#Mormonism is corrupt

[lolalovegood1400]

Vent⚠️Trigger warning⚠️ Mormonism, injustice, mentions of 🍇, religion, cult-like talk

Last viewer discretion: WARNING if you continue reading this after you've acknowledged this trigger warning, it is your own fault. I am not liable for how the content you consume makes you feel. ⚠️⚠️⚠️

When the Mormons want you to respect their cult but their Bishop told your Dad he couldn't help him while he was battling addiction, then the Sunday after his funeral they preach how they are always willing to give resources to those in need. 'All you have to do is go to the Bishop and repent of your ways'

You do not get to sit there and tell me your a good person when your actions clearly reflect otherwise. I do not care if not all Mormons are 'that way'. Their doctrine inherently holds those values and enforces such behavior and treatment, especially if you are a member. Mormonism is a cult of shame and denial. However, the more you deny the truth the more evident it is.

Even if you are a Mormon, you can't deny the 🍇 allegations and cases against members of the Bishopric in wards across America and around the world. You can't deny that Joesph Smith's racist fan fiction is archaeologically disproven time and time again. You can tell me whatever you want. You cannot convince me that a self-insert book written by a man who married minors is worth my time or respect.

[groovygrub]

[insert-apt-title-here]

This is my attempt at getting the attention of cool people with similar interests.

Jonmartin and Helen distortion are in the tags because the 3 of them in s5 of tma is the vibe of my content. Equal parts brooding, anxiety ridden, and just a little silly and incomprehensible.

Ceaseless watchers, consume my musings and dramatic pronouncements.

^i like this song and all the other songs from this artist <3

[dearest-valentine]

.

[walrus-queen]

I saw a post the other day somewhere about how modern Televangelist Christians worship money

Today it dawned on me that while older Christian faiths promise an afterlife in paradise, provided you live a pious and righteous life. Televangelist Christianity promises more immediate payoff. And if you pray the hardest and proselytize the fiercest and become God's most special boy, like the Preacher has done, you can become a millionaire, too.

In today's world, we want everything tomorrow, if not today. Our products can be delivered overnight. Why not apply the same convenience logic to salvation?

[mindfulldsliving]

Salvation and Scripture: A Latter-day Saint Approach to Faith, Works, and Modern Revelation

Faith, grace, and works are often hotly debated topics in Christian theology, and Ephesians 2:8–9 and Galatians 1:8–9 have long been central to these conversations. As Latter-day Saints, we affirm salvation through grace but understand that faith and works together reflect true conversion. Critics often claim these verses contradict our beliefs, but with context and revelation, they align…

[cannibalsafespace]

It's any sort of thought stopping that's the problem. If you're:

-trying to distract from the horrors of the world

-using cliches like "agree to disagree" or "I have a right to my opinion" to prevent yourself from thinking about things or discussing them with people who are just trying to save human lives.

-allowing yourself to be distracted by your own sick position of only doing what's best for you, regardless of anyone else.

-allowing other people to tell you what your positions are on a topic

Or anything else that prevents you from thinking.

YOU ARE THE ONLY PROBLEM IN THE WORLD.

[theozgnomian]

[birthanon]

Birth Ordinance

The following story contains: explicit birth, birth denial, twin birth, and enough information about Mormon temples they'd be upset with me. But hey, it was my experience too and I have every right to it. Some creative liberties were taken with the temple stuff. It's my first attempt at sharing something like this. So I'm happy to get feedback.

Story behind cut:

Mariah groaned, reaching down and wrapping around her large stomach as the car went over a bump and into the Mormon Temple’s parking lot. Her husband, Mathew, glanced over. 

“Almost there, honey,” he said. “Just keep breathing, and soon God will bless us with a pair of new children.”

The latest contraction eased, and Mariah eased back into her seat, breathing hard as her stomach visibly relaxed under her hand. The new prophet, President Oaks, had revealed that there was a new covenant and ritual that women had to participate in during the birth of their children. It was still new enough Mariah didn’t know anyone who had participated in it, but the prophet spoke for god so she and her family would obey. Surely a birth (or two) in God’s house surrounded by holy men would be far more blessed than a birth in a hospital surrounded by doctors who had been corrupted by fake-science like vaccines, gender ideology, dinosaurs, and other such satanic lies.

The car came to a stop, and Mathew got out, dressed in his nice suit. Then he came around and opened the door for Mariah. As she stood, another contraction seized her. She clutched the door handle and moaned through the pain, curling in on her stomach instinctively. 

“Come on, hon,” Mathew said, grabbing her hand. “We’re gonna be late.” Then he pulled, dragging her up out of the car with zero warning.

Mariah stumbled, still mid-contraction. Her back screamed as it took on the weight of her twins. Mathew managed to catch her, as her legs gave out, keeping her from face planting in the temple parking lot. 

“Woah careful there,” Mathew said, smiling, completely oblivious. He did however stay long enough for the contraction to end and for Mariah to get her footing back. The shoes she wore had a slight heel to them. She thought it wouldn’t matter too much, and she didn’t have anything completely flat that was nice enough for the temple, but the way her hips ached, she already fiercely regretted her choice. Even more so when she looked up and saw just how far away the temple was. Her husband had parked in the furthest parking stall from the main doors. 

“Go ahead and start walking,” Mathew said, “I’ll grab our temple bags.”

With a sigh, Mariah began the trek, pressing one hand to her back to counteract the growing pain there. Everything felt strange down below, both open and tight at once, her hips oddly shaky, which led to a distinct waddle in her walk. It took almost no time at all for Mathew to catch up to her, both temple bags slung over his shoulder. 

They made it to the temple doors without further issue, the massive white building standing out starkly against the blue sky, stain glass windows gleaming. A patron exiting opened the door for them, smiling and greeting them. Then their eyes strayed to Mariah’s belly. “Congratulations,” the man said. “Are you excited about the new revelation from our prophet?”

“We are so lucky to be some of the first to experience it,” Mathew replied, proudly resting his hand on Mariah’s belly. 

Mariah didn’t say anything, anxiety twisting in her chest. She just wished she knew what she was getting into. Neither man noticed her silence however, and exchange a few more quick pleasantries before they continued inside. 

Once inside, both Mathew and Mariah produced their temple recommends from their wallets, then Mariah produced her special recommend for a live ordinance, given to her after extensive interviews with both her bishop and her stake president to prove she was worthy. Another contraction came as they checked over her paperwork. She grabbed onto the desk, circling her hips and breathing hard, feeling the pressure increase.

“Has your water broken yet?” the man at the desk asked.

Mariah shook her head, unable to say much else in the midst of the contraction.

Mathew answered for her. “She’s been having regular contractions for the past two hours, one minute on, four minutes off. We’ve come as instructed. And we called ahead.”

“Yes, yes,” the desk worker said, then he handed her a little piece of paper and a pin. “We’ve got your guide waiting for you. Just put this on and head into the main room. She’ll meet you inside.”

Gratefully, Mariah took the paper and pinned it onto her dress with shaking hands, then she and Mathew headed past the white wall of the reception area and into the main temple area. Green plants and pastel green and gold couches lined the walls and filled the center space of the area. A woman and man saw her name tag and came over, shaking both Mathew and Mariah’s hand, and introducing themselves as Sister and Brother Wallace. 

Mathew handed Mariah her temple bag, and then was swept away to the men’s changing room by Brother Wallace, leaving Mariah with Sister Wallace, who led her to the other side of the foyer where the sister’s dressing room was. 

“We’ve already set aside one of the larger dressing rooms for you,” Sister Wallace said. “There will be a white jumpsuit in there. Put it on, just like if you were getting ready for a baptism for the dead. Then I’ll take you into an instructional room for a short video.”

Mariah nodded, and entered into her dressing room. Though it was definitely larger than the normal stalls, it was still small, barely enough room for her to move around with her massive stomach. She had just enough to to place her bag on a small wooden bench that protruded from the metal doors before another  contraction hit. She hissed and groaned, working through it. Once it was through, she awkwardly reached down grabbed the hem of her dress which was significantly closer to her fingers than it would have been pre pregnancy, and dragged it up over her massive belly. It was a bit of a struggle, but soon it was off. Next went her wired bra and her white pregnancy garments, which were soaked with sweat. 

Not caring much, she threw the clothes and her old shoes in a locker, then began the momentous task of putting on the silky zip-up garments which barely fit over her massive belly, the tiny sports bra that did very little to contain her leaking breasts, and a large zip up jumper than definitely was not made for a pregnant woman. She barely got the zipper up half her chest, leaving the white undergarments visible. As she sat down to put on the grippy socks, breathing heavily from the effort of changing clothes, another contraction took her she groaned, practically collapsing the rest of the way onto the little wooden bench. The unyielding solidness pressed against her privates which felt much more exposed in the tight white jumpsuit, zipper straining. 

Sister Wallace knocked midway through the contraction, asking if she needed any help. Once the contraction released her, Mariah leaned over awkwardly and undid the latch. No way she was getting on those stupid socks without help, not in her condition. Wallace helped her easily enough, getting the soaks on her swollen feet, then helped her up. 

The instruction room wasn’t far, and she was sat down in a cushy chair, Wallace at her side, and a video of the prophet showed up. “In order to ensure our families our celestial, God has revealed a plan for his children. As the child is being birthed, the mother will go through each of the ordinances on the path to the celestial kingdom, doing them in proxy for their child. That way, no matter what path the child takes in life, they will already have their work done for them. It is like baptisms for the dead, but for those who have not yet come into this world.”

Mariah stared as yet another contraction hit, the pressure building. The heavy ball of her first child’s head sitting in her hips. All the ordinances? But the baby was coming soon, and that would take hours!

“Best get a move on then, right?” the sister said.

The elevator was broken, so they had to take the stairs down to the font. Midway down another contraction hit, and Mariah was caught with legs on separate stairs, clinging to the bronze railing for dear life as the pressure mounted, and mounted and mounted. She needed to push, she realized suddenly. But no, that couldn’t be right. Her water hadn’t broken yet. And she had to get through these ordinances so her children would make it to heaven with her!

Mariah gasped in relief as the wave of pain eased away. Already her white suit was near-see through with sweat in some areas. But Wallace didn’t seem to mind, she just grabbed Mariah’s arm and helped her hobble awkwardly down the rest of the stairs, her legs forced just a bit further apart than they had been earlier.

Teens waiting to be baptized stared openly as Mariah hobbled down the hall, one hand on her back, the other trying to support her massive twin stomach. They walked into the main font, a white pool on top of twelve golden oxen, the air heavy with the scent of chlorine, then waited for the teen who was currently being dunked to finish their set of baptisms. Mathew was already waiting on the other side, dressed in a similar white jumpsuit. He smiled and waved, his escort at his side as well. Once the teen finished, him and his adult baptizer exited the font and were handed fluffy white towels, then Mariah and Mathew entered. 

The water was warm, a welcome relief to her straining body, and Mariah couldn’t help but groan in relief as Mathew walked her to the center of the pool. He took her wrist in his hand, holding her hand up by her face, then held his right hand to a square behind her. “Sister Johnson,” he prayed. “Having been commissioned by Jesus Christ, I baptize you for and behalf of, Nephi Johnson, who is not yet born, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”

In the midst of his prayer, another contraction wrapped its way around her belly. As he put his hand to her back and pressed her down into the water, the pain and pressure mounted. She tried to scream with the pain, but water flooded into her mouth. Down, down, deeper into the water, as her husband tried to get her whole massive body completely submerged. Then she was up again, spitting up water, ears ringing, barely aware her husband was saying the prayer again, until she was plunged unsuspectingly back into the water. 

As her knees bent, something popped inside her, and the pressure was gone. She came back up spluttering, wiped away the stinging chlorine from her eyes and stared down at the red tendrils spread from her into the holy water. 

She blushed, but Mathew didn’t seem to notice. He pulled her to him instead, then helped her back out of the font. The stairs were slippery. A towel was wrapped around her as the cool air made her tremble in her wet clothes. 

Then she found herself in a shower, her legs spread, panting, struggling to get her white jumpsuit off while the shower spread the chlorine off of her. She managed to get the zipper undone with shaking hands, but she couldn’t get the fabric off her hips without closing her legs, and that just didn’t seem possible. Groaning with the effort, she put her legs together despite her body screaming at her, and pushed the suit down. Then came the too small bra, which clung to her chest, and then the zip up garments, which present similar problems. Once they were down around her feet, she eased down, groaning as her necked butt rested on the plastic shower seat, to try and kick her clothes off the rest of the way. 

As she curled forward to try and get them off, another contraction struck. She groaned panting, trying to spread her legs to give the baby’s massive head room, but couldn’t. Her feet were caught by the restrictive material bound around them. She panicked, reaching blindly downward, kicking frantically, trying to get a leg free, because she needed her legs free. 

Finally a leg slipped free, and she eagerly spread her legs, pushing hard as the contraction ebbed, thankful for the warmth of the shower water dripping over her. Perhaps I should just stay and birth in here, she thought as the water cleansed her sweat. But no, she had to follow through. Had to make sure her children were saved.

Heaving herself to her feet she grabbed her towel from her hook, did her best to dry herself off, then tried to wrap it around her. It was made for teenagers, so it wasn’t the best modesty shield for a full grown, very pregnant woman, but she got the important parts covered. Barely. 

Sister Wallace met her outside the shower, all smiles, and handed her a white poncho. “This is a shield,” she said. “We’ve brought it back for innititories, go ahead and put it on.”

On the plus side, it was just a giant rectangle with a hole in the head, incredibly easy to put on compared to the earlier clothes, on the other hand, Mariah was left nearly completely exposed, the fabric hanging down only to mid-thigh in the front because of her massive belly, and left completely open on the sides. 

Those attired, with shaking legs, she was led into a room and told to sit down in a chair. Mathew and Brother Wallace awaited her, they placed their hands on her head as another contraction began and began the confirmation prayer. Mariah tried not to moan as her legs spread apart, her massive belly sinking between them, covering her parts as her clothes seemed to do very little of that. She couldn’t help but push, and felt the massive baby within move further down. The contraction let up, then another came, and she pushed with it again, trying to stay quite so she wouldn’t disrupt the prayer. 

Gosh, the baby was right there, right between her legs. It needed to be born. But she’d been grabbed by the arm and yanked to her feet before she could fully process the change. “Hurry now,” Sister Wallace said.

Practically naked, she was led through the temple, and back to the stairs. “No,” she moaned, leaning forward as another contraction started and she felt her nethers begin to sting. Her hand shot to her pussy, although she wasn’t sure if her intention was to support the baby or hold it in. 

The contraction ended before she had to make up her mind, the stinging easing as the baby slipped back inside. 

“It’s coming,” Mariah moaned.

Sister Wallace frowned. “Hold it in, or it will never be able to be in the celestial kingdom with you.”

Nodding, Mariah steeled herself, staring up at the spiral staircase. She’d do this.

Up and up she went, one stair at a time. Each time her leg went up and separated to reach the next step, she could feel the sting of the baby settling against her holds, then she’d bring her feet together and the stinging would ease. One contraction stopped her midway up, and she breathed hard. Do not push, do not push, she chanted to herself, as she pressed her hand against the head, supporting it, keeping it inside.

The top of the stairs opened to the women’s locker room, and inside that the initiatory. Another sister met her inside a curtain and told her to sit in the small waiting chair. Wish shaking legs, she sat, purposely tilting her pelvis so the chair put counter pressure on her baby, keeping it inside. Her hand when she finally pulled it away, was wet.

“Sister, having authority, I wash you preparatory to receiving your anointings for and behalf of Nephi Johnson, who is yet to be born, that youmay become clean from the sins of this generation,” the sister in this room said. Then with wet hands she placed her hand on Mariah’s head, blessing it, then her ears, then her eyes, then her nose, then her lips. A strange game of reverse head, shoulders knees and toes, each body part its own blessing. 

“Your neck, that it may bear up your head properly,” the woman said, then she reached down inside the shield, resting her cold wet hands on Mariah’s shoulders. “Your shoulders that they may bear up the burdens that shall be placed thereon.” Then the hands moved further down, onto her back, then they slipped and rested on Mariah’s ample, aching breast, blessed to be a receptacle of pure and virtuous principles. 

A contraction came as the hands rested on her stomach, and she zoned out, focusing on putting her weight against the head of the baby, keeping it inside as she tried and failed to not push. The hands were back on her contracting stomach, blessing her loins that “they may be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth, that you might have joy in your posterity.” It was all so much. She needed to give birth, she needed them to stop touching her.

She tilted her hips, lifting them up from the chair, and pushed. The crown grew. Her lips stung. Then another set of hands rested on her head and shoved her down. The growing crown hit the chair and was shoved back into her. She screamed as the second officiant sealed the blessings of the washing upon her.

Her ears rang through the next prayer, her body lost in the need to push. But then the touching started up again, though this time instead of cold water, it was slick oil. The anointing, preparatory to becoming a king and a high priest unto God. 

Slick oil open her head, nose, her eyes, her neck, her breast, her back, her stomach, her loins, her feet. The hands lingered on her massive belly, caressing it, slathering it in slick oil. 

Her body, frustrated with the denial, initiated another contraction. It seemed stronger than the others, desperate. And Mariah didn’t even try to stop it this time. As the hands rested on her head to seal the anointing upon her, she pushed. But she couldn’t get off the chair, couldn’t get it to move, the hands held her steady, pushing her down into the chair. A whine escaped her as the contraction ended and the baby remained just there. 

Instructions were given, about the garments to wear, and then a new name was placed upon Nephi, though he hadn’t even officially received his first name. 

It was over, finally. She could move on to the next step. Except—

It started over again, with the blessing. With the wet touching. Twins. She was having twins. She had to do everything twice. She gave in to the touching, groaning as the hands caressed her breasts and belly with both water and oil a second time. The touch turning from foreign to comforting as she searched for anything grounding, anything positive to help her through this.

Three contractions later, the babies still safely within, the initiatory was over. Mariah stood from the chair, legs spread wide to accommodate the head which lurched forward as soon as she stood. She barely wobbled out of the room, catching Sister Wallace’s shoulders to stead herself and instantly crouching and barring down.

The head eased forward, the stinging increased. The head was massive. Twins were supposed to be small. How was she supposed to get this out?

Then the contraction eased and the head went back inside, leaving her panting and sweaty, but with no progress to show for her efforts.

“Oh dear,” Sister Wallace said. “You seem quite far along. Don’t worry. I’ll help you get dressed for the next step. I’ll be with you each step of the way.”

Then Mariah was forced to walk the short way to the dressing room, gasping for breath, feeling the weight of the head between her thighs, her hips protesting the constant movement while being spread so far apart.

“We have special garments to help in situations like this,” Sister Wallace said. “Step in.”

Blind with pain, Mariah managed to get a foot up, then the next one as Sister Wallace pulled on some sort of white undergarment. It was a bit of a wrestle, but finally it was on, tight as can be and pure white, nestled just under her belly. Mariah paid very little attention as Sister Wallace put on her white temple dress, her long white socks, and white shoes, focusing on not passing out or throwing up from the pain. 

“You’ve just got the endowment left,” Sister Wallace said, patting her on the shoulder. 

If the endowment ceremony wasn’t two hours long, if she didn’t have to do it twice, that would have been more reassuring.

At least she didn’t have to climb another stairs, as she was led into the endowment room, women on one side, men on the other, the seats full except the one at the front nearest the white alter that sat in the front of the room, a man standing behind it, ready to officiate.

Mathew sat in the seat closest to the alter on the men’s side of the aisle.

They were to be the representative couple. No. That meant standing up and kneeling and. . . gosh, how was this possible? Why would god ask this of her? No. Obedience. It was a test of obedience. To prove she and her family deserved the blessings. She would do it. She would prove she was strong enough.

With Sister Wallace's help, she waddled down the aisle, legs spread, crotch stinging, and settled into the front seat. Instructions sounded on the speaker, then the movie began. It was a movie she’d seen hundreds of times, about the creation of the world and Adam and Eve, so she quickly lost herself in the pain of the contractions. As each one came, she tried not to push, breathing through it as the head pushed through her tender folds, then eased back in as the contraction ended, too big to get all the way through or stay out without her help.

She was jerked from her pained breathing and the rhythm of the heading coming in and out, by a tap on her shoulder. Sister Wallace sat beside her, pointing toward the altar where Mathew waited, the rest of the audience waiting impatiently, staring at her.

With a groan she eased herself to her feet, stumbled the few steps to the altar, and kneeled beside her husband. There she promised the officiant, who was standing in for God, that she would obey Adam (Mathew)’s law so long as he obeyed the Father’s.

Kneeling hurt her knees, and her huge stomach pressed into the altar. She had a skirt of fig leaves on under her belly, but she didn’t remember putting it on. Sister Wallace must have done it earlier. A contraction came as she kneeled, and with legs forced apart and with gravity helping, the baby came down. She couldn’t help but push, and gasped as the head shot out further than it had yet. Agony tore through her pussy and she couldn’t help but let out a gasp, barely muffling the full scream of pain that surged from her throat. 

As soon as the contraction ended, however, the massive head began going back inside. The baby kicked, the feeling was wrong. Revulsion and agony surged through her body, and she tried to catch it, engaging her core muscles, stopping the baby in its tracks. There was pressure, something pushing back against the baby. As she slowly stood from the alter and headed back to her seat, the baby’s head brushing the inside of her thighs, she lost the push. The baby eased back inside her all the way. Tears filled her eyes. 

She would have sunk to the floor right there in pain and despair, but Sister Wallace caught her and brought her back to her seat. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in Mariah’s ears. “Those special garments will keep that baby in, no matter how hard you push. It will be saved.”

The next contraction brought the baby to a full crown, then the garments immediately began pushing it back in once the pressure released. Desperately, Mariah kept pushing, trying to keep the head there so she wouldn’t have to experience the agony of it returning. But eventually, she had to breathe, giving up the fight. Nausea filling her chest and throat.

She had to stand again, to put on a hat and robe and other holy emblems. Then again to kneel at the altar. Then the altar again. The third time, as she knelt the baby’s head completely popped out, slipping off to one leg of the garment. As she stood, her cheeks red with embarrassment and exhaustion, the head pressed against her leg. She felt it as she walked, bowlegged back to her seat, but before she could sit down, Sister Wallace caught her arm.

Right. It was time to go up the stairs to the terrestrial room. Each step was agony, the shoulders shifting in her hip, her legs spread awkwardly around the head, which touched her thighs. A line of people waited behind her awkward shuffling, impatient. When a contraction hit, Sister Wallace kept pulling her up the stairs, not giving her time to push. 

Her legs shook, each step torture, then they were at the top, and she was being pushed into a seat again. Sister Wallace frowned at her, and reached subtly under her dress as the rest of the people found their seats. Her hand slipped to the baby’s head that had somehow escaped the restrictive garment. 

In a horrible flash, Mariah knew what was coming. “Please, don’t” she whispered. “Please.”

“We have to save your baby,” Sister Wallace responded, then her hand pressed on the babies head, forcing it inside.

Mariah opened her mouth to scream, but Sister Wallace’s other hand grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth closed. “This is a holy place,” she reminded Mariah. “You must be quiet.”

More standing and kneeling and contractions. Endless pain. Torture of another kind. She needed to push. Needed to give birth. How could she play Mother Even for this long, making covenants for her, and yet not be allowed to give birth? 

The prayer circle finally came, the last bit until the end. Mathew grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet. Her legs trembled, the world swirled. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“This is for our babies,” Mathew said. “Please?”

Before she could say no, but how could she when she’d just promised God she’d obey him?, she was dragged to the front of the circle. The officiant said a prayer, she repeated what she said with the others in the circle, her legs spread awkwardly, the baby’s full crown bulging against the worn garments. Agony.

Then she was standing against the veil, making the tokens, with Sister Wallace whispering the right answers in her ears. She normally had these memorized, but she had no more brain power, no awareness except for the bulge in her pants and the desperate need to birth. Finally, it was over, she was through the veil.

“Very good,” Sister Wallace said, “just one more time through the endowment.”

“No,” Mariah begged, falling to her knees. “Please, I need to give birth. Please. To one of them. At least.”

Sister Wallace hesitated, then nodded. She reached out and pulled Mariah to her feet, in through the celestial room with its giant mirrors and massive crystal chandelier, then off to a small room to the side. It was all white, a single altar in the center. 

Sister Wallace knelt down, under Mariah’s skirt, fumbling with the tight garment bottom. “You must push your legs together to get this off,” she said.

But the baby’s head was there, fully crowned. Her legs weren’t going anywhere. “I can’t,” Mariah whined.

“I’ll help.” Then once again, the worst feeling of her life, the baby’s head being shoved back in. Mariah did vomit then, falling to her knees, vision blanking. She woke up sprawled over the altar, her baby’s head in her pussy, the garment bottom’s finally, blissfully off.

“Push,” Sister Wallace ordered. “Quickly, the next endowment session is starting soon. Your husband is waiting.”

Exhausted, but relieved, she pushed. The head shot out, and she screamed at the sudden shift despite herself. Gasping for breath, she clung to the side of the altar, her fingers digging into the cushions to keep herself upright on her trembling legs. An agonizing few minutes of breathing as the shoulders turned, then more pushing, the first shoulder popped out, stretching her even more.

Big, so big. Mariah shifted, awkwardly on her knees forcing them further apart to make room for the second shoulder, then with a final massive push and gush of fluids, the baby fell from her, into the waiting hands of Sister Wallace.

Or no, another Sister in white had entered at some point. She came in, cut the cord, washed up the baby, while Sister Wallace was doing something down there. Mariah didn’t quite care what. She watched her baby, Nephi, as he cried, wrapped in a blanket, still smeared with unmentionables, but beautiful anyway. Perfect. And promised to her forever, no matter what he did.

Another contraction distracted Mariah from that holy moment. She groaned, feeling the next baby pressing down on her worn insides, already pushing through her dilated cervix.

Then something snapped shut around her waist and her eyes shot open. Mariah stared in betrayal at Sister Wallace as she stood back up and held a dainty hand to Mariah. The restrictive, birthing-proof garments were back on. “Come on then, you must save the other one still.”

“No, please. I can’t.” Mariah didn’t even think she could stand. Even kneeling was too much. 

“You must, for your child. Come, you won’t be the witness couple this time. You can just sit through it.”

She had to drag Mariah to her feet. Mariah leaned on Sister Wallace heavily as they walked back down the halls, back to the first endowment room, the telestial room, painted with mountains and animals a plenty. Mathew waved at Mariah from where he sat, giving her a thumbs up.

The story of creation and Adam and Even droned on as the second baby dropped. It was moving much slower than before, the cramps having shifted to Mariah’s back more than her front. She leaned against the seat back, desperately seeking counter pressure as she pushed with each contraction. But it was getting harder and harder to do so.

Her body ached. Her head spun. She was so tired.  Robotically, she obeyed the instructions from Sister Wallace to get through the session. By the time they needed to switch rooms, the second baby, the daughter presumably, was low again. This birth felt different somehow. Worse, slower. Maybe everything was harder because she was exhausted? Mariah wondered.

But as she stood and pressed her hand subtly to her bulging nethers, she felt something that was definitely not a head. Still it spread her apart plenty.

She was only two steps up to the next room when the next contraction hit. It was too much. Despite Sister Wallace’s support arm, Mariah’s legs gave out and she went down. She was too tired to scream, so she could only moan as something stretched her lips apart, only to be slowly shoved back in by the restrictive garments.

“Help,” she moaned. “Let me birth it, please.”

It took both Mathew and Sister Wallace to drag her limp, stumbling, exhausted body up the stairs and plop her in the seat for the next section. The contractions came and went, her body’s frantic, last push to get the baby out. The pressure and pain was awful, but the baby was stuck fast, spreading her lips wide apart, far wider than the son’s head. The garments were too worn by this time to push the baby back, it only held it, at the butt equivalent of a full crown, as the contractions continued on and on.

She zoned out in the pain, lost, distant. Until, at last she was pulled to her feet once more. The baby’s body brushed against her inner thighs as she was dragged to the front of the veil, muttered through the secrets, and was finally let inside. She didn’t have the energy to kneel, so she was laid across the altar.

Mathew was there this time, as Sister Wallace took off the garment bottoms, throwing Mariah’s skirts up, over her belly and out of the way.

Completely exposed, Mariah tried to look down to see what was happening, her legs propped up on either side of the altar on stools to keep them separate. She couldn’t have held them up, someone was doing it for her. Despite her efforts she couldn’t see over her misshapen belly.

“You are doing so good, I can see it,” Mathew assured her, from where he held one leg. “Push!”

The contraction came, and Mariah tried. The baby’s butt scooted forward a bit, then resumed its place, comfortable where it had been stuck for the last hour.

“Can’t,” she gasped out, head falling limply, once the contraction ended.

Then Mathew’s hand pressed down on her stomach, pushing hard. The increase in pain, the suddenly movement of the baby startled Mariah, she let out a squeak, and stopped pushing.

Mathew’s hand rested on her stomach. He leaned down, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up at him. Then he forced his mouth on her, kissing her. She gasped at the contact, kissing back instinctively, unsure if it was too much or just the reassurance she needed. Then he pulled back. The next contraction came, contorting her stomach. She whimpered and tried to push, but she was too weak, too exhausted. The baby wasn’t moving!

“Keep pushing!” he commanded as he pushed.

Slowly, the baby’s butt slipped out of her straining, purpled lips. After three contractions, where she tapped out early, exhausted, heading spinning and he kept pushing on her stomach, the legs finally flopped out. She was too exhausted to even scream at that point. 

Her world narrowed to pushing, to the sensation of her lips dragging across the stomach and arms of her baby. Until finally, it popped out, accompanied by another flash of fluids. 

Done. No. The head. She still had the head. 

Someone had grabbed the baby and was tugging at it from the other end, sending fire shooting all through her worn body. Her lips spread again, more and more. The lips, the nose, oozing slowly out of her. And then with a pop, and a final gush of fluids she was done. The baby was crying. Mathew was holding it, cooing. “Oh she’s perfect,” he whispered, holding the baby out to Mariah.

Mariah smiled. She’d done it. They were a family of four. Together. Forever.

[captainsamuelmorrigan]

"Twilight vampires are stupid! Twilight vampires are for little girls!"

NO! LISTEN!!

Twilight vampires are a direct result of Purity Culture of the 90s and early 2000s, the AIDS crisis, and the War on Drugs.

Many vampires are prolonged feeders. Hell, the original literary babes like Carmilla and Dracula, feed many times from people, and those folks never went through any change besides anemia, potentially becoming obsessed with or enslaved to the vampire, or DEATH.

Not to say that some vampires in between don't have a one-and-done in biting and turning (My Best Friend is a Vampire [1988], Blacula [1972], My Babysitter’s a Vampire [2010]), but Twilight vampires truly do it with every aspect of these guys. Bella meets Edward ONE TIME and is obsessed with him, drawn to him. He seems to be her first love, and they end up getting married. They have sex THE NIGHT AFTER THEY WED, and BOOM, PREGNANT! True Love Waits, the organization that formed in 1993 with the aim of reducing premarital sex (some members even thought actually dating before marriage was toeing the line), had its first Purity Ball only seven years before the novel came out. Stephanie Meyer herself is Mormon, so the purity culture runs DEEP. This is an important context to be looking at this media from!

This one bite thing is not a popular thing in vampire media in years since Twilight, many people seem to prefer the method of vampires swapping blood with their sires (True Blood [2009-14], Interview With the Vampire [2022-present], What We Do In The Shadows [2019-2024]). One of the inspirations for Twilight, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, even has this method in place. But Twilight is in the age of D.A.R.E. where we gotta say, "Not even once!!"

These guys also really dig in on moral superiority of being "vegetarian." They are able to control their want to feed on humans, their LUST for blood, by feeding on animals. This is another product of purity culture! Vampires feeding has long been a metaphor for sex. They partake in a 'cleaner,' 'more moral' type of feeding, much like "soaking" or dating without engaging physically at all. Edward has been a good boy, basically his entire vampiric life, feeding on wild animals, and he constantly mentions that Bella even being close to him is a threat to her safety (and her mortal soul). This is straight-up purity culture nonsense!! Painting women as the gatekeepers of sex and pleasure, and men as wild monsters that seek to corrupt these delicate flowers.

Yeah, Twilight mainly appeals to teenage girls in terms of sincerely thinking that Edward or Jacob are good people worthy of being attracted to, but I think that the vampires in the franchise are incredibly fascinating in the wake of all of these important changes to how we as a culture view sex and sexuality! I've even seen cases made where these vampires are much closer to Mormon angels than vampires due to their diverse range of abilities and sparkly skin. These are bonkers versions of the vampire myth, but they are still important! All vampires ever are products of their time, and these sparkly, horny, guilt-ridden monsters are practically engineered for girls and women of the aughts, playing out the sexual and courting behaviors they have had shoved down their throats their entire sexual development.

Be nicer to the folks that like Twilight! And analyze your media!

[inbabylontheywept]

Would you mind sharing the psalm and why you felt that person was the most humanist Mormon? I'm not religious at all but I find these sort of things very interesting.

In exchange I could offer the reason for my url ?

I'm warning you, this is kind of a mega essay, and it's fucking unhinged. Click at your own risk.

(Alright. You clicked.)

Psalms 137

By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept

when we remembered Zion.

There on the poplars

we hung our harps,

for there our captors asked us for songs,

our tormentors demanded songs of joy;

they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

How can we sing the songs of the Lord

while in a foreign land?

If I forget you, Jerusalem,

may my right hand forget its skill.

May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth

if I do not remember you,

if I do not consider Jerusalem

my highest joy.

Remember, Lord, what the Edomites did

on the day Jerusalem fell.

“Tear it down,” they cried,

“tear it down to its foundations!”

Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,

happy is the one who repays you

according to what you have done to us.

Happy is the one who seizes your infants

and dashes them against the rocks.

———

Mormonism has layers. Different cores of believers, cultures within itself. The largest group of Mormons also dominate its image within the larger culture. You know them as the nerdy, cheerful, bubbly dorks on South Park, or the hopelessly naive childlike weirdos from the Book of Mormon musical. Strangely sanitized, "wholesome" people that are, clearly, unwhole. Missing some essential part of the human experience.

(Pain, maybe?)

I think that embracing this image is letting Mormonism view itself as what it wishes it was. A group with all its rough edges sanded off, all its raw and desperate humanity scrubbed away. A clean and godly and slightly unsettling image of joy.

That isn't how it started.

Now, most people know the story of Joseph Smith. Fourteen year old farm boy starts a cult because the whole world if full of idiots, I won't repeat it because you've probably already got it from South Park. But at some point that weirdo cult did become a religion, and I would point to that moment as the Mormon War of 1838.

I don't know how far after the founding that was. Enough that Joseph Smith was a grown man. Enough that the Mormons had around 15-25 thousand members. They'd moved to the Illinois-Missouri area and were establishing settlements.

(They creeped the locals out. Of course they creeped the locals out.)

Eventually, they got pushed out of the county they'd claimed. Jackson County, it was. The state couldn't actually take that county from the people that expelled them, so to try and make the Mormons "whole" for the land they'd bought (ignoring the houses and farms they'd already set up) it gave them a new county.

Next election that came around, that county was sieged. Voting was blocked. Now, the people of the state were terrified that this weirdo voting block was going to take them over. They probably weren't wrong. Some former Mormons had straggled in from the county revealing a frankly corrupt land dealthat the early church had used to transfer resources to itself, and that served as a tipping point. To prevent their state from becoming a religious basketcase, a mob sieged the Mormon county during the next election.

The state tried to return order by sending the militia in to break up the siege, but the militia mutinied. They joined the siegers. A ground of strange, extremist violent Mormons known as the Danites rode out and attacked local settlements that were known to house the families of the militia members.

The Governor at the time - Lilburn Boggs - sent out an executive decree. The Mormons were traitors, and were to be killed on sight. It is the only religion in the US to have ever had such an order made against it.

The Mormons surrendered their county and went to Nauvoo, Illinois. There were again expelled from that city in 1846, and traveled west.

They died in great numbers and they never forgot the homes they lost.

———

I tried to tell the story as sympathetically to the people of Missouri as I could. The Mormons made messes wherever they went, and they unsettled everyone they interacted with. But they were attacked as well, and had a history of violence against them. It should not be totally surprising that they became insular and strange.

Many (most?) Mormons that learn all of their history wind up leaving the religion. It has twists and turns and knots and it is incredibly, overwhelmingly human. I think that's where the facade of Mormon perfectionism comes from - the shame of that. The desire to be something else. But being human is all I've ever wanted. And occasionally, there are people faithful in the church - layers upon layers deep - that know their history.

And they are angry about it.

I think it's more common than people realize. Did you know that until 1930 Mormons swore literal religious oaths of vengeance against the US government for the deaths of Joseph and Hyrum Smith?

I always felt like these were, in some way, the real Mormons. They knew their history, and they loved their church, and they hated what it had suffered all those years ago.

They scared me, those people. But they seemed complete. More complete than the people that had carved out everything that didn't make them smile. They'd walked into the mirror, and touched their shadow, and danced with. Melded with it.

And I knew a few like that. I was taught by one. And he didn't convince me, but he interested me. Gave me some respect for the people I left behind.

———

In the game Fallout: New Vegas, there is a character named Joshua Graham. He's a Mormon. Not like the silly children in adult bodies that they always use on TV. He has gravitas. He has put away his moral compass before, to pursue the dream of one powerful man. Poured his soul into it, helped that man conquer the whole west in piecemeal. He's a somewhat on the nose analogy of the Mormon people themselves, following Joseph Smith. And when he finally failed, when he fought a battle he could not win on the gates of the Old World Hoover Dam, he was lit on fire and thrown into the Grand Canyon to die.

But he did not die.

He says he survived because the fire in him burned brighter than the fire around him. And it seems that way when you speak with him in game. There is something compellingly bright to him. Not shiny like a new toy, or a Utah teenager that hasn't seem just how grim the world can be. He's something blinding, compelling.

But that brightness casts shadows.

He is vicious. He was saved in the canyon by the family he left, the old Mormons of a new world. And he's trying to find that part of him again, regain the soul he lost pursuing someone else's vision. But that old vicious animal part of the covenant is with him. I see Joshua Graham and I see the animal that the Mormons became to survive the West.

And in the game, there is eventually a choice given.

You can lead the tribe Joshua has joined up with out of their Zion. Their Jackson County Missouri. Peacefully and perfectly and inhumnanly transcendant, the way the Mormons wish they actually were about everything. You can give him the chance to be what Mormonism has always wished it could be. Or you can fight with them and help them reclaim their paradise, but get your hands stuck deep in the muck of this world.

Joshua Graham knows his history. He knows all the homes his people lost. And whatever brightness he's trying to regain, whatever soul he's trying to win back from the world that takes and takes and takes and takes - he wants to give it all up again to let these people keep their home.

He knows his past and he is angry.

And as the player, you help him make peace with one of two things: Being human by being fallen, or keeping his soul at the cost of reliving the ancestral trauma of losing Zion yet again.

Both were pretty visceral decisions for a Mormon teenage Babylon to make.

(Tagging @boonebignaturals in this because I need a witness to my madness.)

[infectiouspiss]

There's for some reason a lot of Mormon themed gay porn. Is there a kink I didn't know about?

yes it's called a corruption kink and i support it wholeheartedly

[fireflysummers]

Good Omens S2

Okay so.

Excellent Job, Gaiman

Ouch???

I don't like to publicly talk about my personal life. My academic life is my professional life is my artist life. But my personal life? Not so much, outside of vignettes.

But for the past several months, I've been deconstructing a lot of personal baggage and trauma surrounding both family and religion, after leaving the cult I was raised in (mormonism).

It's terrifying to realize that the framework you built your entire self on is false. It's exhausting and painful to deconstruct that framework, to disentangle your identity in the way that won't destroy you.

And it's slow.

Nobody ever tells you how slow it is to heal. You can't control the rate you heal either. You just have to be patient with yourself, and give yourself an environment where that healing can occur safely and naturally.

Anyways.

Good Omens, and its weird tendency to be exactly what I need when I need it.

I first read Good Omens in high school. And honestly, I didn't quite get it, at the time. I only knew it was different from every other book I've ever read, one that didn't treat religion as stupid or trivial, but also one that called out the blatant hypocrisy and control tactics involved. It helped me safely challenge a status quo I hadn't even realized existed.

I first watched Good Omens partway into my Master's Degree. It was everything that I could've hoped for. I understood the book a lot better, but the TV adaptation captured my struggles with mental dissonance, trying to understand and accept the parts of my identity that I was taught God didn't want.

I watch S2 a year into my doctoral program. I'm out of the cult, and it's exhilarating and painful and scary and fun, but I can still feel the scars its hooks left when they were torn out.

I feel like S2 Aziraphale is in about the same place. He's exploring his freedom, but also trying to reorient himself. He's trying to let himself be. He's healing, but his boundaries got overridden due to circumstances out of his control (naked Gabriel). He's been pulled back into the gravity of the abusive system he tried to escape, given a carrot on a stick, and isn't yet healed or strong enough to resist.

On top of that, Aziraphale is still holding onto the hope that the problem was bad individuals, not a corrupted system. He thinks if the leadership is different, things can change. He thinks if he had more authority in the system, he could make things change. And... that's not how it works.

And Crowley. Dear Crowley.

He wants Aziraphale to be farther along in his healing than he is. Honestly, Aziraphale wants it too. But again, you cannot force this kind of healing, even when it results in a loved one making some truly stupid decisions.

Crowley sees the system for what it is. He's already deconstructed that part. But he hasn't really started addressing his own trauma. He's hinged his entire existence on Aziraphale, on being what Aziraphale needs, that he hasn't allowed himself to heal either. And Aziraphale, who is vulnerable and healing, is not able to provide the support that Crowley would need to recover safely.

Which is why them separating is probably the best thing for both of them.

It won't be permanent.

But they don't communicate, and their relationship while delightful and beautiful risks unhealthy codependency that prevents either from really growing or healing.

Anyways, what I really hope to see next season is Aziraphale's realization that the system never had his back. That the system is what's wrong, and that he can't win by playing at respectability politics or gaining a higher status within it.

I want Aziraphale to get angry.

He deserves it. He's tried so hard. He thinks he's lost Crowley over it.

I want him to feel the gut-wrenching despair of realizing how conditional and fleeting the system's version of love is, and I want it to turn into a rage.

But not a destructive rage--the sort of anger that Pratchett ascribes to himself and many of his works. The sort of anger that fueled Discworld and Good Omens. The sort that can be finessed into a weapon and a shield, that can be used to protect the people who truly love you.

For millennia we see Crowley fighting for Aziraphale.

For Season 3, I want to see Aziraphale fighting for his demon.

For him to apologize, without the expectation that Crowley will come back, but because he was wrong and Crowley needs to know it. To not expect forgiveness, not even think he deserves it.

And then for Crowley--who is trying to hide his heart eyes at seeing his avenging angel coming to save him for once, who he can tell immediately has changed, and is finally going Crowley's speed)--for Crowley to give that forgiveness, without strings attached.

[victoriadallonfan]

I don't agree with a lot of Sanderson's politics - and they aren't, in fact, based in Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints doctrine, but rather Utah culture - but it also makes me pretty uncomfortable to hear you badmouthing the church I'm part of?

I badmouth religious organizations in general, Catholic Church included (in which I was raised) because they tend to be overwhelmingly corrupt and abusive towards their own church members (and especially towards people outside of them)

Mormonism in particular is especially bad for how being part of the church requires “tithings” from paychecks plus their treatment of women, minorities, and even men in ways that are almost so explicitly manipulative and cultish that it feels like it comes out of parody.

(For example, I simply declared, “I am no longer catholic” and that was it. Done. You cannot generally do the same in LDS without incredible backlash and slander by its members)

And it’s very obvious when it shows up in fictional books by a lot of Mormon writers, because it’s so conservative that it’s a step or two behind the times.

It’s not as bad as Westeros Westboro Baptist Church or Scientology, but that’s not a high bar to clear.

If your time in the church was different, I’m happy for you, because it means you likely avoided the worst parts of their abuse.

Still, if you have the time, I’d suggest watching these videos (in no particular order):

Why I Left Mormonism - Video covering the creation of the channel “Cults to Consciousness” and her abusive home life under the church

The BITE Model - Simple PowerPoint explaining the reoccurring factors of cults

Ex-Mormon Cast Reacts to Mormon Debates -Cast of ex-Mormon members react to a Mormon debate and highlight various lies and falsehoods presented, as well talk about teachings/history Mormon Church does not want revealed publicly

How the Mormon Church ‘Help Line’ Hid Child Abuse - Exactly what it says. Survivors speak out and the church has done nothing for them or worse.

If you don’t want to watch these videos, if you can’t stomach the testimonies, ask yourself and others these questions:

- How often are you allowed to preach about Heavenly Mother?

- How often do you see women in power within the church, as in, deciding doctrine and not just playing piano or making food for the men?

- How often do you see minorities in power within the church, as in, deciding doctrine or being treated as a token?

- How often does your church talk about the incredibly high suicide rates for children and how it’s associated with its practices?

- How come when a racist, anti-Semitic, misogynistic etc Prophet speaks its “the word of God” and doctrine, but then another Prophet can simply claim it was mere “policy”. Was ‘God’ lying to the prophets? Were the prophets lying about God? How can you trust what is their words and what is God?

- How come the church hid $30 Billion dollars from the public and even its own lower members?

- How come the founder lied about what was on the Egyptian papyrus, claiming it was a translation from God, but people who can actually read Egyptian pointed out he was lying?

- How come you get treated differently for asking these supposedly easy to answer questions?

I do not go after Brandon or you because you happen to be religious. I think belief in a higher power is one’s own choice and prerogative.

I instead care far more about the religious system that is using well-intended people like pawns for goals that pretty much boil down to money and power.

[mindfulldsliving]

Destructive Impact of Contentions in Helaman 1:1-21

The Nephite society, embroiled in conflict and pride, serves as a cautionary tale for us today. When divisions grow, they weaken the very fabric of any community, leaving it vulnerable. This isn't just a historical account; it's a timeless reminder

Contention is Destructive: Lessons from Helaman 1 Isn’t it striking how contention can swiftly tear apart a society? In Helaman 1:1–21, we witness a vivid illustration of this truth. It’s a chapter etched in history, portraying the destructive effects of internal strife. The Nephite society, embroiled in conflict and pride, serves as a cautionary tale for us today. When divisions grow, they…

[mamarosanna]

I know I’ve talked about it before but the thought of corrupting a man of god (priest, Mormons) is legitimately one of the hottest things I can think of

“No sex before marriage” right, say that again when I’m bouncing on your dick