letting your eyes fall shut and total, absolute numbness wash over you in heavy waves. It would’ve been a valuable skill to have a few hundred years ago, when you were constantly being reprimanded by your higher-ups for not being able to remain as stoic as your fellow acolytes, for caring too much about the responsibilities they’d assigned to you minutes after you came into existence. It was hypocrisy, bold and shameless. No one batted an eye when Simeon exorcised a small army’s worth of demons, when Micheal took to the human world with plagues of locusts and rivers of blood, but you were punished for believing what you’d been told, for holding yourself too close to the holy light. For doing your job and doing it well.
Diavolo drifted, drawing back just far enough to bury his face in the side of your neck, to press himself so suffocatingly close to you. You felt the ghost of a hand on the small of your back, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as a softened voice whispered platitudes of family and forgiveness and virtue, as it offered hollow promises of prayer and purification and, worst of all, love. He said you’d be able to go home, one day, after your penance in the shadows, after you realized how lucky you were to serve in such a benevolent cause. He promised he would bring you home.
Diavolo tilted his head back, his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time since you’d gotten him underneath you, and something in the hollow, frigid depth of your chest cracked open. There was nothing graceful in the way you drew your knife back, nothing purposeful in the way you drove it into his chest. You pictured vital veins and arteries, listed off organs even a demon wouldn’t be able to live without, but all planning and precision was lost in favor of driving your blade into him with wild abandon, plunging your knife into anything you could reach and twisting – turning anything you touched to viscera. Tissue was torn to gory ribbons, muscle diced and shredded, his skin soon little more than a failing barrier between you and what you were trying so desperately to tear out of him. You bounced on his cock as you worked, ignoring the way it throbbed against the walls of your cunt as you dedicated yourself to your task. When your dagger had outlasted its usefulness, you dropped it and took to using your own wretched, unforgivable hands. You found the spines of his ribs easily, tore through them with only the slightest amount of strain. You only noticed Diavolo was moving when you started to push into his diaphragm, his arms straining against his restraints as he thrashed beneath you – trying to free himself, or knock you away, or do something that stopped you from getting what you wanted. From hurting him in a way he couldn’t get off on. From letting you ever return to the paradise you deserved, the paradise you were owed.
His teeth burrowed into your jugular. He wasn’t trying to mark you, anymore – he wanted to end you before you ended him, to survive longer than you planned to let him. It wasn’t enough, though. You swallowed down the pain, muttering prayers under your breath as you surged forward and taking hold of the pulsing muscle in his chest. You felt something hot and awful flood into your pussy – a bodily reflex, you figured, although you’d start to doubt that in the near-future – but ignored the filth flooding into your veins, forced yourself to focus on taking hold of his beating heart and tearing it free from its restraints, from its bondage. Cupped in your palms, you carried it out of your chest with all the love and all the care of a midwife bringing life into the world, and finally, finally, finally, Diavolo went limp underneath you, lips parted and form limp. You let out a sob of relief, dragging yourself away from his unmoving body and onto the cold, stone floor; your legs giving out seconds later and leaving you in a crumpled heap, as useless as you’d always been.
Tears streaming down your cheeks, you brought Diavolo’s heart to your lips and swallowed it whole, its warmth lingering on your tongue for seconds. Then, you pulled your legs against your chest, buried your face in your knees, and started to cry.
You were allowed to dwell in your misery for one blissful, liberating second before that was brought to an end, too. “My love?”
You didn’t move. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. It was just another ghost sent to haunt you, another punishment for letting yourself think of anything but your orders, your responsibilities. When you heard metal snap, when you felt a hand on your shoulder, you only curled deeper into yourself, digging your nails into your thighs as something bloody and blasphemous settled beside you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to cry.” You wished you still had your wings, something to curl around yourself. You wished you could feel the sunlight again. “Was I not convincing enough? We can try again, if you’d like.”
You wished you could be anywhere but here. “Get away from me.”
“Having one of your little episodes again?” He worked a hand under your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back. His chest was still covered in blood, flecked with bits and pieces of himself, but you couldn’t make out a trace of the gaping wound you must have inflected onto him, couldn’t seem to put what you were looking at together with what you’d just done. It was a visible untruth your mind just couldn’t seem to make sense of, an unignorable mistake in the fabric of reality that no amount of staring could correct. Diavolo sighed wistfully, the noise heavy with tender affection, and his hands fell to your waist, hauling you onto his lap as he’d done so many times before.
You could still taste the bitter meat of his heart on your tongue, still feel the mass of muscle and sinew lodged in your throat, and yet, as your head settled against his chest, you were met with that tell-tale beating, as strong and as steady as it’d ever been. As if you hadn’t accomplished anything. As if you hadn’t done anything at all. “You’re a handful,” he said, pressing a shallow kiss into your temple. “But you’re mine.”
He dipped lower, moved to kiss you, but you weren’t willing to wait as long as it would’ve taken him to reach you. With jerky, erratic movements, you shifted onto your knees, strung your arms around his neck, forced your mouth against his before he could do the same to you. There was a startled sound, a tightened hold on your waist, but Diavolo melted into your sudden affection quickly enough. Your skin crawled, your thoughts spiraling, but you didn’t care. You weren’t sure you’d ever care about anything again.
You’d already been forced out of paradise, tainted beyond redemption and stripped of any hope of returning to the light.
The least you deserved was to enjoy your eternity in the darkness.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere oneshot#yandere obey me#obey me#obey me imagines#obey me x reader#yandere diavolo#diavolo x reader#yanderecore#yancore
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explaining to my brother that Frankenstein is a Swiss Christian (The “stein” in “Frankenstein” led him to believe Victor was Jewish-German) but his son, the creature, is Catholic because he read Paradise Lost awhile after being born and became French after developing a parasocial educational relationship with the Delaceys
Edit:
#this is incredibly funny#but I do have to clarify that paradise lost is not catholic#John Milton was a Protestant and served in the very puritan Cromwell government after the civil war#I will say paradise lost as a text keeps running into big theological issues and imo doesn’t really resolve them#like the issue of predestination versus free will comes up repeatedly and it really feels like Milton writing himself into a corner#which I gotta say!! is so interesting and relevant to the creature#both our understanding of him and his own understanding of himself#and also the issue paradise lost tries to resolve of how an all knowing all powerful god could ‘let’ the fall happen#compared to how the text handles Victors responsibility for his creation…..so rich!!!!#but yeah given the Protestantism of paradise lost and the presumed Catholicism of the de Lacey’s the creature has gotta have odd theology#I would assume he’d identify more with the catholic family he was ‘raised’ by?#which supports your interpretation here and preserves the comedy#but the mixed theology honestly adds to the creature’s existence as an amalgam which is also VERY interesting#anyway love this very much I have to revisit both texts through this lens now lol
tags from @with-stars-in-hand
Thank you for the theology and history lesson. I think I just considered him Catholic because he hates himself on a biblical level.
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──────── I think loving Ellie Williams is very much comparable to having blind faith in an unproven religion. Some will torment, try and expedite your loss of faith by unravelling the contradictions in your theology: 'she isn't one to love', 'she's not a forever type of girl', 'she's too broken', 'too shadowed', 'too lost'.
And though they may not be wrong, Ellies woes are a sediment that erodes her bones down and feed voraciously off her heart and soul. She is difficult to love; harsh in her ways and seemingly unable to open up in any capacity. She'd rather lose your devotion entirely than expose the gory mess of her open chest cavity; sins and sorrows alike a wrathful parasite inside of her.
She is not all-loving. She is not tolerant. She does not forgive. Ellie is the figurehead that strikes you when you're down on your knees begging for the warm embrace scripture has promised you. She is the quiet cold of an empty chapel that evokes tears often misinterpreted as religious experience. Yet, they are only tears.
Your adoration falls on deaf ears, even in the most intimate of nights; she is immune to your worship. She does not hear your prayers for connection, for love- she's lost herself, how could she bear to guide you? She is anything but holy, scarred from years of personal conviction and loss- she does not feel worthy of your praise. She is not righteous, not without sin- she is the temptation that seeks out the most lost of souls and devours them whole.
The sceptics may be right in their agnosticism: maybe your theology is baseless. It thrives under the gaze of doubt, it's the tendrils of something uneasy you feel constrict your soul when your back is turned. It's learning to accept her past as an ugly thing than try to give it meaning she disproves: its learning to love the grey of lead rather than whim it gold.
And though those without faith may not see: there is a religious love plaguing Ellie's most tender wounds. It manifests in her eyes, in the guarded moments you see the most vulnerable parts of her. It manifests in late nights spent watching you sleep, hoping with everything she has that there isn't a god to take you from her. It manifests in the fact that she now, after years of feating the bitter end, has reason to fear death.
It's your faith that breaks Ellie. Your blind devotion, that ache in your soul that says 'this is real'. Your love, which must be persistent and unwavering, is both salvation for her soul and a harbinger of change that she can't ignore. You learn how to embrace her jagged edges rather than file them down and she, in turn, comes to terms with the steady, holy, undeniable faith that is you.
#ellie williams#ellie williams x reader#ellie x reader#ellie williams x you#tlou2 x reader#the last of us#ellie x you#ellie x fem reader#ellie williams tlou#the last of us 2#writeblr#writers on tumblr
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