#The Literal Emphasis Bible

[lith-myathar]

Being obsessed with moral purity (and the appearance thereof) is far more likely to turn you into an abuser than a kind and compassionate person who cares for their community and there are so many cautionary tales about this in media and yet *gestures at all of social media*

#every single one of us has said and done things that would make us the main character of twitter for a few days. without exception. #like one if the most well known quotes from the fuckin bible is about this exactly. it is so basic. #it's literally just redirection of people's fear and shame around their own actions/feeling/thoughts etc #i think we need to stop putting so much emphasis on being a Good Person #like do your best obviously. treat people with all the kindness you know how. but we are deeply flawed and imperfect beings. #and that's not something that will ever go away #no matter how much you effort you put into self-improvement. you still have to try but you must also #accept the fact that you will often fail #and in the Court of the Internet there is no space for that and therefore no space for real learning or growth #im fairly certain the only cure for this shit is engaging in good faith with other human beings in meat space. #im not SURE because *gestures at all of human history* obviously these problems exist there too #but god knows nothing about how we engage with The Discourse on social media is going to engender real understanding #and lead us to a more enlightened age

[h0unds-of-h3ll]

Season of the witch

Elvis Presley. One of the biggest and most handsome musicians comes through your sleepy little town you couldn’t help yourself from giving him your potent honey pie. Little does he know it’s laced with your love sex pollen.

50s Elvis Presley x Witch! Reader.

Word count: 9k.

Warnings: Elvis becomes obsessed. To the point where he’s a munch. Sex pollen. Witchcraft, little talk of religion. Manipulation. Dubious consent. Talk of being eaten out, teeth. Heavy emphasis on breeding. Little coercion. Making out. Stalking. Slight noncon. You literally put him under a spell so he’ll be your pet. Titty sucking. Period sex. He has mommy issues and calls you mama a lot. Talk of drugs.

A/n: The only reason why I wrote this is because it’s inspired by one of my favorite movies The Love Witch, the scene where she poisons Wayne and he becomes so madly in love with her. Wanted to write this for Halloween too. So have a very devilish night imagining yourself as a witch in the 50s and having a 22yr old Elvis being bedeviled by you.

  

It was cold, very cold for a Halloween night in the Deep South. It had just rained and poured the night prior. The streets flooded with water, and puddles grew. The gold and brown dead leaves fell into the wakeless puddles. The sky overhead was dark with storm clouds; it was barely 5 o'clock, and it looked like midnight. It was so depressing, just as you liked it in your little town. 

  You made a honey pie for him. For Elvis Presley. You’re not sure how the governor arranged for him to perform at the little banquet. Your town needed the money and the praise. The once-booming oil town has now dwindled into a pass-through town to get to the interstate. Nothing was there; a couple of restaurants and a grocery store were it. A few antique mom-and-pop stores—nothing to stop at. The town's population barely broke two hundred this year. Full of old Bible-thumping seniors. The governor presumed if he got Elvis to perform then newcomers would realize how interesting the town is and would get people to move. Balance the old with the young. 

   Children were a phenomenon; the only time you saw kids was when it was their grandparent's turn to babysit. The youngest people who lived there were you and your friend Eileen, who was a few years older than you. She was actually the one who introduced you to your way of living. The art of witchcraft. She taught you mostly everything she knew, specializing in love. The most dangerous part of crafting. She even taught you how to make the love potion in the pie. The pie that he’ll eat. 

   Eileen said that she’ll meet with you at the hall. A stuffy run-down chapel that no one used, that was built in the 20s. It was a bit ironic that the governor chose Elvis, he wasn’t known for his godly beliefs but for his rather devilish dances. The governor came to realize the only way he could change the town was to shift the focus of religion, so people would feel comfortable living here. 

   Eileen had introduced you to a cult a few towns over that allowed you to express yourself better. To allow your blessings to become stronger. The cold nips at your legs and the pad between your thighs make your skin even more sensitive. Your black stockings didn’t allow any warmth. The dark wool coat with fur-lined on the inside was your only heat source. Your black jean dress had a white long sleeve under it to give you a little bit more heat too. The wool socks under your boots helped a bit too. Your cheeks and nose are painted a dusty pink.

   The pie was in a plastic round Tupperware bowl. Surely he'd only need one bite for it to hit, you made absolutely no mistake in making the pie potent. Not wanting for your only chance of him falling in love with you go to waste. Oct 31st, 1957 you were going to make Elvis Presley fall madly in love with you. 

 

 The chapel breathed with people. The seniors in town didn't bother coming. They were actually repulsed by the notion of Elvis coming here. However, the hundred or so people who did were in a two-hundred-mile radius. You're not sure how they knew he was coming but they were here. You shuffled past all the different giddy girls, trying to find Eileen. She'd most likely be in the back eating the crackers that they stored for commission. 

    From the amount of people who came it looked like the second coming of Christ. The governor decided to make a row of food outside for the people who couldn't get in. Handing out plates full of homemade meals. You knew that you had to hide the pie in the back closet. How you were going to make Elvis eat it would be the most important question. Maybe since you and Eileen were huddled in the back he’d walk past and you’d be able to convince him. That was a big maybe. 

   Your attention went back to the governor who looked at you. The governor was an older man, named Henry. Late in his 40s with dark black hair now turned gray. He was tall and wasn't ugly in the slightest. His family was politicians, founded the town even though it was his right to become governor when his legacy was passed down. His lineage extends to the church along with the police. His Father was the priest of the chapel until he died a few years ago. The only reason why you knew this was because you had a fling with him. He was cute and the town was little so why wouldn’t you? It was only until you realized that the love pollen only amplified their deepest subconscious was what warded you off of him. He was nothing but the son of Satan himself. Coming home and finding him doped up to the point where he’s incapable of thinking because the only thing he could think about was you. Thankfully, Eileen helped you reverse the spell but something still in him yearns to be with you. You learned from your mistake and made the pie far less potent. 

   As you stood in the long line you listened to women chatter amongst themselves about Elvis and where he was. Holding onto your plastic bowl you moved in with the crowd, slowly but surely. The table the governor was sitting at was right by the chapel's door. He smiled as he handed over another full plate. 

   “Thanks for comin’.”

   Finally making it to the door he holds his hands out expecting you to give your pie to him with a smile. His dark blue eyes are holding you frozen. You see his smile falter when he realizes it’s you. His face drains. 

   “I never knew you liked Elvis.”

   He crosses his arms, giving you a shocked face. You shrug your shoulders. 

   “You never asked, Henry.”

   He nodded, his eyes falling to his feet thinking for a second before he looked back up. Excitement etched into his face. 

   “Say, why don’t I take you out tonight. We can go back to my house, get fat off some candy, and watch old cartoons after the show?”

    You give him a sheepish smile, patting him softly on the shoulder. His eyes light up at you touching him. You almost feel bad for letting him down. 

   “How about a different night?”

   His face falls and he nods. 

   “Yeah, that’s fine.”

   He sniffles as tears well up in his eyes. 

   “Jus’ miss you is all.”

   You blink a few times, trying to regain your mind. You hear women gossiping about you behind you. 

   “I know, I’ll see you around though.”

   He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands, his eyes lingering on you far longer than they should’ve.

 The church pews were gone so the floor was open. There were people stuffed into corners and billowed out the doors in lines. As you made your way in you were hit with overwhelming heat from all of the energies combining together. Your wool jacket almost made you sweat. 

 You weaved your way through the back, getting glares shot at you. Rubbing arms with others as you went behind the curtains down the hall to the familiar door where you and Eileen hid during Sunday mass for free food. Relieved to find that no one was in the back it made it easy. Everyone was too focused on the front. You positioned the plastic bowl on your hip and knocked three times. 

   You stood there looking back and forth to make sure that your coast was clear and it was. Your stomach aches with a tight squeeze. Menstrual cramps settling in. You wonder for a moment if Elvis would still fuck you if you bled. The thought made you nervous, and the fur of your jacket dampened. Goddammit, Eileen, where were you? 

   You raise your fist to knock again before you hear a muffled voice. 

   “Password?”

   You roll your eyes popping your hip out that has the tub on it. 

   “Eileen I don’t have time for this.”

    Pleading doesn’t help. 

   “Whose Eileen? Only a witch burns here.”

   After thinking carefully about what the password could be, it finally dawns on you. Witch. Eileen and her play on words are going to be the death of you. She was a highly intelligent individual, which was one of the reasons that drew you to her. 

   “Salem, final answer.”

   Groaning the answer, she smirked behind the door. 

   “What year?”

   Pushing your sweaty forehead against the wooden door, you shut your eyes tight. A sinner sweating in church—how comical. 

   “1692 through 3, let me in. I don't have time for this; he can be here any minute!”

   You take your head off the door once you feel the momentum shift, and it reveals Eileen. A petite, long-haired woman whose face was practically bone, with striking green eyes, beams at you. Mouth stuffed with cheap saltine crackers—you don’t know how she enjoys those things. 

   “You know there’s a feast outside.”

   Remarking on how strange it was that she’d rather eat cheap crackers than a home-cooked meal. She chews slowly, the tub of crackers in one hand as you walk into the small closet. Kicking the door behind you closed with the heel of your boot. A light bulb dangles in the middle, illuminating the room. Bibles and crosses line the shelves. Your skin erupts with goose flesh. The smaller woman shrugs.

   “Half of the stuff out there will poison me, I know those old bats target us.”

   She smiles softly, her voice muffled as she finally swallows. 

    “Like you with your own poison.”

   She wiggles her eyebrows and smiles as you grow flustered.

     “Be more quiet, Eileen! It’s like you want us to get caught!”

    Scoffing, you turn around, reaching high up, and place the tub on one of the shelves next to a bible. You discard your coat over the top of the plastic. Turning back around, you watch her stuff more crackers into her mouth. Half the tub is gone. 

     “Do you think it will actually work this time? I mean, not like what happened with Henry; he’s a wreck out there.”

   Sighing at the end of your sentence. You wanted Elvis to be in love with you; sure, so did every woman and girl in the world, but you didn’t want him to be devastatingly obsessed with you. Eileen shakes her head. For the first time in minutes, she puts the jar on one of the shelves and swallows thickly. 

   “Honey I watched you practice; I even asked the superiors what they thought, and they even encouraged your attempt. Yes, y/n I think you’ll be fine.”

   “Promise?”

   She sticks out her pinky, and you wrap yours around it. There’s a screech of feedback into a microphone and a roll of thunder as it begins to pour rain. 

    “As you may know, my name is Elvis Presley.”

 

 Big, heavy policemen were situated in the front and center of the stage, holding women who threw themselves at Elvis, back into the crowd. He was only a couple of feet above the regular ground. A few managed to slip through and got to Elvis. He’d laugh and shake it off, singing the rest of Hound Dog. As the men got distracted, you and Eileen held hands and tucked yourselves by the front left of the stage. Some girls shot you dirty looks, but it wasn’t anything you hadn’t already seen before. The people in the room were stuffed so tight that you couldn’t stand still without touching elbows with someone. 

    He shifted his hips back and forth, his black trousers hanging loosely on his skinny hips. His orange shirt clung to his sweaty skin, and the dark brown wool jacket did him no favors. His black hair was slicked back so much that you could see the globs of gel. He’s struggling with the cord of the microphone, moving around so much that it keeps getting tangled. Throwing his head back and standing on his tiptoes, he takes off his jacket, and the girls scream at the action. One of them manages to grab the sleeve and drag it off the stage, and a couple of them fight over it. He restrains himself from laughing hysterically. His leg starts jumping. His eyes run over the vast group, and they fall on you. Eileen squeezes your hand, smiling at you. His eyes linger on you as he sings, then he looks away, breaking your spell, and walks to the other side of the stage. It wasn’t more than a second but it felt like hours. 

    Thunder booms throughout the sky, and the lightning makes the artwork on the windows glimmer. The storm outside grows. The song finally ends and he’s a huffing mess. He sips on the glass of water by the rest of his band. He sets the glass back down on a stool and stands in the middle again in front of the microphone.

         “Never been much of a Halloween guy, but y’all are makin’ me change my mind.”

       He swallows, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. His voice is quieter with the crowd roaring. 

   “What am I goin' to do with all you women?”

   He licks his lips, his fat bottom lip tucked between his front teeth as he revels in the roar. 

   “Huh?”

   Egging them on, you just watch amazed- speechless at how he has a hundred people at his will. Similar to how Jesus willed people together. 

   He cups the microphone in his big hand and drags the stand with him as he walks to the side of the stage, farthest away from you. The girls claw at him over the policeman's shoulders. He crouches down on his knees.

    “Shouldn't ask this in a holy house, but I'm sure God will forgive me for it,”

   “What d’ya want me to do to you after the show?”

   He pushes the mic over to a young girl no older than sixteen in a white dress. She's a mess. 

    “I-i can't say that!” 

    She shrieks and it makes him smile, shaking his head. He stands and takes away the mic. 

   “Y’all got some dirty minds.”

    He walks to the middle of the stage leaning over to a girl whose face is red and she's hyperventilating. Her big eyes almost came out of her head as she stared at Elvis. She almost weeps as he asks her the same question. She's paralyzed and can't speak. 

   “Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”

   He smiles wide, amused by his joke. 

   “Or do I?”

   You watch as she turns white as a ghost, her body falls lump and the girls behind her hold her up. She fainted from just talking to him. It's a hassle for everyone to part and an officer to lift her up and escort her out. Elvis shakes his head again before moving over to the side you were on. You stare at his creased leather shoes. They're polished but the creases make white lines across them. The laces aren't matched on both of them either. 

   “Gon’ do one more ‘fore I gotta start doin’ my job again.”

    A few boos were shouted. The others screamed suggestions for him to play. He smiles before crouching to you. A cop in front is sandwiched between you two. You can see the sweat beaded on his forehead and trickle down the base of his throat. The lightning struck and a few girls jumped but you were too enchanted with his eyes. A shade of blue you’ve never seen before. It’s a staring contest between you both. Testing to see whose will is strongest. His eyes held the fire burning in your stomach. He made the fever boil your skin. He made you undeniably horny. The longer you stare the more time you commit his gaze to memory. His plush lips part and he asks the question. 

   The room is hot as hell itself. You can’t hear from the storm and the women, but the metal mic is placed in front of you. His hand is mere inches from your face, he has a couple gold rings on his fingers. You want to taste the sweat. Suck on those long digits until the diamonds weigh heavy on your tongue. Without hesitation, you speak into the microphone proudly. Staring him straight in his eyes. 

   “I want you to fuck me after the show.”

   The room goes quiet. The heavy pattering of rain is the only thing heard. Gasps spread throughout the small chapel. A few applauded your bravery for saying what they wanted to say but couldn’t. His dark blue eyes with dark lashes go wide. Blinking profusely at what your voice told him. You just a little nungen wanted to fuck him. Shocked to find that a little girl had thoughts of a grown woman. His mouth is parted as he breathes heavily, removing the microphone from you back to the front of the stage. He just stares at you enamored. For the first time in years since he started performing he’s speechless. That bold dominant act of a man is gone and replaced by a blushing boy. 

   He regains himself with his deep chuckle, which brings your thighs to dampen with slickness. You shift your thighs together to satiate the pulse of your throbbing clit. Eileen beams up at you like a child given a bag of candy. She doesn't need to say that you did it and that your plan is working, you know it. 

  He leans between the cop, close to your face to where you can smell his breath. Peppermint and cola. 

   “Meet me in the back, and I’ll make it happen.”

 

 He finishes the show as a heaping puddle in the middle of the stage. The last song was Crying in the Chapel which you deemed the utmost respect. The cops start to push people out of the chapel, and the doors opening makes the sound of rain louder along with the raging whip of the wind. Most people dashed out to their cars, and others had to wait beside a designated corner to be picked up. Eileen squeezes your hand once more. Leaning her lips to your ear she whispers. 

   “Make sure he eats at least a crumb.”

   She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before she leaves. The curtains had closed around the stage so you couldn’t see Elvis but you knew the only way out was the side of the stage where you stood. A few lingered and watched as he left, giving a sheepish wave. You absentmindedly tried to walk straight past the cops but their arms struck out and hit you in your stomach pulling you back. Confusion writes across your face. 

   “I need to go back there.”

   The cop smiles and laughs. 

   “Yeah, you and every girl in here.”

   You shake your head. 

   “You don’t get it Elvis gave me permission to meet him back there.”

   He gives you an incredulous look not believing you. You rub your temples and sigh, becoming frustrated before you have to pull out the card you dreaded most. 

   “Listen, I know the governor and he trusts me enough to be back there. I have my jacket and a pie I made for the banquet in the storage closet. I just need to go back there and get it, that's all. I’ll come right back and it won’t be more than a minute.”

  It’s quiet and you’re not sure if your half-true story would work. You’re more worried that he’s left already and thinking that you stood him up. Finally, the cop shrugs and shifts horizontally to allow you to pass as you do you smile. He grabs your arm before you can get too far. 

   “No more than three minutes.”

   “Yessir.”

    He lets go and you continue to walk to the door that Elvis had walked behind. You’re not sure where you’ll find him. There are only three different rooms in the little hallway, one of them is a unisex bathroom, the other is the pastor's office and the other is the storage room. Some of Elvis’s band walks past you talking about what they're going to do after the show. They don’t even care that you’re around them as they shuffle out the back door at the end of the hall. You go to the closet and open the door not expecting to find the man of the hour there. Your stomach drops and your body burns with goosebumps. Cheeks heating up flustered. 

   Absolutely floored. He’s eating the pie. The lid is discarded by your jacket. He’s sitting on the edge of a square table, Eileen’s cracker tub empty by him. He takes his thick index with a chunky golden ring and swipes it through the last syrup and crumb of the pie. His legs are spread out wide, and the black slacks cover his wide thighs. He sticks the pad of his finger between his plump lips and his cheeks hollow out. He places the tub by the crackers and leans his head back. He closed his eyes and groaned deep in his throat. 

   You can’t even begin to fathom what’s happening. You don’t know why he would choose your food in the back. How he chose the closet rather than the pastor's office. Why did he eat the pie when there’s a feast outside but then the realization hits. None of the visitors brought food and only the residents brought some so the visitors ate all the food outside waiting so he had none. From the mere viewing of watching him eat, he was ravenous. Dread fills you as you realize he’s eaten the entire goddamn thing. Realizing someone was in the room with him he stared at you, his eyes half closed as his gaze ran over you. He licks his lips and wipers his hand on the top of his trousers. He leans back, putting his hands behind him. 

   “Did you make this?”

   His voice is hoarse and a deep gravel within his chest. Blood rushes to your cheeks. Could he tell that you were that inconspicuous? That he could taste the pollen? No. He couldn’t, could he? You nod, incapable of speaking. Your throat is dry from anxiety. 

   “It’s really good. Should be a baker or somethin’”

   He breathes heavily, his cheeks and neck a bit pink. His face is still glossed with sweat. 

   “I wanna know what you cooked in it. Jus’ something I ain’t ever tasted before.”

   Your eyes nearly pop out of your head. You’ve stood in the same spot in front of the closed door. 

   “It’s a secret. An old recipe that uses natural oils.”

You hoped and prayed that your answer wasn’t as suspicious as it seems. He nods his head before standing. 

   “‘M sorry for eatin’ all of it. Didn’ mean to, I just burn through so much energy out there. Can’t help myself.”

   You smile shakily. 

   “Oh.”

   He scratches the back of his neck, grinning. His face is becoming more red with the blush creeping up his neck. He stands in the middle of the room only a few feet away. 

   “Which led me to eatin’ your pie. Hope you’re not angry or nothin’”

   You shake your head, wringing your hands anxiously. You can’t look at him so you look at his shoes. His smell has taken over the room. Your hormones being amplified because of your period makes his scent intoxicating. From the way he’s acting it seems like how you smell is making him antsy too. He’s tapping his foot. 

   “Made it for you.”

   As soon as you mutter the end of your sentence he walks to you. He reaches out and takes one of your hands and it makes your heart stop. You look up at him with wide eyes. The height difference makes him overlook you, he cranes his head down peering at you. Your knees go weak looking in his eyes. He smiles wide, pearly teeth and squeezes your hand. Your back is up against the wooden door as he holds you against it with his waist. His torso pressed firmly against yours. You can feel him. Feel how solid his cock is. 

   “You did? I appreciate that honey.”

   You wish he would kiss you, touch you more but he doesn’t. He just holds your hand, his grip makes the metal of his rings pinch your hand. You watch his mood shift in his eyes to a much darker tone. You can see the sweat bead and fall down his sculpted face. Feel the heat radiate off of his vast body. 

   “Pretty little thing.”

   His voice has dropped an octave lower and it’s nothing more than a mumble but you hear it. Before he leans in there’s a banging by your head. It slams three times over. 

   “Ready to go!”

   His touch leaves and your heart aches. A sheen of sadness wedges it into his eyes. He realizes that this might be the last time he sees you before he leaves for Memphis. 

   “Gimme your address.”

   He pushes out hurriedly. It’s not a question, it's a demand. You start stuttering an unfamiliar speech impediment summoning. 

   “I-I don’t have anything to write on or with.”

   He nods solemnly but he doesn’t take no as an answer. He removes himself from you entirely and scavenges throughout the small room. He finally grabs one of the Bibles and a pen tucked inside the book. He hands both of them to you and you take them. As you open the front page you write your address and name on the front cover. It’s strange since it’s like giving him your autograph. As you write your address he’s hovering over you watching you etch your way into his heart. The man on the other side pounds on the door once more. 

   “There’s a cop out here asking ‘bout some girl. You gotta open up!” 

   Elvis’s hand softly graces your shoulder, urging you to finish. 

   “Just give me a damn second!”

   He bites back through gritted teeth. You jump at his sudden outburst. Finishing suddenly with a period. He smiles hugely seeing you done. He kisses your cheek and you’re stunned at the softness of his lips against your skin. You give him the book and turn around to watch him leave. As he touches the door handle he pivots. 

   “I want to know your name.”

   You’re taken aback not understanding why, but you say it nonetheless. He nods his head, saying it to himself, committing it to memory. 

   “I like that name, it suits you.”

   Warmth spreads over you at his compliment. You stare at his broad back as he opens the door and leaves. You listen to the rain, as the familiar cop is stunned to see Elvis so close. Before he walks into the small room watching you melt. 

   “I told you three minutes.”

   “I know, he just took longer than I expected.”

 

 Sitting quietly in the back of one of the officers' cars. After the rendezvous with Elvis, you watched as the cops took people who lived in town back home. Serving as a transportation hub. You waited for your turn. The cop didn’t say a lot during the ride, only a few questions about where you lived and about Elvis. You shivered every time you talked about the musician. Not only was it freezing in the car, but your furry coat couldn’t keep up. But you were riddled with the fact that he had eaten the entire pie. You traced your fingers over the plastic tub in your lap. Not only did he do that, he has your address. Will he visit you tonight? Will he visit you at all? 

  It’s dark outside as you pass through streetlights. Your stomach twists and fills with butterflies as you think about him being in your home. Something that you imagined for so long is now coming true. 

   “Is this it up here?”

   The cop asks and you nod, he parks and watches you walk up the sidewalk and into your house before he leaves. 

   The rain manages to soak you for the few minutes you walk in it. Your house is grim when you enter. Dark and cold. You take off your jacket and place it and the tub on the island in the kitchen. Opening the drawer below the sink you take a box of matches and light the candles you had scattered around the house. The soft glow allowed warmth to spread. The smell of pumpkins started to flourish throughout your home. 

  Turning on your little box television to a random black and white cartoon. The last thing you decided to do to get settled in was to play a record. Your collection has grown over the past few years. You had more Elvis albums than any other musicians. Making a vital point to buy one whenever a movie of his would come out or a listening party would be announced. Making Eileen drive you to the nearest record store since the one in town wouldn’t have it until a week later. You’ve arranged his albums to be the ones in the front. Knowing that you were more likely to play those than any other. The record player itself sat between the columns. You touched the covers as you shuffled through. Deciding to put loving you on since it was fairly new. 

  You start to sway your hips to the first song that plays. Slipping off your boots and socks you walk to the back of the house where your bedroom was. You unbuttoned the oval buttons on your dress and folded it onto your dresser. Left in the long sleeve and little cotton panties. You opened the drawers, mumbling the words to yourself as you listened to Elvis’s singing. You grabbed a new pair of panties and a nightgown. Shedding the rest of your clothes you take the new ones with you into your small bathroom and draw a bath. 

   The hot water fills the tub and the room becomes a sauna, you place the clothes on your sink and grab the towel from the cupboard. You stare at your naked body in the mirror. Your body is already damp from the rainwater and the condensation that fills the air. Your nipples are already hard from thinking about him. God did the pollen work on you instead of him? You run your hands over your sides, up from your hips to the swell of your breasts. Imagining his hands instead. His song plays as you sway to his voice. Talk to me like that. Sing to me. Tell me you love me. It thunders outside and lightning flashes through the window above your bathtub. 

  You sigh, skin flushed from the heat. You step your foot into the hot water and turn off the faucet. Slipping deeper into the water. Completely relaxing into the oasis. You wonder what his lips will feel like on your own. What his mouth will feel like between your legs. Would he care about the taste of blood on his tongue? You close your eyes and dream. Surely you won’t have to dream any longer. You reach up, and the droplets of water run down your chest. Taking a tiny jar of essential oils you let it drip onto your neck and spread down. Cleansing and releasing your energy. You put the jar back where you got it from and lounged in the alluring water. 

   What if it didn't work? You ask yourself as insecurity wedges itself into your thoughts. He seemed awfully engaged in you at the chapel, but what if that's as far as it'll go? Your heart aches at the thought you did all of it for nothing. Maybe you should've learned from what happened to Henry and cut your ties. You don't hear the knock on your door, because the record is too loud. You think about how fitting it is that lonesome cowboy plays. 

   You hear the incessant pounding on your door like one of those cheesy horror movies where the victim runs to the house to escape the villain. You thought it would go away but it doesn't, it just gets louder. You groan, opening your eyes to stare at the white tiled wall.

   “Just a second!”

   You yell out and you blush as you remember him yelling that out earlier just to have a little more time with you. There's a dreadful ache between your legs as you dry off with the towel. You need something to fill the emptiness, that void that's growing oh so apparent. You need him. 

  You don’t drain the tub, as you put on your panties. Not caring if you bleed into them, Eileen knows a remedy to get the stains out anyway. The nightgown is dark red with the lace around your tits and thighs black. You smile as you remind yourself of a skimpier Betty Boop. You can't answer the door looking so promiscuous so you throw the fluffy bathrobe over it. The banging on your door grows, along with Elvis's slow love ballads. 

  Opening the door you're instantly hit with a massive gust of wind and emotions. It's him. He looks like a kicked puppy. He's sopping wet with water. His orange shirt is now a dark brown. His hair is messy and scattered along his face. His once dark blue eyes are now pale gray. He's heaving for air. As you stare longer you realize he didn't drive a car. He ran here with the Bible you wrote in his hand.

   “Elvis! I-what're you doing here? Why are you in the rain?” 

  Your brain runs too fast for you to comprehend his presence. The faint glow of your candles from inside is the only light shining onto his face. 

   “Had to see you. Ever since the show, I can't stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I've never felt like this before.”

   His voice is sheepish like he’s afraid to admit what he just said. As he looks at you he’s almost brought to tears by how pretty you look. If you don’t let him in he’ll sit right down on your porch in front of your door and wait until you do. 

   “I mean come in, you’re going to catch a cold standing out there!”

   You grab onto his forearm and pull him in, opening the door wider for him. He winced at your touch. It’s too much for him, he’s too sensitive. You shut the door behind him and he stands in front of it like a statue. He sets the Bible down on top of one of his records, he smiles. He stares down at the floor, he can’t look at you. You wring your hands nervously. He’s not the same man you saw at the chapel, he’s softer, fragile. 

  “Let me get you some clothes, and warm up the bath. I’ll be right back hon don’t go anywhere.”

  You turn to leave and he catches your hand. His eyes are glassy and his lips pout. His hand is strikingly cold, and his eyebrows are furrowed. 

   “Can I go with you? I don't want to be alone again.”

   You nibble on your bottom lip, contemplating how you are going to fix him. God the pie worked. It worked too well. You nodded your head. You were going to have to call Eileen for her help, you can't have a human puppy always following you, especially since it was Elvis. 

  “Why don't we start by taking off your shoes and socks, yeah? Don't want you to leave a trail behind you.”

  He nods, he's already made a puddle by your door from just standing there. 

   “Yes, mama.”

   Your heart pounds in your chest. For some reason, your body burns alight at the name. He’s bent down and untying his shoes. 

  “What did you call me?”

  You ask softly, not believing your ears. 

  “Mama, I hope that’s fine I just I lov-,”

  He stops himself and chews on his bottom lip cursing himself for slipping up. 

  “I just like ya so much that I wanna call you mama..you make me feel so different, so-so special like my own mama does and I just- I can’t help calling you it.”

  He’s rambling now, trying to justify the newfound feelings he’s having. Feelings that are too big for him to have. Too potent and unfamiliar. He’s had girlfriends that he’s loved, sure, but never so much so as he does about you right now. 

  He finally slips off his shoes and socks and stands upright. He trails behind you as you walk back into your room. He’s mesmerized by all your decor and art. The makeup scattered on your vanity. The frame of your bed. Your clothes. The smell of your perfume. Everything you like, he loves. He keeps asking you questions about your interests and the various cult things you have strewn about. You answer every question given honestly. It’s the least you can do. You didn’t realize how difficult it was to find clothes in your own wardrobe to fit him. The record finally stops and scratches on repeat. 

  You hand him a baggy white shirt and some checkered boxers he can change into. You show him the bathroom, and as you enter he’s only seconds away from following. You sit on the edge of the tub, sticking your hand into the water to see if it’s cool enough. You turn on the faucet to warm it. As you wait, he sits on the toilet by you. He stretches his long legs out as he watches you. He takes off his rings and places them on the sink with the clothes you gave him. 

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as pretty as you.”

   He mumbles and it makes you blush. He thinks you’re pretty. Not only that but he thinks you’re incomparable. 

  “You don’t mean that.”

  You shake your head, as you reply he finishes taking off his rings, and one of his hands cups your jaw. Making you look him dead in his uncanny eyes. 

  “What’s there not to like mama? I like everything ‘bout you and I don’t like it when you don’t see what I see,”

   He runs his thumb over your chin. 

   “It ain’t right thinkin’ that you ain’t pretty.”

   You nod. He shakes his head. 

   “Say it.”

   “I’m pretty.”

   He smiles, but it’s cold. There’s no mirth behind it. The water is finally hot enough for him to get in. 

  “It’s ready.”

  He nods and removes his touch from you. You go to stand and he holds onto your hand. Giving you puppy eyes. 

  “Don’t want you to leave.”

   You didn’t feel right leaving him, but you also desperately needed to call Eileen and ask her how to make him human again. You chew on your bottom lip, wondering what the right thing is. Finally, you smile at him. 

  “I’ll be right outside by the door. I just have to call a friend and ask her when the storm should pass.”

   His eyes linger on you and he finally lets go. 

   “Alright, don’t go too far mama I’ll miss you.”

  You give him a soft smile and walk outside the door, closing it behind you. Walking back to the front of the house you stopped the record from scratching again. Putting the plastic back into its sleeve and by the Bible. 

   The old rotary phone stuck to the wall is right next to the door and the player. You hear him take off his clothes, the wet smack of them hitting the floor makes your thighs burn. You dial Eileen’s number, cradling the phone to your face. She needs to pick up, if she doesn’t you’re not sure what you’ll do. The line is dead until she finally picks up. 

  “You’re going to have to hurry, I'm with Jim.”

  Eileen says hurriedly. Jim was her latest fling and the superior in the cult. You sigh in relief at her static voice. You curl the cord around your finger as you think. 

   “Elvis is here. In my house.”

   “That’s good!”

   Eileen says ecstatically. 

   “No, not good. It’s Henry level bad again.”

   “Oh.”

   She whispers into the phone, her mood instantly changing. 

   “How much did he eat?”

   You rub your temples as the memory of him in the chapel comes back. 

   “The whole thing.”

   She whistles low. Your anxiety grows as the morbid thoughts come into play. 

   “Well, you’re not going to like how to reverse it.”

   You’re happy to know that you can even reverse it. 

   “Really, how?”

   “Mama..”

  Elvis whines loudly. It’s a high-pitched whine. You listen and hear the water splashing around. 

   “Jim told me how to reverse it, and Elvis is going to need to taste your blood.”

   “My blood!”

   You shriek at the incredulity of this all. 

   “How am I supposed to get him to taste my blood?!”

   Eileen is quiet on the other side of the phone for a few seconds. 

   “Are you on your period?”

   You're taken aback as to why the question matters. And then it hits you. He has to eat you out. A shiver runs up your spine. 

   “Mama..”

   Elvis whines out again. 

   “Yes, why?”

   You can hear Eileen talk to Jim before she's rushed to hang up. 

   “It's going to help you out, trust me. Oh! And before I forget he's going to have to taste his semen and your blood together. It's a love spell after all and lovemaking is the best solution to get it out of him. Bye, y/n!”

   The line goes dead after, and your mouth falls open in shock. Not only were you going to have to make him sleep with you, but you were going to have to make him eat you out after. You placed your head on the wall, putting the phone back into the case. Listening to the wailing man in the bathtub moan out Mama for the third time. 

   

It was strange seeing him in normal clothes. They were all too big for him, so they hung loosely on his body. He nursed a glass of warm milk to sip on as he sat beside you and watched the old black-and-white movie play. His gold rings gleamed brighter with the candles. Your couch could only seat three people, and he chose to sit in the middle, closest to you. His arm stretched out behind you. A quilt was shared between you both. He smelled like you. It finally felt like things had died down and simmered. It felt like when a teen girl had a boy over at her parent's house just to watch movies. You couldn't help yourself from going over what Eileen had said. Make him fuck you and eat you out after. 

   You've only spoken to him briefly since he got out of the bath. He only asked for a warm glass of milk, and the rest was quiet. There's a sensual scene playing on the TV. A woman is arching her back as the man thrusts into her, it looks as if it was made in the ‘30s. 

   You feel the soft brush of his lips against your ear as he whispers. 

   “I think I could do that to you better than he can.”

   Finally, after everything, you let go and surrender yourself to him. Not caring for the consequences, just relishing the moment. You crane your neck to the side, looking at him. His eyes are glossed over and his pale blues trail over your face. The tip of his nose is mere inches from your cheek. His middle finger swirls over the top of the glass. His lips are damp from the milk. His eyes burn into your stomach, directly into your womb.

    “You think so?”

   You ask and he nods, his voice dropping, and he takes a sip from his glass. His Adam's apple bobbles as he swallows.  

     “I know so.”

     He leans forward, placing the glass on your coffee table, and sits back, spreading his legs out wide so his knee touches yours. When you look at him, you can’t resist; you take the blanket off of his lap and yours. You swing a leg over his lap and sit down on his broad thighs. He looks up at you as you lean down. His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs, and his rings are cold on your legs. Your robe is parting so he can see your cleavage, and his eyes flick from your tits back to your eyes. The woman moans in the program. You can feel how solid his cock is—warm, hard, and right between your weeping legs. His lips are parted, and his hot breath fans across your cheeks. 

   “Can I suck on them, mama?”

   He whispers to you. You nod, shifting back so you’re sitting down fully, face to-face with him. Your robe and night dress are riding up your thighs. Taking the sash in your hand, you slip it through the rest of the robe. The sides fall open, you shimmy it off, and it falls onto your floor with a soft thud. Your nipples are already pebbled; the nightdress didn’t leave much to the imagination. He stares at the peaks. His hands leave your thighs, and they shake as they hover over your tits. You’d be shocked if he was a virgin from his rampant lifestyle, but now it looks like he’s never even touched a woman. He can’t touch you; he’ll burn. You perched on his lap, which is enough for the blood to rush to his lower abdomen. In all honesty, he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this hard- not since he first hit puberty. 

   He feels your tiny hands touch his big ones and place them on your tits. He doesn’t grope; he just holds them there. The warmth in his palms makes the buds perk up even more. 

   “Oh.”

   He mutters. You wiggle your hips on his length, and his head hits the back of the couch. His eyes roll back. He slips the bands of your dress off, and the garment pools around your hips. The bareness of your body makes you shiver. He pauses, admiring from afar. He likes the swell, the curve, and the color. He likes all of it. All of you. He cups the sides of your chest, pushing them together and watching them fall. You’re too sensitive for his bemusement. 

  “Elvis, please..”

   You urge him by pushing his hands firmly onto both of your tits. He nods, and a hand drops onto your lower back, leading you closer to him. Your stomach pressed against his. He takes one of your breasts, his mouth parting as he licks over your nipple. You arch your back to his face like the actress did on the screen. He takes the rest of it into his mouth. The wet softness of his tongue sends a wrath of fluttering to your cunt. Your hands squeeze his shoulders as his teeth graze the sensitive nerves. He gropes your hips with his free hand, encouraging you to grind against him. His eyes are closed, and his grip on your waist is going to leave a bruise. His rings bite into your skin. He nibbles on your nipple; it makes you jump and moan out his name, long and slow. 

    His hips jut up into your pussy, making you bounce when you come down. You feel dampness seep onto the lips of your cunt. He hits his head back onto the couch. He moans deep in his chest. He’s panting. 

   “Did you-?”

   You ask quietly, not trying to upset him, and he nods. 

   “Yeah, I think so.”

    He admits it absentmindedly. You smile softly, and before getting up, you press a quick kiss on his temple. It’s sweaty, but you can’t care. He watches you like a wolf as the dress falls off of you and down on the floor over your robe, leaving you in your little panties that have a dark patch under them. He adores how you look in the soft light of the candles and the TV static. The rain pours on. He lifts his hips up, slipping the boxers down his long legs. His cock springs up between his legs. Your expectations were exceeded. He’s uncut, thicker than you imagined, and what he lacks in length he makes up for with girth. The head is a ruddy color, and purple veins pulse along the side. It’s painful how hard he is—pins and needles shooting at his nerves. Even if he just came, he’s still rock solid. Cum is dripping out of his slit and down his length. Pooling at his balls. 

   Yours–his shirt, hangs over his taut stomach, touching the base. He crosses his arms and lifts the shirt over his head, leaving him bare on your couch. There’s a mountain of clothes on the floor, along with the blanket. The sight you imagined for so long made your clit throb. His legs spread out, his heavy dick in the middle of his thick thighs, and his arms spread out along the edge of the couch. His inky hair scattered messily along his face. But most of all, the way he looks at you, hungrily as a man starved. 

   You tuck your fingers under the band of your panties and take them off. His cock twitches at seeing you bare, he wets his lips. 

   “Can I make love with you mama?”

   You smile sheepishly as you walk over to him. Sitting beside him, you cup his face. Scratching softly at his cheeks. 

   “Of course.”

   You press your lips to his and it feels like fireworks burst within your soul. Getting a kiss from Elvis was a milestone in your book. His lips were soft, and his tongue tasted like milk. He was slow at first, letting you be in control, but as your tiny hands wrap around his broad shoulders and pull at the hair at the base of his neck, he loses himself. He becomes hungry, pushing his fat tongue into your mouth. He grabs onto your hips, making you lay down on the couch. Your head is by the end table. He moans into your mouth when he feels your soft thighs around his skinny waist. The groan vibrates into your chest, making you squirm. His body feels like a sauna, making you sweat. His body is sticking to yours. He leans back, his knees touching your ass. He takes his cock into his hand, jerking himself off a few times. Not that he needs to, but so he can keep whatever composure he has left. 

  His lips finally leave yours, letting you both regain your breath. It’s only then, as he looks at your pussy, he realizes you're bleeding. An inexplicable wave washes over him. Adrenaline and hormones beat into his heart. He needs to fuck his kid into you. Needs to breed you and fill you up. A brutal,l primal hunger grows within him. 

 “I don’t think I can go slow.”

 He admits it to you, and you can’t even answer before his tip works its way into your tight cunt. His mouth falls open, and you squeeze his shoulders. Blood mixed with your slick starts to coat his length. He doesn’t wait for you to relax around him, he pushes his way to his base in one swift thrust. Your head hits the table. 

  “Fuck!”

  You yell at his roughness. He grabs at your hips, pulling back out. His eyes stare at where he enters you. He’s obsessed with the way your pussy clings to him. How tight you are when he fucks into you. His balls hit your ass as he thrusts into you. He watches your tits bounce. You’re already overstimulated from being on your period but the heavy weight of his cock, pounding into your cervix makes tears well up in your eyes. Strangely enough, you feel that familiar wave in your stomach begins to build.

  “Gon” make you a real mama.”

  His grip on your hips tightens, his rings burying into your flesh. The lamp on the end table starts to wobble every time he snaps his hips into yours. 

  “Gon’ breed you ‘til you can’t even walk no more.”

   As you look into his eyes, you can’t find the sweet boy that once was there. He’s possessed by an animal. Hell-bent on making you his forever. His teeth are gritted as he continues his rampage. You weekly moan with every hit of his intrusion. You can’t help how badly your body craves this. The first time all night you finally felt content. He’s fucking the bad energy out of you, and what confuses you the most is how he’s doing that when he is the bad energy. His chest is glazed with sweat; he’s dripping on you. His lip curls up, and he takes his hand from your waist and puts it on top of your clit. The weight of it was enough to send you over the edge. Your body starts to shake, and your pussy tightens around him to the point where he can’t move. 

  “That’s it, mama.”

   He swirls his thumb lazily on your clit, watching your body wither on him. His thighs are becoming soaked with your cum. He watches you relax, your back flat on the couch. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly. 

  “Are you done?”

  You nod weakly.

  “Good.”

  He takes his thumb into his mouth and sucks on the blood that coats it. His eyes roll back into his skull as he starts his rhythm again. You can’t take his beating on your cunt, you plead with him to slow down but he doesn’t, he can’t. The loud slap of his body smacking into yours fills the air. Tears fall down your face as he goes as fast as he can. Your nails cling to his back. Clawing red stripes down it. He’s bound to be hurting in the morning, along with you. 

   After one of your nails makes his back start to welt with blood, he lays his hips against yours and releases. His cum hits right against your cervix, and you feel pleasantly full. 

   His balls draw up and then relax as he lets his load go in you. His grip softens into a caress. He doesn’t let his dick slip out of you as he lays down on top of you. His weight is pressing you deeper into the couch. The rain finally slows to a soft patter. It’s finally calm, and the tears on your cheeks are dry. 

  He’s drifting off to sleep, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. Cradling you to his chest. You run your fingers through his damp hair, watching the rest of the movie. It’s only when he whispers, I love you into your chest by your heart, that you realize that you forgot to break the spell. All you can wonder is how long his love will last.

#xreader #fanfic #smut #elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis #elvis 2022 #elvis presley x reader smut #elvis x reader #elvis presley smut #elvis smut #50s elvis #season of the witch #halloween #happy halloweeeeeeen #halloween smut

[dee-morris]

I Think We Moved on Too Quickly from Coffee Theory

Yeah yeah I know. But hear me out.

When I watched the season two finale the first time, I felt blindsided by it. From a narrative perspective it made sense, bc Neil Gaiman said that he needed to set up the situation that would make season three possible and okay yeah, that probably meant putting Crowley and Aziraphale in weird and different places. I got that. But from a character perspective it felt like a huge reversal from Aziraphale's behavior throughout season two, and of course that led me to look for outside factors that could have caused it.

After talking about it with Internet friends, reading lots of metas, thinking and discussing and watching the season over again, I decided that it wasn't necessary to believe that Aziraphale had been drugged. Most of what he said and did could be explained by careful study and analysis. Once you realize that Metabitch's presence in the bookshop is a veiled threat, everything else falls into place.

Nevertheless.

I definitely DO NOT Believe that Aziraphale was brainwashed or mind controlled by the coffee. His behavior during the Final Fifteen was frenetic, desperate, little bit manic. Definitely not the behavior of a mindless zombie. But nevertheless.

I still think that there was too much emphasis on the coffee for it to be a simple prop. Is it a literal macguffin or a symbolic one, that I'm not sure. I could see it either way. It might be just a symbol of the Sophie's Choice that Aziraphale had been presented with, or... There might have actually been something in the coffee.

The show makes a point of telling us that celestials can be affected by human poison. Almonds are symbolic in the Bible, and cyanide smells like almonds. Again, Aziraphale's behavior at the breakup scene was not that of a brainwashed person, but what if the Metatron TRIED something like that and it didn't completely work?

Aziraphale didn't want to follow the Metatron until after he drank the coffee. And even then he turned and looked at Crowley, and he didn't move until Crowley told him to go ahead. (Cue the Breaking Bad Walter Screaming in the Car meme) What if whatever the Metatron tried on Aziraphale only kind of worked? Just enough to make Aziraphale a bit dizzy and suggestible, but being close to Crowley mitigated the worst of it. That's why Metatrash needed to separate them.

Aziraphale is very clever, and if he knew he'd been drugged he would also know better than to let on that it hadn't worked completely. Cue the weird off-key phrases that are ALMOST in character but still pretty damn weird. "Heaven is the side of goodness, of light" my dude has NEVER said anything like that. He's said that about God, yes, but he's always held a distinction between God and heaven. Or "you're the bad guys" that's just WEIRD, that's a weird thing for him to say, and I will die on this hill. Even during their worst fights Aziraphale has made distinctions been himself and Crowley in terms of their job descriptions, but he's never made a moral judgement like that before, nor has he ever lumped Crowley in with the rest of hell. "They're the bad guys," now that would have made sense, and if it were anyone but Neil Gaiman running this shit I would think that it was a simple scripting error. But Neil doesn't make mistakes like that.

So Aziraphale plays along and tried desperately to communicate with Crowley that something IS VERY WRONG but our favorite disaster demon picks NOW to get in his feelings and ignore the clear and present danger standing outside the bookshop and staring at them. I'm pretty sure "I forgive you" is Aziraphalese for ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??

Again, I don't need my version of Coffee Theory to be real to understand what happened in the Final Fifteen, but it's just an interesting little toy to roll around in my head. There's so much emphasis on that coffee in the show and even in the episode synopsis, I still think there's something about it that we haven't been told.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens 2 #aziraphale my beloved #good omens season 2 #good omens meta #good omens s2 #coffee theory #the final fifteen

[firecooking]

(bruhstation) hey neil! thank you very much for supporting fortezza bigg city so far :] I really appreciate the thought you've put into analyzing bits of my silly little AU, and I've also gained a huge appreciation for your own works as well. it's so clear you've put a lot of thought and research into your AU and it really blew my mind because everything is so meticulously thought out!!! and I'm looking forward to more!!! here's a quick sketch of your gal zaffre! once again thanks :3 (also you're inspiring me to make my own z-stacks oc! haha)

OHHH MY GOD LOOK AT HER MY BABY GIRL MY SWEET CHEESE SHE LOOKS AMAZING AHHH YOUR ART IS SO GOOD I LOVE YOUR FORM AND VOLUME AND HOW YOU DO YOUR LINE WEIGHT WITH THE OPACITY AND LINE DYNAMICS your handle on anatomy and rendering is really interesting to me, reading you work in Fire Alpaca with a mouse is mind boggling to me, i remember when I was doing the same years and years ago and the skill you show is really fascinating and i am jealous, the way your art is put together is scratching my brain. i have been doing art studies of it and trying to dissect it, it'd have such a interesting feel for animation, you have a wonderful style for breaking down into a limited animation style with a emphasis on dynamics with animation in a 8s, 6s, and 4s with 2s detailing and a hard tweening style [<- just professional animator things lol] The way you render shadow and lighting is also ough. This Zaffre is genuinely so wonderful, new desk top background moments. I love her gesture and expression here, it really captures her as a character! Also the way you draw hands, augh, just augh I wish.

You, my friend, are a fabulous illustrator!

And oh my god your AU is scratching my brain in ways I didn't think possible! I know so little yet there is so much there. When I genuinely say that it is affecting me as much as if not more that @askthefamous8 that is the highest compliment I can muster [that AU has been one of my special interests since 2015,]. I am legit making a post it note wall over FBC just like ATF8 had when I was in middle/high school

You have the most loyal human AU fan on your team now, I genuinely smile thinking about Fortezza Bigg City all day long, my friends and partner are getting annoyed to death from me ranting. sorry dear if you are reading this: I know you hate tugs

Also thank you! I really love doing in depth research, its the autism at work. I am a proud vehicle autistic. I've said it before but working on a ship for a summer just to know the mechanics of how actual sailing works is probably the most unhinged thing I can say I've done for accuracy sake. Loved my Captain and fellow crew, very sad I got sick and had to leave. Honestly would love to be a sailor if my heath wasn't bungled up and I wasn't like $200k of debt in animation college.

My humanoid vehicle AU's are partially based on my sadly never going to be picked up pitch bible for a science fiction based historical vehicle show [my fatal flaw is niche interests] And it literally makes my day to sit down and work on the most expansive and historically researched BS on earth, my AU is both a lovely love letter to TUGS as the show it is and a Love Letter to what TUGS wanted to be! At the end of the day TUGS wanted to be it's days Steven Universe or MASH [something I am gonna elaborate in another format later] but unfortunately it just didn't have the right ingredients. Its the Same as the TUGS musical I'm working on, it's a love letter to what TUGS both is and was supposed to be along with being a love letter to the characters themselves

Also:

Join the Z-Stacks OC League, we have cool hats and crime

#the fire burns #bruh station #others art #asks #this is tugs #z stacks #zaffre #fortezza bigg city #I am a little unhinged i am sorry

[thesherrinfordfacility]

alright next up on the list of ideas to dredge up from the drafts and talk about in more detail is the focus on books in this season, because its driving me around the bend

but because i literally have no answers whatsoever to this, im just going to do a crowley-core #justgirlythings and just ask questions:

ep2 goob (rip) lines: "books are key!" which ok yeah obvious but:

"and see, the big ones can be used as fly swats - and i know what you're thinking, but it's okay, because the beauty part is, it never works!"... hmmmm

but also earlier on, goob asks aziraphale "what [letter] comes after 'K'?", which is 'L', but goob then immediately refers back to his book that he's alphabetising, which is A Tale of Two Cities, and that starts with 'it'...? so why highlight the letter 'L'? (this might be something of nothing but given Book of Life idk could literally have been ANY other letter)

but then we have the rest of the episodes that cascaded from the two things above; first, the book blueprint of the universe in ep1, which AWCW was referring to, but only from page 11 onwards (so what was on pages 1-11?):

ep2: crowley discovering that jane austen wrote books (like, other than it being a comedic point of their conflicting remembrance of her as a person, and gives the "you think you know someone!" foreshadowing, it felt very pointed that crowley learns that she was a writer as well)

ep2 also sees aziraphale looking at a huge tome which, given everything that's going on, seems weird that he'd be randomly consulting? idk what the book is so not doubling down on this... anyone know if ive just missed something obvious?

but also makes a point of consulting the bible after goob recites what god said to job in the bookshop. which, given that he and crowley readily recognise what god says (he even says to crowley, "I most certainly do [remember]"), seems weird that they'd need to consult a book to remind them who job was and his story... could be exposition and for the cool fall-through effect, but possibly felt a bit unneeded. plus, it got aziraphale so absorbed that he totally conked out and missed crowley leaving the shop:

aziraphale writing in his diary at his desk on his bed, lying in his tummy, feet kicking in the air, in ep3:

the magician's pamphlet that not only follows aziraphale's epiphany of realising he's in love with crowley but also literally sets up the opportunity for aziraphale to demonstrate how much he trusts him, and is ultimately used against them in being discovered as (at least) being traitors to their respective sides:

plus the Hoffman book, and the angel field-guide:

like, oversimplifying, but literally all of ep5 being based on jane austen works

emphasis on muriel wanting to read books in the background of the Showdown going on in ep6, being chucked The Crow Road by crowley, and metatron being weirdly interested in the fact that they're reading it... like, how would he not know what a book is? why is it "excellent", and a "perfectly splendid thing to do"? odd choice of words even if you want them to take over the bookshop:

now this one i can believe is literally just about goob in the shop and that's fine, but again the emphasis on books anyway (and also michael's weirdly strong but conflicting memory? might write a different post about that bc i think michael got got by metatron somewhere along the line):

back to ep2 but fitting to bookend on:

so okay yeah sure, im certain the book of life comes into all of this somewhere (ive posted about it here but im fairly certain it's not what heaven/hell seems to claim it is, and i think only the metatron truly knows that). there's been a lot of emphasis on memory too in this season, but taking that out of the equation a minute, the main things giving me heebie-jeebies is goob's line about using big books as fly swats, and obviously metty-babes' weird reaction to the crow road...

idk where im going with this and ill probably look at this again but all of this was floating around my noggin and i couldn't take it anymore

#good omens #*screams into the abyss* BOOKSSSSS #s2 meta #book of life theory #kinda

[gayleviticus]

dont know how to really put this into words and its not a very Easter-y post per se but something ive been thinking abt, and especially since Good Friday, is almost... how slender yet hugely significant a thread the passion of Jesus is in the Christian Bible?

my NRSV is 1102 pages (897 without deuterocanon). the Gospels take up 89 of those pages. 8-10% of the Christian Bible is about the life of Jesus (although ofc the rest of the NT is about unpacking what that means). and then the passion itself is an even smaller slice.

i often pray the catholic liturgy of the hours, which is at its core a bunch of psalms and then some other miscellaneous stuff depending on the time of day, and something i oddly appreciate abt it is all this time spent with OT Psalms makes explicitly Christian stuff like the Trinity or Jesus more exciting when it pops up, because you feel their absence a bit?

Christianity is very Jesus-drenched, and obviously that's because he's literally the core and namesake of the religion. but i sorta feel like sometimes it can be too much. Jesus overload. the significance of what it means for God to become human flesh and suffer and die as the culmination of this whole century-long epic of redemption fades a little. we don't always appreciate Jesus as the climax to the story because we start with him as the beginning.

sometimes i go thru phases where I spend most of my Bible reading time in the Old Testament, and for various reasons - it's got a different feel and scope, it speaks to different things (more of an emphasis on societal social justice), it's more dramatic in certain ways, it has nice poetry, it has a very rich tradition of people getting angry with God and pouring out their souls in suffering.

but i think deliberately spending this time away from the NT makes me appreciate what a big deal the Incarnation is - and i feel a bit in awe of the way that all the threads in this massive story of God's work culminate in the life of just one guy and his humiliating, brutal, embarrassing murder. A story that's weaved its way through global floods and plagues and revolution and kingdoms and wars and exile finds its thesis statement in One Man standing before Pilate, beaten by soldiers, dragging his cross through the streets, nailed to a tree.

it's a bizarre kind of narrative understatement. the Bible rejects the temptation of many a long-running franchise to go bigger and bigger, to keep on raising the stakes, and instead sits you down with the most humiliating, degrading, hopeless moment in Jesus' life and says: this is the face of God. This is what God looks like. The Lord is not to be found in whirlwinds nor earthquakes nor fire but in the face of the oppressed, the falsely accused, the suffering.

of course, there's a cosmic dimension to it as well. in a sense as it simultaneously lowers the physical stakes to one man, one soul, the Passion is also raising the cosmic stakes tremendously. 'now is the judgment of the world, now is the ruler of this world cast out - and i, when i am lifted up, will draw all people to myself.'

but on the face of it, the idea that it should be this Holy Week that's the crux of the story - not the great flood, not the destruction of Jerusalem, not the apocalyptic terrors of Revelation - is a bit odd, and for that endless fascinating to me.

#christianity #religion #holy week #christian

[queerprayers]

hello, i hope you are having a lovely day! thanks for having this blog! 💖 my exposure to faith has mostly been through mainstream doubt-unfriendly environments so it felt eye-opening to follow your blog and a few others that are quite welcoming to it!

do you possibly have any recommendations for nurturing faith when one has so many doubts, including the existence of God or belief in the events of the Bible? or possibly even reading recs?

i was raised agnostic in a Muslim-majority country and i have a diverse friend group with Muslims, Christians, Pagans and agnostic friends so whenever i wish to believe i find myself both doubting and also not knowing how anyone chooses any religion or denomination to follow, but i like to think everyone's faith/religion is valid and connects them to God. anyway that was a bit long, thanks for the blog and answering asks again! :)

Welcome, beloved! I'm so glad you're here and it brings me so much joy to know that people can be honest about their doubt here—it's an integral part of so many people's experience and to repress it or pretend it doesn't exist is misleading and painful.

I'm currently reading A History of God by Karen Armstrong (which I'll probably quote from a couple times) and thinking a lot about how conceptions of God have changed over time, and therefore how doubt has changed—we can only doubt when we have something to doubt! For some people, this book would probably increase their doubt (just a fact, not a bad thing), but for me, learning about how culturally-specific and constructed and interconnected religion deepens my faith in a God watching over it all.

One way that I see people talk about doubt (and I've definitely done it myself) is address it as if it were a stumbling block on the road to faith. That it's something we get over. That there's a linear path to certainty. Even when people praise doubt and call it holy, sometimes they imply that that's only because it strengthens the faith that always comes afterward. Doubting Thomas was the first person to name Jesus as God—we know this, this is all true and is very meaningful to so many. But I've learned to accept other ways that doubt exists, because not everyone has this experience. Doubt is a companion sometimes, not a temporary roadblock. Sometimes it's an inherent part of faith, and sometimes it doesn't lead to religious faith at all. In case you need to hear this: don't create some imaginary end of the road where you'll be certain! Maybe you will, but don't expect that of yourself. Your doubt is your questions and your desires, your creative thinking and your love for your friends, it's you caring about finding something meaningful. It's proof that this matters to you, and even if someday doubt is no longer a major part of your religious experience, don't lose it all. Doubt does not need to be cured—it needs to be listened to.

I'm thinking a lot about the existence of God while reading Armstrong's book—how she presents a constructed God, used as a tool for good and evil, and how beautiful and terrible ideas of God can be. While talking about medieval Islam, she tells us this:

. . . [T]he Arabic word for existence (wujud) derives from the root wajada: "he found." Literally, therefore, wujud means "that which is findable" . . . An Arabic-speaking philosopher who attempted to prove that God existed did not have to produce God as another object among many. He simply had to prove that he could be found. . . . [T]he word wajd was a technical term for [Sufi mystics'] ecstatic apprehension of God which gave them complete certainty (yaqin) that it was a reality, not just a fantasy. . . . Sufis thus found the essential truths of Islam for themselves by reliving its central experience."

What if God is more than existence? What if God is more than we could ever believe in—and so instead of believing in Them, we seek to find Them, see Them a little bit more clearly every day? There's such a Christian emphasis on believing the right thing, and I do think it matters what we believe. But there's more than that—there's how we believe, and what we do about it.

C.S. Lewis believed that the fact that we desire something this world can't satisfy is itself proof that we were made for and by something more. I can't talk you into believing in God, and I don't want to. But the desire for more is a space where God can reside, if you let Them. The desire to believe is a kind of belief. Wanting to believe in God is wanting God, and I'm not claiming proof of anything, but I am saying if you connect with that desire, God is already a part of your life, whether because They're there, or because you can't find Them. The lack of God is still a relation to God. Doubt in a god existing is still a relation to God. God exists in relation to you, in you. If we can only doubt when we have something to doubt, if we can only disbelieve when there's something to disbelieve in, that means we have something.

The Bible is more specific than God's existence, and for some this makes it harder to relate to. It is a more clear presence for many people, though—it's something we can hold, memorize, study. Every person of faith relates to their scriptures differently, and I can't tell you exactly how to do so, or which way is "right." But I will say it is not a thing to believe in—"it" is a living, breathing library of transcribed, collected, translated, loved (and hated) books. We could talk about taking the Bible literally vs. metaphorically, or whether it's "historically accurate," or whether God wrote it or told others to write it or had nothing to do with it. Ultimately where I am, the foundation I come back to, no matter how my beliefs change, is that I believe God wanted us to have it. I believe it matters. Once someone asked me whether a psalm was "theologically accurate" and while that's an interesting conversation, my first instinct when reading a poem written thousands of years ago by someone I've never met is not to theologically analyze it but to say, "Yes! I've felt that way too! I hear you! And God hears both of us!" I don't think you believe or disbelieve in myth or poetry or oral history or prophecy or personal letters—I think you listen to them. Before asking yourself whether these things happened, or if we can prove certain figures existed, or anything else super useful but very overwhelming, especially without a history degree, first ask yourself what they would mean if they mattered. What would change about how you move in the world if these books were close to your heart? If you listened across centuries to find people also believing and doubting and searching and finding?

While recommending the Bible (as well as the other books closest to his heart) in Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke tells his student, "A whole world will envelop you, the happiness, the abundance, the inconceivable vastness of a world. Live for a while in these books, learn from them what you feel is worth learning, but most of all love them. This love will be returned to you thousands upon thousands of times, whatever your life may become—it will, I am sure, go through the whole fabric of your becoming, as one of the most important threads among all the threads of your experiences, disappointments, and joys." Don't believe in a book—live in it, love it, let it weave you together.

Reading A History of God, I'm being reminded how much dialogue there has always been between religions, especially Judaism/Christianity/Islam, and how so much of the Bible is built on traditions outside of it. The writers of the Bible were also living in diverse communities, interacting with and reacting to other faiths, sometimes with hostility but also with synthesis—so much of all three of these religions is built on the local pagan traditions of where they evolved, and all three incorporated Greek philosophy in various ways. None of the major religions of the world are solitary faiths that sprang up out of nowhere—we have always lived with each other, and we've been alternately mad about it and inspired by it.

Having relationships with many kinds of people is beautiful and fulfilling, but it also inevitably brings up questions! I've found myself saying, "I love this person, I think they're intelligent and well-meaning, and they genuinely believe in something I do not. What does this mean for me? Am I doing something wrong?" Embracing others' faiths is, to me, a really important part of loving them, but it's also often a challenge to work through. It has ultimately been beneficial to my faith for me to work through this, but sometimes it just feels hard, and that's okay.

Although I never really questioned the existence of a god, there have been moments in my life where I had no particular conviction that Christianity was true or especially holy. I've been captivated by Jewish and Muslim traditions/beliefs/scriptures, and admired countless philosophies and practices. Christianity has hurt me and so many others—does that mean it's inherently wrong? But in every season of my life, I've said a Christian prayer every night. Everyone experiences religion differently, but for me? I am not a Christian because I think it's better than all other religions, or because I reasoned my way into it, but because it's where I'm from, where I live, where God meets me.

Your statement that everyone's faith is valid and connects them to God—it's a beautiful belief and it opens us to explore and love what we might not be able to otherwise. Reading A History of God—I do believe it's all God. If God cannot hold contradiction, why would I honor Them? How could I believe They encompass the (paradoxical, contradiction-filled) world if They can't exist fully in paradox and contradiction? This Sunday is the Feast of the Holy Trinity for me, and I love its mystery and its acknowledgement that God is always past our understanding, that God has more than one face, that God comes to us in more than one way, can never be pinned down. I and Christians throughout history encounter God as Trinity, but the day that I limit God is the day I have thrown away everything I've worked to build in myself.

The good news for you is if you believe all religions connect to God in some way, then you also believe that you will always be connected to God—no matter how your beliefs change, no matter where you call home, no matter what your practice looks like. We can't let ourselves believe one thing for others and another thing for ourselves—I did this all the time, believing I could never be forgiven but never dreaming of saying that about someone else. Give yourself the same grace and openness and hope you give your friends. You know they are valid, you know you love them—what can that help you learn about yourself? your own validity, your own ability to be loved?

I'll let you in on a secret (in case you didn't already know): the majority of people do not sit and look without bias at the major world religions and decide which one is "true" and convert to it. I'm sure people have done that, and maybe that's what you want to do (I won't stop you). I don't even know to what extent we can "choose" a religion—I think often one (or many) finds us—but for me and so many others, religion is a culture and a practice as much as, if not more than, a belief. And often it's wholly or mostly inherited—I don't know if I would be Christian if my parents and grandparents and ancestors weren't. I don't know exactly what you've inherited, but we all inherit beliefs (even if the belief is not believing in something), and yours are also built on tradition and ideas throughout the centuries.

This all means that doubt is part of any inherited culture and practice. It means that doubt and participating in a religion have always gone together. If religion is action and community and music, you don't have to believe anything in particular to live in it. My Jewish friends have shown me this most clearly—I know of many Jewish people who don't especially believe in the existence of a god, but eat kosher and observe holidays and say prayers. If you ask them why, they say it's because they're Jewish, because it makes them a more fulfilled person, because they're connecting with their ancestors. If religion is connection to God, as you've said (and I agree), then you don't have to have belief to connect with God.

I am absolutely not saying that we should never question the traditions passed down to us, or that conversion is not a valid choice, or that if you weren't raised religious you can't have religion. I just wish to point out that many people do not first believe in a system and then join a faith practice, but the other way around. They practice their way into faith. So often we cannot know what a belief means unless we first do it. Unless it first has meaning to us. From A History of God:

[Anselm of Canterbury, the 11th century theologian] insisted that God could only be known in faith. This is not as paradoxical as it might appear. In his famous prayer, Anselm reflected on the words of Isaiah: "Unless you have faith, you will not understand":

"I yearn to understand some measure of thy truth which my heart believes and loves. For I do not seek to understand in order to have faith but I have faith in order to understand (credo ut intellegam). For I believe even this: I shall understand unless I have faith."

The oft-quoted credo ut intellegam is not an intellectual abdication. Anselm was not claiming to embrace the creed blindly in the hope of its making sense some day. His assertion should really be translated: "I commit myself in order that I may understand." At this time, the word credo still did not have the intellectual bias of the word "belief" today but meant an attitude of trust and loyalty.

If you haven't already, ask to go to a religious service/event with a friend, read/listen/experience the faiths of others. When you encounter things you're not sure if you believe, ask yourself what it would mean for you if you encountered it as truth. If God exists, if God is [insert attribute here], if God commanded [insert commandment here], if this or that book is something God wants us to have—how would that change your life? My belief in a loving God transforms my world. My prayer practice orders my days and centers my emotions. I am living (or attempting to live) my beliefs, not just thinking them. What can you trust, what can you be loyal to, what can you live, even if you don't believe it right now? "Lord I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24)

You can live as if something were true, even if you have no proof, even if you're not sure about it. I live as if there is a loving God—I have no scientific proof of this, I have not always been sure of it. But I live as if there is one, and there is more love in the universe because of it. I have only experienced a loving God when I was living in relation to one. You can go to a church without reading its whole catechism, without knowing all the words, without being sure. My pastor once told me he likes the Nicene Creed more than the Apostles' because it says "We believe" instead of "I believe." A creed not as a personal certainty, but as a communal agreement. I don't always know what I believe, but this is what we believe. I can leave it behind, but I cannot pretend it does not exist. It is my inheritance.

My advice for nurturing faith? Be willing to be wrong. Any god I've heard described is outside of our powers of description. It's dangerously presumptuous to think we can be right about God. Once I let go of the pressure to be right, once I accepted that I could be wrong about everything—that's the only way I got to faith. And the worst thing I can think of is coming to a belief through fear (of hell, of being wrong, of uncertainty, of spiritual homelessness). Fear is sometimes present, but come to it because you want it, because it fills your days with life and love. I'm obviously not a scientist or a philosopher—I've never really searched for capital-T Truth, and maybe it sounds like giving up to say all this, to think that I can never be right. But I have only truly come to Christianity when I've accepted that, as Rachel Held Evans said, it's the story I'm willing to be wrong about.

While it's definitely from a Christian perspective (I'm not sure how relatable that will be to you), the book that's calling to me right now for you is Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others by Barbara Brown Taylor. It's incredibly honest and interested in the experience of exploring envy in a religious context. It completely changed how I approach finding meaning in others' beliefs, and gave me so much peace in my own. And if you do ever begin to follow a religion/denomination, you might need a reminder that you are not abandoning everything else. You may be choosing a home, but you are not locking yourself inside it. We don't look for a home to denounce everyone else's—we look for a place we can live. Taylor says:

I asked God for religious certainty, and God gave me relationships instead. I asked for solid ground, and God gave me human beings instead—strange, funny, compelling, complicated human beings—who keep puncturing my stereotypes, challenging my ideas, and upsetting my ideas about God, so that they are always under construction. I may yet find the answer to all my questions in a church, a book, a theology, or a practice of prayer, but I hope not. I hope God is going to keep coming to me in authentically human beings who shake my foundations, freeing me to go deeper into the mystery of why we are all here.

What are you willing to be wrong about? What do you want to hold close even when you doubt it? What do you want to do, even if you don't believe in it? What brings you closer to the life you know exists for you, the one that fulfills that desire for God? There might not be one religion that is all this for you. Whether or not you ever create/join a concrete belief system, whether or not you're ever sure about any of it, God is with you. Many people live fulfilling lives outside of institutionalized religion; not all who wander are lost; your existence in a diverse community will serve you so well on this journey, which doesn't have an end and always includes doubt, and from which we can always find a new path, and is all encompassed by a many-faced Universe of Love.

And, as I find myself doing so often, here's some more Rilke to his student, which we can receive whether or not we're young or a Sir:

You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

<3 Johanna

P.S.—As well as the things I've quoted from, I would also recommend Not All Who Wander Are (Spiritually) Lost: A Story of Church by Traci Rhoades and all of Rachel Held Evans' books.

P.P.S.—People quote this last Rilke passage a lot, but I'm not sure how many have read the full context? He's mostly giving advice regarding sex anxiety in that letter, which I think is great. It's relevant to most journeys in life, but in case you were wondering what journey it's originally about, there you go.

#i'm the only one who should be apologizing for length :) #asks #had fun thinking abt this one thank u for giving me the space to talk abt this stuff! #oh edit I'm fully aware this ask is like 9 months old but. trying to give myself geace. better late than never?

[eternal-echoes]

hi there. i understand that your church is not a fan of trans people. but please know that the anti-trans movement (the sources you tend to reblog) is full of lies. i don't expect you to like us, i know we're "sinners" according to your church's interpretation of the bible. but just as i would trust you to know yourself best, to make the choices that are right for you even if i don't understand them, please give us the same grace. the anti-trans rhetoric is killing us, very literally.

A 2016 medical article documenting the tragic death of one of the participants in the linchpin Dutch study upon which the entire child sex change experiment is based indicates that puberty suppression was to blame for the young person’s death. The case is that of an 18-year-old trans-identified male whose puberty was blocked by the Dutch researchers at a very early stage, meaning there wasn’t enough penile tissue for surgeons to use to create a “neo-vagina.” Therefore, a more risky procedure using a section of the patient’s bowel was necessary, which resulted in fatal necrotizing fasciitis. ... The investigation into the young person’s death revealed that the deadly strain of E-Coli most likely came from the patient’s own intestines, not from the hospital setting, meaning that the more risky vaginoplasty surgery necessary due to early puberty suppression almost certainly caused the fatality.

Read the full article here.

The Catholic Church does not hate trans people, the Church does not even see transgenderism/gender dysphoria as a sin. The Church simply recognizes that God doesn't make mistakes; no one is born in the wrong body even if they don't fit socially constructed gender stereotypes. The body and soul are not separates; together they make up one substance.

We humans are integrated beings. That means our souls don’t reside in a round glowing ball in the middle of our chest. Our bodies aren’t something to detest, something that holds our soul for now but isn’t important. We are one being. So just as much as your soul is you, so is your body you. What we do with our bodies matters. You don’t just hurt my nose if you punch my face, you hurt me. If someone uses my body sexually for their own gratification, it’s not just my body that is affected, I am affected – my whole personhood has been hurt by being objectified.

Emphasis are mine. Read the full article here.

By posting the experiences of detransitioners like Luka Hein here, my intention is to warn people that this could happen to them if they go down this path. I don't want them to suffer these side effects for the rest of their lives.

#transgenderism #transgender ideology #trans #lgbt #Luka Hein #asks

[self-loving-vampire]

If I had to blame one thing for how widespread child abuse is (and I do think there’s more than one factor involved) then my first pick would just be the fact that so many people are brought up with the idea that effective, loving parenting has to be authoritarian and cruel.

A lot of parents do sincerely believe that their children will end up “spoiled”, miserable, or evil somehow if they don’t use violence to condition them into good behavior.

There is often a religious angle to this as well, with popular sayings like “Spare the rod, spoil the child” being used to justify hitting children in Christian households.

What follows is a series of copypasted paragraphs from a bible website (unaltered save for me adding emphasis to certain parts), plus my comments on them:

The phrase “spare the rod, spoil the child” is a modern-day proverb that means if a parent refuses to discipline an unruly child, that child will grow accustomed to getting his own way. He will become, in the common vernacular, a spoiled brat. The saying comes from Proverbs 13:24, “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him.” The Lord uses discipline to reveal our sin to us. This is also how parents reveal the truth of our need for a Savior to their children. When a child does not feel the consequence of his sin, he will not understand that sin requires punishment. The Lord provides a way to salvation and forgiveness through Jesus, but that means little to those who do not see their sin.

A lot of parents believe this literally. They think that you will just be oblivious to the fact that your actions can have consequences if they don’t create consequences by beating you (and in my experience they also do that when you are merely disobedient, even if you don’t do anything actually wrong).

They think this is what good parents (such as their own) do, and they want to be good parents. They feel that not hitting children would be a form of neglect that could damn your very soul.

Furthermore, correction shows us that we are not above reproach and that we are accountable for our actions. Our natural pride blinds us to our need for a Savior, and discipline reveals the truth of our wretchedness (Revelation 3:17). Since salvation is the most important choice the child will ever make, it is imperative that parents are leading him to Christ, and discipline is critical to this process. Proverbs 23:13 says, “Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you punish him with the rod, he will not die.” In the context of verses 13–14, die means “experience spiritual death in hell.” Children who respect authority and feel sorrow for their sin are much more likely to ask Jesus to forgive them and be saved.

All children are born sinful (Romans 5:12–19). Their natural self is destructive and unrighteous. That does not mean they aren’t valuable and worthy of love (Psalm 127:3). It means that they are not born with any natural “goodness” in them. That is why all children need discipline. Proverbs 22:15 says, “Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far from him.” Discipline is critical for wisdom (Proverbs 29:15), and a child who obeys his parents will be wise (Proverbs 13:1). And even adults who do not heed correction will feel the consequences of their foolishness (Proverbs 10:13).

The parents hold this idea that all children are already born essentially evil and too proud for salvation. Their pride must be completely broken and they must be made to submit to authority.

It is kind of ironic, then, that people blame all child abuse on malevolent “narcissistic” parents when the purpose of this widespread, very normalized, even legal abuse is precisely to kill the pride and inherent evil that allegedly exists within each child and shape them into decent people through violence. To very literally break their will and original personalities and mold them into something the parents prefer.

People in my country’s media used these same bible verses to justify child abuse. My father even had a literal rod that he threatened to beat me in the soles with if I disobeyed him. He thought God would punish both of us if I was not made submissive towards him.

So, rather than blame a rare and heavily-stigmatized personality disorder that I ended up developing myself, I have taken the radical step of advocating for the end of the church and the traditional, authoritarian family.

#abuse #child abuse #atheism #npd #100

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

The Decree of Darius

and also let the golden and silver vessels of the house of God, which Nebuchadnezzar took out of the temple that is at Jerusalem and brought to Babylon, be restored and brought again to the temple that is at Jerusalem, in their place; and thou shalt put them in the house of God. — Ezra 6:5 | Literal Emphasis Translation (LET) The Literal Emphasis Bible is in the public domain. Cross References: Ezra 1:7; Ezra 5:14

#decree #Darius #gold and silver articles #stolen #House of God #Nebuchadnezzar #returned #Temple #Jerusalem #Ezra 6:5 #Book of Ezra #Old Testament #LET #The Literal Emphasis Bible #Literal Emphasis Translation

[qprsmackdown]

Jesus and Mary Magdalene (from the Christian Bible) Propaganda

I went to catholic school and agree with this there's emphasis on mary being the only one to understand jesus, even better than his closest disciples (peter, judas) and there's an bond between them that's beyond friendship but they're not romantic

A friiend told me to submit this. They never canonically have a relationship and they were like besties supreme? Mary understood Jesus the best i don't know.

thought it was a funny submission then i read wikipedia and one historian was like "we do not know jesus' sexuality" and another was like "mary and jesus were not involved that's all blown out of proportion etc" and scorcese has a movie where jesus meets satan and satan shows him a wedding i don't know but one historian looking at the gospel of philip where mary and jesus kiss said "it wasn't seen as romantic at the time" and i trust that

I want a Christian Bible Standoff Final. This one is for the girls.

my friend keeps asking me to submit it i know fuck all about the bible. girlboss gaslight gatekeep let's fucking go mejus or jary or whatever. i want to see my submission of legolas, gimli, and aragorn get decimated by the bible

friend told me to vote this so parrotduo can beat them in the poll.

Literally didn't know this was an idea but I saw the post and it makes sense. Queer Man and Sex Worker ARE in a QPR. That makes sense. Thank you whoever submitted it originally

and. The Essay

#propaganda #jesus and mary mags propaganda #mod cycad

[springstarfangirl]

Hiya! I'm trying to write a Jewish character, can I have some help please? I really want to make her good positive representation

Sure thing! Though do keep in mind that I am only one girl from one stream of a religion that has itself a history of over three millennia, so I can only speak for what I know, that being Orthodox Judaism.

(also this is getting quite long, but I don't know what I expected- the rest is going under the cut.)

So one thing to keep in mind is that Judaism is more than just a religion. It's also a culture, and even just being raised around it- even if your character is secular (doesn't perform the commandments) or atheist/agnostic (doesn't believe God exists/doesn't know if God exists)- it will very much affect your character's mindset and possibly show up in their life in other ways.

In fact, the reason why I separated secular from atheist/agnostic is part of that- Judaism, due to putting more emphasis on the doing than the believing, doesn't really care if you actually believe in God. There are people who very much perform Judaism as a cultural ritual more than as a religion, and they are just as valid as the people who believe that God is there in every corner.

Okay, so what kind of cultural mentalities can you add?

For instance, the idea of proselytizing is forbidden in Judaism. So the way charity differs from tzedaka can be huge. Tzedaka comes from the root word tzedek, justice, and is seen as a way to help someone who's down on their luck to get back on their feet. Not an opportunity to convince them to join your religion. *stares angrily at American charity orgs*

This has a massive effect on how Jewish people see the world. Giving to and helping other people makes us happy, and that in itself is reward enough.

On the more cultural aspect, the menorahs you always see on TV shows? Inaccurate. Those are specific to one holiday, Chanukkah, which is not only a rather minor holiday but is also sometimes viewed as the "Jewish Christmas" when it really isn't. Instead, what any Jewish household would really have is books, and lots of them. The way we view the Tanach is very different from how a lot of Christians view the Bible- it's rarely literal- and so often you'll find a lot of books about Jewish law hanging around. Also, prayer books and candlesticks. Adult Jewish men are supposed to pray three times a day, so someone is bound to leave their prayer book lying around. And the candlesticks are from the "ceremony" (I say, struggling to find a better word) where we welcome Shabbat on Friday just before sunset. A lot of families keep them out all week.

Food is also massively important. Do your research on what's kosher and what's not (though if your character is Reform this may not apply as much- again, I speak from my own experience only) and try to stick to that. That might involve a Jewish character avoiding eating outside the house unless it's a packaged item (which they might check for kashrut symbols), or whispering a blessing before they eat. Kosher meat and cheese are both very hard to find outside of places with a lot of Jews, so they might be vegetarian.

I can't think of anything else right now, so I'll tag @unbidden-yidden because as a convert, they have much more experience with the mindset distinctions between Christianity and Judaism.

Jumblr, feel free to throw all your additions at this post- I need all the help I can get.

I hope this helped at least a little!

#writing advice #writing judaism #jumblr #writing #jewish culture

[exvangelicalrage]

Sin Is Fake

6/5/23

I realized something this week. Which is that I don't believe in sin. Obviously, I don't believe in a lot of things, including god, christianity, and literally anything, haha, but I realized this week that I'd been taking the idea of "sin" as a given.

The idea of sin has been a constant in my life since my birth; only a few weeks after we came home from the hospital, my parents had me "dedicated" in front of the church congregation, which is the protestant alternative to the catholic baby baptisms. Instead of saving your soul, however, it's merely a commitment by christian parents to "raise their child in the way he should go" or whatever. And in this case, that meant raising their child to believe they were inherently sinful and needed to be saved by jesus in order to go to heaven. 

I've long determined that people are not inherently sinful; that babies are not evil from the moment they are beget; that children do not need to plead forgiveness for imagined wrongs. 

But the idea that perhaps sin simply... doesn't exist at all? That is new.

When I was five, I kneeled next to my bed on the pink throw rug my great grandmother had given me, clasped my hands together, and said, "Dear jesus, please come into my heart and forgive me." As I said the words, there was a deep sense of "this is what I'm supposed to do in order to get to heaven." I hadn't quite put together the "I'm sinful and need to be forgiven" part, despite the emphasis on that during Sunday school and vacation bible school, but I knew the words and I said them and I meant them. 

But as I grew, it didn't take me long to fully understand what "sin" was. 

Sin was whining about chores. Sin was arguing with my brothers. Sin was being obstreperous. Sin was reading instead of cleaning my room. Sin was talking back to my parents. Sin was watching other kids get picked on in school and doing nothing. Sin was not wanting to do my homework. Sin was getting bad grades. Sin was not listening to the teacher. Sin was watching movies. And listening to secular music. And reading books with swear words in them.

Sin was doing anything that upset my parents for any reason. 

Sin was lack of total perfection.

Sin was making god mad.

I asked for forgiveness regularly. As a 7 year old. As a 10 year old. As a 12 year old. I knew my soul was irreparably blackened, and jesus was the only one who could cleanse me and guarantee my way into heaven. 

When I reached my teenage years, I continued to pray for forgiveness, but I tacked on an extra little request at the end of my prayers: "Please forgive me, and also, if you notice me doing something wrong, could you just let me know?"

"If I'm doing something and don't realize it's a sin, could you please point it out to me?"

"I'm not entirely sure quite what I'm doing wrong, but I know it must be something, so please forgive me even for stuff I don't realize is wrong."

It's a pretty heavy weight, to walk around thinking that you're perpetually committing grievous offenses but have no idea what they are. To believe that god is incessantly watching every movement, every choice, and every thought, and judging you accordingly. Especially as a child. And sure, the pastors said "his blood covers it all" but what does that even mean? And if his blood covers "it all" why couldn't we just be regular people? Why did we have to focus on being as perfect as possible? 

The thing is, though, the existence of sin is necessary to christianity. If humans weren't inherently "sinful" then what would the point of christianity be? Because if we weren't inherently sinful, nothing would be preventing us from accessing heaven. We wouldn't need jesus, we wouldn't need the bible, and most of all, we wouldn't need the church. 

Sin, at least in a christian context, is a direct and willful violation of god's will. But in order for it to be real, a.) god has to exist, and b.) we have to be able to determine what his will is—irrefutably. But since god (if he exists) hasn't provided a clear-cut directive... how can we possibly ensure that we aren't violating god's will? And if we can't know his will, we can't violate it on purpose.

Hence, sin is fake.

But if pastors, leaders, humans make clear-cut statements that say, "This is wrong and I know because god told me so," then they can claim that your violation of their commandments is sin, and in doing so, they strip access to heaven from you.

The idea of sin allows humans to control other humans. Even humans who don't believe in their ideology.

But if sin doesn't exist in the first place? That hill they're standing on is nothing but air.

To be clear, I think mistakes are real. I think we can do things that we wish we hadn't. I think we can cause harm. We can do things that upset or cause pain or discomfort toward other people, ourselves, or the world around us.

But sin? Nah.

I think I still carry this weight, even though I left christianity over a decade ago. 

It's clearest for me in this subconscious  pressure that suggests I'm "living a sinful lifestyle," despite the fact that even according to christian standards, my "lifestyle," as it were, is pretty innocuous. I'm straight & hetero, married and monogomous, donate and volunteer to causes, mind my own business most of the time. But I do swear. And read romance novels (with sex scenes *gasp*). And I'm not christian. Which all equals "sinful lifestyle" in my subconscious, I guess.

But there's a lot of freedom in being able to look an action in the face and say "What harm does this cause?" If the answer is "It causes no harm," I can move on with my life. And if the answer is "It causes this specific harm," then I can remediate to the best of my ability. 

Litter? I can donate to an environmental organization or pick up more trash than I dropped. 

Give voice to my internal biases, even unintentionally? Apologize immediately and truthfully. Or donate to an anti-racist/feminist/trans-inclusionary/disability activist organization if an apology isn't possible. Or all of the above! 

Steal something? Give it back. Pay for it. Go to jail. Whatever. Make amends.

There is freedom in accountability. There is freedom in taking responsibility for my misdeeds. I don't need jesus or christianity to "save" me. All I need to do is own up to my behaviors, decisions, and choices, and the consequences therein. 

I can make amends. All by myself. No penance, priest, or prayer necessary.

If everyone did this, instead of just "praying for forgiveness," I think the world would be a lot less shitty place.

-----

A not-exactly side note: 

If I'm being honest, I think this whole blog is partially about me trying to make amends in a way. It's also therapy through writing, an exploration of my feelings, and a process to think through some of the concepts and ideas that still nag at me. But I could do all of that without sharing it online.

The one thing I feel more guilty about than anything in my life, was the evangelism I did as a teenager. I talked down to other people. Tried to convince them they were evil. I built walls around myself, and judged everyone else as either "saved" or "unsaved." I roped people in, with music and a pretty smile and the threat of hell. 

I understand that I was still a child. And that the religion I wielded was placed into my hands by adults. That it's not entirely my fault. I know I was trying to do what was right. But I also feel strongly that I caused harm to those around me. Harm I regret to this day.

I made it out. But not without casualties.

It's a strange type of survivor's guilt.

So I'm hoping that writing out & sharing my experiences, feelings, and pain will maybe help somebody somewhere. I want to do something good that directly counteracts the harm I caused then. Maybe I can support someone leaving the church now, validate someone who is questioning, or offer logic, reason, and experience to help someone see the door. 

Maybe it'll help, maybe not. But it feels like the right thing to do.

#christianity #sin is fake #exvangelical #ex christian #exchristian #ex evangelical #indoctrination #religion #exreligious #ex religious #christianity sucks #atheist #agnostic #agnosticism #sin #making amends #deconstruction #deconversion #antichristian #religious trauma #cptsd #religiousabuse #apostate #purity culture #cult

[sepublic]

            They should’ve made the Knights of Ren catholic in the Sequel Trilogy. You have the obvious associations and imagery, what with the burning cross and the name, the idea of crusaders, a First Order and everything. We could’ve made them a dark parallel to the Jedi in a way that is different from the Sith, but also still similar.

         Because one of the big critiques of Catholicism is the constant emphasis on repentance, self-flagellation, always apologizing and atoning for who you are; Suffering is Good basically. Which is directly at odds with how the Jedi’s whole mission is to end suffering, given their Buddhist inspirations and all.

         But what distinguishes the Knights of Ren from the Sith is that they’re collectivistic, not individualistic. Whereas the Sith see themselves as the absolute best, masters of their destiny, the Knights of Ren claim to constantly be working in servitude and devotion to some higher, ‘divine’ cause. The Sith know they’re selfish and simply don’t care, whereas the Knights of Ren operate on this false sense of holy righteousness.

         In a way, you could see them being akin to what people accuse the Jedi order of being; A dogmatic organization of emotionally repressed cultists who are made to be inherently ashamed of themselves, and impose their own worldview on the world. It’s meta because we see the Jedi defeat the extremist caricature which others in real life and in-universe accuse them of being; Imagine Rey posting a selfie after defeating the Knights of Ren, captioned “Just beat the Corrupt Jedi Allegations (Literally)!!!”

         They’re like a twisted middleground between the Jedi and Sith… Except they’re still evil by the end of the day. They’re monks, but in a Christian sense, while the Jedi are Buddhist; And with the resurgence of Right-Wing Conservatism that espouses the Bible, that would make the Knights of Ren politically topical, as the villains of each trilogy are meant to be. They’re crusaders and missionaries, seeking to convert the entire galaxy, or else wipe out what doesn’t cooperate. They want everyone, force-sensitive or not, to worship and fear the Force.

         In the wake of Palpatine’s death, they see themselves as reinstating a lost spirituality that Order 66 had nearly wiped out; But they also see the Jedi as hedonistic heretics, and again, they plan to dominate the galaxy. They’re much more transparent about their goals, unlike the Sith of the mainline films, and they intend to convert the new wave of force-sensitives that have been born following Anakin’s redemption, and the final death of the Sith (They do not like the Rule of Two; The more Force, the better).

         They’ve allied with Snoke because both parties need the other; Snoke because he’s lacking in experienced force-sensitives, the Knights of Ren because Snoke has arcane knowledge and an actual army, as well as a program for indoctrinating children. Kylo is like their middle man, a chosen one, basically the Knights’ second coming of Christ or something; But he’s both beholden to them and Snoke, so it’s a bit hard reconciling these loyalties.

         Kylo is like Snoke’s inside man, and whom he can actually communicate with the hostile Knights of Ren through; He sees them as unruly and belligerent, only listening to their chosen leader, and apprehensive to talk to Snoke. While the Knights of Ren are dirty and scarred, Kylo’s uniform and equipment is clean and well-kept; He is an outlier, both as an ascended leader, but also as someone with outside ties.

         Despite being their elected leader, Kylo still has some ways to go; But the Knights of Ren are prepared to worship, support, and prepare him for that position of leadership. Him and Han are a reverse Abraham and Isaac; Not only does the son make the sacrifice of his father, he actually succeeds in going through with it. Each Knight of Ren goes through arduous trials to be knighted and given the prestigious title of Ren; And at the end, they must make a personal sacrifice, to prove their loyalty to their divine cause, and their willingness to prioritize it over all else. They really ARE a cult, insisting on no outside ties, Us VS Them, unlike the Jedi.

         They probably have a REALLY long history, older than even the Sith; Perhaps even older than the Jedi! A long history of persecution, with the earliest followers of the faith being hunted down by anti-Force regimes, and this continuing perhaps as recent as Order 66; So again, more parallels to the Jedi, and helps explain their scrappy, wartorn poverty. Since the Sequel Trilogy teased the idea of the Unknown Regions and the origin of the Jedi being explored, let’s go with that; Perhaps the Knights of Ren are among the very first Force-sensitive sects that emerged.

         Maybe we could even do a twist; The first Jedi was actually a Knight of Ren who realized their ideology sucked and redeemed themselves, as a narrative predecessor to Anakin. This would give the Knights of Ren a particular grudge against the Jedi, who they see as having made things Go Wrong, just when the Ren had begun to make things Go Right. And the Sith have their origins as former Jedi turned dark, so they see the Sith as merely offshoots of the original traitors; This original Jedi is their Judas, a former follower who turned corrupt, and basically sided with those persecuting them (the Romans/anti-Force majority).

        That might be why they generally don’t wield lightsabers; They might associate them with Jedi, especially if it was the first Jedi who introduced the usage of Kyber. Kylo is an exception, since he’s the Chosen One and all that, plus he’s already an outlier and outsider in other ways; Snoke insisted on the lightsaber because he pulls from Jedi and Sith teachings, much to the chagrin of the Knights of Ren. But Snoke believes a well-rounded education is necessary for Kylo’s full potential, and that’s another reason he tolerates the Knights of Ren, since THEY’RE the experts on the Ren. There might be some significance to Kylo’s lightsaber being an outlier even amongst lightsabers, too.

#star wars #knights of ren #sequel trilogy #snoke #kylo ren #jedi

[guiltywisdom]

I’ve been inquiring into Orthodoxy for a few months (coming from protestantism) and I don’t know for certain yet if I will choose to convert, I guess because I have a few hangups. I attended Divine Liturgy at my local parish for the first time last week and intend to continue worshipping with them and talking to the priests there, but I figured I would bring my questions to you as well.

I’ve been watching interviews and talks from Dr. Jeannie Constantinou, who seems absolutely brilliant and I love her. I’ve heard her explain at least 5 different times now this notion of “phronema,” basically the mind of the Church (the mind of the Apostles, as taught by Christ) and how the Eastern phronema is so different from the West because of the West’s emphasis on human reasoning. I appreciate mystery; mysticism and apophatic theology is what attracted me to Orthodoxy in the first place. But while denouncing Western appeals to reason and emphasizing appeals to Tradition and the mysteries therein, two examples she brought up were same-sex marriage and universalism, basically saying that no matter how reasonable an argument one might make, it’s not Tradition and therefore invalid.

While I’m honestly not sure what to believe about homosexuality (I have pro-LGBT leanings personally but am unconvinced either way I guess), I believe in a “Biblical Universalism,” the idea that Hell is temporary and ultimately corrective rather than punitive, like a furnace to purify gold of any dross. It makes the most philosophical sense to me, I see it in the Scriptures, and (most importantly in this context) I see it as historical.

I’ve read a summary of the points brought up in the book “Universalism, The Prevailing Doctrine of the Christian Church During Its First Five Hundred Years” by John Wesley Hanson and found them to be very compelling. It seems to show that universalism ought to have been preserved in Tradition, but for many reasons did not, and instead the idea of eternal torment in Hell has solidified.

Now we’re in a spot where the likes of the brilliant Dr. Constantinou is saying that, no matter how reasonable a stance like this might seem, we cannot rely on our own reasoning, as she appeals to the Apostolic Tradition. Truly, I don’t want to be prideful or arrogant, and I wish to conform my thinking in all ways to Christ. But it seems that such a stance should have been Tradition all along.

Please, how can I reconcile this? I think I want to participate in the Orthodox life. I like your worship, your prayers, your fasting, your asceticism, your mysticism, and (the bulk of) your theology. I think Orthodoxy is likely the closest to ancient Christianity. But must I take your tradition as wholly infallible? Is this an issue I need to humble myself on and conform to, or can I truly be welcomed if this is my view?

Tradition isn't "wholly infallible" because, for the most part, it was created by man. In general Orthodoxy teaches that, although we do have all we need for Salvation, some things we do not know for sure and that sometimes we must rexamine said tradition for new truths. Homosexuality wasn't really explored by the early fathers because homosexuality as we know it didn't exist. I think people see the Bible (and the words of the Church Fathers) as too black and white rather than something nebulous and deep. A common belief in the Orthodoxy of the people is something called "Hopeful Universalism" wherein those who believe it (myself included) argue that because God is infinitely loving and good then he would likely wish to reconcile all sinners to him but that we cannot know for sure and that free choice presupposes that there must be an option for those who might never choose to reconcile. You'll find that Orthodoxy has a lot of variation in belief, just ask about our infinite arguments over if Toll Houses are literal, a metaphor or heresy! I think you're a lot like me my sibling in Christ and I'm still here! Keep at it my friend.

#replies #asks #homosexuality

[lesbianrobin]

about to say something So reddit-y i'm sorry but. people who take the bible/christianity like Seriously are so scary. they will say shit that is just fully disconnected from reality and we all have to roll with it. they will tell CHILDREN that they'll go to hell and be tortured for eternity if they sin or doubt the church's teachings or question the existence of god. and you can't tell that poor terrified kid that nobody really knows if god is real, or you're undermining their parents and disrespecting their faith.

and it's all so ARBITRARY like if a mormon or jehovah's witness tries to recruit you to their church you're allowed to laugh it off and be like haha those guys are weirdos! but if an evangelical tries to recruit you then you have to be nice because they're well intentioned and they're trying to save you blah blah like fuck OFF you ALL suck granted in different ways and to different degrees but OVERALL YOU ARE ALL LETTING YOURSELVES BE MANIPULATED AND IN TURN YOU ARE MANIPULATING OTHERS. and i hate you. and your pastor is probably an evil cunt. and basing your literal entire life around one of many translations of a variable collection of 3,000 year old texts is unbelievably stupid. and it's like insanely deeply sad how entrenched people become in self-deprecating or hateful thought patterns as a result of the christian church.

and i absolutely understand people enjoying faith and traditions and community but to act as if christianity and faith in the bible is the only or the superior way to have these things in your life is ridiculous. and megachurches are fucking weird. and the emphasis that many christians place on serving and obeying the lord fosters an environment where children are encouraged to blindly obey authority and discouraged from forming their own thoughts and listening to their instincts which i personally believe contributes to the widespread abuse seen across various christian denominations. and sending children to christian schools and church camps and youth groups is literally indoctrination but you can't call it that bc it's disrespectful. and i could literally go on forever and i know i will lose followers for posting this and i probably shouldn't post it at all but i simply do not care anymore and this is my blog to rant about dumb shit as i please. anyway i'm gonna have some candied cashews love you all ✌🏻

#em talks