#i just liked to note that all the imagery in pray is from just one party and in ruin it's both and i found it very beautiful | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

likedovesinthewindd · 1 year

Note

I have a request

So Ash is alive but Fez is in jail

So like Fez and the Reader have been dating for awhile like they're high school sweethearts (even tho he's a drop out) and before he got arrested she got pregnant.

Could you write how that looks. Like phone calls, and letters, and visits, but also write when he gets out and he gets to finally see his kid

hi love! ty for requesting🩷 idk if you wanted a little blurb but you got this big ass fic lmao, sorry i got carried away! also in this custer was never killed at Fez's house so he only got charged with drug possession and given like one or two years because he's a first time offender (i think?) ik it's all over the place but i hope you like it;)

fezco x pregnant!reader

warning: mentions of drugs/drug abuse, murder, jail, pregnancy, throwing up, giving birth, infant care, Fez's dad is mentioned once, religious imagery/mentions of praying, lots of crying.

wc: ± 4530

a/n: this is so similar to my other fez fic but also not at all lol. I tried changing it up as much as possible but there are def a lot of similarities I'm sorry. not proofread!

gif not mine, all credit to original creator.

You and Fez met back when he was still in school, just before he had dropped out. He sat next to you in History and the two of you would only talk briefly, often just about things like what the date was or when the next period would be. He would occasionally crack a joke or make a lighthearted comment that would always catch you off guard.

He was a normally stoic and calm person; he didn't talk much and kept to himself most of the time. This made you appreciate the rare jokes and little bursts of personality even more. You quickly found yourself talking more and more with him, and he'd start greeting you when you passed each other in the hallways. You had considered him somewhat of a friend after a while. Maybe not the closest, but you valued the little time you two would spend together.

Then he started showing up to class less and less, and rumors had begun spreading around. A few weeks before he dropped out, he had asked you if he could copy your notes that he had missed while absent, and you agreed. He told you to drop them off at the convenience store his grandmother owned, because that's where he spent most of his afternoons.

You did this every time he didn't show up to class; you'd write him all the notes neatly and bring them to him at the store, and in return he'd let you take whatever you want from the shelves free of charge. You always took the same thing (a can of Sprite, a packet of Sun Chips and a pack of cherry flavored twizzlers), and after a while he had started keeping the three items at the counter, ready for you to grab when you came around. One day he asked you if you'd like to stay a while before heading home, and you spent your afternoons sitting on the roof of the convenience store eating your treats and talking about whatever came to mind.

You never asked him why he wasn't at school, or even asked yourself why you'd go through all this trouble for him. Maybe it was because you've always been way too nice for your own good, or maybe because you had a little crush on him. One day when you were on your way to give him the day's notes, he'd told you he was dropping out. When you asked why, he only replied with, "Have to take care of my grandma."

You didn't stop visiting him after he left school, and would go to the store every other afternoon, quietly doing your homework by the counter while he restocked the shelves. He never explicitly told you, but he enjoyed having you around. You never asked too many questions and you were always nice to him. He would say maybe too nice to count as just being friendly.

As time passed the two of you grew closer and closer. You had met his brother Ash and occasionally helped him with his grandmother, who you had only met briefly before she became ill, when you were making your rounds to drop of his notes.

A few months later he had asked you out, and you said yes. You haven't looked back since.

That was years ago, and this was now. Now, you were sitting on the lid of the toilet in the dead of night with a pregnancy test clasped tightly in your right hand, while the other covered your mouth in shock. The two red lines stared back at you tauntingly as you felt your head spin with anxiety.

You were pregnant. You were pregnant with Fez's baby and you had no idea how you were going to tell him. You finished up, washing your hands and face and made your way to the bedroom you and your boyfriend shared. You hid the test in the drawer you kept your underwear in and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for your boyfriend to return home.

He arrived eventually, but you couldn't find the strength in you to tell him. You knew you had to eventually, you couldn't possibly keep this a secret for too long, but you were terrified. You had no idea what his reaction would be, and you feared the worst.

The night you finally did get the courage to tell him, was the same night he decided to almost kill Nate at a New Year's Eve Party. Your plan had been derailed once again and that night you found yourself sitting in the bathroom while you silently cleaned the cuts on his hands. You knew you couldn't tell him then, he was still on edge and filled with adrenaline from everything that had transpired. He was definitely not in the correct headspace for a revelation like that.

Everything after that night was an absolutely downward spiral.

With Faye moving in, Mouse getting killed in your house and ultimately Fez getting arrested after Custer had ratted him out, you found yourself at your wits end. He had been arrested and taken away right before your eyes, and you felt completely helpless as you watched him get dragged out of the now ruined house, with a distraught Ash clinging to you like a lifeline.

☆˚｡⋆

Fez was only given three years for drug possession with the intent to sell, considering he was a first-time offender. Three years may not have been much considering it could have been a much heavier sentence, but your stomach still churned at the thought that he would be away for that long. What about Ash and Marie? What about the store?

What about the baby?

You couldn't do this. It felt like the world was suddenly dropped on your shoulders as you watched the officers drag Fez out the court, and away from you.

You shot up from the uncomfy wooden bench and made your way to the closest bathroom, where you threw up the little food you managed to keep down this morning. When you finished you flushed the toilet and made your way to the sink to clean up. As you stared at your reflection in the dirty mirror, everything struck you at once like cold water being thrown in your face.

You were going to be alone. Alone and pregnant, having to look after Ash (who God willing, they don't take away from you) and his grandmother. You hadn't even realized you were crying until your reflection became blurry and your breathing erratic.

You went back home that evening, with a dreadful feeling deep in the pit of your stomach for what the future holds.

☆˚｡⋆

Fez had finally been approved for calls, and after not hearing anything from him in weeks you were ecstatic to finally hear his voice.

You had received a call from the jail where he was, following all the necessary steps and pressing all the necessary buttons before you got to talk with him. When you heard his voice say your name you had to stop yourself from breaking down right beside the telephone. It hadn't even been a month and you already missed him more than words could describe.

He said your name again in a questioning tone and you realized that you hadn't said anything in return.

"Fez?" was all you could force from wobbly lips as your grip on the phone tightened. "Yeah baby, it's me," he said quietly. "I miss you," you said trying your hardest not to sob. Gosh, you couldn't even think about asking him how he was doing, you just wanted him to know how much you needed him right now.

"I miss you too baby, so fucking much," he replied, "how are things going that side?" You inhaled sharply before answering. "I don't know," you answered truthfully, "I'm still trying to figure everything out right now. But okay I guess."

He hummed. "What about Ashtray, he around? Can I talk to him?" he asked. "Of course," you said before calling out to Ash, who was over the moon when he finally got to speak to his brother after so long. You saw him smile for the first time in months, and you were overjoyed at the sight.

When they were finished catching up he handed you the phone. "You still there?" you asked. "Yeah baby, but I only got like a minute left. Listen I'll call you back as soon as I can again okay?" he said. "Okay, goodnight. I love you so muh, Fez," you rushed out. "I love you too baby, so mu—"

He was cut off by the ending call and you placed the receiver of the telephone back on the wall.

☆˚｡⋆

You didn't know how to tell Fez you were pregnant over the phone, so you settled with writing him a letter. You told him how you were pregnant, and that you were planning on keeping the baby. A part of you already knew you were keeping the baby the moment you stared at the test in your hand. The thought of being pregnant now absolutely terrified you, but recently you had found yourself fantasizing about what the little one would look like.

Would it be a little girl or a boy? Would she have your nose, or your eyes? What would her soft hair feel like under your fingertips? What would her first word be?

You hadn't even realized you were already referring to the baby as "she". That was what made you realize you were already deadset on keeping the baby, whether Fez wanted to be apart of that or not, even though it pained you to think that way.

You nervously sealed the letter and sent it off, hoping for the best. Fez had called you the same day he received the letter.

"Hi Fez," you answered nervously.

"You bein' serious Y/N?" You knew exactly what he was referring to, so you took a deep breath before answering him. "Yes, I'm being serious," you said quietly. You could hear him sigh and curse under his breath before he spoke up louder. "How long you known?"

"From before the raid. But, before you say anything, I did want to tell you on New Years, but that shit with Nate happened and everything after that was a total shitshow," you breathed, "I'm sorry for not telling you earlier."

"Shit, it's alright ma I ain't mad, jus' a bit shocked," was all he said. There was a short silence between the two of you before he spoke up again. "I'm gonna be a dad?" he asked softly. "Yeah..." you said, waiting for anything to indicate how he felt about this. "I'm so sorry I can't be there wit' you for this," he said. That broke your heart. He wanted to there, wanted to be a father and the thought made your heart fill with joy.

"It's okay, we can't help the circumstances," you said. "Listen, I promise you imma be here wit you every step of the way, okay? Maybe not physically, but I want you to keep me updated on everthing alright?" he said. "Okay, I promise I will," you breathed, a smile stretching across your face. "Imma do right by you, baby, I promise. You ain't doin' this on your own."

You were sure your heart was going to explode. You were going to have a baby with Fez. The circumstances were the farthest from ideal, but you were hopeful that you were going to be able to do this. You were going to do this. For yourself, for Fez and Ash and for your baby.

☆˚｡⋆

The pregnancy was anything but easy, and it was even harder without Fez by your side. It helped that he showed his support in any way he could, like always calling and sending letters, checking up on you to stay updated with the condition of your baby. You were roughly at 3 or 4 months and by now the little bump was already visible.

Telling Ash was one of the things you were the most nervous about. You didn't know how he'd feel about a baby being bought into your living situation. You had sat him down and got straight to the point. When the words first left your mouth, his face twisted into an unreadable expression. He seemed to be mulling it over silently, before a small smile stretched across your face and he replied shyly with, "So I'm gonna like, be an uncle?"

☆˚｡⋆

The letters you frequently wrote Fez were on of the only things he looked forward to. He loved reading them, reading about how you were doing and everything that was happening with your body and with the baby growing inside you. It sometimes fet like he got to experience the pregnancy right there beside you, with the way he could clearly indicate your mood swings even in your writing.

The letter would quickly go from I saw an old couple sitting by the old park benches today and I broke down in tears to The guy at the drive-thru told me I couldn't order 'just pickels'. Imagine saying no to a starving pregnant lady!

When he received the letter with a small black and white attached to it, he nearly cried. The little ultrasound picture didn't look like much, you could barely make out the big white blob in the middle as a baby, an actual human being. He turned the picture around and saw that you had written our baby! in your messy handwriting, with a little heart at the end. That was all he needed to actually start crying.

That night he couldn't fall asleep at all. His mind was filled with a million thoughts that were consuming him. What if something happens to her or the baby while I'm in here? Will she be able to cope on her own? What's she gonna do once the baby is born?

What if I'm not a good father?

That's what was eating at him more than anything else. He didn't want to be like his own father, and his worst fear was eventually ending up like him, no matter how hard he tried not to. He didn't want his kid to hate him, he wanted to be the best dad he could be, because he already knew that you were going to be the absolutely best mother any child could ask for. He knew because he saw the way you cared for Ash, like he was your own little brother. He also knew that you had a big heart. When you loved, you loved with everything in you, so he didn't have an inkling of doubt about you being a good mother.

That was the night he had promised himself that he would be the best father that he could be for your child and that he'd give them the love and support he never received from his dad.

☆˚｡⋆

By now you had finally been approved for your first visit, and you were over the moon. The first time you visited you went alone, and when Fez saw you walking into the cold room, a slight waddle to your step and a cute little bump sticking out from your pretty pink sundress and cardigan, he swears he had fell in love with you all over again. You looked so beautiful, he thought, maybe more beautiful than you've ever been.

Maybe it was the pregnancy glow people would always refer to, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't seen you in months, but he couldn't get the dopey smile off his face as you made your way to the table where he sat.

You were permitted to a brief embrace and kiss at the beginning and end of each visit, and when he wrapped his arms around you for the first time in months, and got to inhale the smell of your almost unfamiliar perfume, he didn't ever want to let you go ever again. His grip on you tightened a little bit and you had to will away the tears threatening to spill over your cheeks when you felt his warmth consume your body. It felt like home being back in his strong arms.

"You're gonna squish the baby," you said playfully, placing a kiss on his shirt over his heart. You honestly didn't mind at all; you'd let him hold you like this forever if you could. You eventually broke away when you saw the guard giving you a unhappy look from the corner of your eye. You sat down on the cold metal bench and he found his seat accross from you.

You so badly wanted to hold his hand while you talked to him. You wanted to sit next to him and feel the warmth of his body radiating off him and bury your face into his neck and hold onto him for dear life, but you couldn't.

"Y'know if it's a boy or a girl yet?" he asked. You absent-mindedly tapped your manicured nails against the metal table that separated you two, until the guard had given you a stern look from behind Fez, by now irritated by the repetitive sound. You retracted your hands, placing them in your lap and shaking your head. "No, I'm finding out at the next appointment," you smiled, "do you still have the photos I sent you?"

You were referring to the ultrasound photos as you had sent him in letters from all your appointments. "Of course I do," he smiled, "keep 'em in my cell, under my pillow." You smiled, looking down at your belly and softly running your hand over it.

"I think it's gonna be a girl," you said softly, as if it was some secret only the two of you had the right to know. "Nah, it's a boy," he replied and you rolled your eyes playfully, which made him laugh. "Of course you think it's a boy," you joked. He shrugged "I'm still gonna love 'em whether they a boy or a girl," he said, before adding, "but it's gonna be a boy."

You rolled your eyes at him once again, this time more dramatically, and rubbed at your belly. "I just know it's going to be a little girl," you said, and when you looked up from your belly your eyes met Fez's. They were filled with an immeasurable amount of admiration and love, and you couldn't help but shy away from the attention.

"If it's a girl, I hope she look like you."

☆˚｡⋆

The last few weeks of your pregnancy you had asked your mother to stay with you until it was time to go and give birth. By now your belly was fully formed and perfectly rounded, and you were waddling around the house like a lost penguin. Everything was hurting, from your feet to your back and pregnancy brain was truly kicking your ass. As much as you loved the beauty of pregnancy, you couldn't wait to finally get this over with.

You were on the phone with Fez when you had first felt it, the liquid running down your legs followed by a slight cramp in your abdomen. At first you were scared that you had peed yourself (your bladder had been your number one enemy recently) but it didn't take long to realize what was happening.

Without even sparing Fez another word you hung up and called for your mother. This was it, you were finally going meet your baby.

Ash was shitting bricks as he paced around the house while you and your mother gathered everything to head to the hospital. Soon enough you found yourself in the hospital, with your arms leaning on the bed trying to control your breathing. The pain felt like nothing you've ever felt before, and at some point you thought you were going to pass out.

A little while later and you had started to dilate. After what felt like a lifetime of mindless pushing and incoherent shouts, the screaming of your baby girl filled your ears. You looked next to you, to your mother who was still holding onto your hand tightly while her other hand pushed the hair out of your sweaty face. You were beyond grateful to have her with you, but your heart yearned to have Fez with you for this moment. When you got to hold your baby in your arms you cried like a crazy person. She was so beautiful, and your heart was already filled with abundant love for her.

☆˚｡⋆

You've had baby Eden at home for almost two weeks, when you finally got a call from Fez.

"How'd it go baby? Is she healthy? Are you okay?" he had asked as soon as he heard your voice greeting him. You pressed the phone tighter between your ear and your shoulder. "She's as healthy as can be, and she's beautiful, Fez," you said happily, as you rocked the baby in your arms to sleep. "You gonna send me a picture of her?" he asked.

"I already have a few taken, I just have to get them printed then I'll send them to you," you smiled, "she's so beautiful, Fez." You knew it was a little biased, but she truly was the most beautiful baby you'd ever seen. Her pretty long eyelashes that rested on her chubby cheeks and the pretty pink lips that would sometimes streatch into a toothless smile, or her cute button nose that would scrunch up when she yawned or sneezed. Everything about her was so absolutely perfect.

"I can't wait to see yall ma," he whispered. You could hear the slight sadness in his voice. "Me neither," you replied with a sad smile.

☆˚｡⋆

He had no doubt when you told him that Eden was a beautiful baby, but when Fez got to see a picture of her for the first time, all the air was knocked out his lungs.

That was his baby. His baby girl, wrapped tightly in a fluffy pink blanket and a little cap to match. He couldn't stop looking at the picture, his thoughts going at a hundred miles per hour. Fez hadn't seen a lot of babies in his life, but he was one thousand percent certain that Eden was the most beautiful baby he'd ever layed his cynical eyes on.

He couldn't remember the last time he prayed, but that night Fez found himself closing his eyes and praying. He prayed that you and your baby were kept safe, he prayed that his baby girl would stay healthy and happy, and he prayed for the patience to diligently serve his sentence, counting down the days till he got to hold you both.

☆˚｡⋆

You sat in shock as you read the contents of the letter over and over and over.

Fez was going to be released from jail earlier for good behavior. He was coming home, to you, to Ash and his friends and to his baby. He was going to meet his daughter.

Ever since giving birth you hadn't brought Eden along with you when visiting Fez. She was still very young, and you didn't want her driving the long distances back and forth. This unfortunately meant that Fez hadn't got to meet his daughter yet. That was changing soon though.

☆˚｡⋆

You were pacing back and forth in the house, waiting for Fez to come knocking at your door. Today was the day Fez was coming home, back to his family, back to you.

He had to go through several release preparations, then pre-release custody and then supervision. After he complete those steps he had a full release from the BOP system, and they arranged transportation for him to come back home.

He had asked you to not tell anyone about him coming home, he didn't want people bothering him and wanted to spend his first night in just the company of the people he loved the most. You had kept to your word and not told a soul, not even Ash, who you knew would soon be jumping out of his skin when he gets to see his brother.

You had Eden in your arms, gently rocking her back and forth to soothe her. She was a little cranky because she didn't get her afternoon nap in, and when she finally dozed off, you went to go place her in the small crib next to your bed.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other nervously, before checking that everything was good. The food was cooked, the house cleaned and the bed covered in clean sheets.

The hard knock on the door almost made you drop the pie you had taken out of the oven. It was custard pie, his favorite. You removed your oven mits and sprinted to the door.

When you opened it, there stood Fez with a small smile on his face. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him as close to you as possible. He was here. He was back home with you finally and you got to hold him for as long as your heart desired.

By now you were sobbing into his neck, beyond relieved and happy to finally have him home. When you broke away he looked down at you, tears in his own eyes.

"Hi," he breathed. "Hi," you replied through a half sob half laugh. "You're home." "I'm home."

Ash had cried when he saw his brother standing in the living room awkwardly, and wrapped his arms around him tightly, almost as if he was scared of losing him once again. Once everyone had settled down somewhat, you decided to ask Fez the big question.

"Do you wanna see her?"

☆˚｡⋆

The room was dead silent as you pushed open the door and made your way inside, Fez following soon after. You could see the anxiety written on his face, evident in the slight tremble of his hands. This was a very big deal to him. He was going to meet his daughter for the very first time.

You made your way over to the crib, standing next to it and urging him to do the same. He warily moved closer to the crib, looked over the edge and down to where the little girl layed peacefully assleep. He could see the small rise and fall of her chest as she breath rhythmically, and the way her two small fists layed clenched tightly next to her body. If he listened closely enough he could hear her breathing, and the soft cooing sounds in between.

"She's beautiful isn't she?" you asked quietly, and he only nodded, not once lifting his gaze. "Would you like to hold her?" This made him look up at you. A part of him wanted to say no. He didn't want to hold something as precious as her in his hands. Hands that have done shameful and awful things, much too tainted to handle something as fragile and irreplaceable as her.

"It's okay, Fez," you said, sensing his hesitation, before reaching into the crib to pick her up gently. When she was secured in your grasp, you turned your body to him and he hesitantly reached out to take her from you.

Once she was in his arms the small tears began to fall from his eyes. You rubbed his back comfortingly as you watched him closely.

Nothing that Fez had ever achieved in his life measured even closely to this moment. No amount of money or fortune would make him trade this. This was it. This was him, being home and being able to be with you, with his family.

His grandmother had taught him the importance of family and looking out for each other. She taught him that the family he'd have would be the people he was willing to die for, and as he stood in the quiet room, his daughter in his arms and you by his side, he knew that he had found his family.

He looked over to you, and when his eyes met yours he saw the contented look on your face, behind all the happy tears.

"She looks like you," he smiled.

#fezco euphoria #fezco x reader #fezco x y/n #fezco x you #fez x reader #fez euphoria #fezco fluff #fezco fanfic #euphoria x reader #euphoria fic #likedovesinthewindd

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merakiui · 7 months

Text

crow & goat in courtship.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, dub-con, coercion, religious symbolism/imagery, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, obsession, alcohol/intoxication, slight codependency, non-consensual touching/groping, au in which you attend classes at nbc instead of nrc under rollo's supervision note - the crow is always on call.

i. “but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (james 1:14-15).

Rollo answers on the third ring.

He always does—claims it’s polite to answer after three chimes just as it’s right to knock thrice before entering a residence. He’s stubborn in his ways, a crow bound by routine, only ever doing things in threes. Habitual to a fault, strictly so. You are similar in that regard; you find solace in the familiarity of predictable patterns. The relief that stems from knowing what will come next—in being prepared for all manner of events even if you haven’t yet reached the first.

But then you also like fun, and the best sort of fun is often had with a disregard for habit. Disorder and spontaneity. Throwing all caution to the wind. Trusting in the arms of the crow who will catch you, the carefree goat, when you fall.

“Good evening,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding so close despite the distance between you and him. “It’s rather late. Is there a specific reason you’re calling?”

“Rollo! Hey! Hiii,” you drawl, grinning like a fool. You stagger through the door into the chilly, starless night, your heels slipping on cracked, frozen pavement. “Whoa!” You stumble against the railing with a carefree giggle. “Almost lost my footing!”

There’s a stalling silence on his end. And then, with a deep inhale, he asks evenly, “Have you gone out?”

“Mm. Yeah. Went out to celebrate with some friends.”

“Some friends?”

“Like one or two…or a whole house full of ’em.”

“(Name).”

“What?” When he doesn’t reply, you laugh. Not because it’s humorous or embarrassing, but to merely fill the silent gap. “What? Roro, you’re sho stern. Don’t lecture me!”

“So you’ve been drinking.”

“What?! No!” With an offended scoff, you shake your head even though he’s not here to witness it. “You know NBC’s no-booze rule. I’m not gonna get caught—won’t get caught.”

“You slurred your speech and called me ‘Roro’—both in the same sentence, mind you.”

“So what? Rollo, Roro. Tomato, potato.”

“It’s to-may-to, to-mah-to. And—” he exhales an exhausted breath— “Never mind. That’s besides the point. Why, pray tell, have you called me at midnight?”

“Why’re you up at midnight?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not fair! I asked first!”

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks next. “If I were to visit your room right now—knock on the door and wait there—would you let me in?”

“Yeaaah,” you start to say, only to catch yourself halfway in the trap. “No!”

“No?”

“No…thank you. No visitors tonight. S’late and I gotta study for tomorrow’s exam.”

“And a party will somehow aid in that endeavor? (Name), you do realize you’ve spun one too many lies and now you’re woefully entangled.”

“Less poetry and more picking me up.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.”

“Rollo, please be nice,” you whine, your lips twisting into a pout. “S’cold and I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m kinda-maybe-sorta a little…”

“A little…?” he encourages, and you can just envision that self-satisfied smirk of his.

“A little-drunk-but-also-not-really-drunk-but-also-totally-drunk,” you hastily admit in a string of syllables. Snowfall swirls around you, and you grasp the bannister to prevent yourself from falling over. “Oh, it’s snowing.”

“I can see perfectly clear from my window. Beautiful, is it not?”

“So stop being an obtuse dick and come get me before I freeze!”

“Should that come to pass, you may just rival the Righteous Judge at the entrance. I’ll be sure to polish you every month.”

“I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna poison your coffee and watch you drink it, and then we’ll see who’s stiffer than a statue. It’ll be you—in death, y’know!”

“Will you now?”

“If you don’t pick me up, yeah!”

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling. You hear crisp pages turning and then a book closing before the rustling of fabrics invades your keen ears. You picture your responsible friend pacing around his room as he dresses himself for the weather.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, ever the composed gentleman. “Send me the address.”

“You’re the best. Love you lots. Thank you! Thank you!” You press your lips together to mimic obnoxious kissing sounds, which elicits a huff of amusement from him. “It’s not a far walk. Promise.”

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there shortly. And don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You do realize sneaking out is against the rules, yes?”

“Aaand here comes the lecture. Gimme a break. Can’t a girl celebrate her birthday in peace?”

You drag your hand over your mouth and wipe sticky wine residue away. In the process, you smear black lipstick. Dark like night, like a crow’s inky feathers, it leaves your once-flawless appearance in disarray.

“There are much better ways to celebrate. Did I not say I’d take you into town this weekend and we could celebrate then?”

“That’s so far from now.”

“It’s three days away, (Name).”

“Still too far.”

“Don’t expect me to provide cover if you get caught.”

“And you can just leave campus whenever you please?”

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” You giggle into the speaker, warm and fuzzy and endlessly entertained. It’s enough of a distraction to keep winter from seeping into your marrow. “How so?”

“This is official Student Council business.”

“Really?” you ask with an impressed whistle.

“Indeed. On account of my being President, it’s only natural I punish students who conduct themselves poorly. Shall we review your list of infractions and decide on a suitable penalty together?”

“I’d rather we not.”

“Oh, but I insist. Perhaps our discussion and the cold will sober you and teach you a valuable lesson about integrity.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lower onto the step to await his arrival. The icy stone digs harshly into your rear, which is hardly covered by your too-short dress. It’s definitely not fingertip length or weather-appropriate. You shiver and stuff your hand into the pocket of your cropped sweater. You should take shelter inside, where it’s plenty cozy and inviting, but your inflated pride disagrees. Retreating to the warmth after you’ve already bid farewell would be foolish. At least, that’s what the alcohol in your system is telling you.

So the goat endures the cold, for it knows that that is all that awaits it as the crow closes in.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an academic criminal. Get on with it, President Flamme.”

“Let’s see. You’ve disobeyed campus curfew, snuck out on a school night, attended a party when your grades could use improvement, neglected your studies, drank carelessly, called the one person who can and will punish you for this and the aforementioned…”

The sound of crunching snow pierces the air then, and you look up in time to see Rollo approaching. He’s dressed in a long woolen overcoat with a scarf twined around his throat and a hat pulled down over his ears. He smirks at you from where he stands on the pavement, cutting the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. Tilting his head at you, he pulls another coat from under his arm and offers it to you.

“And you’re dressed for your death.”

“Okay, that one’s personal.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise on unsteady legs. He meets you at the stairs, climbing two of them to help you into the coat. It’s an embrace more welcoming than that of a lover’s, so soft and comfortable that it immediately rejuvenates your weary skeleton. It smells like Rollo, too—like coffee and weathered pages in an old book. You hum your approval, snuggling into the fluffy fabric. He’s plopping his hat on your head next, tugging it so far down that you almost slip on the slick stoop. Like he always has, ever since he first met you, he catches you.

“Hello to you, too.”

You blink back at him. “Yeah, thanks. I owe you.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He takes them in his, runs his thumbs over the tops, and then procures mittens from his pockets. You watch him slide both over your hands, rubbing them together briefly to generate heat at a faster rate. Your body sways, gaze unfocused. He’s just about to unwind his scarf from his shoulders when you reach out to stop him.

“I’m good. This is enough.”

“You’ll catch your death—”

“And you won’t in just a coat and scarf? At least let me give you your hat back.”

He shakes his head, holding his hand up in objection. “You’ve been out in this weather longer. It’s only fair. But, really, did you have to wait out here? Couldn’t you have gone inside?”

“My pride’s on the line.”

Rollo’s unamused stare cuts through you. “You won’t have much pride left if you’re encased in ice.”

“Then we’d best get moving. Campus awaits!”

You wrap your arm around him, clinging out of instinct. Rollo peers at the proximity, his lips upturned in a covert half-smile, and his arm snakes slowly around your waist in return. You don’t notice this, for you’re too busy dragging your feet through the snow while he acts as a helpful crutch, stable in a way you just aren’t. Not right now, at least.

But then the goat is never stable enough to survive the inevitable—the swift, sacrificial blade that befalls and beheads, leaving gory spatters to run red and visceral in the wake of the end.

You’ve never known, and you never will. How could you when he’s been nothing but cordial? A clean slate. Admirable guidance. A helpful friend. Your only friend.

The crow descends in three knocks. He lets himself in regardless of whether you wish to have him as a guest. He is unwanted and feared, the very foundation of death and destruction, and he has set his beady eyes on you—the goat.

It’s common knowledge that you cannot pray away the crow. He persists, as always, quiet even when his wings beat against his sleek, feathered body like the loudest war drums. And the caw—the dreadful caw! It’s a most disturbing cry, one that pierces through the dark like jarring slivers of light in shadow. Or a butcher’s blade through flesh, sawing through sinew to get to brilliant bone beneath. The hoarse call of Death’s crows—they circle in a murder, swooping down to meet you as harbingers of malevolence.

Rollo has always strived to lead a virtuous existence defined by a rigidly righteous moral compass. In the gloomy pits of misery and hatred, where he festers in a bundle of tar-colored feathers, he does not hope for sunshine. He no longer knows the uplifting ebullience of life’s greatest miracles. Because there is no miracle in death or tragedy. Because there is no happiness to be found in a doomed hand, every card showcasing Death and its many forms. Not for him. Never for him.

But then, amidst the despair and despondency, each all-consuming, a goat fell into his lap.

A divine offering to the crow, who is so far from divinity himself, can only mean one thing. It is neither conciliatory nor a reward.

It is a sacrifice.

But then the City of Flowers adores its goats—reveres them for all that they are. Goats are cherished, not sacrificed. But to drag a nameless, magicless goat from the grounds of its far-off, inconceivable pasture—is that not the cruelest form of sacrifice? To drop this goat into the equitable embrace of the crow—is that not the sweetest gift? Generous yet unfair. Plucked right from the folds of another heaven.

The mortal coil can be callous, which is precisely why the crow is permitted to exist in impartiality. Death does not care for who you were in life and who you will be in the next, and the crow only ever oversees finales. Never beginnings. Much like a deity does not care for what good you can do if you do not first adore them in copious adequacy.

The crow carries with him a most fearsome knell—the chime of judgment, to be delivered right on time like an execution staged for noon.

All throughout life, you can plan for the crow and all that he shall deliver, and still you will never be fully prepared to greet him. He brings misfortune bundled in baskets woven from the bones of sacrifices past. In holy scripture, it is the goat who is punished most often—who is slaughtered at the altar, who is arranged as peace to quell the torrential fury of the deity, who is made to suffer at the hands of those hoping to avoid damnation or godly wrath, who is meant to shoulder the blame when no one else wants to. Favors have been bought with the blood of the goat, its head nestled amidst verdant grasses, pure forevermore even when it is dyed carmine. It appeases and pleases.

So it’s just—religiously so—that the crow takes the goat for himself, strips it bare, and proves to the prying eyes in heaven that the greatest sin is more than lustful temptation.

For the crow—for Rollo—the heaviest sin, a vile, cursed burden from his very first breath—it is existence itself.

And only the blood of a pure goat can wash away such filth—can cleanse what has been rotting within. The goat can make a garden out of the crow—bring life and love to its barren insides regardless of however fleeting its presence may be. It is within this garden—within the softest, fertile soil—where the crow shall sow the most special seeds.

You cross the bridge with Rollo, your laughter filling the cloudy sky as you recall all manner of amusing stories from the past few hours. Drinking games paired with drunken gossip. Delicious wines and snacks. A party with an energy so lively it could rival the city’s annual festivals. Even though he doesn’t seem outwardly pleased to hear any of it, he listens well and occasionally stops to steady you before you can topple over the railing into the water below. Your heels clack against smooth, frosted stone, and the wind whips at your face, each snowflake biting and vicious. Noble Bell’s vast campus waits just beyond the wrought iron gate, standing proud and backdropped by the night.

“You think anyone’s up?” you ask, curling your fingers into his arm as he guides you through.

Rollo eases the gate shut. “They might if they hear you. It would be best to keep quiet.”

You pantomime zipping your lips and discarding a nonexistent key. He quirks a small smile at that and then hurries you along. Nights are always peaceful at Noble Bell. The halls are desolate and quiet, devoid of all signs of student life. Your and Rollo’s shoes click in unison as you walk through the hall and past the courtyard. You gaze at the arched openings, counting each one as they become fainter with the growing distance.

Your breath materializes in front of you when you sigh. “I’m so sleepy. I wanna go to bed for a thousand years.”

“You’ll miss your exam if you do that,” he chides, tutting. “And every other exam that will follow.”

“That’s the point!” Your voice bounces off the walls, returning to you in a reverberating echo. Cringing under Rollo’s disapproving glower, you speak softer. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Just how much have you had to drink? You can hardly walk straight without leaning on me for support.” He narrows his eyes, his lecherous gaze crawling down to your bare legs. “Not that I mind…”

His words don’t reach you, for they’re swallowed in a howling gale as it sweeps across the courtyard. You spy the dormitories then, each one looking more like gingerbread covered in confectioners’ sugar instead of buildings dusted with snow. Your eyelids droop while you cross the distance to reach your designated building, your every movement feeling slower than molten molasses, and by the time you’re actually inside the dorm—Rollo’s shushed you more than once—you’re yearning for the warmth of your bed.

So it’s bewildering when, rather than your own room, you stop at Rollo’s instead.

He opens the door and steps inside with you in tow. You keep your mouth shut, too tipsy to think coherently. After he clicks the lamp on, which leaves the room awash in soft shades of amber, he shrugs his coat off, draping it over a nearby chair. You drag yourself over to his bed and flop down, squeezing your eyes shut to block out both the light and your spinning surroundings. Rollo doesn’t say anything, but you hear him shuffling about his room, crossing to close and lock the door before walking back towards you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel nimble fingers working to undo the buttons on your coat.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask, cracking your eyes open just as he’s pulling the coat from your person.

Rollo folds it neatly and sets it aside. “You’re practically melting into my bed already. It would be quite the undertaking to make the walk back to your room at this hour.”

“So considerate,” you tease, grinning up at him. Sleep stretches your expression into something dazed, and you yawn loudly. “Then I’m gonna sleep here. Wake me up before class.”

You almost drift off, but those frigid fingers are moving to tug you out of your sweater next. They crawl across your bare shoulders like a spider on a web.

“You really are something,” he marvels, glancing at your body sprawled beneath him. “To brave the cold in such thin material…”

“Stupid choice. I know.”

“It appears we’re in agreement.”

“Shut up,” you snap back with a weak laugh. “You’re no better, showing up so cozy and then giving everything to me.”

Rollo memorizes the way the form-fitting dress hugs your figure. He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands back to his sides. Your chest is right here. So close. So frustratingly close.

He can’t indulge. He really shouldn’t. It’s unbecoming to show such unfair favorability when he’s meant to remain impartial. Death should not lust for the beauty of life because it only knows endings—or the beginnings of ghostly eternity. The crow should not allow himself to be swept up in tumultuous temptation.

And the goat is the only friend he’s known—the only one who understands the crow, if only by a few meager slivers. But someday the goat will know.

Rollo swallows his inhibitions, beating his urges away with a stick. He’s not one for rash decisions; he’s meticulous and thoughtful. He would never take such a risk—would never nosedive into a crude confession. He’s plotted it in his diary, but it’s never come to fruition. He restrains himself because he must. Because it’s the polite and proper thing to do when caught up in courtship. Because if he opens his torso and allows you to poke around inside, you’ll find that he is not the friend you’ve known for all these months.

He is a fiend, devilishly so, wearing the hide of a goat to put the real one at ease.

Warring with rationality, he slides away from you and intends to recover at his desk. He’ll scrawl all of the things he wishes to do to you in there and that will be enough. That will help clear his head of the intoxicating fog that settles whenever he’s with you in private. But then he’s reaching to untie the canopy draped over his bed, each corner undone within seconds. The sheer curtains fall in thin layers, confining the both of you to this island in the middle of a barren sea. It’s darker in here, dimly lit by the faint glow of the lamp outside.

You blink up at him, owlish.

“You…” He stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away. Hastily, he fishes his handkerchief from his pocket. With this enclosed propinquity, he can smell your perfume. It’s spiced and flowery—alluring and adorable all at once—and it assaults both his nose and mind. “You should sleep. It’s late.”

This is for the best. The crow is only meant to look after the goat, remain unaffected even in the face of lustful, fateful sacrifice.

But you’re here. You’re splayed like a spill, perfectly imperfect, and your shoulders are a canvas coveting kisses. He clutches his handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist.

“Mm, okay. Night…”

“Yes… Yes, good night,” he mumbles, lowering his handkerchief. He swallows thickly.

This is for the best.

But even though he thinks this, his arm is stretching out. Closer. Closer. So close, until his hand is hovering just above your chest. He’s so close.

When will he ever have another chance as fortuitous as this?

His hand closes around your breast and he squeezes it experimentally. It’s soft when his fingers dig in gently, depressing with the pressure of his digits. Rollo’s green hues flick to your face. Your eyes are shut, and soft snores slip from your parted lips. He glimpses your chest again and, with the utmost care, slides your dress down to free your breasts. They’re mostly bare, save for the heart-shaped pasties covering your nipples. Rollo heaves a disbelieving sigh.

“Promiscuous,” he mutters, plucking the edge of the first adhesive and peeling it away to reveal the perky nipple beneath. You look so soft, so clean, so pure… What was he even worried about? No one’s had you before. He’s sure of it.

He’s about to remove the other heart when your voice freezes him.

“What…are you doing?”

He holds your gaze. It’s tense for a moment, unspoken accusations brewing between the both of you.

“A massage,” he blurts, but there isn’t a hint of haste in his tone. He suspected this outcome when he chose to traverse the line of right and wrong—and ultimately sided with the former. Because to him it’s right, even if it’s wrong. He knows what will soon follow: disgust and detestation.

Instead, you giggle. It’s sleepy and silly-sounding, but it’s also light and lively.

You catch his hand in yours and drag it back to your chest. “If you wanted to touch, just ask,” you murmur, your words slurring. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

You’re not just perfect and pure. You’re everything.

Yes, it’s the alcohol blurring your brain and the intimacy of being trapped in a quiet, comfortable space such as this one that allows you to desire him. Would it be the same if you were sober? He can’t quite say, but he doesn’t wish to know. This is enough. This is paradise.

He kneads slow, steady motions into your breast, and you watch from where you’re lying on the bed. His other hand slithers between your legs to search for your clothed clit. Your breath hitches just as his fingers brush it, and he presses in, rubbing with his index. Your arm falls over your face, and your chest rises with every breath.

“How does it feel?” he asks, rolling your nipple between chilly digits.

“Not enough,” you bemoan, curling your fingers into a fist. “S’not enough…”

“How fascinating. I suppose cheap wine truly does turn you into a pute.”

“No… Was definitely expensive. The fancy kind.”

“Was it now?” He circles your clit, predatory and shark-like, his eyes alight with glee. “You say that, but look at the state it’s left you in. Utterly disheveled.”

“That’s because of—” you gasp, your voice rising in pitch— “because of you…”

His heart hammers in his chest, a resounding, pounding melody.

The City of Flowers treasures its goats, and the crow loves his fiercely even though he shouldn’t.

“Did you enjoy drinking yourself foolish and indulging in debauchery?” His fingers dance along your inner thigh, hooking around the hem of your underwear. “Was it a fun celebration?”

You lower your arm to glare halfheartedly at him. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“More so disappointed, mon chou chou,” he coos, sugary, sickeningly sweet. “Someone could have taken advantage of you. Someone could have tainted you with magic.” His lip curls up into a nasty sneer. It lingers for a moment before fading into something calm. He gazes at you, oddly tender. “That didn’t happen, though, yes?”

You shake your head and flinch when he drags your panties down. Dewy strings of your slick come away with it, and you shudder at your newfound nudity. He hums approvingly and drags his finger through the wet patch staining your panties. Driven by libertine compulsion, he stretches viscous strands of your essence between two fingers.

Your eyes find his deceitful greens once more. Silence sparks between the both of you, quickly broken by your exhalation. Rollo kneels before you, taking in the sight of you as your face wavers through the stages of consideration. Upon arriving at your conclusion, you sit up slightly and shuck your dress over your head. And then you’re lying back, shaking your panties from off your ankle, and wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him in closer.

You grin, coquettish. “Why not search for yourself if you’re so worried, Mr. Student Council President?”

There’s no turning back. Not that he ever would. Not when the goat’s given him the signal. The blade doesn’t fall, but he does.

And this is better than dreams and erotica. This is real.

He surges forward to fit his lips against yours. Sloppy and inexperienced, he molds himself to your body. You tug him against you, your hands working to undress him. Clothes and shoes are cast aside between open-mouthed kisses, torn off half-buttoned and ripped away from soles. You breathe him in, gasping into his mouth. Translucent strings of saliva connect your mouths when you part, soon broken when you lean in for a chaste peck.

“You’re okay,” he says, the words practically bleeding onto your own tongue with how close he is. “Still as pure as the day I first met you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best thing.”

His third and fourth fingers prod at the depths of your pussy, pressing inwards. Shallow at first. He watches your face unblinkingly, burning every pleasured contortion into his brain, and slides his thumb along your clit. Your breathing staggers, coming in quick huffs, and you grab at the bedsheets to steady yourself. Rollo works you open on those fingers, curling and scissoring in equal measure. The slick squelches join in the salacious symphony you’re currently producing. Every sigh and groan come together in perfect harmony. You’re a heavenly harp, and he’s plucking your strings like an expert musician.

“Tonight is unforgivable,” he adds, and you blink through blissful tears to view him. “Folly is the worst distraction.”

“Then be stupid with me,” you joke, running your hands over his shoulders. He’s so cold. “Warm yourself with me.”

And he will because he’s always wanted to. He’s desired it. Craved it. Coveted it. Thought of nothing else for days and days, each delusion so cyclical it often felt tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his other hand up your hip and towards your rib. He traces the path of where it lies beneath layers of flesh before pressing down to feel it. “So beautiful…”

Your hand glides into his, fingers twining like silken thread around a spool. A lopsided smile lifts your lips, and you preen under him. “Yeah? Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about the obvious…” Your walls hug his fingers tighter then, and a shiver electrifies your nerves. He hums again, quite pleased. “Oh, did you like that?”

“I did. Very much.”

Lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, your head thrown back in ecstasy ever-mounting, you render him ensorcelled. Like a prized Renaissance nude, a goat laid to sacrifice in the crow’s nest, you are beatific. Divinely so.

“Allow me to reiterate then.” He hastens his pace, pumping his fingers relentlessly. You tamp down a shameless moan. “You’re exquisitely beddable. A work of art. Enchanting. Une belle femme.”

You’re nearing the edge—very gradually, but not quite—and so it’s devastating when he slips his fingers out, each one thoroughly coated in you. They shimmer in the dim light, reminding you of where they had previously been.

“Put it back in,” you beg with wide, glossy eyes. “C’mon… Please don’t stop now. Was so close. So close and—”

Your complaints are curbed when you follow his hand as it moves to wrap around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself thrice, using your slick as lube, until his cock is curving up against his stomach. You stare at him; he stares right back.

And then you realize he intends to go all the way.

“Wait, Rol…lo… S’not my safe day,” you say, shifting away. Whether impatiently or anxiously, he can’t tell, but he can certainly guess. Your world spins once, a dizzying blur, before it promptly clears. In the very center of your vision, as he’s always been, Rollo remains. “S’not safe…”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with levity. “I know.”

He’s kept track, dutiful like always.

You attempt to crawl out from under him, but he stops you. Your stomach churns.

“I’ll pull out in time,” he promises, rubbing soothing circles into your plush hips.

Even with the alcohol still buzzing through your system, you aren’t convinced. “N-No, really, we should stop here…”

“You’ll feel so good. Come now, aren’t we nearly there already?”

Rollo lifts your legs onto his shoulders. You squirm with more determination this time, but his fingers dig into your thighs. With a startled squeak, you sink into the mattress, cowed into submission.

“We… We can’t.”

“Why not?” The smooth, soft head of his cock prods curiously at your pussy.

You chew your lip, admitting in a meek tone, “I… I could get p-pregnant…”

“Pregnant,” he parrots, tasting the word as if it’s a delicacy he has yet to sample. His cock twitches. “Pregnant…”

“So… So that’s why…”

“Do you not want children?”

“I… Well… Now is kinda…”

He presses onwards, sinking in slowly. Your breath hitches; your heart stumbles. The intrusion is not entirely unwanted, for your slick, snug walls cling to his shape, and you almost give in to bodily inclination. But it doesn’t feel right. You’re scared. No matter how naturally your body reacts, you don’t want this.

“Rollo, wait—”

“It would be a wonderful thing—to see you rounded with my children.” Rollo props himself on either side of you, his body pinned to yours in sinful, sweaty connection. He exhales a deep breath, restraining himself as he pushes deeper. Patience is a virtue, after all. Your expression tightens with discomfort, and so he peppers your face with placatory kisses. “To see you grow in and—mmh—out of the most flattering maternity wear. To behold every change that blesses this beautiful body of yours… To see you swell with my love, filthy as it may be. Ah, but pregnancy is just as messy… Nevertheless, it shall be a special bond for us—a sacred vow, if you will. We are connected here—” he punctuates this point by slotting the rest of his length inside, and your legs involuntarily close around him to keep him there— “and soon here when life develops within.”

One hand splays across your stomach to pat it with fondness. You choke on your helpless whimper when he rocks his hips once, experimenting with the movement. It’s awkward, but it reminds you that he’s inside. So close to your womb that in just a few more thrusts he might—

“No… No, please… Rollo, you have to—oh—have to pull out. Please pull out. Don’t wanna get pregnant…”

“Oh, but you would be so beautiful.” He breathes you in, savoring sex and floral fragrance. “If I’m allowed one miracle—just one for all the anguish I’ve endured—let it be this.”

You know not of what anguish he speaks, for he’s never verbalized it, but even so it can’t possibly be so agonizing that it would warrant such invasion.

The vise-like hold your velvety walls have on his cock is deliciously addictive. He groans while he ruts into you, his eyelids fluttering. He could be animalistic and cruel in his movements—ravish you as if the world is faced with annihilation and this is his final hour—but instead he settles for exploratory leisure. His hand fits into yours and he squeezes it gently. A feeble protest builds in your throat and so he swallows it with a hungry kiss, his mouth molding against yours.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when he draws back and slides in again, filling you deeper than before. You breathe between kisses, panting and licking into his mouth in even intervals. He does much the same, anchored to you in a way that is both temporary and yet so permanent.

The world narrows down to this single sliver of space, enclosed in a canopy. And in it, laid bare and fertile, the goat is sacrificed to the crow. Death cannot reach either one here. There is only the promise of new life, thrust upon the goat all at once.

You don’t have the willpower to object, for you’ve already found yourself entrapped, so instead you cry. Tears track down your cheeks; your mascara runs with it. Ruined. So, too, is your pitch-black lipstick, smeared along the edges of your lips and printed onto Rollo’s porcelain skin.

Rollo’s hips stutter to a halt and he holds you against him when he spills thick and hot inside. Nothing is wasted; it’s all emptied deep within. If you’re lucky, it won’t take. But if some mischievous fertility goddess has cursed you, you’ll wake nauseous in the coming weeks.

If you have anything worth praying for, it’s the former.

The both of you are panting in the aftermath, but only one is coming down from his glorious high. You remain unsatisfied, your peak not yet breached. Rollo rolls his hips once more for good measure before easing out. You crumple into the wrinkled sheets, frigid and still as a statue. Carved empty and hollow, yet stuffed with sin.

The crow has come. Though this time the gift of tragedy is something between boon and curse.

— — —

The curtains are drawn to let in sunlight. It filters in through frosted glass, each pane stamped with snow, and it blinds you the moment you try to open your eyes. You twist and turn in bed, feeling heavy with hangover. A splitting ache cracks your head in half, and you groan loudly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hiss, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. “This sucks…”

You force yourself to wake after two more minutes of rolling around. Groaning once more, you sit up in bed. The canopy has been tied back in place, and when you glance sidelong at Rollo’s desk you notice something. A glass of water and a plate are waiting for you, seeming more enticing by the second. You throw the covers off, realize you’re nude seconds later, and promptly snatch them back. They’re wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. You stagger out of bed to check the contents. Two croissants, a single orange, a dollop of strawberry marmalade, and two tablets are arranged on the plate.

Hangover medicine, you realize, lifting one up to scrutinize it.

You peer around the room. It’s empty. And then you see the clock. It’s a little past noon.

“Oh,” you mumble, lowering into the chair. You clutch the blanket closer. “Rollo must be in class.”

Amidst the piercing migraine, which you quickly resolve by throwing your head back to swallow both tablets in a single gulp of water, two things occur to you. You’re in Rollo’s room. Naked. In Rollo’s room. Surely you must have spent the night after you returned from the party. Why are you naked?

But more importantly…

“Shit! My exam!” The excitement doesn’t help your current state, and you slouch in your seat, even more exhausted than before. “I completely missed it… Rollo’s gonna kill me.”

You scrub the sleep from your eyes and reach for a croissant, content with giving up. You don’t want to endure the walk of shame from Rollo’s room to yours. If anyone were to catch you, they’d certainly be left wondering.

As you nibble on the croissant, admiring the way Rollo’s arranged the contents of his room, you spot the edge of something beneath the plate. Perplexed, you push it aside to reveal a note. Penned in Rollo’s effortlessly pretty script, it reads:

I’ll forgive your transgression just this once if you’ll forgive mine. For now, get some rest. I’ve left breakfast here. Stay for however long you’d like.

You scowl at his attempt of ‘breakfast,’ and your stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction.

“Right?” you say to your stomach, clicking your tongue. “If anything, this is hardly a snack.”

But you’re grateful for his efforts. He cares. He always has. From the very first day you found yourself in this world, he cared.

While you peel the orange, pondering foggy recollections of last night, you begin to realize just how sticky you feel. As if someone’s slobbered all over you and left it to dry. The feeling persists between your thighs.

You pause momentarily, overcome with an uncanny sense of panic as you piece the puzzle together. The still-forming picture does not look good.

“Shit…” you whisper, haunted with a fragmented timeline. “What the hell did we do last night?”

You know. The deep, dark part of your brain knows, but you don’t want to confront it. Because Rollo wouldn’t, right? He couldn’t. He’s always done what’s best for you, so he wouldn’t.

Right?

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere rollo flamme #yandere rollo flamm #yandere rollo flamme x reader #yandere rollo flamm x reader #yandere rollo #yandere rollo x reader #n/sfw #tw: dubcon

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demiromanticmickey · 4 months

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On today's "I am SO not normal about Dead Friend Forever": Discussing Catholicism and Colonization in this gay Thai slasher series

Some background on me: I am from a Latine Catholic family. Raised as a non-practicing Catholic (we didn't go to church or pray). Then my parents enrolled me in a Catholic school that I attended from 5th grade to the end of 7th grade. Today, I am not Catholic and have never really considered myself as such.

Ok, so in the flashback episodes of DFF, I have been noticing a lot of things. My findings under the cut.

Let's start with this crucifix and photo of the Virgin Mary and a baby Jesus.

Screenshot from ep. 5.

The camera lingers here a bit so we're obviously meant to pay attention to the phrase. I put the screenshot through Google translate's image translator and the translation it gave me was, "Think good, do good, be a good person." I didn't think much of it when I first watched the episode other than it was supposed to establish that the boys attend a Christian or Catholic school.

But then there was this image posted on Be On Cloud's Instagram (also from ep. 5): X

Zooming in, we can see there's another picture of Mary in the background. Watching the classroom scenes, it's easy to miss because the series itself is more washed out than the official photos posted. But this emphasis on Mary led me to believe the school is a Catholic one. So out of curiosity, I looked up the schools the writers and directors attended because I felt I was onto something here. And boy, was I!

Source: MDL

Ma-Deaw, if you didn't know, is one of the directors of Dead Friend Forever (he also directed Manner of Death and Inhuman Kiss , and lots of other things).

One Google search later (X) and I learned "Montfort College" is a Catholic school. It started out as a primary school that later added a secondary school as well.

Now let's take a closer look at some of the details of this school:

First, the school's motto "Labor Conquers All Things". This reminded me of the phone conversation Tee had with his uncle:

On my first watch, this sounded familiar to me but I couldn't really place why. It wasn't until I saw this other Tumblr post (X) that pointed out it's similar to a bible quote from the New Testament. The quote varies a bit depending on which version of the bible you're using but it's along the lines of, "He who does not work, neither shall he eat".

This is meant to discourage "laziness". Nevermind the fact that people deserve to eat simply because we get hungry and need food to survive. The idea that we only "deserve" things based on productivity is an extremely colonial one. — Reminder also that Tee is being forced into this "work" in the first place. He's just a high school kid. I don't need to like his character to understand how fucked up his situation is.

Then there's the patron of the school. St. Louis de Montfort was a French Catholic priest most known for his study in Mariology. What is Mariology (X)? The study of Mary, the mother of Jesus. I didn't know that was a thing but it's unsurprising considering how prominent images of Mary were in my own religious upbringing. And she's what started me down this rabbit hole in the first place. Mary is a big deal to the Catholics. I'm going to be paying even more attention now if more Mary imagery pops up.

The Garden of Eden and Original Sin

Now I want to draw attention to these images:

Screenshots from ep. 7

Here we have Non and Phee biting into an apple as they leisure around this lush green field. We know they've visited this location more than once because they're wearing different outfits in the screenshots. And I think it's important to note that it's Phee holding the apple and offering it to Non.

The use of the word "bait" in the bts of ep. 7 is quite interesting too. (X)

The Garden of Eden was the paradise in which Adam and Eve resided. In this garden, there were many trees to eat from. The one tree Adam and Eve were forbidden by God to eat from was the Tree of Knowledge. A serpent (Satan), first tempted Eve into taking from the tree to eat it's fruit. And then Eve gave the fruit to Adam. That is Original Sin. And because Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, all humans thereafter are born sinful and bad, and can only find salvation through God.

Of course in the scene between Phee and Non, the sin the apple represents is being gay. And it's after this, and after the bracelet scene, that Non becomes involved with Por's film and his tragedy begins.

Zoomed in screenshot from ep. 5

And I wonder if the bracelet scene is the last time Phee and Non visit this forest location. It would parallel how Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden once they sinned.

Final Thoughts

You give me a story that criticizes Western religion and how it's used as a tool for oppression and colonization, and I'm gonna eat that shit up. I am gonna eat it up. Every. Single. Time.

I really wasn't expecting anything like this from Dead Friend Forever. This level in attention to detail is unmatched. I don't think I've watched a more well planned out show. And no matter where DFF goes from here, these seven episodes will always hold a special place in my heart. 💗

#dead friend forever #dff the series #pheenon #barcode tinnasit #ta nannakun #dff meta #dff spoilers #tabarcode #dff*#*#i just love it here #this is my comfort show idc

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slushiepizza · 1 month

Text

Marie and Mother Mary

Relationship : Marie & Milo Greer

Tags : Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Partum Depression, Gender Roles, Catholicism, Motherhood, Italian American Marie Greer

Word Count : 1,510

ao3

Notes and Warnings:

this fic kind of surprised me because I'm not super into the Shaw Pack. But I do find Marie Greer's presence and bits and pieces we know of her character fascinating. I wanted to explore Marie's mind and feelings about being a mother when she's dealing with a gambling husband; and for her to raise someone like Milo Greer- she must've done a great job as a parent.

I took inspiration from my own experiences growing up with Catholicism and specifically in relation to the biblical Mary as a religious figure; and how mothers often find comfort in the thought of a figure who related in their struggles of motherhood and womanhood. It also has a theme of gender roles/ alluding to rigid gender identities because of the circumstances that Marie grew up in.

This fic isn't really... religious per se, and it takes more of a neutral standing while still criticizing how religion could be used to provoke feelings of personal guilt and trauma in someone who grew up in it, while also giving comfort to anyone that needed the universe to say that everything will be okay. If any of the themes may cause distress in you, I do implore you not read this fic, as consuming writing is a vulnerable activity.

The year was 1993. Marie Greer walked into the empty church lot with her baby in her arms. It had been decades since she last stepped on its stone floors. The security guard stationed outside looked at her strangely, but let her in once she asserted that she was there to pray.

She passed the main building for a small garden in the back. There were rows of wooden benches but nobody to be found. Good. Marie didn’t want company at the moment. To call it a garden was an overstatement- it was tiny and cramped, overgrown with vines. In front of the benches, the centerpiece of all the foliage was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mother Mary, she thought, the double entendre not escaping her.

As soon as she sat down right in front of the statue- Milo wailed inconsolably like he always did.

The baby’s loud cries echoed disturbing whatever peace that was left from the place. Marie sighed, tired and weary, of this. He was an especially sensitive child, smaller than other babies his age. Marie was used to catering to people who’d fuss over the littlest things, Colm had a particular affinity for order and cleanliness whenever he came back from blowing his month’s earnings in a night, after all. The addition of Milo to the family just added more on her plate- she had to catalog every single one of his many allergies, and make sure that the room was never dusty because he’d have a coughing fit otherwise. The replacement of their popcorned ceiling had not been cheap, either, not with Colm leaving barely anything left after his trips to Vegas.

She did this all for love. For him. For her husband. But oftentimes, she felt like there was nothing left of her to give. Dry. Hollow.

She shushed Milo and lightly rocked him in hopes that he’d calm down but to no avail. He thrashed and turned, his nails accidentally scratched her in the arm. Marie winced and tried to soothe him, lightly patting his back. It took thirty minutes of rocking and soothing Milo until the baby went back to sleep.

St. Mary’s weathered ivory-colored face looked down at her, her expression blank and unmoving. Her lips were sculpted into a serene smile. Her pupil-less eyes gazed back at Marie.

Just like any other Italian-American family at the time, church was a routine for Marie growing up. Her mother would dress them in their Sunday’s best and wrangled her and her seven unruly siblings into the building. “Quit fussin’ your pigtails, Marie. I did that real pretty for you,” she’d chide. They’d sit in the back of the church because tardiness ran in that family’s blood like a curse.

Past the twelfth and thirteenth pews, God felt distant.

Marie would follow everything diligently. She stood up when everyone else stood up as the priest lifted the circular white wafer, the body of Christ, above the altar. As a child, her height wouldn’t allow her to catch a single glimpse of it. She’d comfort her younger siblings whenever they’d make a ruckus. But the whole thing- it went one ear out of the other.

She could’ve sworn she tried her best to listen and followed whatever the adults did.

I have greatly sinned, escaped past her lips as she did the same thing she had now, rocking her baby sister in her arms. At the time, she hadn’t even lost her milk teeth.

She stopped going when she married Colm. He was the opposite of the man her mother wanted her to marry, and in retrospect, she felt that it was one of the many reasons she liked him. His mind was raucous, his eyes wild and unmoored. Like nothing was holding him back. Colm used to be an ambitious man- the thrill of being an Investigator for DUMP perfect for his unrested soul.

Marie loved that part of him, the fact that he’d question everything, unbelieving in anything unproven.

He said that he wanted to purge the world of assholes- the unjust, those who hurt others for their own sake. As he turned in empowered criminals in the pursuit of it, he became one himself.

Marie met St.Mary’s gaze- almost challenging her hollow stare. Something surged through her, from the ache in her back settling to her tight diaphragm.

After the birth of her boy, Mary couldn’t cook or clean. All she did was stay in bed. Her sister came by to help take care of the house while Colm stepped outside as usual. She said that it was normal, her body had been through hell, after all. But the heavy feeling, the heaviness that settled in her chest persisted for the next two months.

Marie hated feeling helpless- her house a mess, and her baby cried constantly. She was a woman of action, and stagnation shackled her, leaving her trapped. Her visit to the psychiatrist- and the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual- had told her that it was depression with a postpartum onset. She told the doctor that she refused to accept that she was a ‘bozo who was sick in the head’ and that she will cure herself with a margarita and a sorely needed hair perm alongside a fresh coat of manicure.

And look where that got her. Crying in front of a statue in church.

She still stared at the other Mary, the statue’s size and height caused her to look like she was looking down on whoever prayed in the confined space, guiding them iin a time of need. With that, for once, Marie realized that she was angry.

She wasn’t stuck to her mattress, fatigued, and lacked energy because of sorrow- she was so angry, the weight of her job description as wife, mother, woman, wolf, dog, bitch- Marie weighed down on her like anchors. She was angry, at the fact that Colm was nowhere to be found throughout all this, angry at her mother- for making her a mother to her own siblings when she was barely a child, angry at the fact that she couldn’t even love her child properly because she no longer had any love left in the hollow of her heart.

The emotions had clawed the insides of her ribs and caused her to let out heavy breaths- she was a dog panting for air when there was none.

“When does it get easier,” she demanded to the Mother of all Mothers through gritted teeth. “Tell me, Mary,” she begged, desperate, as tears started to roll down her face. “Tell me!”

“When does being a mother ever get any easier?”

Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, as she started to sob and heave quietly.

A soft breeze blew past the branches of the trees that surrounded her. It moved the leaves and allowed them to move gently back and forth. The statue still looked down at her, hand slightly outstretched in a supposed kind, helpful gesture. Ants crawled from the crack in the marble, they moved past Mary’s dress down to the hem, circling around her exposed foot, past the head of the sneak that was crushed triumphantly under her toes.

Marie sank into her seat, tired. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffling. Unbecoming of her, she thought. She’d rather die than let anyone see her like this. But there was a comfort between women, she supposed. Damage from rain stained Mary’s cheek like tears- not unlike the thick mascara that currently ran down her own. The air was comfortable, easy, and Marie felt light. It reminded her of the 80s. Of girls in the bathroom of the disco, talking someone out of calling their past lovers as they applied lipstick and passed cigarettes between one another.

“I guess,” she sniffed. “I guess you know better, right?” she stared into a picture that hung on a distant wall. In it, St. Mary cried as she held Jesus' dying body. “He didn’t give you a hell of a good time either,” her voice cracked pathetically.

Girl, tell me about it, Marie imagined the statue said. The Virgin Mary had the voice of her best friend in college. Is that not what being a mother is? The pain so bad, it feels like you’re splitting in two? Going through all seven hells for your baby’s sake?

“Why do we even put ourselves through this,” she chuckled sardonically. “If I wanted to go through pain, I’d rather just listen to Colm talk about whatever fish he caught on the weekend.”

Mary didn’t answer, and Marie understood. Milo opened his big eyes in her arms and reached up to her with tiny hands. He giggled, light and oblivious to the puffiness of Mary’s face and the swell of her eyes. She cooed at him and held up a finger. Milo wrapped his hand around it, gentle.

St. Mary’s serene smile was still plastered on her face, her hand outstretched in the air between them.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #marie greer #milo greer #redacted milo #redacted marie #slushiewrites

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myymi · 2 months

Text

wrote this in three hours cause my other angst fics aren't close enough to finish so it's not as good as it can be but i wanted to put the imagery in everyone's brain lmao

happy broken bond sunday everyone <3

Sonic and Tails were angry.

Which isn't entirely unusual for them during fights, Knuckles notes as his fist collides with another motobug.

But this time it was different.

This time, they were angry with each other.

Knuckles has heard about them fighting before, but this is the first time he's ever seen it happen. It's such a surreal, unthinkable situation and yet it was happening right before his very eyes.

The usual witty banter the brothers would shout to rile up their human nemesis was completely gone, replaced by a silence that hung heavy with anger as the destroyed badniks in a much more aggressive manner. (Knuckles didn't think Tails could ever get more explosive than he was, but he was very quickly proven wrong today.)

Eggman seemed to notice the change too, unsurprisingly. He kept poking them about it, curious about their silence.

Knuckles, while not one to usually mediate fights, tried to get some information. But when he'd ask them, he'd be shrugged off with a grumble.

It was a little worrying, to be honest.

Knuckles freezes when there's another explosion, but this time accompanied by a loud yelp. He turned to the sky, eyes searching for the little fox that was handling the buzzbombers just in time to watch as he fell.

Smoked trailed him, and Knuckles quiet prayed that the way it looked like it was coming from the kid's tails was just a trick of the eye.

But before the echidna got to even think about running to catch the fox, a blue of blue shot through the air, taking Tails with it.

Sonic was behind Knuckles a second later, trusting him to provide cover as he looked over Tails’ injuries.

But as soon as he was put down, the fox pushed his brother away. “I'm fine.’

“No, you're not.” Sonic argued, wrapping a paw around the youngest’s arm to drag him closer again, “Stop acting like this.”

“Leave me alone, Sonic.” Tails frowned, trying to tug his arm back. “Despite what you think, I can take care of myself.”

“For the love of Chaos, Tails, really?” Knuckles’ brow furrowed as listened to the quiet argument. What happened between them? “You're being dramatic.”

“That's so ironic coming from you of all people.” The kit argued back, rolling his eyes.

“In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a battle right now, Tails.” Sonic leaned down to be at eye level with the little fox, “We don't have time to deal with this tantrum.”

“Because that's all it is, right?” Tails grumbled, pushing the hedgehog away. “All you ever do is deal with me, huh?

“If you would stop being a brat every time I do something you don't like then I wouldn't have to deal with anything, would I?” Knuckles could feel his expression morph in a mix of shock and anger. What had gotten into these two?

When he turned around to check on his brothers, he could see how Tails’ eyes were shining with tears. Knuckles never liked it when the fox cried.

Sonic didn't seem to fully understand what he said until he saw the expression on the youngest’s face. His eyes immediately filled with regret as he processed his own words.

Tails sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes, backing away when Sonic reached out for him. “I'm so sorry adopting a mangey child wasn't the happily ever after you were hoping for, Sonic.” Is the last thing the kid said before turning and flying back into the battle.

“Tails, wait!” Sonic shouted after him, but heavily groaned when he realized the kid wouldn't listen to him. He ran a paw down his face as he stared after his little brother.

“What happened between you and the kid.” Knuckles demanded more than asked, roughly turning Sonic to face him. This is the first time he's ever seen the hedgehog make Tails cry and he wanted some answers.

“It's been a long morning, okay?” Sonic sighed and shook his head. “I'll explain more later, but I gotta go apologize to–”

Sonic's sentence was cut off by another, much louder explosion than the previous ones.

The teenagers turned to find the source of it, their eyes widening as they watched a building collapse.

And Tails was nowhere in sight.

“Tails?!” Sonic screamed, speeding over to the destroyed building to search his brother. Chaos, please let the kid be okay.

He could hear Knuckles not far behind, also calling out for the fox, but he didn't care. His full focus right now was finding Tails, he didn't care about anything else.

It didn't take long to find him.

Or– it didn't take long to find most of him.

Tails was unconscious. Thick streams of blood spilled from a gash on his head where his left ear was supposed to be. His left arm was also missing, the hole at his shoulder gushing out more blood.

And, oh Chaos, how long is the pole impaled through his chest? It's so close to his heart. It didn't pierce it though, right? It couldn't have. Sonic can lose Tails. He was going to be fine, right?

Sonic pushed down the rising nausea, dropping to the fox’s side to cradle his head with one paw as the other searched for a pulse. He was muttering to himself, pleading with someone to keep his brother alive.

His gloves were quickly staining red as his paw frantically felt around the kit's body for some sign of life.

His panic grew when he couldn't find anything. It had to be because he was shaking, right? There's no way Tails is– he has to be fine.

“Sonic.” The hedgehog stilled at his name being called. He didn't look away from his brother's body though, even as a tear fell from his cheek. How long has he been crying? “Let me see him.”

The teen shook his head. He couldn't step away and let someone else take his place, Tails needed him.

Knuckles stepped around him, wincing at the sight of the little fox. He kneeled down to check for a pulse, but he knew he wouldn't find anything.

Tails was a strong kid, but there was no chance at surviving being impaled through the heart.

Sonic had leaned down to press his forehead against Tails’s, whispering a million apologies to the kid.

Knuckles closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to look at the hedgehog.

The younger met his eyes, a deep plea for the echidna to tell him his brother would be okay.

“He's gone.”

#sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #sth #tails the fox #sonic #unbreakable bond #not anymore lmao #knuckles the echidna #team sonic #myydrabs #major character death #child death #death #tw death #tw child death #broken bond sunday #drabble

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moved-to-mettatonsbestie · 7 months

Note

You know what. I DO wanna know about the religious imagery with Mettaton. Tell me all about it *laying on my chest kicking my feet up in the air*

@therowansweeps @mtt-brand-idiot

Let us start with his name. Remember that majority of the names in Undertale/Deltarune are very particular, whether it be for a funny joke or something with a dual meaning (ex: Toriel is just Tutorial, Undyne being Undying, etc). The etymology is rather important with characters, and Mettaton is certainly no exception. His name is most likely derived from the angel Metatron, found in Judaism, Christianity and Islam. He was one of the only two humans to attain Heaven in the form of an angel, he was originally a righteous man named Enoch who was gifted with the form of an angel by God once he died. Now, the names being similar could very well be a coincidence, but one must also take note of the fact that Metatron is transliterated as MTT in Greek; which is too much of a coincidence to not be intentional.

So... his name is taken from an angel, which is already an allusion to the notion of deities and religion. Furthermore, this angel in particular is a rather interesting candidate to be compared with Mettaton... Both of these figures were something else entirely before they obtained their true forms, and changed their name along the way. They have even further parallels when you look at the name's meaning and Mettaton's actions. Metatron is most likely derived from the verb memater, which means to guard or protect; very striking when one considers the fact that Mettaton is very much a protector in Genocide/No Mercy Route; he quite literally gives his life to protect the Underground, as a guardian angel would do.

Furthermore, he is quite literally a celebrity, an idol. He even says it himself, he is the idol everyone craves. This is a double entendre, referring to him being a celebrity or figure to look up to, or a literal deity. Deities are all considered idols, they are to be worshipped; the very notion is entirely what his character is about. He loses his humanity, he is no longer a person. Hell, he is not even seen as alive, in his quest to be the true idol for humanity and monsterkind. He is worshipped and adored, yet is it genuine? Do the people know and love the real him? No. He is the heater, the Underground's sexiest rectangle, he is seen as just a robot. He is complacent in this, yet to hide his past and help Alphys he gave his humanity away.

It is a rather cruel twist on the story of Metatron actually... Metatron was given a wonderful gift by his creator, God gave him immortality and the blessing of being truly holy. This transformation into something else was divine, yet the same cannot be said about Mettaton. He was given the body of his dreams, yet it will never come without a terrible cost. His humanity and agency was given away, he even got used for functions he would be completely against; such as his creator giving him human eradication functions to "make him more useful", something the human loving ghost would never agree to until the last possible moments in a Pacifist run. Regardless, Mettaton falls into both the categories of being the idol and being God's pawn, which is rather interesting.

And of course... he is not without true fans either, take Spamton for example. Spamton supposedly spent all of his time praying to an artifact, the very machine that created NEO; which evidently has direct ties towards Mettaton NEO. I honestly never played the Spamton NEO fight yet, so I cannot comment too much on it, however Mettaton is quite literally an overworld being being unknowingly worshipped and prayed to by someone who resides below; this blind faith being found in every religion.

So yeah... Whether it was directly intentional or not, Mettaton as a whole has a decent amount of religious imagery and themes with his character that it becomes rather important to properly dissect him fully. I barely remember writing any of this, he probably possessed me and made me write this.

#asks #mettaton #undertale #sorry for the tagging i just wanted to let yall know i am replying to you #oliver.txt

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darkened-writer · 2 years

Text

imagine| Adoring Veneration

summary || ❝Would you have me dust my knees in the white powder of the snow, just to apologize to you about my lack of faith? Or the way I pray to you?❞

pairing || Morpheus x Worshipper!Reader

word count || 1,405

warnings || Morpheus being a sexy, stubborn, horny, immortal mf.

notes || @beautifulbows924 inspired this fic with her works with Worshipper! Reader! So please, go check out her fics about the concept!! Also, this fic is heavily inspired by Cirice by Ghost, so go take a listen to the song!!! And enjoy.

For generations, upon generations, your family line had a very vast presence within religion. Not any normal religion however, but one worshiping a group of entities known as the “Endless”. Your ancestors were keen on these mysterious beings, but your family had adored one endless in particular. Morpheus, Oneiros, Dream, Lord Shaper, Dream of the Endless.

Plenty of imagery of Oneiros’s ‘haunting’ figure lingered within childhood memories. Painted walls of your childhood room adorned with sand like specks and an ever-looming black shadow. He was, without a doubt, a force to be reckoned with based off of the tales your mother read to you before bed.

‘He knows of your deepest dreams, and your most haunting nightmares.’

But as you grew up, into teenagehood, rebelliousness struck swiftly. You denied the claims of any “endless”, shunning the once child-like love for the Sandman away with anger. It had brought great pain to your elders, but within the rage of rebellion grew a curiousness as you were never aware of his watchful eye.

He watched you grow.

Watched you grow angry and distasteful.

And even in your dreams, he contemplated why you would stray from your family’s worship of him. Were you going to be the end of the family tradition? Was he simply not good enough for your endless devotion?

You grew into a stunning young woman, personality to match it all.

And he grew even more keen when he witnessed you looking into a box within your own walk-in closet.

It was a large, wooden chest-like box, carvings of runes on the edges of each side. They read, ‘Worship and Adoring Veneration’. The contents of the inside being filled with altar materials for him. Black and white candles, a small pouch of sand, strawberries preserved in a vastly tight bag, and a dagger that glittered with the shine of a stone in the grip, a Dream Stone.

You were lighting the candles with a lighter, repeating the prayer that he had heard for years upon years, and he felt a smile tug on his lips, feeling foreign but right.

“Oh, gentle King of Dreams, Honor me with your presence, Morpheus, ruler of Dreams and Nightmares. Bless me with pleasant dreams and comfort the nightmares of mine within your care. Bring peace to those within disarray, and comfort to those with no hope.”

Oh.

The blouse that was sat around your figure was now being slid off from the shoulders, your fingers gripping the pouch of sand as you began to sprinkle the individual grains across your chest, head lent backwards; eyes closed.

“Hail Morpheus… and Praise be…”

Your voice was laced with the erotica of creme and vanilla, Morpheus’s own self shuddering at the view.

What has made you change your mind about him? How were you so sure that he was listening to the prayer being uttered by your saccharine lips?

Perhaps he would toy with you and cause a bit of mental chaos.

The notebook sat on your desk suddenly flipped open, rousing your eyes to open at the disruption.

“Wha…-?”

A slam, as the paper finally settled and stood still, but the discoloration of the pages alarmed you from afar.

“Go to the paper… and be enlightened, my precious acolyte…”

You didn’t tell yourself to move and yet, your body moved on its own volition towards the notebook.

Sand was everywhere across the desk, almost set upon to show a design, and you had recognized it immediately. It was a recreation of Morpheus’s helm, although poorly done, it was still vivid. And the words scrawled onto the paper sent a tremor up your spine, the haunting feeling from your childhood suddenly ever more present.

‘I’M REAL AND I’M LISTENING TO EVERY PRAYER THAT PASSES THROUGH YOUR LIPS’

Ever since the message was scrawled down within your home, you had felt as though you were being watched. Not just watched; but inspected, taken apart. You never felt truly alone for any moment at all. And that fact truly instilled fear within you.

Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares was frighteningly real.

And while finding this out was frankly terrifying, you still carried on with your days; committing to worship before you were to sleep. And like you had asked, he had blessed you with many precious dreams, of great happiness and pleasure.

He really was always listening to your praises, and that struck a question.

Had he been watching you all these years? Even when your faith wavered?

Hopefully, he would show himself to speak truly face-to-face.

“Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

The winter landscape came into view within a moment’s notice, the haziness making you immediately aware that you were within a dream. Was this of his creation, on purpose?

The particles of snowflakes fell down gently, settling onto the already covered ground. There was a green fence to your left, painted with what seemed to be many coats of paint. The pale blue sky was nostalgic and reminiscent of many winter mornings, walking to school wrapped in a warm coat; nose reddened from the sheer frozen air. But what had caught your eye was the bright streetlight. The light bouncing off of the pure white of the snow, making your eyes squint.

“Hello…? Morpheus of the Dreaming? I recognize the feeling of sleepiness here… I know you sent me here for a reason-...!”

The area was dead silent except for the crunch of the snow against the shoes you had on. Your nose felt like it was going to fall off, along with your fingers that lacked gloves. Cold and distant, just like the Endless.

“You’ve intrigued me, acolyte. Years of inactivity within worship and suddenly you are willing to give your body to me.”

You turn to the streetlight, eyes widening at the difference of Morpheus’s dark robes compared to the snowy ground. He was striking, skin pale like the ground and yet he looked as beautiful as the books had drawn him to be.

“How could you have really known if I was real, hm? You were practically serving yourself on a silver-platter for an Endless you didn’t believe in. Seductive to the air.”

His tone was harsh and yet as you walked closer to him, the feeling of being picked apart arose once again. You liked to watch you, the way you move, the way you carry yourself, it was alluring; the pinnacle of humanity’s lustful grace.

“Would you have me dust my knees in the white powder of the snow, just to apologize to you about my lack of faith? Or the way I pray to you?”

He scoffs.

“You really think that would be enough, acolyte?”

“Surely.”

His pale fingers wrapped rather tightly against your clothed shoulder, arousing a shudder from your form. You oozed power and yet, he could make you weak with just a touch.

Down.

He pushed you down until your knees were thoroughly submerged within the snow, the wetness seeping into the once dry fabric of your pants. His gaze looked down upon you, while you looked up at him with a feeling of.

Lust?

How could you feel these scandalous and unbecoming thoughts about him of all people. He was an Endless, a being to be worshiped with words and offerings. Not the flesh of the loins or the offering of one’s bodily autonomy.

“My lord… I apologize for my absence within worship. If you’d allow me too, I’d like to show my adoring veneration for you.”

Your voice was like sliding honey across toast, slow but sweet; sultry but coarse. It could bring any man to his knees; it could bring any man to shed their clothing and submit. But was he just like any human man?

“I have no desire for your… services. You may offer me regular offerings made just like your ancestors before you. Pray to me every night before you sleep. And maybe, just maybe, I can forgive you of your transgressions.”

“Yes, my lord. Anything for you, your majesty.”

His once rough hand was now on your cheek, thumb caressing the skin of your cheekbone with a deep caring.

“This Dream is over.”

A gasp, sweat covering you head to toe.

And the feeling of his hand on your shoulder, the coldness of your knees within the snow; it all lingered even in real life.

Praise Be, Hail Morpheus.

#xreader #fanfiction #morpheus x reader #the sandman #dream x reader #neil gaiman #the sandman comics #the sandman x reader #sandman x y/n #sandman imagine #morpheus dream #morpheus #dream the endless x reader #dream of the endless #tom sturridge #tom sturridge x reader #possible part 2?

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catholic-character-tournament · 11 months

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Round 3 - Catholic Character Tournament

firestar art by @kudossi

Propaganda below ⬇️

Firestar

NOTE: I have to note that Firestar is kitty Anglican NOT kitty Catholic

Kitty jesus, he believes in starclan which is the kitty version of heaven/god and yea. All the warrior cats characters except those outside the clans or those that are atheist believe in the kitty heaven and would irl be bri-ish and christian as hell so. The authors are all older british christian women and so the way starclan is written is like undoubtedly that.

The main religion in the series is extremely catholic coded. Most clan cats believe in Starclan and the Dark Forest(or heaven and hell). There is a set of rule they must uphold and follow, where following them leads to heaven and breaking them leads to hell. Their religious leaders are sworn to celibacy, and the punishments that "code breakers"(or cats who break the rules) face are extremely similar to situations people with religious trauma have gone through.

OP notes: apparently converted to avoid getting his balls cut?? Idk. The discord yet wild for firestar so I had to include him because it's hilarious hehehe

OP new notes: I have learned so much about warrior cats. Do yourself a favor and go down this tag and see the Firestar discourse.

Harrowhark

I'm pretty sure you've already got plenty of submissions for her so I'll just say she was raised in what is basically a cult (technically a nunnery but let's be real) dedicated to keeping the body of the thing that will kill God behind the rock. One of their prayers is actually "I pray the rock is never rolled away". Harrow is extremely devout as penance for her earlier heretical actions in the tomb as a child (spoiler!) so the Catholic guilt really comes through

imagine being a catholic nun and you meet god, but it turns out he’s a twitch streamer from new zealand who became god because everything got a little bit out of hand. and just before you met him you gave yourself a diy grief-fuelled lobotomy with the help of your best frenemy. imagine how insane you’d be. now multiply that insanity by nine. that’s the fictional love of my life right there.

she meets god. she’s not inspired

she’s number one practitioner of space Catholicism. The locked tomb is chock full of Christian (catholic) imagery themes metaphors etc. just look at her she’s got a bone rosary

They're Catholicism with extra bones. Everyone is a nun. They have what is basically a rosary made from knuckle bones. They technically worship the same God as everyone else, but they're waaaay more focused on The Body in the Tomb (Mary) and we get a moment where we find out that while everyone else prays the equivilent of The Lords Prayer, they're doing the equivilent of Hail Mary. And they paint their faces with skulls.

She thinks leaving dry bread in a drawer is taking care of someone. She's in love with a 10,000 year old corpse (the same one they worship). She spent ALL NIGHT digging with her bare hands to make sure a field had bones every 5 feet so she could fight her girlfriend - I mean, greatest enemy. Spoiler territory: She's been puppeting her parents corpses since she was 8 years old. Instead of grieving her dead girlfriend, she gives herself a lobotomy. She makes soup with bone in it so she can use the bone IN THEIR STOMACH to try and kill them.

The author is/was Catholic and the entire series had heavy Catholic overtones. https://www.tor.com/2020/08/19/gideon-the-ninth-young-pope-and-the-new-pope-are-building-a-queer-catholic-speculative-fiction-canon/ A good breakdown of how it's Catholic

Anti-propaganda (spoilers)

I love the Locked Tomb series but Harrowhark has daddy issues with God, had a childhood crush on God's cryogenic partner, and is in love with God's daughter, not to mention that she's essentially a bone-bender. The religion on her home planet exists in a way that is technically against the will of the canon in-universe God, even. All of this to say, Harrowhark is heretical at minimum if not an outright witch. Terrible Catholic. Burn her.

#harrowhawk #harrowhark nonasigmus #tlt #the locked tomb #cct polls #tumblr tournament #tumblr bracket #tumblr polls #polls #r3 #firestar #warriors #warrior cats

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magnoliacharmed · 11 months

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Godless

(not my gif!)

18+, CM Punk x Fem!Reader one shot

[Also available on Archive of our Own!]

Word count: 1,091

Tags: Referenced alcoholism, Religious imagery/symbolism, blow jobs, come swallowing

Summary:

This was the blessing you worked for. This was the blessing you deserved. To worship at the feet of CM Punk.

Author's note: Inspired by this wonderful fancam & Godless by Banks.

…And so you worshiped at the feet of CM Punk.

It was a downward spiral and you circled the drain before you’d even known it. Oh, to trade one addiction for another… you hoped God could forgive you.

The thought brewed in your mind. Dark storm clouds filled your head heavily with an impending sense of horror. When you felt the gentle caress of Punk’s fingertips across your cheekbones, the clouds broke. Tears flooded your eyes and began to roll down your cheeks and over his fingers.

“Don’t you feel better? Don’t you feel clean? ” Punk whispered. His voice echoed around you like a haunting. You would’ve liked to say that there was no semblance of wickedness in his eyes, but why play God for a fool?

“Yes… but…”

Pain radiated through your nerves. Every muscle in your head twisted and stretched with exhaustion. You’d do anything for another sip of liquor. You’d do anything for Punk’s admiration.

“But what?”

“For how long will this go on?”

His hand came to rest on the back of your head. It scared you how much you needed his touch. It calmed you down almost immediately. Now you knew it was okay to relax. Your body bit back at your now rested weight pushing down on your knees. Let them get scraped.

“What if I told you I could make it all more bearable?”

The fluorescent lighting seemed to brighten behind his head, an aura of yellow-white glistening through strands of dark hair. If you reached out to touch him would he really be there? Was he not a trick of your mind, an illusion to sink you further into despair?

“I’ll do anything.”

“Anything… anything. Close your eyes for me.”

You squeezed your lids shut. The darkness behind them was well needed. The light from Punk was getting to be overwhelming. You wondered just what he could do for you to make all the pain go away.

“Will you bless me?”

Punk paused at your words. He didn’t expect the desperation in your voice. If anything, it only spurred him on. Made him more comfortable with what he wanted to do.

“Yes.”

Things were all a blur. There was no point in thinking about the circumstances that led you to this point. The only thing that was worth focusing on was how to please. And to please was to pray. There was more than one way to pray, not only through the act of speaking. Your mouth opened as if to sing a hymn and slowly became filled with him.

It was a slow affair. There was no need to make the act more obscene than it already was. Punk knew what this was. It was more about the means to the end, the journey of it all. To see you so pliable below him was more pleasurable than the act itself he realized. A contented sigh escaped from his lips. The warmth of your mouth was slightly overbearing.

“I look down at you now and see a saint. My saint.”

The bobbing of your head came to an abrupt stop to look up at him with a red rimmed wet sparkle in your eye. A saint. You couldn’t believe it. Yes, this made all of your former suffering worth it. Doing anything for this man, this—

Prophet?

When he pushed deeper down into your throat, you thought that was it. You’d reached your end. Breathing was still possible but wasn’t even a priority in your lust soaked brain. You wondered why a sinful act made you feel so holy. Perhaps it was due to the sounds Punk made above you. Deep breaths and strained moans healed your tainted spirit. You were on your way to true salvation.

The thrusts of his hips began to pick up pace. He was ready to give you what you needed. Out of all his followers, you were his favorite. You were the one who had put in the most effort and the one who’d suffered the greatest. You’d walked the straight and narrow path to a clean life. Now it was time to show you just how proud he was of you.

“You’re perfect. I’ve always believed in you.”

All of his words had sent you careening towards the edge too. You were sure that if you reached down to pleasure yourself you’d be reprimanded and punished, and there would be nothing worse than that. Restraint was difficult but much better than the alternative. Your mind conjured images of reaching down to touch yourself and show Punk just how much you respected him. All you wanted to do was chant his name, over and over in the throes of ecstasy. Maybe one day after you continued to prove yourself.

“Here it comes—“

Warm fluid filled your mouth in a rush. It was bitter tasting but no more bitter than any liquor you’d ever consumed. Even though you’d been down on your knees for what felt like hours, the peak was reached so soon. Punk’s nails dug into your scalp as he pushed your head to the base of himself. He knew he was choking you. It took him a few seconds to actually care. He slowly dragged himself out of your mouth, like he was in pain to leave. The saintliness you emitted had faded from his vision. You were once again just you. In that moment, just you was good enough.

The deep breath you took made you feel alive like you’d never felt before. It was amazing— your muscles no longer ached. Your memory must have played a trick on you… you weren’t even sure if you were truly feeling real pain before he entered you.

That very special light glowed behind Punk again when he held his hand out to help you raise off of your knees. His lips planted a loving kiss on your forehead, the metal of his lip ring feeling alien on your overheated skin. Your body flooded with affection and desire for him.

“Let’s go. It’s time to spread the good word.” His smile was easy, yet mocking. Most likely because of how absolutely wrecked you looked with smudged mascara and a wet chin. It was easy to ignore his expression when he kept his grip on your hand, fingers wrapping around yours. You were his best disciple. The people had to see just how devoted you were.

This was the blessing you worked for. This was the blessing you deserved. To worship at the feet of CM Punk.

#cm punk #wwe #wwe smut #wwe fanfic #world wrestling entertainment #cm punk x reader #wrestling #wrestling fanfic #wrestling smut #magnoliafanfic

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astralnymphh · 8 months

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god knows she tried

an angst piece teaser, ellie williams..ೃ;

𖤐 juusttt a little teaserrrr for some first time angst. only a small portion tho, u guys gonna have to wait for the full thing 🤣🤣 set in santa barbara after the ellie n abby beef 🤼‍♀️ reader n ellie are a couple, basically dina's replacement

bonus note I have no idea if I should make this piece end disgustingly sad or with a happy ending. I dread having to figure that out lol.

FULL FIC

the sun was shrouded in gloom. the water did not glisten, but her tears did. droplets of gray guilt pour in slow motion down her bloodied cheeks. tears glistening with hurt.

washed up like a sea carcass, phantom fingers pounding in pain. made into a husk by her own self-corrosion. her mind would have been bare, except, you're there. a figment of time, standing there, suffocating in your blank stare. why are you staring like that? it's not even you. ellie can't grasp that truth. it's only her subconscious. projecting an apparition of your mortal flesh and briny blood. salty like the sea she's sitting in.

would you echo that figment in real time?

the past figments she saw had character. one shaking their head, one like a beacon of comfort caressing her shoulder, and never dead. you're not dead, why is she crying?

she cries for everything.

her limbs calcified of stone. nothings' moving. lungs that felt dried up from all the tears leaving her eyes. a throat that strains and tugs with each dense swallow, reminding her of the atmosphere that appeared so devoid of air, thinking, how could she breathe right now? the insoluble pain of self-destruction. the hunger for revenge, snuffed like a breeze to flames. it was all in her head. the choking. her lungs begged for air, and she could not breathe it.

ellie cusps the hand that gushes with beady red blood that drips into the dark murky water, pressurizing the exposed throbbing knuckle. it hurt like hell, an unlivable hell. yet, not a wail is heard by the ocean. only the whimpers and sniffles graze the ears of her highness, the sea, the only one physically there to listen.

just minutes ago, her skin was forming bruises and jaw nearly caved in from the force of abby's struggled hits. knuckles praying to live. not even the mass of a gun tucked in her jeans had her awareness. no, she didn't use it. she wanted to feel abby fucking dying in her hands. her hands that have siphoned the lives of many before. but, when she realized someone was actually dying in her hands, when she could feel that through her skin, it was over. the flashes of joel in her head beckoned her to stop, without uttering any words. the same mental imagery that motioned her to break skin in the first place.

joel was always there.

#ellie williams #ellie williams angst #ellie williams fic #ellie x reader #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams concept #tlou ellie #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams x reader #santabarbara!ellie #santra barbara ellie #ellie tlou #lesbian #sapphic #⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆upcoming

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thatpodcastkid · 7 days

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Magnus Archives Relisten 12, MAG 12 First Aid

"American student agrees to visit UK demon hospital to beat medical bills. More at six."

Mag 12 analysis, spoilers ahead!

Facts: Statement of Lesere Saraki regarding a night shift at St. Thomas Hospital. Statement given February 11, 2012.

Statement Notes: Really great episode. There is so much built-in here that, to a new listener, doesn't make any sense, but drives a relistener listener crazy. It's an incredible balance of mystery and horror. Before you're aware of the metaplot, you can't understand this episode and are afraid like Saraki. But once you are aware of the metaplot, you understand how the events of this episode contribute to the rituals and Gertrude. Having finished the series, it's easy to view the central mysteries of the series being "What is Elias' goal?" or "What are the entities?", but fans often forget that the main question of the first two seasons is "How did Gertrude Robinson die?" This episode, though not holding many clues, reveals how Gerry did his work, contributing to that mystery. Events like this episode are likely what was important to Jon in season 2, not things that are important to him later like the Lightless Flame or Hilltop Road.

The video footage of everyone leaving the waiting room was very concerning to me. There are a lot of episodes in which the entities seem to manipulate the actions of people around their targets to insight more fear, or at least manipulate their target's perception of other people. However, this just seems like straight-up mind control. A mass manipulation of everyone in the hospital at once. As a show of power alone, this is very frightening. The lack of an explanation is also very concerning. Jon doesn't even attempt to brush off this case as mass hysteria or drug use. I can't explain what made these people behave like that, and clearly, he can't either.

Entity Alignment: This is a very strong Desolation episode. The imagery is so incredibly descriptive. Everything from the warped door handles to the exploding soda bottles to the boiling saline solution is so vivid. The image that particularly stuck with me is Saraki examining Gerry's wounds (side note, it's very sweet to me that she felt so bad about ruining his new leather jacket). She doesn't go particularly in-depth, but the thought of perfectly pristine clothing covering utterly burned skin really emphasizes the violent nature of the Desolation. It burns and destroys, but only targets things it can cause fear and pain.

There's also a ton of Eye mentions in this episode. When Gerry is "praying" over the other victim (don't even get me started on the religious associations people make with the horrors), Saraki steps aside to let him work and watch. Gerry tells her "For you, better beholding than the lightless flame.” This insinuates that, with the prayer he is using to kill the other burn victim (presumably a Lightless Flame member), he is calling on the Desolation. It's a bit surprising that someone deeply affiliated with the Eye can call on another entity. However, we have to remember that technically the entities are all a part of one larger eldritch being, that we as humans simply cannot comprehend the scope of. This means that any avatar can work with or call on any entity, though it is likely easier for someone like Gerry, who is more aware that the Entity is a nuanced being and understands it academically, than it would be for someone like Jared Hopworth or Mike Crew, who are deeply entrenched in the specific aspects of the Entity.

In this vein, Gerry's tattoos not burning demonstrates his connection to the Eye and possible avatar powers. There's evidence in the show that different entities cannot hurt each other directly, but need particular circumstances to do so. For example, Jared Hopworth can take Jon's ribs when he consents, but cannot kill Melanie while she is associated with the Slaughter, and can be captured by Helen, who cannot be killed by Melanie. There is certainly some dream-logic, rock-paper-scissor-style power ranking of avatars. But this episode seems to prove that although Gerry can be harmed by the Desolation, the Eye will still protect him to a certain extent. This also helps with my issue with MAG 4 regarding Gerry's Eye art and tattoos.

While I do believe on a practical level there are differing levels of protection and power for the avatars based on their affiliation, commitment, and abilities, I would also like to return to the single eldritch Entity. Since the entity is one thing, it makes sense that it would hurt its avatars, but not itself. This would mean that Gerry is so deeply connected to the Eye (or at least the arcana of his tattoos is) that the entity will not hurt him because it considers him a part of itself. This is further proven in season 5, as Jon can essentially kill any avatar or person he chooses, but is untouchable to others because of the Eye's protection. The Entity has the ability to make its avatars a part of itself, and refuses to hurt them because it would only cause it more harm.

More specific to the episode, Gerard attempts to associate Saraki with the Eye. This seems fair, as Saraki only watches what Gerry does and does not interfere, merely observing the horror of another. The Eye/Elias is also clearly observing her as an Eye flashes on the CCTV screen and she reports feeling watched later. But again, genre awareness is very important in this series. The goal of the entities is to make people afraid, so those who choose to move on or take practical actions are less likely to remain targets. Saraki plays the game, she goes along with Gerard, muscles through the horrors, and moves on. She never has a paranormal occurrence again.

Character Notes: Sasha is just so incredible with computers. I wish we could see her in TMAGP universe where tech skill are actually useful. I think the key difference between Archivist!Sasha and Archivist!Jon is that, while Jon has an insatiable desire to obtain knowledge he cannot always feed, Sasha has a great ability to obtain knowledge but a duller and more practical drive. This could be part of the reason Elias chooses Jon over her, because his desire would push him to go further, while his information gaps would cause him more anxiety and fear.

Also, I know Martin very well could have googled the Polish phrase or just know a little bit and this is part of his CV lies, but can you imagine a Polish-speaking Martin? Just live in that world for a second.

Still, since Martin canonically lied about speaking Latin and it is likely he speaks little-to-no Polish, the fact that he would research and/or share this phrase with Jon seems to be another lie to get people to like him. While it don't think his lies/manipulations are as malicious as Annabelle makes them seem in season 5, they are definitely present.

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tortured-gaylor · 1 month

Text

from the journal of ava: but daddy i love him notes

according to swifties, this is a little mermaid reference: she gave up her voice to be with the man she loved

idk i haven't seen the little mermaid since i was 5, i'll take their word for it

i just learned these people only raise you to cage you

links back to who's afraid of little old me?: "you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me"

growing up famous, she was never able/allowed to just be or do what she wanted. this is also made clear in the miss americana documentary. seems like scott especially tried to keep her quiet and caged

she has used cage imagery often throughout her career in music videos and visuals (look what you made me do music video, the shadows in the visuals during the midnights set at the eras tour, the speak now ornament, the glass cage in the willow music video,...)

the spotify library installation also had a cage, but the birds were free on another shelf

sarahs and hannahs in their sunday best, clutching their pearls sighing "what a mess" i just learned these people try and save you cause they hate you

this seems to allude to religious people being homophobic. they try and "fix" you by praying for you

she's the odd one out, doesn't fit in with the norm (the sarahs and hannahs)

they slammed the door on my whole world, the one thing i wanted

again with the controlling

is the muse the whole world? is it simply freedom? or is it something else entirely?

now i'm running with my dress unbuttoned, screamin' "but daddy i love him"

like the love story music video

song themes are similar to love story as well with the disapproving father

i'm having his baby... no i'm not but you should see your faces

GAGGED

you should have indeed seen my face

dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid

idk what to tell you

it's queer

her parent (likely her dad) planned her whole life out for her and she fulfilled this "destiny", even if that life doesn't suit her

tendrils tucked into a woven braid

links back to seven: "your braids like a pattern"

the saboteurs protested too much

homophobes

lord knows the words we never heard, just screeching tires and true love

links back to getaway car

this could mean words of acceptance, likely from the church(goers) again

i'll tell you somethin' 'bout my good name it's mine alone to disgrace

she's done being sheltered and ready to make her own decisions, decide who she is all by herself

god save the most judgmental creeps who say they want what's best for me sanctimoniously performing soliloquies i'll never see, thinking it can change the beat of my heart when he touches me and counteract the chemistry and undo the destiny you ain't gotta pray for me me and my wild boy and all this wild joy if all you want is gray for me, then it's just white noise and it's just my choice

this is her saying people have no business being all up in her relationships. they seem to think they have the moral upper hand and get to decide what's best for her, even if they don't know her or her partner at all

she pulls an uno reverse on them by asking god to save them, just like they did for her

this could mean she's gonna love who she loves, despite what the world wants/expects from her

this calls back to the people "saving" her cause they hate her (so homophobes again)

this is a reach but did they try to strip her of her pride colours and she finally decided to ignore these very loud voices?

scandal does funny things to pride but brings lovers closer

✨ shared trauma ✨

for real though, scandal could be her being outed by whatever tabloid

forced her deeper in the closet, but closer to the (also closeted?) muse

we came back when the heat died down

the scandal forced them to keep a low profile for a bit but they came back (stronger than a '90s trend?)

went to my parents and they came around

reminds me of That™ miss americana scene

also reminds me of how the dad in love story eventually came around

time, doesn't it give some perspective?

there's something in this line but i'm not sure what

#but daddy i love him #the tortured poets department #ttpd #taylor swift #gaylor #lgbetty #friends of dorothea #gaylor theory

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lu-is-not-ok · 9 months

Note

Stuck in Heaven (ego gift: Late-bloomer's Tattoo) has been grinding my gears for a while now. It has an idea - and a clear one at that - but i can't figure out what it *is*. Wiki has the event transcript. Pls send help

Alright, back to my proper analyses, and... *cracks knuckles* Oh this one's gonna be fun. I want to say that since this one won't need to get into E.G.O analysis, then this post will be a bit shorter than my other full-length analyses...

But. You know how it is with me. For all I know this one might end up ridiculously long anyway. Also, uh, spoilers for Lobotomy Corporation and Library of Ruina ahead.

So, before we can talk about Stuck in Heaven, we need to talk about the other Abnormality it's directly related to - The Burrowing Heaven.

The Burrowing Heaven debuted in Lobotomy Corporation, but later made a return in Library of Ruina as one of the Abnormality Battles. For the sake of completion, I will be taking a look at both of its appearances in the series.

In its original appearance, Burrowing Heaven takes on the form of a tree-like entity, made up of a fleshy material, with branches that seperate into wing-like shapes and many eyes.

Its main mechanics in Lobotomy Corporation is that the Abnormality needs to be on-screen to prevent it from breaching and teleporting away once it does breach. This mechanic is reflected in a lot of flavor text about it, most directly in the description of its E.G.O Gear, which includes the sentence "Just contain it in your sight."

Burrowing Heaven's story further expands on this idea. The Abnormality is repeatedly said to "live inside your eyes/gaze", to feed on the attention and focus others give it by looking at it. However, the moment one looks away for too long, it begins to stretch the stalks of its wings for two reasons - one, to gather corpses as food for the fruit it bears; two, to reach towards the sky and sun, as if to cover it up.

Religious imagery and symbolism is used all over for this Abnormality. From the act of stretching its limbs being compared to praying to an old-forgotten god, to its wings reaching the skies being compared to an angel, to the action of it growing its thorns and burrowing being described as for the purpose of "reaching heaven inside one's vision".

Now, there's a very interesting part of Burrowing Heaven's story in LobCorp that I want to point out. Usually, when those stories are said in first person, it's either through the use of "we" (to reflect the company/employees writing those down as a whole), or with the passage being specified as either some testimony or log or otherwise being quoted.

However... That's not the case here. For Burrowing Heaven, there is a whole section in its story written in first person, with no clear note of it being quoted from something else. Allow me to paste the segment in its entirety.

"That's what a gaze is. Attention. An invisible string that connects us. Sole focus. Do not come here, as there is no place for you to rest. But you see, I could only bear fruit when I stood inside your sight. Is this what you wanted to see? When your tears dry up at last, tell me your answer."

Interesting, isn't it?

However, we're not done yet. There is still the context of its appearance in Library of Ruina, so let's look at that, shall we?

In Library of Ruina, Burrowing Heaven's Abno Battle is placed on the Floor of Religion, aka Hokma's Floor, alongside Price of Silence, Blue Star, and WhiteNight.

Narratively, this Library Floor explores the faith and dedication that Carmen's group put into her and Ayin, especially from Hokma's perspective, who unconditionally put his trust into Ayin back when he was known as Benjamin. Thus, all of the Abnormalities fought on this symbolically represent Carmen's unwavering dedication to gathering like-minded people to make her dream come true, and the devotion those who followed felt towards her and her goals.

When it comes to the Burrowing Heaven, there is some more info we can gather from its Abno Battle in this game, starting off with its new appearance:

As you can see, the previously tree-like form has been replaced with one that very clearly represent a human's central nervous system, brain and spinal cord included. The bloody wings and eyes still remain though.

...Now. Those who have played Lobotomy Corporation might recognize what Burrowing Heaven is meant to represent in this form. And for those who haven't, allow me to show you something.

This is what became of Carmen after her death:

A disembodied central nervous system, with its nerves spread out in an almost wing-like fashion.

While most of the flavor text here repeats what we know about the Abno from LobCorp, there are a few unique pieces of text I want to shine a spotlight on right here.

"The desire for the unreachable will only grow bigger. And to pursue it… is to tread a path riddled with thorns."

"Basking in everyone’s gaze and attention… It will finally come to fruition and spread its wings."

"The one who spread their wings sacrificed everything they had, and yet…"

"Just close your eyes. That’s right, you’re doing good…"

"If we ever open our eyes again, will we get to see the fruit of our labor in that gaze?"

...In case you were wondering why I was being so scant on the interpretation part of this analysis, this is why. This connection is what changes Burrowing Heaven from a nebulous concept to a direct parallel.

Burrowing Heaven, at its core, is a reflection of Carmen. More specifically, Carmen's dream, and the way she and her followers acted to reach her goals. How, to pursue it, they had to single-mindedly focus on that goal, to make many sacrifices for the sake of reaching what seemed unreachable.

It could also represent how Carmen's seeming demise and the following tragedies happened because nobody paid attention to the warning signs, nobody focused on Carmen when she was at her lowest. And yet, those very tragedies are what led to even more attention being put on making progress towards that goal, towards Carmen's wings spreading out and reaching ever closer towards the heaven she so desired.

The gaze being put on her may have put her deep underground, in the vat where her nervous system became a source of Cogito... but it also eventually led to the breathtaking sight that was the Light. And now that there is no more gaze left on her, her wings can spread everywhere, blocking out the sun with her own Light.

When you think about it, isn't that how Distortions take place under Carmen's influence? Just close your eyes and ignore the world around you. Let your desires guide you. Just like Carmen is encouraging you to do, patiently. That's right, you're doing good, following what she says.

...Okay that's all fine and good, but what the fuck does all this mean for Stuck in Heaven? Let's get to that.

From just a cursory look at its physical description, Stuck in Heaven appears to be the next step of progression in this Heaven line of Abnormalities. From the tree-like form of the LobCorp Burrowing Heaven, to the brainstem in Library of Ruina, to Stuck in Heaven taking the form of growths directly growing over a person.

Interestingly enough, the Mirror Dungeon event describes Stuck in Heaven as having "the appearance" of a branch, yet being human. Curious.

This is also where a difference is established between Stuck in Heaven and Burrowing Heaven, with the event text directly referencing the Abnormality that Stuck in Heaven is related to.

"Heaven sometimes burrows; other times, it makes a home in the heart. Once taken root, that heaven will only be visible through the eyes of others."

Immediately, this tells us one major thing - Stuck in Heaven does not burrow like Burrowing Heaven, it does not need to feed on the attention people give through vision. Rather, the thing it aims to take root in is the heart.

The text you get from taking the [Close your eyes.] option explains why Stuck in Heaven does that. When it takes root in one's heart, closing one's eyes is not enough to get it out of one's gaze, as the sight it sought out is that coming from the heart itself.

I believe this is also why actually trying to [Return the gaze.] with one's eyes does nothing. With Burrowing Heaven, which actively sought out one's eye vision, one can find many references to it being alive and actively watching its observer back. However, trying to do so with Stuck in Heaven results in it ignoring the observer. The heaven Stuck in Heaven is looking for is not in the eyes, but past them. "Behind me", as the text puts it.

Now... all of that might not have much meaning without further context. After all, what's all this looking with one's eyes and looking with one's heart stuff about?

And this. Is where we get to The Little Prince.

Yeah, remember how Demian seems to be representing the titular Little Prince himself, through him directly quoting the kid?

Yeah, that's not the only thing Limbus Company borrows from that book. In fact, from what I've gathered, The Little Prince might just be one of, if not the most important books when it comes to the themes Limbus Company is setting itself up to explore.

And the main theme that Limbus Company borrows from that book is the theme of seeing with the eyes vs seeing with the heart. It is all over this narrative. The constant focus on perception and what everyone is percieving through their senses. The equal focus on the heart, of how subjective reality is when looking at the reflections of one's heart, yet how one has to follow the heart to reach the unreachable. I mean, for fuck's sake, the word Limbus can refer to both a part of the eye and a part of the heart!

Most importantly, I think it's also the key to understanding Stuck in Heaven a bit better. In The Little Prince, a clear divide is established between the Little Prince, who uses his imagination to understand his reality, and "the grown-ups", who focus solely on the physical world.

Stuck in Heaven's E.G.O Gift is named Late-Bloomer's Tattoo. A late-bloomer is someone who takes a long time to develop one's skills or grow up. For Stuck in Heaven to be able to leave its mark (or Tattoo) on someone, to take root in their heart, one has to not be a grown-up yet, to still be able to see the world with one's heart rather than one's eyes.

So... What does it all mean?

I'll be honest, I don't fucking know! I don't even know if Stuck in Heaven even still has connections to Carmen the way Burrowing Heaven does!

What I can say however, is that Stuck in Heaven is likely extremely interconnected with the main plot and themes of Limbus Company, the same way Burrowing Heaven was for Lobotomy Corporation and Library of Ruina.

Does it represent the goals of Limbus Company itself? Faust? The Golden Boughs? The fucking Mark of Cain?

The reality of it all is... we just aren't far enough along in the story yet to be sure. The way it connects to one of the bigger themes of Limbus Company, alongside it being directly related to the Abnormality that was so directly paralleling the end-game reveals about Carmen in LobCorp, means that we likely just don't have enough of the puzzle pieces yet to see the full picture of what Stuck in Heaven truly represents.

I'm sure as we head closer towards Limbus Company's endgame, the true meaning of Stuck in Heaven will become much, much clearer to us. But, until then, all we can do is wait and see what comes next. It's definitely a subject I'll want to revisit later on, once we get a better grasp on the overarching plot and will be able to start properly connecting the pieces.

Sorry that I couldn't give a more definite answer as to what Stuck in Heaven's exact meaning is, but from all the analysis I've done I genuinely think this is the best answer I can give. That it's a direct parallel to something within the main plot of Limbus Company that we have yet to learn, similarly to how Burrowing Heaven is a direct parallel to Carmen and the path taken to reach her goals.

#ask #anon #lu speaketh #limbus company #lcb analysis #limbus company abnormality #stuck in heaven #burrowing heaven #god this ended up so fucking long #hope you manage to enjoy this nonetheless #my findings are... kind of surprising not gonna lie #but also kind of not

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kujojotarolover · 2 years

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Queen of the meadow for Jotaro, please!

cw: Yandere Themes, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Assault, Injury / Injury Imagery, Possessive / Obsessive Thoughts, Isolation, Allusions to Isolation, Death, Mentions of Death, General Dark Themes not Suitable for Immature Audiences. Reader-Insert, Gender Neutral, pre-6taro. Uncomfortable scenarios included, read at your own discretion! 18+ ONLY!

author's note: This is the last request for these prompts! I hope that you enjoyed them and that this one is to your liking as well! I had a lot of fun writing these. These "Yandere Prompts Flower Language" were written and coined by @/nanasparadise . That original post can be found here. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is not a good situation. Please, stay safe!

PROMPT: Queen of the Meadow (uselessness): "Be grateful you've got me. Who else would take care of such a useless thing like you?"

word count: Approximately 1.1k

Kujo Jotaro knew that this would happen.

Since the beginning, days and months and years long gone to the winds of time, he’s known this. Before everything skewed, before everything turned for the worse and Jotaro didn’t think there was much to life besides growing up, getting a life, and then growing old. That death itself was merely just the destination, the end of the narrow and winding and precarious road that stretched for miles and miles on rocky terrain. That life was a pass-time meant to be spent filling it with whatever one so desired.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Jotaro’s life flipped and suddenly the world lay beneath the top of his head.

Life was no longer fun and easygoing. The hardest part had only just begun. And it was the longest one. Jotaro would never be the same. Death was his new beginning. The end of the way that Jotaro recklessly drove to because the hazardous roadblocks along were just too much. Too much lost, too much decayed. All of it—gone.

But at least Jotaro had you.

The flagger that guided Jotaro through the detour of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and—the one Jotaro never thought he would be able to fathom—acceptance. To process the change of his new life, to accept the reality that Jotaro will never be able to live a normal life.

You’ve been there since the start. The rev to his ignition. The spark that sent electricity coursing through his bones and made him feel alive. You’ve been there through it all. You’ve known Jotaro for all of these years. For so many years. You knew him and you stayed alive. You’re here, you’re breathing. You’re flesh and blood. Jotaro can stretch his arm out, let his fingertips trace the smoothness of your arm, and embrace you. You didn’t die.

You survived it all and Jotaro couldn’t handle change.

So, through the dark and harrowing black of the whispers in his mind, Jotaro stole you away.

He took you away from the dangers of the world, away from all of the deadly and ominous threats that lurked in the shadows of his peripherals. He was keeping you safe, protecting you. Jotaro wanted nothing more than to make sure that your body remained unscathed and that beautiful mind stayed intact. To make sure you didn’t perish in the world that wanted nothing more than to eat you alive.

Jotaro had done such a good job so far. He had. Keywords.

Everything had been going so well. He was so in love with you, in love with a past he could never experience ever again. He had spent years perfecting himself, his methods, and your wellbeing. Trapped away, hidden in a place not a single soul would even dare to look. Jotaro kept your existence transparent. Everyone who could even be someone had forgotten that you’d even been a person, faded away from the claws of memory and disappeared within the flow.

Stored in the walls of his home. Always there. Always smothered. Always suffocating. Caged where nothing could bring you harm.

Years. Since that fateful trip to Egypt. Over twenty years. You’d been there. Crying, begging, sobbing, sniveling. You pleaded and you prayed—but Jotaro didn’t budge. How could he? Though you were completely shattered, you were where Jotaro could always protect you.

So why?

Why did you run away whenever he wasn’t looking?

Jotaro reprimanded himself. Vicious and terrible words of anger stung his skin and he felt a gross spit in his mouth that he swished around and spat to the ground as he stormed forward. Cold tensions made him compress and shiver, but he was nothing except on fire. Embers of rage broiled and bubbled beneath the top of his skin, down deep where no scratch would alleviate.

His eyes prickled with a temperature Jotaro had never known before as he glanced down at you.

There, in his arms, lay your absolutely ravaged and demolished body. Bleeding, bruised, broken. So small, so weak, so tiny in his grasp as he clutched you closer and tightened his hold with a hushed snarl. Seafoam eyes roved down the cuts on your body, on the wounds of fate that would never heal no matter how much ointment he applied, and Jotaro felt like he might just go crazy by the sight alone. The curves of his filed nails left grooves into your clothes, into the marred flesh. The skin of his knuckles pale.

Jotaro was furious.

Furious at you? At the enemy Stand User that attacked you? At himself?

Jotaro couldn’t answer that.

The fact that he’d been right made him itch with this crawling sensations of pins and needles and Jotaro felt like he could flinch and arch away from himself as that realization dawned on him. As soon as you faced the world with those doe eyes, that naïve air, that joy and innocence and hope and love that made Jotaro feel like he was but a young boy again, Jotaro knew someone would prey on you. He’d been correct! You should have listened to him! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND WHY HE DID THIS? WHY HE COVETED YOU?

Yet, you selfishly ran away from Jotaro! You fled and someone that wanted to make Jotaro suffer smirked and stalked your frail self like a cat to a mouse. An enemy that must have been watching his house, keeping a close track on him, and see? Even whenever Jotaro thought he was safe, something had to happen to make him doubt himself.

Death had almost taken you and Jotaro couldn’t comprehend.

Had Jotaro not arrived in time to save you, there might not even be a heartbeat pumping through your body. You would be dead. Dead. And Jotaro feels like his stomach is turning and twisting into knots that make him feel drunk. He almost staggers. The Kujo Jotaro. A man that’s so collected, so prepared, so still. Weaving and wobbling like he was absolutely plastered and it’s all because he can’t stop the eventual panic searing his poor mind.

Jotaro feels his vision go for a spin and he grits his teeth with a disgruntled groan.

He can’t believe it.

He was right.

He was always right.

And Jotaro feels a scalding conflagration of blinding white fill his world as he stares down at your body in pinched agony and growls,

“Tch, dammit. You don’t understand. Everything I’ve done is for you. Now you could die. Be grateful you’ve got me. Who else would take care of such a useless thing like you?”

Jotaro’s head veered forward, dangling and swaying over your heaving body like a slurred riff of musical static, and he stared at the wince of sleepy pain etched onto your features with a gaunt and haunted swallow.

“Because I can’t lose the only thing left.”

Not again.

#yandere jotaro #yandere x you #yandere jotaro x reader #jotaro x you #jotaro x reader #jotaro x y/n #jjba x you #jjba x reader #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #tw yandere #your average wfsn

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