Religious Guilt - Blog Posts

Do you guys remember how kidnap fantasies were popular on wattpad because young girls and queer teens were both made to feel shame at the thought of their own sexualities, so the fantasy of being kidnapped totally against their will was a way for them to engage with a romantic or sexual fantasy without feeling morally in the wrong for doing so? Added bonus that the fantasy involved being whisked away from repressive environments like home or school, right?

Finding out that Bram Stoker was in a sexless marriage and that scholars believe that he very likely was closeted gay puts the entire book into perspective as to WHY it reads EXACTLY like a self insert wattpad Dracula kidnap fic:

“I TOTALLY love my wife and would never do anything that an upstanding Good Straight Working Man wouldn’t do but oh nooo, big strong man with broad back and strong enough arms to carry me back to bed like a princess trapped me and claimed me as his, completely against my will 👉👈 But he protects me against the bad evil sexual women (who I assure you, I am TOTALLY sexually attracted to, as any straight man with a choice would be) but trust me, I do NOT want ANY of this. What’s that? The Count is not capable of feeling love? Would be a shame if I had the special ability to change tha-”

Spin this wheel of ~300 AO3 tags three times.

@lotftober2024 Day 7: A View to a Death

im a day late (so sorry, i procrastinated </3), and i dont usually write and post it publicly, but i hope you enjoy ? :D

Ever since the news had been formally delivered, ever since the boys had been rescued from that island, a place that felt closer to Hell than anywhere else, they dreaded the concequences of their actions, the reality of their decisions. The ones with previously painted faces had been so confident and accepted that they were to live without true authority, that they could live without thinking of what they'd lost, and instead continue their version of adapting to the unfamiliar life they'd then lived, but now that they were on land, in a real society, there is no escape.

Like a cage stuffed of crows, the pews were filled with the black clothing of men and women in mourning, small children, fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, all weeping for the loss of their family, their friends.

When it became time to do prayers, readings, speak to the families, the boys found themselves planted in their seats. The hunters, the boys that were previously one of the church's choir, felt the eyes of everyone and everything on them, even with the assumed protection of their guardians beside them, the felt the judgement, as if every living, breathing being had known just what they'd done to the two boys that were once one of them. Now that they were forced to revel in this reality, there were no more excuses, no self-proclaimed freedom, their fear of each other, the fear of the beast, turned into a fear of themselves, a fear of judgement, less of their peers, their family, but of the being above.

The older boys, especially the bigguns, watched the reactions of everyone around them uncomfortably. Unlike the littluns, they knew of their actions, any previous justification felt like childish nonsense in comparison to pain and guilt they now felt.

They robbed the world of its children, as well as themselves of their own innocence. Inside them, forever will the beast reside.

Southern gothic

In the Safety of Your Arms (I'll Find My Own God To Worship)

Tags + Warnings: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Religious Guilt, Gender-neutral Pronouns, Minor Threatening of Gods

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It was 1 in the morning when you felt something was off, the bed dipping from a distance rather than right beside you like you were used to. That should have been your first clue that something was wrong but sleep still had you in its warm clutches, whispering for you to rejoin it.

“Jason?”

The call was soft but you could feel the sudden shift in pressure, your body moving to sit up and face where your lover was. He was sitting up, large body balancing on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, facing the cross you had put up for Jason to pray to when it was needed.

Afraid you had interrupted his prayer, you paused halfway reaching for him, letting your hand rest against the space between you and his hunched form. You always felt guilty interrupting, even if it was by accident.

Jason was silent for a moment longer before he was straightening and his head was lifting to simply stare at the religious artifact. Yet you still waited, knowing he sometimes needed a moment before he would come back to you. He would always be welcomed back to open arms and a warm home.

“I'm sorry.”

What was he sorry for? For waking so early or for not laying beside you at the moment? You voiced your confusion and managed to scoot a bit closer to him, mindful of leaving space between you both in case he wasn't in the mood for touch.

“Everything… The killing, the crime… Hurting others to make this city better.”

Ah, you see what was happening now. You slightly shifted closer, eyeing his body for any small movements you might miss. He didn't tense nor pull away so you remained close, still not yet touching.

“There's no need to apologize for taking matters in your own hands where others are failing.”

There was a small drop of his shoulders as if those were the words he wanted to hear but not quite in the way he wanted. His breathing was hitching, like he was going to cry but holding it back to not worry you.

“Am I forgiven?” Jason's reply was meek, not quite confident in the way you knew.

You replied, quick with a firm belief in your words. “You are forgiven. Always are, stardust.”

At the use of his nickname, he relaxed a little more, gaze finally turning away from that cross but now staring down at his hands, scarred by time and countless battles but would always hold you with a gentleness you'd never expect from a man his size.

“But what if I'm not forgiven by God?”

His back was bare, showcasing scars old and new that you'd make sure to kiss and worship with care whenever you got the chance. You longed to worship them once more, to reassure him what you were failing to say.

“Then we make our own gods.”

Jason doesn't respond, head still lowered where he faced the window; lights from outside casting shadows across his skin and the rest of the room. It's fine. They've had this conversation many nights before.

You shuffle close to him, barely a dip in the bed as your hand presses against his back; familiar, gentle, home. He doesn't move away and you take that as a good sign.

“You are a good man, Jason. A very good man,” you pause, allowing time for the words to sink in as you feel the shuddered breath he takes beneath your palm. “Any god is lucky of your worship and more than willing to forgive you.”

“How do you know?”

Your heart breaks a little. His voice is soft, but so broken. He sounds so small, like the child before his death and resurrection and it makes you wish you had met him sooner to have saved him. But you can't, and the past cannot be undone so you take what you can give and be there for him now.

Your hand reaches forward, gently guiding him to face you by his chin and your gaze softens but still remains firm. “Because that's what I feel. I may not be a God, but I know well how deserving you are of good things.”

There's tears grazing down his cheeks, over scars and bare skin and you find yourself gently brushing them away with your thumb, forehead pressing against his so he has no choice but to see the resolution in your eyes.

“You are a good man, Jason Todd. You are deserving of love. You are deserving of happiness. You are not who they claim you to be.”

A broken sob sounds in the silence and you give him a soft smile, the kind that reaches your eyes and pours into the depths of his soul of just how much you love him. It's a love he's told himself a million times before that he doesn't deserve but you're always there to prove the very existence of that idea wrong. Always with a gentle hand and firm stare.

“If you are undeserving of love then I am undeserving of life. My sole existence is to love you.” You'd state, hands on his cheeks, his hands, his chest. As if the simple touch alone would pour the words into his heart, his very skin and become one with his soul like a brand.

He was warm in comparison to Gotham's cold, your body coming to press against his side and tug the blanket around the two of you tighter. Jason said nothing, but the gratefulness was there in his cries. You carefully guided the larger man against you into a proper hug, his face buried in your chest and your hands in his hair, brushing through it steadily and pushing away every negative and bad thought like all the other times before.

Jason held onto you like a child to their mothers skirts and you let him, murmuring in your mother tongue that everything would be okay. That he'd be okay. That this would pass and he'd see himself the way you see him: a kind, honorable man.

You'd meant every word you said. Jason is a good man, gentle and loving and doing what needs to be done. If his God couldn't see that then you'd find a way up there yourself and make them see it. And if they didn't even then… Well, you've always been partial to fighting gods.

Your lover's cries turned to soft sniffles, your shirt stained with the tears but heart swelling with love. Once he'd called enough to face you, your lips were immediately pressing to his eyes, kisses turning salty with each tear kissed away. The affection had him chuckling and the red around his eyes seemed to spread across his cheeks in a blush. A coo of endearment was being poorly held back.

Gotham city was quiet, holding its breath while you leaned back and carefully held his face. You were just as quiet, drinking in the sight of him. Soft black curls were messy with sleep, heterochromic eyes a stormy blue in the street lights, and his skin painted in its yellow glow.

He was soft yellows and blues, gentle hands encompassing yours that remained in your face. Jason Todd was a vision meant only for your eyes.

“I love you.”

The words were spoken so gentle you'd thought you misheard. But then they were repeated, louder and with more conviction.

“I love you, __.”

Gotham seemed to exhale, nightlife returning in the sound of honking cars and stray gunshots but your focus was solely on him.

“I love you, Jason Todd.”

The words came easy, as if you'd said them a million times before, and you suppose you had. In the way you brushed the shock of white hair from his eyes. In the way you laughed his name when he did something ridiculous. But it was here, in the street lamps dim light from outside your one bedroom apartment window in Gotham city, that you spoke the words.

His shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been tossed off them and you found yourself facing the ceiling, Jason's arms curled tight around your waist and his face buried in your chest a second time that night.

Your elated laugh breathing life into him, resurrected heart beating a mile a minute he was sure you could feel through his skin. But he didn't mind it. Not when he could hear your own heart dancing to the same beat as his own against his ear.

The both of you stayed that way for the remainder of the night, a heap of tangled limbs and scattered kisses and whispered ‘I love you's beneath the cover of night and behind the safety of your walls.