#None of my thoughts are in the bible right now

[scarredlove]

I CANNOT FUNCTION UNDER THESE CONDITIONS /pos Image curtesy of @pr0ng3ls <3

OHHH

Eclipseeeeee

I can give my.. my-

whole me

if you

still

peckish ;)

sorry not sorry

Eclipse: my my! all for me? a treat just for me? it must be my lucky day!

[actual-changeling]

everyone is lusting over david tennant in his black suits but this is my roman empire, she is for the lesbians and the lesbians only and this picture has changed my brain chemistry forever

[aayakashii]

Forgor to share this back when episode 7 was out but his voice and laugh here makes me go absolutely feral and I need to inhale him

[cherienymphe]

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of prostitution, mentions of infidelity

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 

summary: turning your life around is easier said than done when you tempt the very man meant to lead you to salvation.

♱

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”

The familiar words tumbled from your lips, and your gaze remained on your lap, eyes following your finger as you traced patterns into the solid black skirt on your frame. It kissed your ankle as you shifted your feet, and the reminder of the long fabric had you swallowing down less than gentle thoughts. You slowly reached up to touch the collar of your shirt, eyes briefly falling closed as you cleared your throat.

You’d spent hours agonizing over how you’d leave the house…

“It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Like clockwork, you listed the time you cursed for some accident or another and the time you took the Lord’s name in vain and the brief impure thought about that attractive man you’d seen in the grocery store. Every week, it was the same. Sins that you yourself would never have considered as such months ago that you were now hyper aware of. They climbed out of your throat seamlessly, remembering every single one until only one was left.

The silence between you and the man just on the other side of that wall stretched—a familiar occurrence—and you took your lip between your teeth. You could taste blood as you worried it, swallowing it down before clearing your throat again. You smoothed your hand over your skirt, and you furiously blinked, struggling to blink away the tears that had started to collect. As you sat in silence, you wondered why you were trying so hard to impress people that had already written you off?

“I’ve had…some hateful thoughts as well.”

You struggled to get the words out, always struck by just how emotional this made you. You looked up towards the ceiling, eyes roaming, and you hadn’t even realized that your breathing had started to pick up until he spoke.

Father Mayhew.

“Take your time,” he gently encouraged. “Speak when you are ready.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words, recalling your first ever confessional and how you’d cried. It was as embarrassing now as it was then, but it was necessary. You were determined to live differently now—to be different, now.

“Although I have abandoned my former life and…occupation…” you thought you heard him shift. “...I feel as if I will never truly be forgiven for it.”

You swiped your tongue between your lips.

“...will never be accepted.”

You recalled the eyes that often found their way to you during mass—the judgment, the disdain, the way in which some stared at you as if they didn’t know how to place you. 

Every sunday it was the same. You’d wake up and agonize over how to present yourself in a place as holy as this. You’d fret that this skirt was too short and that dress was too tight. You’d fiddle with your hair for far too long and every lipstick you wiped off would stain your lips a little more than the last. You were constantly at a crossroad, torn between wanting to look nice for church and concerned about looking like…well…a whore.

You struggled to swallow.

“I see the way they look at me,” you eventually whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t hear what they whisper, but I know it’s about me.”

You touched your throat, hating how tight it felt.

“It’s…discouraging.”

You didn’t want to use that word, but it was the only word that was appropriate. It made you sad, and you often wondered why you kept returning to a place that made you sad. Surely a church wasn’t necessary to ‘find God’...right? You didn’t think so, but you had wanted to start somewhere, and considering that none of your friends even owned a bible, they had been of no help. Stepping foot into a place that had only ever served to be ominous and oppressive in your eyes was the most terrifying thing you’d ever done.

…but then you had laid eyes on Father Mayhew.

He’d been the only one in the church at the time, and you would never forget the curious glint in his dark gaze. You’d had no doubt that he could see you were scared and unsure and in an environment you were wholly unused to. You’d appreciated the gentle way in which he talked to you, guiding you towards a pew in the front as you asked him questions that some people had answers to their entire lives. He hadn’t treated you like you were stupid, but more importantly, he hadn’t treated you like you didn’t belong.

You were willing to bet that he hadn’t even known about you then.

Although, months later, you were willing to bet that he did now…even though you’d never told him.

“Humans are flawed,” his smooth voice reached your ears through the wall. “We all fall short—even the most devout of us—and we find ourselves falling prey to the temptation of judgment…pride…lust…”

You intently listened. After all, he’d never said these words to you before, always giving you some speech about God’s love trumping all.

“I have no doubt that it is trying, but I am sure you will come to give them grace for their sins just as they will give you grace for yours. We are all God’s children striving to lead a life in his image…”

His voice lowered at that, and you frowned slightly, looking towards the wall and thinking to yourself that he almost seemed to be talking to himself now.

“He wants his children to love one another, a feat that is not without difficulty I’m sure you know…” that actually made you hold back a chuckle. “...but God’s love is powerful and he always grants forgiveness to those who genuinely yearn and ask for it.”

At that, you did smile.

You told him that you were truly sorry for your sins, and he told you to say ten Hail Mary’s, and you stepped out of the confessional feeling better than you did thirty minutes ago. You didn’t know how long the feeling would last though, and so you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could, but you knew from experience that was easier said than done.

You touched the crucifix around your neck as you stepped out of your building.

It had once belonged to your mother, and despite how long she’d been gone and how down on your luck you’d been ever since, you could never quite find it in you to pawn it. It was real gold—probably the only real piece of jewelry you ever owned—but you just couldn’t do it, and you supposed that you were never meant to. Despite the many years you’d lived life as the complete opposite of a God fearing woman…it felt right sitting just below your collarbone.

Even if many would not agree.

You were no stranger to several men in this town—and the ones who often passed through on their truck routes—but that had not stopped you from seeking solace and guidance from a place you’d never stepped foot into in your life. You couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel…strange to be in the same building as some of the men you’d serviced before, their wives and children at their side as they furiously avoided making eye contact with you. It felt even worse to watch the way the women would congregate together after church, excluding you all the while talking about you.

It felt somewhat pathetic for your only ally in the place to be the priest.

Although you sometimes wondered how true that was these days. You’d never once confessed that you used to be a prostitute—although the kids called it sex work these days—but you weren’t stupid. As godly and devout as they claimed to be, you knew that the church was filled with gossip and there was no telling who’d let it slip to the dark haired man. You knew when he knew though…

…because he looked at you different.

It wasn’t a bad different—thank God for that—but just…different, and while it wasn’t necessarily bad, you still didn’t think you liked it. Confession—being anonymous—never allowed for you to tell him your name, and considering you’d only ever spoken to him once outside of confession months ago, you didn’t know if he ever knew it was you he was talking to. You didn’t know if he knew that the woman he spoke so gently with each week and listened to cry on the other side of some window was the same woman who often shrunk under his heavy gaze as he looked down on his congregation.

You never felt like he was judging you, no, but you also never felt like he was looking at you as he did that first day, a gentle curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t your friend—far from it in fact—but he felt like the closest thing you had to one in this church, and so you often forced yourself to find excuses for it. He watches you because he wants to make sure you’re settling in okay. He watches you to observe how other members of the church are treating you. He watches you because he’s wondering if you’ll ever come to confession, convincing yourself that he’s never recognized your voice all this time.

That is why he watches you, you told yourself.

No other reason. 

“You always come to pray at least three times a week…”

The familiar voice startled you as you stood, hand lowering as you’d just finished signing the cross. Your hand was still on your chest as you turned to face him, a small smile on your lips as he stood directly in the center of the aisle. You hadn’t even heard him make a single sound, and you wondered how long he’d been standing there.

He slowly returned your smile with one of his own, although it was smaller, and the silent way in which he stared at you reminded you that he’d said something to you. 

“Yes,” you finally said, moving away from the altar. “It helps with…um…really everything.”

He blinked at you, and you noticed that a strand of his hair was threatening to go rogue. He always looked so neat and perfect that it was hard to miss. Father Mayhew was handsome—if anyone had seen enough men to know it was you—but he was handsome in a way that you would categorize as flawless. Divine even. In a way that was untouchable and only meant to be admired in the most innocent of appreciation. 

He slowly nodded at your response, and you didn’t miss the way he studied you—dark eyes drinking you in and taking note of every stylistic choice you’d made today.

“You know, I think I might see your face far more than those who have been coming here for years,” he lightly told you, a slight laugh on his lips.

You laughed with him, only offering him a shrug.

“I’m still new. I’m sure it just seems that way because you aren’t used to seeing me.”

He started to shake his head before you could even finish talking, and you watched him move closer.

“No,” he murmured—so low you almost didn't hear him. “I think you are perhaps my most…devout congregant.”

He touched your crucifix as he said this, dark eyes tracing the shape of it, and he was so close that you could smell his cologne. You blinked at the scent, finding it strange to know that he wore cologne. It shouldn’t be strange, you supposed, but you realized then that you didn’t quite view priests—view him—as human. As normal…

His eyes lifted then to finally connect with yours, and a crooked smile danced along his pink lips.

“It’s admirable,” he whispered. “More of my congregation could stand to follow your lead.”

You couldn’t ignore the way your chest bloomed at those words, almost hating how much validation you wanted from this place. Validation that you were a good person…you weren’t who you used to be…that you were worthy of something more, you didn’t know. It just felt relieving to hear such a compliment from Father Mayhew when no one else in the church would even give you a chance.

“Thank you, Father,” you quietly replied to him. “That means a lot to me.”

You watched him slowly inhale as he dropped his hand, and he seemed even slower to step out of your way. When you walked past him, you could feel his gaze on you—always watching—and you smiled when he called out to you, telling you that he looked forward to seeing you on Sunday.

No one was more sad than you when you had to disappoint him.

An unexpected cold had you bedridden for days, and while you knew that an illness was a perfectly valid excuse to miss church, you couldn’t swallow down the disappointment. You hadn’t missed a single Sunday since you first started going, and you thought to yourself that the first thing you’d do when you returned was explain your absence to Father Mayhew.

You had never anticipated him showing up at your door to get it himself.

No one ever knocked on your door these days, so the sound had taken you by surprise. Your friends—while supportive of the direction your life had taken—didn’t quite understand it and so you didn’t see them as often, and as for anyone else… Well, there wasn’t anyone else who would come knocking on your door. You didn’t do that anymore so no customers were going to be greeting you on the other side with their money in their hand and an eager grin on their lips, and you doubted any of the women in town would want to sit down for a chat anytime soon.

Your shock at Father Mayhew’s presence was all over your face.

“Father,” you stated, the lilt in your voice hinting at your surprise.

He looked just as you were used to seeing him—clerical collar still on, not a hair out of place, and a hint of a smile on those pink lips. You stood there gaping at him for all of five seconds before it struck you how rude you were probably being.

“I…I’m so sorry. Um…come in,” you told him, stepping out of the way and widening the gap in the doorway.

He didn’t respond nor move right away, looking past you into your small house with a look in his gaze that you couldn’t name. If he were anyone else, you might worry that he was judging where you lived. You watched his jaw briefly tighten, a noticeable strain in his face, and it only just occurred to you that maybe this wasn’t appropriate? Although you were positive you’d heard of priests and pastors visiting the sick before, and while you certainly weren’t on your deathbed, you didn’t see why this would be different.

Before you could say another word though, his foot crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him.

“I do apologize for the unexpected visit,” he said to you, gazing around before his eyes landed on you again. “...but when I noticed that mass was absent of a face I’d grown to look forward to, I became concerned.”

You couldn’t stop your smile at his words

“Oh,” you softly said. “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. It’s just a small cold that will be gone in a day or two.”

You watched him exhale at that, nodding to himself, and you studied him, surprised to see that he looked genuinely relieved at that.

“I’m glad to hear that’s all it is…”

At that, your brows furrowed, and you watched him slowly walk about your living room.

“I had feared that some of your fellow church goers had scared you off.”

Your lips parted at his words, and he turned and looked at you.

“They often fall into the temptation of judgment, after all…”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know how to react with the knowledge that he knew it was you who came to see him once a week. You’d only spoken to him face to face twice, and you swallowed, looking away.

“I thought it would be a shame if they scared you off,” he confessed, and you noted that he was closer now. “I wondered what I would have to do to convince you to come back. Drag you, perhaps.”

You gave a soft laugh at that, although he didn’t join you, and it awkwardly faded. He stared at you in silence for what felt like a long time, and just when you were considering asking him if he wanted anything to drink, he reached out to touch the crucifix around your neck again.

“So devout,” he quietly said to himself. “It almost makes me ashamed…”

At that, you gave a heavy laugh, wondering how you could ever shame a priest.

“Why?”

“...because I see why they flocked to your door…money in hand.”

His gaze lifted as he said that, and you were still as you both just stared at each other. His words made you blink, and you were suddenly very aware of his hand practically on you. You couldn’t stop the slight frown that fell over your face, and for the first time in months—since you first stepped foot into that church—you felt…wrong.

“I see why their eyes trace every inch of you when you’re not looking…as if to relive the memory of what you felt like—tasted like.”

You finally took a step back, hand coming up to cover your necklace as if protecting it from his touch.

“What memories they must have of you…”

You wrapped your other arm around yourself, mind whirling to reconcile the man before you with the same man who’d always been so welcoming and gentle. Not once did you ever think he judged you for your past, and you supposed that you were right, but not once did you ever think he also might…

You hadn’t done that in over a year, but had it really escaped you so quickly that a seemingly devout man was still…a man?

“Father, I think you should-.”

“I don’t say any of this to offend you,” he interrupted, tilting his head. “I say it because I fight the urge to touch you every time you’re in my presence.”

You moved by him to make your way to the door, but like an ever present shadow you only just noticed, he was close behind.

“You can cover up as much as you’d like—wear skirts down to your ankle and shirts up to your chin…” his hand on the door halted your movements. 

You felt his chest just barely grazing your back, and his lips followed suit, the softness of them brushing against your ear as he spoke. That familiar cologne invaded your senses.

“...but none of it can hide the temptation you pose by merely existing.”

You shrunk away from him at that, tears in your eyes as he verbalized the same fears you had every time you walked into the building. You flinched when his lips touched the back of your neck, heart dropping to your stomach, but you reached for the door handle anyway.

“Father, I’d like you to leave-.”

Your words were cut off by your own sharp scream, taken aback by the feel of his fingers harshly pressing into the skin of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your neck, and you pressed your hand to the door when his lips grazed your cheek.

“They’re all like rabid dogs…just waiting to pounce,” he mused against your skin, sliding between you and the door and forcing you further into your house with every step. “Just waiting for you to give up this charade and go back to taking their money for a quick fuck.”

You blinked, and a few tears escaped.

“...but they don’t know you like I know you.”

He grinned against your cheek, and you winced as he lightly nipped at the skin there.

“They don’t know that you come to church at least thrice a week to light candles and pray…”

You were full on sobbing now, and you could feel the cool metal of his ring against the back of your neck.

“They don’t know that you never miss your weekly confession, telling me every time you so much as say the Lord’s name in vain.”

His free hand was reaching for the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, and you gasped when his fingers finally met skin. He dipped his head, mouth finding the skin of your shoulder and collarbone interesting before his hand searched for your wrist.

“They don’t know that you are the most pious woman to walk through those doors,” he purred, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of your wrist. “...and that I just want to ruin you for it.”

When his hand dipped between your legs, you were quick to try and stop him, still wincing at the tight grip on the back of your neck. Father Mayhew made a noise of disapproval, and your hand faltered when he harshly bit your shoulder.

“We are…and always will be…sinners…”

Once his fingers were inside of you, it was like the point of no return. You found it funny that he likened the men in church to that of rabid dogs when he himself was behaving like the very thing he used to insult them. When your knees buckled, he followed—one arm around you and holding you in place while the fingers on his other hand curved into you.

Every thrust of his fingers made you wetter—embarrassingly so—and when he pulled your head back, he forced a kiss onto your lips. He swallowed down your whimpers and noises of protest, a moan escaping him as he tasted the inside of your mouth. With him so close to you, you could feel the muscles and contours of his frame beneath his clothes, and you were forced to recognize your predicament and his strength and what that meant for you.

When you were face to face with him again, his hair was nowhere near as neat as it was when he first walked through your door. His pink lips were swollen and reddened from kissing you and dragging over your skin. Your pajama top had long been discarded, the bottoms long ripped and pulled off of you. Father Mayhew’s—Charlie—clerical collar was long gone, his shirt pulled open and hanging off of him.

You recalled the way your mouth had parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock finally dipped into you, stretching you with every inch and making your heart momentarily stop. His hand covered a breast, the feel of his ring cooling that singular part of your skin, the rest of you so overheated. His other hand was wrapped around your throat, and you clawed at his hand as he fucked you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in your tiny home, the only sound to rival it being his harsh grunts and your strained voice. Any fight that you’d put up had been quickly squashed down, shown in the harshest manner just how strong your priest was. You hated how good it felt, hated that you didn’t want this but was now forced to enjoy it. Nevermind the fact that you hadn’t enjoyed sex for the act itself in years…

…but of all people to find yourself in this predicament with.

Father Mayhew’s hands never stayed in one place for long. He seemed determined to touch every part of you he could get his hands on, lips tasting the saltiness of your skin. Sweat clung to your frame and his, his fingers sliding over you as he kneaded your thighs and your waist and your chest. Every time you reminded yourself how wrong this was, he’d push his cock into you to the hilt, and you’d involuntarily throw your head back.

You could feel your crucifix pressing into your skin, and your eyes watered.

“I must admit that I was—am—jealous,” he dragged out, voice hoarse and throaty and wholly unlike how you were used to hearing him. “Your devotion to God inspires an envy within me that I never knew existed.”

You took note of the scars on his back underneath your fingers.

“...a desire to have you completely devoted to me,” he bit out, covering your lips with his own. “You so desperately desire forgiveness and acceptance…and all the things you didn’t think you were worthy of having.”

He harshly thrust into you, making you gasp.

“...and I can give that to you,” he whispered into the kiss.

The power behind his thrusts had you scratching at both his back and the floor, eyes squeezing shut at the way his fingers dug into your skin. It was like he was both holding you to him and trying to prevent you from ever walking away. Your chest arched up into his as you gasped, choked whimpers climbing out of your throat with every push of his hips. He growled against your skin as his lips traveled to your neck, the sound almost demonic to your ears.

When you came around him—your first orgasm in over a year—you couldn’t swallow down the noise it forced out of you. You could feel blood beneath your nails and a slickness on the inside of your thighs, but all the while Father Mayhew didn’t stop.

With one hand pressed against the floor, he pushed himself up to look down at you. His free hand slid up your sweaty frame, coming up to wrap around the crucifix that rested against your skin. He tightened his hold around it, and he pulled on it, forcing you to lift your head and meet him halfway for a kiss.

“I want you just as eager to get on your knees for me…”

[hwallazia]

XMAS DINNER GOES WRONG – 정우영

⋆ synopsis. it seems like your husband can’t keep it in his pants, not even on a fucking christmas dinner with his family. but, as the lovely wifey you are, you gotta give him some relief, right?

pairing. husband! jung wooyoung & fem! reader.

wc. 3,2k

warnings. smut (mdni!), suggestive language, cussing, almost!! getting caught by wooyoung’s mom (oops), pet names (love, babe, my wife, pretty girl & more), nipple play, wooyoung sucks your entire skin (neck, collarbone, tits and the list can continue…), teasing, wooyoung tears your panties to shreds heh, not dirty—NASTY TALK, begging, yn at some point says “stop” but it’s bc she’s far too blissed out; not bc she actually wanted him to stop, this is alllll consensual!!, unprotected sex, praise ofc, squirting, gut-wrenching fluff in the end ‘cause love him too much.

nic’s notes ⋆ first ff of the xmas event yes sir !! i felt some shit writing this istg (๑/////๑ " )

you know holidays, right?

the perfect opportunity for the entire family to gather and celebrate achievements, blessings, and thousands and thousands of other things. cousins, nephews, aunts, uncles, and even great-grandparents were reunited in that cold and windy winter night. an entire feast was splayed on the table for everyone’s delightfulness, different kinds of foods and smells mixing and creating a delicious, toe-curling experience for anyone’s nostrils.

the hours you had spent shopping for every ingredient for each dish, cutting the vegetables, cooking everything to the exact, perfect point and term really paid off once your and your husband’s family were brought together at the large, dark oak table to celebrate your very first holiday — both families now joined together as one.

nothing could go wrong. the chatting flew as calm and joyful as spring water, sharing experiences and old memories pleasingly, smiles spread like the most enchanting disease—as well as the wholesome ambience, and everything was accompanied by a delightful meal, the well-deserved five star bonus of the evening.

so, if everything was meant to go perfectly, then why the hell was your husband staring at you with the most explicit, sluttiest “fuck me” eyes you’ve ever seen?

wooyoung sat in front of you, his two cousins sitting each on his sides. his plate was rather full, and that had an explanation: he was far too gone and busy burying heart-shaped daggers into your eyes while his hand cupped his cheek, head tilting to his right — his tongue glided over his dry bottom lip every now and then. you’d bet that none of his thoughts were in the bible. ‘cause fuck, even his younger brother would guess that something’s odd about him. that that’s not the usual behavior of his dear older brother.

“yn? darling?” the voice of wooyoung’s mother dragged out quickly of your insulation bubble. her tilted head clearly showed that she had been trying to talk to you for a while. a soft, warming hue of red struck your cheekbones.

as you gyrated your head to meet her worried gaze, you replied. “yes! mrs. jung, ‘m sorry. what were you saying?”

“are you doing fine, sweetie? you were gone for a bit.” she stared at you intently, genuinely worried about her daughter in-law. oh that woman was almost a fallen angel—if not one. if only she knew it was his own son who was to blame—the very last person she’d suspect, and oh, how deliciously ironic that was.

the figure of your husband’s shit-eating grin could be seen out of the corner of your eye—a sight that ignited a fiery rage within you, yet one you couldn’t help but savor, lingering on the view as long as possible before responding to your sweet mother-in-law. “oh, it was nothing. i’m prolly just zoning out because of how tired i am. y’ know, spending the entire day in the kitchen was exhausting.” the cherry on top of the excuse was the little, innocent giggle you emitted by the end. the woman gave you the most pitiful, yet endearing look. she lifted her arm, indicating with her open palm the white stairs, the reflection of the christmas-decorated banister lighting up her eyes.

“oh, sweetheart. you should go rest, it’s pretty late after all.” her gesture softened your heart, chest clenching a bit.

this woman was going to be the death of you! … uhm, never mind. first place is taken by wooyoung, who seems quite excited with the idea of going upstairs with you, by the way. take a guess at what his mind is scheming.

you shook your hands in front of your chest, quickly denying the opportunity. “thank you really, but i’m okay. i’ll just go wash my face.” you excused yourself, hovering your leg over the other and getting yourself up. “maybe that way i can wake up completely.” ending with a little giggle, you started walking towards the staircase when suddenly, the voice of your dear husband rang inside your ears.

“excuse me. i’ll go help my wife.” his foxy eyes curved into crescent moons, and his lips stretched wide, forming an upward line. oh fuck, you were done for.

“oh yes, i was about to ask you to do the same. please, son.” she stated, nodding approvingly. oh what a gentleman she had raised.

you resumed your steps quickly, arriving to the second floor in less than you expected. you turned your head, only to be met with an empty corridor. thank goodness he hadn’t gotten there yet.

or so you thought. ‘cause when you refocused your attention to your front, a pair of arms grabbed you by your waist and swung you around the air in a swift motion as he dragged you to an empty room. the last sound heard in the corridor was the slam of a closing door.

your breathless body was pinned against a cold wall, trapped between two quite familiar, tanned arms. simultaneously, your disoriented irises tried to adjust to the darkness of the room and focus on the feverish, hungry eyes standing in front of you.

“wh… what the fuck was that.” you muttered as the remains of your breath flew away. wooyoung seemed enchanted by your current state though.

“heeey, don’t curse at me like that.” his gentle, cocky voice penetrated your mind like a bullet. knuckles crept up the sides of your exposed arms, providing soothing strokes — goosebumps prickled to life in response. he opened his warm palms and reached to your also bare shoulder, massaging them. “after all, ’m jus’ here to help you.” he pulled his secret weapon and started making out with your neck, licking your flesh like a starving man and spreading wet kisses all over it.

“help me? how are you helping me like this?” you uttered as your breath hitched, head leaning to the side at the right angle to give him enough space.

wooyoung sucked that sensitive spot that always made your eyes roll to the very back of your head, dragging a whine out of you successfully. his chuckle and victorious smirk didn’t go unseen by your already blissed-out self. he leaned back a little to admire you. just for a bit, palms not leaving their place. “you’ll know when we’re done.” his hands moved in a swift motion, arms wrapping around your thighs and shoulders, lifting you effortlessly in a princess carry. “for now, just shut up and enjoy it, hm?”

“w-wooyoung—you know we can’t do this now— angh!” your anxious, flustered self made a futile attempt to reason with wooyoung, hoping he’d remember that both your families were gathered downstairs for a fucking christmas dinner—while he, entirely unbothered, seemed more than eager to spend the evening thoroughly ruining you in the bed just one floor above. and that was clearly shown when he threw you to the bed as if you were the lightest feather and immediately crawled to you.

“c’mon, love. i just wanna help you stay awake” his gravelly voice purred gift next to your ear as his taunting hands played with the sides of your dress, fingertips aching and itching to rip it off you.

he had you underneath him, completely flustered and nervous. he knew you were really anxious about the dinner—you’d spent a whole hour straight ranting about how nerve-wracking the preparations were, only to end up feeling physically ill from the overwhelming surge of dopamine flooding your system. but your reddened cheeks were smiling at him and your plump lips were whispering nasty things to him. holy fuck, how couldn’t he be tempted?

he needed to be balls deep in you. now.

his skillful tongue found home in your neck and collarbone, sucking cute love bites all over. but, your body was still tense, too uneasy at the thought of the possible scenario of someone entering the room and catching the two of you in such a compromising position.

“b-babe, please—hmph”

in a sultry tone, he muttered, “already begging. so fucking cute.” a smirk was drawn on his lips before his hands reached to your cleavage and popped your tits out of your low-cut dress. “y’ want me to fuck you? ‘s that what it is?”

before you could even think of an answer, he dived right into your breasts, licking your sensitive nipples as though they were his favorite toy — because they absolutely were.

god, the incessant thoughts that ran through your head and his tongue lapping around your buds were too much. everything was starting to be too much, and he hadn’t even taken your clothes off. with heightened sensitivity, your lips fell open and a beautiful, sweet melody of your moans and whimpers escaped through them — a delightful melody for your husband’s ears.

impatient hands stripped you of your glittery dress, leaving you with nothing but your black, thin panties. wooyoung took a moment for himself — well, more accurately for you, to admire and revel in your beauty as he should. a rush of blood surged to his cock, making it throb even harder than before. he was no more than a man, overwhelmed by desire. “you’re fucking irresistible, y’ know that?” he started down to where your and his crotch connected, brows furrowing when he saw your clothed pussy. “i think it’s time for this to go.”

a sharp rrrrrip! bounced through the walls and brought your attention. “woo did you just—?!” you followed the movement of his hands, which discarded the shreds of black fabric to the floor. “that was my—! hahh” and his thumb flew right to your already swollen clit, stimulating it with circling motions.

“why’re you whining when you know i’ll buy you ten more pairs,” he whispered as he soaked in the unsteady shiftiness of your body — and for that, he posed a strong yet harmless grip on your waist. his fat thumb worked nonstop over your bud, sending sparks right to it. your body jolted upward at the feeling of his middle and index fingers tracing soft lines up your pink folds. the sight of your walls clenching and relaxing around nothing spun him. “ooh, what a greedy wifey i got.” he chuckled under his breath, gaze stuck to his home — and i mean your cunt. “sooo desperate for my fingers, huh?”

at this point, any sense or unsteady thought had already vanished away, completely replaced by a selfish state of mind. you wanted him to finger you, fuck you, drive you insane. and you wanted it right fucking now. and so you mewled, “god, please just do something.”

“got the name wrong, darling.” and with that, he pushed two fingers at once inside your fluttering walls, tugging a satisfied moan out of you. “it’s wooyoung. or hubby” he giggled. he fucking giggled as he rammed those fingers mercilessly, shooting stars and fireworks filling your vision.

“w-wait stop— baby, please— fffuck!” stuttering words and incoherent gibberish spilled from your swollen lips, too red and slick from how often and harshly you’d bitten them; eyes welling up with tears from the intense pleasure overload.

“stop?” a chuckle rumbled through his chest. “fine then” he withdrew his long phalanges, leaving you empty. completely fucking empty, with velvety and throbbing walls already missing him. you cried as you felt the void of your pulsating pussy, but before you could coax a desperate “please” from your lips, wooyoung grabbed you by the waist. you gasped, as he manhandled you, positioning you on top, naked folds grazing his clothed sex.

you pouted and wooyoung laughed. he was finding this shit way too funny. “since you so nicely begged me to stop, then put your back into it, mm?” a loud smack! reverberated through the walls as his heavy palm landed on the flesh of your ass. “fuck yourself on my cock, pretty girl.”

and did he have to tell you twice. desperate, shuddering hands worked on his dress pants, quickly undoing his belt and zipping it down just enough to uncover his rock-hard bulge. you grabbed the band of his boxers and pulled it down as well, his cock springing finally free. with a smooth movement, you took his member and positioned it below you. and just before you sit down on him completely, someone knocked on the fucking door.

the surprise caused you to jolt and lose control, sinking in a faster and sloppier motion than you intended — a loud cry resonating through the thin walls the moment his tip kissed your cervix perfectly. with eyes wide open, you slapped a hand over your mouth, cursing yourself for being so fucking noisy and sensitive and—

“yn? are you in here?” the muffled voice of wooyoung’s mother echoed from the other side of the door.

shit shit shit.

“y-yes, ma’am! i… ’m kinda busy over in here—ugh!” you tried to speak as loud and clear as you could, but wooyoung seemed to be unbothered by your efforts since he grabbed your hips and started swaying your core up and down his girth. up, down, up, down.

you stared at your husband with glaring eyes, stabbing knives into his. fuck, did this man even care about being heard by his own mother? now, with all doubts gone, you’re certain you’ve married a freak.

“are you okay, sweetie? what’s going on over there?”

and you swear you heard the door creaking open, so you exclaimed. “no! everything’s fine!” you yelped, your voice higher-pitched than you intended. “please don’t come in.”

wooyoung chuckled underneath you, soaking in the sight of your nervous self trying to mute your cries as your tits bounced right on his face. he could die right there and then and he’d be happy. “what’s wrong, baby? can’t take it?” he whispered as he gazed directly into your tightly scrunched eyes, your partially open mouth releasing nothing more but silent cries and pleas.

“fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” you hushed soundlessly, yet willingly bouncing up and down his length. the low, manly giggle he uttered spun you. fuck, he had you wrapped up around his finger.

“oookay? uhm, do you know where my son is? is he there with you?”

he grinned. that shit-eating grin you hated so damn much appeared all across his face. “c’mon pretty, tell her the truth. tell her how good i’m fucking you, how good you’re taking my cock, hm?” he growled into your ear, his voice low and raspy, sending shivers down your spine. the sound was intoxicating, clouding your thoughts and turning your mind into mush.

your throbbing walls clenched around him subconsciously, his head rocking back in reaction. “he’s… he’s here with me, h-helping me like he said he would.”

wooyoung seemed utterly satisfied by your answer, his grin only spreading wider. “that’s my wife. so beautiful.”

“perfect then! i’ll see you in a bit then.” after those words, no other sound was heard — other than the wet clapping of your flesh against his hips.

“‘s she gone?” your half-lidded eyes stared down at your husband, who was hugging you by the waist, face deeply buried in your bobbing, soft tits. your hands flew to the back of his head, cupping his neck whilst caressing his raven hair fondly. at your words, his head lifted, and took a glance at your divine expression.

“baby, i didn’t care, not even a second, if she was hearing or not.” his intoxicating, dark irises sent love letters to yours, utterly drunk in love. “i jus’ wanna cum inside your sweet pussy.”

skillful fingers crept to your hardened, overstimulated nipples and all the way down where your bodies collided, positioning right on your clit. his left hand stroked your firm nipple and played with one breast, letting wooyoung’s tongue take care of the other whilst his right hand shifted rapidly over your bundle of nerves.

he fell in love with you again as he saw your back arching into a perfect crescent moon. “good girl.” your loud whines and moans only encouraged him to keep going. “so responsive to me.” he exhaled breathlessly. “fuck, are you about to cum, baby?”

“y-yeah, fuck— woo, i-i’m gonna cum, ‘m gonna fucking cum” you yelped as your bounces became sloppier, more desperate and more reckless. wooyoung motivated you by whispering sweet things and heart-melting praises right into your ear.

“cum, baby. cum for me, milk me dry.” and with one last bounce, you sprayed your juices all over him, soaking his pants and white shirt even more.

exasperated grunts and exhales left your husband’s mouth at the sensation of your folds clamping down on him — you definitely understood the assignment of milking him dry. ‘cause your pussy received the hot ropes of cum that his dick spurted out with great pleasure, sucking the life out of his poor, now softened length.

you crumbled down on him, your weakened core landing on top of him with his dick still inside you. your head found home in the crook of his neck as his hand reached to your back, wrapping your waist safely whilst the other provided soothing ministrations to your face. with your last ounce of strength, you pulled the sheets over your naked bodies, an even warming sensation drowning the both of you.

“fuck” was all you could mutter. “how’re we going to get back there, they’re waiting for us.”

wooyoung hummed thoughtfully, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and brushing against your skin. “we could pretend we fell asleep. with that, they shouldn’t suspect a thing.”

“hey that’s actually a great id—“

the door creaked open and your bodies jerked softly. the both of you knew exactly what to do, so your eyes flew shut. wooyoung even started snoring quietly to add a spec of realism to the scene.

the sound of your mothers’ voice echoed through your ears. “she said wooyoung was helping… her” wooyoung’s mom immediately lowered her voice as she took in the scene. an almost soundless aww escaped your mom’s lips.

“well sure he was helping her.” your mother sighed at the wholesome moment she had the luck of appreciating.

“i think he was massaging her. ‘cause when i knocked on the door, i could hear like— muffled sounds, that seemed like moans.” she stated, and you froze in place — well, not like you could move an inch. “at first i was confused, but then she clarified that wooyoung-ah was helping her “like he said he would”” she remarked your words as if she had studied them.

“oh i see.” your mother spoke. “i think we should let them sleep. my poor yn had a long day.”

and with that, the door shut closed with a soft click.

wooyoung giggled under the covers as your face burned from the embarrassment.

“massaging? well, that’s a way to put it.”

“wooyoung, babe, as much as i love you, please shut the fuck up.”

he laughed wholeheartedly, a gut-wrenching sound that never fails to make you smile. “you embarrassed, my love?”

you slapped your open palm against his exposed chest as you whined. “stoppp.”

his small, soft giggle buzzed inside your eardrums before he left on the top of your head a kiss full of fondness and affection. “cutie.”

| masterlist

[haeryna]

in my dreams you love me back (i still love you) ↪ gojo satoru x reader x geto suguru ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

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summary: soft moments with shoko keep your heart soft as well, but suguru finds something that he wasn't supposed to.

tw: sfw but vague mentions of losing your virginity. your mother MEDDLES but let's be real, we'd do the same. allusions to the bible for the aesthetic but also because i like the imagery of the themes. not proofread.

notes: title taken from red velvet's "in my dreams." the second half of "i would give up heaven if i had to." another short chapter because i split it in two originally! banner from @/cafekitsune

"You look like shit."

You can't stop the huff that escapes your mouth as Shoko peers at you from your phone, propped up against your rice cooker. She's somewhere in the United States right now, attending a medical conference. She isn't wrong; your ten minute break in the bathroom had turned into a full-blown half hour breakdown. Thankfully, none of your coworkers pointed out the redness of your eyes and the sallow tint to your skin. Your manager had practically forced you to go home early. They all assumed that you had broken down about how the Gojo Satoru had demanded you be the one to make his drink. At this point, you were too tired to correct them.

"I just got back from the cafe, leave me alone." Yawning, you reach for a bowl. "I'm starving and exhausted, and now you're going to yell at me, Sho?"

You can hear the heavy exhale, and the camera blurs as she lets out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I never said that. Did you see them today?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Nobody else can make you cry that hard, and I know it wasn't me."

You hesitate for a moment. "Mom thinks I should hear them out."

"Personally, I would tell them I'll speak to them after a down payment of 5k."

"Shoko!"

But your laughter fills the air, and you can catch Shoko's self-satisfied smirk from the other end. "There she is." A soft haze fills your screen as her voice softens. "Do I need to fly back and tell the two of them to fuck off?"

"I can tell them to leave myself," you protest, but Shoko gives you a deadpan stare. "Okay, well, maybe it'll be hard."

As the silence falls, warm and comfortable, you bustle around the kitchen, spooning rice into your bowl of leftovers. The air is warm, and despite your exhaustion, you can't help but appreciate the dreaminess of the evening. Shoko watches you, dark eyes unreadable. "What?" you finally ask, curiosity lacing your voice.

"Just be careful," she sighs. "Satoru and Suguru will probably do some crazy shit to get you to notice them. I just don't want those idiots to scare you."

"They don't care enough to do that," is your sardonic reply, and this time, it's her turn to laugh.

"If you really think that, then you're blinder than I thought."

He is breaking me down on every side, and now it's too late for me; he has uprooted my hopes like a tree.

When the number of your old landline rings on Suguru's cellphone, he almost blocks it out of habit before he registers the last four digits. Panicking, he immediately accepts the call.

"Hey, is everything okay? I-"

Your mother's voice chirps back at him, a bit staticky from the old phone that he knows she'd insisted on keeping installed in the kitchen. "Suguru, dear, could you do me a favor?"

Ingrained instinct forces a "yes ma'am," from his mouth before he can even process the request. He can practically hear the smile in your mother's voice. "It won't take too long, don't worry. My back has been aching an awful amount after my last surgery, but I've been meaning to wear some of my old church clothes to Bingo Night. Would you mind grabbing it for me?"

The attic is cluttered and old, and the dust stings his eyes, but Suguru can't bring himself to complain as he begins to rummage through boxes. It feels like seeing you again, like being your Suguru again, as he unearths old photo albums, and stuffed toys. There was the rabbit you used to carry around all the time. A picture frame, of you, Shoko, Satoru, and Suguru one summer afternoon. Carefully, he wipes away the dust, smiling at the memory. You'd lost your front tooth that summer; now, it was forever memorialized.

Finally, he reaches a small collection of boxes in the back. The dress lays draped over a small stack of boxes, but as he grabs it, one topples over, spilling its contents all over the floor.

Suddenly, selfishly, Suguru is grateful that Satoru stayed behind back in their hotel room, because inside the cardboard box is envelopes. At least thousands of them, crammed into each possible corner, dates written on the front in the same handwriting you've had since high school. He tears open another box, only to find the same. Three whole boxes of letters. Selfish hope and heavier dread sinks into his skin like the dust that is slowly falling to the floor; Suguru has unearthed something that he knows he's not supposed to see.

Was this how Adam felt, holding the forbidden fruit in his hand? Which was stronger; the will of God, or the love of man?

"You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.

He's almost frantic as he searches for the first letter, scattering them around himself until he finds it; labelled a week after Suguru had taken Satoru with him to pursue what they had believed to be an impossible dream. Suguru hesitates only for a moment, until with one decisive swipe, he rips the flap from the waxy paper beneath. This one is addressed to him.

Suguru,

My parents put me in therapy. Remember how we always used to joke that if anyone needed it, it would be you? Why did you leave me? What did I do wrong? It hurts, Sugu, why, why, why My therapist thinks that keeping letters will help, and my parents want me to at least give it a try. Mom won't say anything, but I know she's concerned. Dad's already torn into Toru's parents, so the whole town is fully aware of what they've done. Shoko says that they're practically livid with shame, skulking around the town as that'll fix their reputation. You missed it; there was one night when the fireflies came back, and I swear they filled the entire sky. It was beautiful. It reminded me of the first time we met, do you remember that?

I wish you'd been here to see it. I'm sorry, Suguru. I'm sorry that I wasn't good enough to take along. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I love you. I hope you're safe. I hope you're taking care of Toru for me.

I love you so much that it's hard to be mad.

Water drips down onto the ink of where you'd signed your name, and with a start, Suguru realizes he's crying. Gently folding the letter, he sets it aside, and reaches for the next one.

Mom and Dad have what Grandma had. I'm scared, Toru. I wish you were here. You'd always say something silly that would make me forget for even a moment.

Another.

I saw you on the television today, Toru. You're so beautiful it hurts.

Another.

I've given up on properly going to college. They're so sick that I'm terrified to leave them alone.

More. More. More.

I try my best not to listen, but the radio in the coffee shop plays the songs you make, Sugu. I hate it, but it's selfish of me. The girl you sing about, does Toru get along with her? Does she make you happy?

He can't stop himself from reading any more than he can stop the tears pouring down his face. They'd missed so much of your life, and yet you'd dutifully written letter after letter, as if you'd planned on them seeing it. Like you hoped they would come back some day. The next letter was only written two years ago, but it turns Suguru's blood to ice.

I saw the scandal on one of the gossip magazines while I was out shopping for groceries, Toru. The Chanel model? Really? I was kind of hoping for the Gucci one, she seems so nice to her assistant.

I say this like you're a celebrity. A celebrity that I can just laugh at, and say "must be nice, having supermodels fall into your lap!" You were mine, once, long before you were hers. I love loved you.

I did something stupid, last night. Remember Kenji, from high school? The one you always hated? I can't even explain it, how furious I was, when I saw you with that model. You looked so happy, like it didn't matter that all your joy and abundance didn't come at my expense.

I ended up sleeping with him for the first time, with anyone for the first time really. I'm not going to write more; it's embarrassing, and it wasn't even good, but I think I'm more upset with myself. It doesn't matter.

It's not like you'll ever find out. Even if you do, it's not like you'll care.

It's not like my love mattered to you to begin with.

Suguru's chest feels as though someone has washed his heart in acid. On paper, the person you were after they left was more jaded. Less optimistic. You no longer spoke of things you wished they were able to experience with you, but rather all the things they'd left behind. You thought they didn't care, and as he forces his useless lungs to take another breath, he knows that he can't leave this town until he convinces you to come with him. As he stumbles down from the attic, dress in hand, your mother gives him a knowing stare.

"Did you find the dress I asked you to grab?"

"Yes ma'am," Suguru says numbly. It's all he says. It's all he can say. Your mother sighs, patting the chair next to her. "Why don't you call Satoru over, hm? Try some of the tea I bought. I remember your mother saying you only drink black. You really should call her more."

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?

"I'm home!" you call out, slipping your shoes off with one hand as you balance the full bag of groceries in the other. "Did you take your medi-"

The carrots drop to the floor as you take in the sight of Gojo and Geto sitting at your kitchen table with your mother of all people. "What the fuck?"

Geto's eyes are rimmed red, like he'd been crying, while Satoru stares at you with a hint of anguish. "What the fuck," you repeat again, dumbfounded. "Why are you in my house right now?"

Geto opens his mouth to speak, but your mother waves it away. "You know how bad my back's been lately, I really wanted to wear that old emerald dress your father got me, do you remember?"

Stunned, you can only nod.

"And, I didn't want to have you come all the way back from the city just to grab a dress for me, so I called over Suguru and Satoru to help me out," your mother finishes. You can't stop the panic from leaking into your voice.

"Where was the dress?"

From the look on their faces, you know that Geto and Gojo have found it. All the letters you were too weak to send, too weak to throw away. How much did they read?

"The attic, dear," is your mother's quiet response, and when you turn her attention to her, you can see the quiet love and encouragement in her eyes.

What's more important? The love for all the things they did do, or all the things they didn't?

White noises rushes into your head, and you can barely process your mother's departure. Something about Bingo Night? The door clicks shut and you're left with silence so profound that your body almost instinctively crumples in on itself. Suguru can't look you in the eyes, absentmindedly tracing the rim of the delicate porcelain teacup that looks comically small next to his calloused hands. Satoru merely watches, but you can see the tension in his neck, in the way his fingers flex around empty air.

So, you do the only thing you can do. You run.

Turning, you all but sprint up the stairs. You lied. You couldn't do this, couldn't face them, see them, hear them-

Toned arms reach around from behind, pulling you decisively to a well-defined chest. The air is forced out of your lungs as you yelp, squirming out of the hold, only to freeze as Satoru places his cheek on your head, nuzzling into your hair.

"I missed you."

Tears spring to your eyes but Satoru keeps going. "You were the only thing that kept us going. Our apartment was so shitty, we had to put cardboard on the floor just to keep warm. I thought of you all the time. I thought of which stage outfit you'd like better, how you would get along so well with the other members of the group. We didn't forget you. We love you too much for that."

"Stop," you choke out, as your legs crumple under you. Satoru catches you, tugging you further into him, as tears trickle down your face. A blurred shape; Suguru, kneeling in front of you, gently taking your hands in his.

"One chance, princess," he breathes. "Give us one chance to explain ourselves. After that, we'll do whatever you want, give you whatever you want. We've only ever been yours."

[machinesonix]

Somehow I have made it this long without realizing that none of the screen adoptions of Dune so much as mention the Butlerian Jihad. Like I guess it's burned into my brain so hard I sort of assumed it was part and parcel of the universe. Don't get me wrong, I think that's probably the first thing you learn if you want to dive deeper into the setting, but it still hits me like if the LotR movies showed us the big flaming eyeball tower and was like ‘Oh, that's why there are bad things, but don't worry, that's just background stuff.’ Yeah, you can understand the movie, but if the story is just like Frodo vs. The Witch King you are losing out on any of the conversation about the corruptive allure of power or theological undertones. So without further ado let's pretend this is for the benefit of interested new fans roped in by the movies and not part of my desperate attempt to silence the howling specters of literary analysis that live in my blood.

The Butlerian Jihad is an event set ~10k years prior to the events of Dune in which humanity won their freedom from the machines that they had enslaved themselves to. As a result, it is a religious taboo to create a machine that thinks like a human. That's frankly the bulk of the information presented by Frank Herbert in the text without dipping into books 7+, but whether or not those are canon is frankly an enormous can of worms, which really makes sense when you consider the size of the worms. But boy howdy, Frank loved his subtext and parallelism. Everyone has a foil character, every theme is hit from multiple angles, and Villinueve has been doing an excellent job of capturing a lot of that in repeated imagery and dialogue. The Butlerian Jihad happens off camera, but it's themes are absolutely critical to the big picture.

The Butlerian Jihad was a holy war. It was not merely a rebellion against the machines, it was a crusade against them. The prohibition against thinking machines isn't just a law, it's in the pan-universal Bible. Absolute psychopath Pieter DeVries himself claps back at the Baron for insinuating he might have a use for a computer, and this is a guy who has been hired specifically for his preternatural absence of morals. Let's hold onto that idea for a minute. 

Probably my favorite scene in the first book is the one where planetologist Liet-Kynes is dying out in the desert. As the last of his strength fades to dehydration he hallucinates conversations he had with his father concerning terraforming Arakkis for human habitability. He's told that the means are not complicated. There is already enough water on the planet, the Little Makers just have it all trapped deep underground as part of the sandworm reproductive cycle. You just need to isolate enough water to start irrigating plant life, and once it's established that'll keep the water on the surface on its own. The hard part is making sure everyone on the planet is environmentally conscious enough to foster a developing ecosystem. Nobody can drink any of that water while it's being collected, because they'll just introduce it back into the water cycle where the Little Makers are. It's going to take generations, so that sort of water discipline is going to have to go above and beyond a social convention. People need to be willing to die before they'll take a sip and compromise the plan. Ghost Dad Kynes concludes that the only mechanism in the human experience to enforce this consensus is religion. 

In the context of this whole parallelism thing, you have probably noticed that the Butlerian Jihad is not the only holy war in the narrative. Paul sees a new jihad as the only way of creating a future where humans can flourish. Now you might be saying ‘Wait now, Machines. I thought the point of Paul’s holy war was to avenge Leto and disempower established power structures by taking away the control of the spice!’ And you’d be right. The thing is, without getting into spoiler territory, Dune Messiah is not going to be about how everything just gets so much better now that Paul has destroyed the economy, government, and untold billions of human lives. This isn’t the endgame. Dude can see the future and the way he does it involves looking into the past. Paul lives in a society defined by a holy war and his goal is to redefine society. 

Putting it all together you can see what I mean about the Butlerian Jihad being essential to the themes even though the story never shows us a thinking machine or a narrative beat where the absence of computers changes the outcome. It helps us see the big picture. I’ve seen a lot of dialogue lately on whether Paul is a tragic hero or a consummate villain and I’m not here to answer that, but I am here to underline the critical detail. Paul intends to be seen as a tyrant. Just like Kynes’ hallucination says, religion is the lever to make a value stick around forever. He wants to traumatize humanity to hate chosen ones and emperors the same way the machines traumatized humanity to change them forever. The Water of Life ritual doesn’t invert his values, it lets him realize these visions of war are the means, not the ends. He is absolutely not happy about it, but this is Paul’s terrible purpose. 

[superblysubpar]

return to main menu | Her Body Is Bible masterlist

Honey, On Your Knees

steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: Your husband and you get nasty in a church…again.

the song: Holy by King Princess

2.5k words

warnings: This fic is a part of my "Her Body Is Bible" AU - you can find the first story linked at the masterlist above | warnings from prev fic still apply - religious themes, and the holiday Christmas being celebrated | Mentions of trying to get pregnant | Alcohol mentions and use by reader | SMUT (oral - reader receiving / public - in a church again, right off the worship space / steve is kind of edging us a little if you squint)

He hadn’t meant to say it. 

The house was warm, the low murmur of relatives catching up while silverware clinked together mixed with Nat King Cole crooning out of the stereo. Mashed potatoes heaped by spoonfuls onto plates, kids’ new toys scattered in a rush once the ham was carved, and soon wine started to be poured for those of age.

Vivian Harrington simply smiled as you told her none for you and moved on, but the same couldn’t be said for others at the table. 

“Not drinking, huh? Are you pregnant?” 

If his scotch drunk uncle jumped over the line of appropriate, Steve ignored it all together, replying hopefully and without thought. 

“No…not yet!”

He hadn’t meant to say it. 

Your eyes widened, jaw tensed as you huffed out a breath through your nose. Steve’s cheeks flushed, and the table erupted into chaos, terribly intimate questions directed towards you. 

“Oh! Are you trying?! How exciting!”

“When you are, make sure Stephen here does everything. It’s the least he can do.”

“How long have you been trying? Don’t give up, Ben and I took two years, but look at us now…”

“How many do you want?”

“Are you still going to work?”

“Kids? So soon?”

“Who’s having a baby? Uncle Steve?!”

“Vivian?” You called, flagging Steve’s mom over.

You took the bottle of previously passed on wine and gave yourself a more than generous pour, and Steve whispered, “Baby, I thought that alcohol could affect your…”

The look you gave him had his mouth closing quickly, keeping his concern about ovulation and hormones to himself. You turned away from him, then answered every single question with grace and a grip on the glass that made Steve gulp around his own drink. 

Eventually, the table settled into topics that gave you a small reprieve. 

Steve leaned closer, lips almost to the apple of your cheek and you turned, so his kiss was cut off, mouth parted in surprise as he blinked at you. He spoke softly, fingers reaching for yours as he did, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Should we give you two some privacy?” A quip and waggled eyebrows from the other side of the table, and you plastered on a perfect smile and faked a laugh, poured yourself more wine and Steve’s shoulders deflated. 

You still hadn’t spoken to him. Dinner passed, and then dessert, and then coats were being pushed on and kids wrangled into cars for the midnight service. 

Steve managed to get you close to him in the very backseat of one of the vehicles. He kept his eyes on your profile as you stared straight ahead. 

“Are you going to ignore me the entire night? I’m sorry,” he started, voice low. 

Your gaze turned to him finally and your chest ached from how apologetic he looked. And honestly, you were over it as quickly as it happened, and the glasses of wine helped, and you were ready to say so. But then Steve’s fingers brushed your knee, up and down and back up your thigh. They nudged at the hem of your skirt, testing. His other fingers curled around your neck, words dipping even lower, soft and for only your ears. 

“How else can I tell you I’m sorry, honey?”

Steve’s thumb swiped down your neck, soothing and far too close to your racing pulse. It’d been sort of easy for him lately, and the thrill of making him think you were mad, the chance to make him sweat a little, to work for it, had your underwear growing wet. 

“We can talk about it later, when we get home,” you whispered, sternly. 

Steve nodded earnestly, until your fingers curled into your skirt, until the red, green and gold fabric pulled higher and higher. Your eyes remained on his until he had to look down, to see your black tights were not tights, but stockings. A sliver of supple skin revealed between plaid skirt and where they ended high on your thigh. The black lace disappearing as quickly as it was shown to him as your skirt dropped again, fanning nicely over your thighs.  

His tongue swiped over his lip, adams apple bobbing. He cleared his throat, voice a warning, “Baby-”

The car pulled to a stop, and you were out on the pavement with his family, heading into the church before he’d really even caught his breath. 

He watched you hang your coat, and help his nieces and nephews with theirs. His eyes traveled from the black heels up the black stockings that he now knew ended under your pretty Christmas skirt, curved around your thighs delicately and sinfully. He swallowed at the sight of red velvet over your breasts, at the memory of what happened last time you were here. 

It was easy to slip away as churchgoers caught up over coffee and doughnuts before the service, as kids became preoccupied in the Sunday school rooms with toys. You made your way down a dark hallway under the guise of the bathroom, and had to bite down on your smile as an arm slunk around your waist and pulled you into a room silently and quickly. 

Only lit by the soft light of the navy sky and moon outside, the room was obviously rarely used, a place for mismatched and forgotten things. Steve spun to face you, his fingers behind him clicking the lock closed with a barely audible, but still noticeable click. 

“Yes?” You prompted, folding your arms over your chests and hiding your delight at the way the movement made his eyes flit down to your breasts. 

Steve crossed the room in quick strides, hands finding your hips and tugging you to him gently as he spoke with sincerity. 

“Angel,” his nose traced down the bridge of yours, before he kissed the tip of it, “I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips before he pulled away enough to look into your eyes again, so you could see how truly sorry he was. 

“I really didn’t mean to say it, it slipped out. I’m just so excited, and I didn’t even think…” 

“I know,” you offered quietly, as your fingers slipped into his hair, curling stray and unruly pieces behind his ears. Your eyes remained focused on your adjustments, sure that if you looked at his eyes for longer than two seconds, you’d forget you were “mad” and fuck him in a church again. You’d break and he’d have barely worked for it. 

Steve knew this, you think. 

Because your eyes caught the subtle twitch of his lips, the fake deep sigh, the way his head leaned forward until he was at your ear. Hot breath hitting skin in a way that had goosebumps exploding over your entire body, his voice sultry and low as he asked, “Can I make it up to you?”  

“Steve…” your half-hearted start to a protest you didn’t want to give lost as he dipped lower, pressing silk lips to your neck. 

His palms brushed over the curve of your breasts, they skated down your sides, lower and lower to your hips. As your head fell back, they circled to your ass, grabbing generous handfuls and squeezing as his breath grew sharper against your collarbone. Parted lips dragging across it, the tentative trail of his tongue warm and testing. 

“We…we’re in a church,” you gulped around the words, his kisses traveling up the column of your throat now as he nudged your feet backwards. 

“Didn’t stop us the last time.” Steve’s voice was shot, a goner the minute you showed him the stockings. 

Men were too easy. 

Your legs hit a couch arm, and Steve’s fingers grabbed for your jaw gently, thumb pulling at your chin so you had to look at him. Both of your chests moved rapidly, anticipating, as you fell deeper and deeper into the moss and honey in his iris’ - lost in the forest, stuck in the sticky trap. 

His other hand roamed to the hem of your skirt, pads of his fingers buzzing over the skin above the stockings as he pulled the fabric higher. His head cocked in a way that said he knew what he was doing, the ghost of a smile on his lips telling you he knew that you weren’t mad, not really, but he’d play your game anyways.  

“Let me make you feel good, honey,” his lips brushed over yours as he spoke. The chatter of people filling the chapel right outside grew louder, but his voice remained even and soft, “It’s the least I can do, don't you think?”

Maybe you were easy too.  

Because you were nodding, and he was easing you down onto the couch. Steve knelt before you, watching you carefully, hungry, as he pulled your heels from your feet, letting them fall to the ground. 

Your palms pressed to the cushion behind you as he lifted a leg, your words swallowed and caught somewhere in your chest with your breath as he kissed your ankle bone through the thin material. Steve kept his eyes on you, warm and greedy as he kissed up your calf, at your knee until he was at the top of the thigh high. He gently laid your leg back down, and then pulled at your waist until you were at the edge of the seat. 

“You gonna be quiet for me?” 

The nod of your head was pitiful, putty in his hands and from his words as he flipped your skirt up. Steve’s lips pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, sweet and in a slow way that had heat rising to your cheeks. Your body hot, spine turning to liquid as he nudged his nose into the damp black silk covering you, as his fingers curled into the waistband. 

Steve pulled them from you, sighing at the way they stuck to your lips. He slipped them down your legs, never letting his eyes leave the space between your thighs. He was taking his time, drinking you in with his eyes in a dirty gaze that had your entire body tightening, making you want him more than you ever had, erasing any sort of rationality or thoughts from your brain other than him and this.

His fingers tugged at your hips, squeezing possessively until a whine bubbled out of you, his name a desperate whisper, barely audible over the choir singing. 

He hummed when you spread your legs wider for him, pressing against the couch as he leaned in. His hands roamed down and back up your thighs, until they were spreading you. 

His thumbs held you apart, mouth a ghost over your cunt. Hot breath exhaled against slick lips that had your toes curling and your lungs somehow forgetting how to take in air. He had you on the ledge, and he hadn’t even started. 

Steve pushed closer, the tip of his nose a slow drag through your slit, his lips skimming over your folds behind it, tasting, testing.

His tongue finally made contact with you, a long, slow lick from your entrance to just below your clit, making you wait, making your fingers dig into the cushion and your eyes look towards the heavens.  

Steve did it again, painfully slow, the hot and wet glide of his tongue along you sinful. Over and over, flat, broad strokes of it, tasting every bit of you except for your clit, getting you higher and higher, closer to bliss without giving it to you.  

You were throbbing, an insistent and buzzing pulse under your skin demanding to be felt, demanding to break. It felt like your ears were crackling with static like the speakers the pastor was now giving his sermon in. 

Steve lifted on your hips that wiggled, caressing over the top of your ass. He stopped his movement with his tongue, panting over your cunt, letting his mouth hover against your glistening lips. 

Your chest grew heavier with each rise and fall of labored breathing as you watched Steve’s tongue flick out, tracing the curves of you and letting his nose drag and nudge behind it. Teasing and taunting, pulling every last drop of want out, your body taut and ready to snap. 

Then he looked up at you.

His cheeks flushed pink, and pupils blown wide, lit up in glittering moonlight streaming in through old and warped glass, he looked like something holy and angelic between your thighs. As if he were worshiping you, praying on his knees at your feet.

The grip he had on your hips shifted, pushing down your thighs and spreading you wider, and his voice was raspy as he asked, “You forgive me?”

Your head nodded once, fingers reaching for his hair to pull him closer, desperate for his mouth to be back on you. Your own voice shot, a pitiful whine as you begged him, “Please, need your-ohmygod.”

Steve’s spit hit your clit, making your thighs go to snap close, but his palms held you open forcefully. He wasn’t an angel worshiping, he was unholy, he was sin, he was filthy as he kept eye contact with you and dipped his mouth over you again. 

His lips molded around your pulsing nerves, tongue flicking out in a rhythm that had your entire body lit up, vibrating, fraying and sparking. His hands pushed at your thighs that resisted him, he moaned against you as you fell forward. Your fingers yanking in his hair as your hips moved against his face. 

Steve’s exhale was sharp as he released, sinking lower and dragging his tongue over your slit again. He was faster now, keeping his tongue flat against you as he lapped at your cunt, nose nudging against your clit over and over again as you rocked against it. 

“Fuck, Ste-,” your hand slapped over your mouth and your eyes widened, but Steve didn’t let up. You tugged on his hair, whimpering, and his hand rose, finger pulling at your pouting bottom lip until you were parting for him. You moaned around the black silk he shoved into your waiting mouth. 

He doubled down then, tongue prodding at your entrance, fast and precise licks up to your clit he kept working at with his nose. Steve’s heavy lidded gaze up at you had you crying out around the fabric, your chest crumpling over his head as you grinded down against his nose, unraveling for him. 

Tears pricked behind your eyes, skin hot as you came around nothing but his tongue, he hadn’t even slipped a finger into you. Steve held your waist now as you arched, letting your thighs finally close around his face as he licked over you, humming against your sensitive nerves as he greedily took in everything you gave him. 

He pulled away eventually, nose and lips skimming down your thigh until he was at your stockings. He pressed his cheek to your knee and looked up at you. Your underwear pulled from your mouth and crumpled in your fingers, your eyelashes fluttered as you tried to keep your eyes open, chest rising and falling ragged. You looked at him under your straining eyelids, warmth and affection and something far too sweet for what you two just did behind your gaze. 

The choir was singing again, Silent Night, and your fingers pressed to your lips, hiding a smile and a giggle.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but he was kind of glad he did. 

[profoundbondfanfic]

Do you have any recs for Reallyyy long fics? Like 200-300k+ words? That isn't 91W... avoiding that one because I feel like it will hurt me... preferably fix-its? Oh and no a/b/o pls :) thanksss

Here are a few:

Angel's Wild by riseofthefallenone (Explicit, 389k words)

But that’s the whole reason he’s here, isn’t it? He’s not out here hunting Humans. He’s not even hunting deer, or bears, or anything else that featured in Bambi. He’s out here, freezing his nuts off every night, because he’s hunting Angels. Sometimes Dean wishes that Angels were like how they’re described in the Bible. How people from time too old for him to care much about thought Angels were messengers and warriors of God, protectors of Humans. He knows that how they’re really described in the Bible is actually pretty terrifying, but at least they were told by God that they’re supposed to love Humans, right? That’s a thousand times better than what Angels really turned out to be.

Bitch Better Have My Money by Duckyboos (Explicit, 256k words)

How Dean Winchester - mechanic, shitty cook, single father - became the power behind the throne in one of the biggest crime syndicates in the Midwest.

Computer Safety Verse by followthattardis (Explicit, 232k words)

On the day of his 29th birthday, Dean receives an email from his old nemesis: Michael Milton, the guy who got him kicked out of college and stole his girlfriend. The email contains encoded images with top secret CIA/NSA intelligence – and now their only copy is in Dean’s brain. Both agencies send their best operatives – Castiel Novak and Victor Henriksen respectively – to handle their accidental asset and protect the invaluable data in his head. To justify their sudden appearance in Dean’s life, they adopt covers: Victor as Dean’s new co-worker and neighbor, Cas as his new boyfriend. Needless to say, Dean’s brother and his girlfriend are thrilled to see him in a relationship they believe to be real. Clearly, there’s no way this could go wrong.

Four Letter Word For Intercourse by bendingsignpost (Explicit, 228k words)

As a grease monkey turned college freshman, Dean's constantly three seconds away from being stressed out of his mind. It hardly helps that he's finally figuring out his sexuality in his thirties. What might help with that stress is a little phone number (and a big credit card bill). If he can't figure out how to be bisexual in person, he can at least give it a go over the phone, right? (It's probably a bad idea, but he really can't help himself.)

Light me up by tricia_16 (Explicit, 218k words)

Five years after participating in a life-changing threesome with his then-girlfriend and her friend Cas, Dean's single, comfortably bisexual, and has everything he's ever wanted except for that special someone to share his life with. When tragedy strikes, he and Cas are reunited in an unexpected way, and a split-second decision entangles their lives in ways neither of them could have predicted…

Not Part of the Plan by Annie D (scaramouche) (Explicit, 337k words)

Castiel's spent most of his adult life keeping his head down and staying out of trouble. This is a deliberate choice on his part, because as a cousin of the King, he'd rather stay unimportant and forgotten. This changes abruptly when King Michael decides that he has a better use for Castiel: he is to be wed to a noble member of the neighboring Republic, as part of an agreement between their two nations. Castiel knows he has to obey, but that doesn't mean he won't rebel in what small ways he can. Unexpectedly, his actions end up having far-reaching consequences.

one million fires burning by dothraki_shieldmaiden (Explicit, 248k words)

Dean Winchester teaches three classes a day, tutors after school, and chairs the English Department for Lawrence High School. He does enough. Unfortunately, his boss doesn't feel the same and informs him that he has a new job: co-coaching the school's trivia team. His co-coach? None other than the school's golden boy, Castiel Milton. Who Dean can't stand, for various reasons, all of which are valid, thank you very much. And the fact that Dean can't stop talking about the stick up Cas's, sorry, Milton's ass? Completely irrelevant.

Redux by emmbrancsxx0 (Explicit, 386k words)

Dean Winchester is dead. For decades, he, along with Castiel and Sam, has led a peaceful afterlife in heaven. He has everything he’s ever wanted: a home, his family and friends surrounding him, and a relationship with Cas—and he’s bored as hell. Until, one day, Chuck escapes heaven’s lock up and begins capturing souls to regain power. To stop him, Jack sends Dean, Cas, and Sam back to Earth. After so long away from hunting, will they be able to once again find their place in the family business?

Talk Some Sense To Me (Kenopsia) by ImYourHoneyBee (Explicit, 244k words)

Scrambling to his knees Castiel hugs back, burying his face in Dean’s neck, breath coming in fast little pants against his skin. Dean closes his eyes and just breathes him in, barely able to believe that this is real. At any other time in his life, closing his eyes against a threat like Death would be an inexcusable lapse in his hunter’s judgement. Right now, he doesn’t give a single fuck. Death can reap him for all he cares, he’ll die knowing Cas is going to be ok. Alive. “I will see you soon, Dean,” Death tells him, that deliberate voice of his soft enough not to intrude on the intimacy of the moment, “Raincheck on that grilled cheese.” “Thank you,” Dean croaks, propping his chin up on Cas’s shoulder, unmindful of the tears trickling down his cheeks, “Thank you.”

The Closest Thing We Have To Magic by EllenOfOz, TrenchcoatBaby (Explicit, 221k words)

Dean Winchester is a graduate student at Stanford University’s School of the Occult. A naturally-talented mage but a lazy professor and student, he figures he’ll coast through his final year the way he always has: with charisma, charm, and a natural aptitude for magic. All that changes when his thesis advisor, Dr. Castiel Novak, turns out to be the strictest and most challenging educator on-campus. Unfortunately for Dean, the uptight professor is nearly his age and infuriatingly gorgeous. But Castiel is keeping a secret, a powerful talent that’s more a curse than a blessing when he’s targeted by seditious parts of magical society. Can Dean and Cas put aside their animosity—and undeniable chemistry—long enough to instill real change in the magical community? Or will sinister plots and hidden agendas keep them apart?

To Build a Home by intothesilentland (Mature, 383k words)

Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, devastating devotion and love, love, love for the man with bright eyes and dark hair. Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of always together. One moment of rejection. Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak, nine years of continents away, of not speaking, of no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone. God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different.

Under The Midnight Sun by NorthernSparrow (Explicit, 232k words)

Dean Winchester’s been camp manager of a science research station on the Alaskan tundra for thirteen years. Dean likes his job; fixing the camp trucks, troubleshooting the generators, keeping clueless undergrads and NSF bigwigs from walking into grizzly bears or getting lost in snowstorms — it’s all in a day’s work. It keeps him pretty busy, and this year his brother Sam's visiting too, so he's even busier. So it’s really not any of Dean’s business when some weirdo antisocial ornithologist sets up a tent a few miles away, a dark-haired blue-eyed guy who’s doing a “very long-term" study on birds or wings or something, and who never, ever takes off his big lumpy backpack. But then the new guy starts dropping by camp for coffee and… well, he’s not officially part of camp; he's not Dean’s responsibility; he’s really not Dean’s problem at all, but when a strange blizzard comes sweeping in, Dean gets worried and goes to check. Thing is, Dean's spent years in the sweeping vistas of the Arctic. He knows all about the midnight sun and the northern lights, the ice caves and avalanches, the rough-and-ready Haul Road truckers and the even rougher-and-readier wild animals. But even so, what he finds is much more than he bargained for.

With Interest by everandanon (Explicit, 296k words)

Eighteen, bored, and not quite able to turn down the money, Cas agrees to an ill-advised bet, and Dean's heart isn't the only one that gets broken. Eleven years later, grieving his twin brother and struggling to take care of his niece, Cas finally returns home — only to meet Dean again and discover that the boy he left behind has grown up a lot. And now, Dean seems to have every intention of getting him back — with interest.

You can also check our >100k tag for all the longer fics we rec.

[sojourner-between-worlds]

Things about being a Christian I've had to unlearn as an adult:

Spending a lot of time on/ being invested in something doesn't make it an idol. This is not how that works, bestie. Look. I get that the advice "if you spend more time on x hobby than you do reading the Bible and praying" is well-intentioned, but it's just plain Bad. There are a lot of hobbies that take significant amounts of time. Art. Writing. Trade hobbies, like woodworking. I spent two hours Saturday putting in a garden (now that I have space for one!), and not spending two hours and one minute on Bible reading doesn't mean that gardening is now an idol for me. It means I got into a groove and just kept going (and got terribly sunburned for my trouble). What makes something an idol is NOT how much time you spend on it but rather the importance you place upon it. Sometimes important things take five minutes and sometimes they take an hour; the thing that took five minutes isn't less important because it took up less of your time. If your thought process is "this is more important than spending time with God", that is what makes your hobby an idol. (If you are constantly foregoing your time with God in favor of a hobby, then I'd say you need to re-evaluate your priorities, but spending a lot of time on something does not inherently make it an idol. Not to mention that a lot of hobbies can still bring you closer to God despite not spending that time intentionally for that purpose.)

Not having your "quiet time"/ devotions every day does not make you a "bad" Christian. This goes hand-in-hand with the previous point, and there's a lot I could say on this topic, but what it boils down to is this: God understands our human limits and the brains He gave us that sometimes make it difficult -- autism and ADHD and OCD and [fill in the blank]. I'm autistic. So when (well-meaning) people say things like, "you can't get to know God if you don't spend time with Him!" about praying and reading the Bible -- well, 'spending time' looks different for me. Socializing is difficult for me. And while socializing with God is obviously different than with people, praying is still far more mentally draining for me than for most people (especially growing up in an environment where it was implied that you have to 'say the right things' when you pray instead of just allowing it to be a conversation, but that's the next point). A lot of "socializing" for me is simply being present with someone else. This is called "parallel play": you're doing your own thing in the same space as someone else while they are also doing their own thing. This...doesn't translate well to Christianity and what Christianity is "supposed" to look like, unfortunately, so I constantly felt shame that none of the common advice worked for me when it seemed to work for everyone else. Set a time? Executive dysfunction makes switching tasks hard and once that set time has passed, "well, it's too late now". Having a reading plan? I'd miss a day, fall behind, and the shame at that would keep me from continuing to try. And when I did manage to stay on track, quite often it simply became a box to check off and that was it. So, now, I do what I can, when I can. I always get more out of it, and I think God cares more about that than sticking to a plan just so you can say you read every day anyway.

"Don't script your prayers! They'll become repetitive and you won't think about or mean them!" Oh, boy. Once again, I get the well-intentioned meaning here. You don't want your prayers to become rote and stale. But as someone with high anxiety, scripting them is the only way I can survive praying aloud with other people, and, in fact, it means I put more thought into them, not less! But hearing this kind of advice coupled with an environment where it was implied you had to say 'the right things, the right way' was absolutely detrimental to my prayer life growing up. I was always worried about saying the wrong thing, especially as an undiagnosed autistic who was constantly, ya know, saying the wrong things in conversations with people. So I definitely didn't want to say the wrong things to God! But... I also wasn't allowed to plan what to say? How was I supposed to pray then? So I just. didn't pray. For a very long time. Until I learned its just as perfectly okay to talk to God about whatever crosses your mind while you're standing at the sink doing dishes as it is sitting down with a list of things to focus on. (Not to mention that this really is just...terrible advice in general. Kudos to my pastor, who, in his current Sunday night series on worship, actually gave a tutorial on how to personalize praying the Psalms. So, you know, pre-written prayers.)

Purity Culture. Need I say more? Oh, I could write a whole post about how harmful this is, but plenty of people already have, so I'll leave it at this: I wear what I am comfortable wearing now. Something I love about my church is that our philosophy on modesty is this: The greatest sin of immodesty is saying "look at me" instead of "look at God." In other words, modest isn't about what you're wearing so much as what your attitude about what you're wearing is. If you choose what to wear because you want people to notice and stare and give you compliments, then that is immodest no matter how much of your skin is covered up. It's not immodest to wear clothes you like and that you think are attractive (or that help you look professional when its called for), but ultimately your mindset is really not about "dressing to impress." (There is a very thin line between 'modest' and 'immodest' and its not where most people think it is.)

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

“it could mean that they didn't think further than season five and we're about to get a lot of awkward writing.”

Genuinely, I’m pretty sure this exact problem is about to rear it’s ugly head into the plot so hard. Once it becomes obvious enough next season, I think this is about to become the biggest gripe people have with the show.

I don’t subscribe to the “Chloé was rewritten by TA out of spite” theories—however—it is almost **impossible** that season 5 didn’t, at the very least, have the bones of the plot laid out *when it was still intended as the final season,* and then those bones were **heavily** rearranged when contracts were signed for Miraculous Ladybug to continue production beyond that point.

This is quickly having a domino effect on the plot, where storylines are being re-sculpted left and right to somehow tie-up the arc of the previous 5 seasons, whilst still maintaining pre-reveal status quo for the seasons still to come. The most glaring problem with this is, of course, that they had to royally shoot Marinette in the foot to make that work.

I don’t want to put my tin-foil hat on too much, but Adrinette getting together sans reveal is just a symptom of the show continuing past it’s original intended “end of life”. We were likely supposed to get exactly what is holding Adrinette back from being interesting right now—the reveal—in the original midseason finale of season 5 instead of Kwami’s Choice.

What’s an even more cynical thought—if season 5 was the end of the show like intended at one point, there is ZERO chance that Marinette would have even NEEDED to lie to Adrien about his father. *THAT’S* what frustrates me most about the season 5 finale. Not that it’s shocking, not that it subverts expectations, that it’s so glaringly obvious the main character is making a decision simply because the plot for future seasons implodes on itself if she thinks logically for 1.2 seconds. It’s not interesting. It’s only there because they wrote themselves into a corner they never intended to be in 5 years ago.

And as the seasons tick on and on, the cycle is just going to continue to chase itself in circles under the guise of “drama” and “plot”, but in reality the episodic nature of the show means that none of the plot lines will ever conclude in a satisfying way

(Post that inspired this ask)

it is almost **impossible** that season 5 didn’t, at the very least, have the bones of the plot laid out *when it was still intended as the final season,* and then those bones were **heavily** rearranged when contracts were signed for Miraculous Ladybug to continue production beyond that point.

Now that is a theory I can get behind and will even admit to subscribing to. Season five absolutely feels like it was written to be the final season and we know that it was, originally, supposed to be the final season. It's not a conspiracy theory to say, "I think that they may have committed to elements of season five before they got a sixth season and that ended up making season five into a bit of a mess."

I'd be fascinated to know the behind-the-scenes timing of things and what was written before the season-six greenlight and what they were allowed to change after season six became a thing. Things like scripts, lore bibles, and plot lines get signed off on by a lot of people! It's entirely possible that the writers' hands were tied on certain elements of season five. If the leaked, season-five Bible is to be believed, it says that it was signed off by TF1 & Disney and has a date of 1/29/21, about three months before season six was officially announced, implying that major elements of season five may have been set in stone all the way back in early 2021:

[Image description: footer for the leaked Bible reading "Ladybug - Bible FINAL VERSION updated season 5 - approved by TF1 & Disney 1/29/21 - CONFIDENTIAL]

This may mean that the writers literally weren't allowed to make major changes to season five because they'd already gone through the approval process for the overall plot. It's also possible that they could have redone things, they just didn't have time based on production timelines or maybe they did have time and just couldn't think up a new version of season five in the time they had. There's no way to be sure with the limited information we have. Maybe season five is exactly what they wanted it to be!

It's hard to buy that, though, because a lot of the awkward writing makes so much more sense if there was supposed to be an identity reveal at the end of Kwami's Choice. Like why Adrien is worrying about how to tell Marinette that he's leaving, but he never once stops to think about Ladybug. If he knows they're the same person, that's suddenly perfectly understandable.

I also full agree that the lie at the end of season five feels like another stalling tactic and not a piece in a well-crafted narrative. It's really common for the writing to get stilted in TV shows and movie series that get renewed past their expiration dates because no plot can last forever. Even the best writers can't draw a concept out to the end of time and Miraculous doesn't seem have the best writers. Now that they've been greenlit for ten freaking seasons, I think we're in for a wild ride and I don't mean the fun kind. Serious identity shenanigans like the love square are not designed to last for 86+ hours. (The show has 26 20-minute episodes per season, so if you multiply that by 10, you get a little over 86 hours + specials and such.)

I just don't see how they're going to draw out the identity reveal for another five seasons without making the love square a toxic waste dump, but I also don't think that they're ever going to do an identity reveal in the mid game. They're saving that sucker for the end no matter how much it ruins the story. (Watch season six prove me wrong, lol. You never know.)

[sleepyspoonie]

the unwanted guest spoilers:

i have an incoherent theory i've developed after reading tug that i dont know whether it has much consequence but would make a lot of sense if im on the right track

so the big focus of tug is the permeability of the soul and how exposure to other souls causes an interplay and intermingling between the two that causes shared memories, habits, etc.

my thought is this: what if this is why people are always quoting hamlet and the bible and fucking 21st century memes and pop culture and shit?

hear me out hear me out.

the 200 dead children from the ninth haunt harrow because they were used for her creation (abigail points out that harrow is MEGA haunted during one of the dream bubble sequences. additionally when harrow relates the story of her conception to john, he straight up specifically describes it as a RESURRECTION in htn).

compare this to john, who resurrected the original 10,000 (i think. dont quote me on this specific number.), caused the great resurrection, using the earth itself as a battery to do so. he was in a perfect lyctorhood with the soul of the earth (and thus intermingled with HER based on that same idea of permeation) when he did it.

now, we'll get to john specifically, but imo, it makes total sense that the interplay of humans living and dying on earth for thousands upon thousands of years would permeate alecto's soul and vice versa. alecto even when she had total amnesia as nona knew what an alligator was and drew it during school. but also, if that wasn't enough, look at JOHN.

because what do we know about john? mr none house left grief likes spitting dumb millennial memes and went to catholic school and thinks he's hot shit for knowing shakespeare (he named his first corpse kids titania and ulysses for fucks sake), and therefore may well be like. patient zero of all the nonsense that comes out of peoples' mouths around here.

TLDR. what im thinking is that the resurrection through alecto and john's lyctorhood and the interplay between the souls of john and the earth has caused a link between john and/or the people of the 21st century and the people of the houses who are descended from the people of the resurrection.

if it's john, i also have this afterthought of a tangent built upon the above - i think it makes MUCH jucier the idea that john believes he can kill everyone/wipe everyone's memories clean and start over as many times as it takes when his own memories and habits and feelings might be intrinsically interwoven into the souls of the people he does this to ("empty's just another word for clean?" you're not going to empty or clean much when your soul is intermingled with everyone your necromancy has ever come in contact with and your memories and your rage and your grief are a gaping wound bleeding into every human you ever touch)

[aphidclan-clangen]

you don't have to post this, but I thought it would be funny!!!

Nimblekit: I just scream a lot... I just, scream... a lot

-

Goldshine: With all due respect, which is none,

-

Sparkspeckle: You know how someone can say “I respectfully disagree”? What about “I disrespectfully agree” for when you hate someone but they are unfortunately correct.

-

Shadebreak: I am always up for potential rule breaking.

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Goldshine: Don’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself, I do it regularly.

-

Nimblekit: 80% of people are actually ugly because of their face, you know.

-

Pearlstar: Trans people? In my clan? It’s more likely than you think.

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Blisswhistle: For the last time, you can’t die of adhd.

-

Sparkspeckle: You can do whatever you want forever :D

Stormwhisper: I love you, but that is not helpful.

-

Stormwhisper, too nervous to ask for emotional support: Man, it smells like wrongdog in here.

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Gravel: Aren’t you like 5’2?

Firebeetle: I self identify as tall.

-

Pearlstar: Every day my joints are shocked and disgusted that I would use them for their intended purpose.

-

Sparkspeckle: You can never lose an argument if you say “shut up nerd” at the end.

Icesheep: Yes you can.

Sparkspeckle: Shut up nerd.

-

Goldshine: In my defense, your honor, I simply do not care enough.

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Nimblekit: Your honor, in my defense, who cares like omfgggggggg who cares????????? Like come onnn.

-

Skykit: Are you a girl or a boy?

Shadebreak: Uhh, well some people aren’t girls or boys!

Skykit: Wow, just like snails...

Shadebreak: ???

-

Straight Man: Hey

Titania: That’s enough.

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Lilacpaw: I respect perfume commercials being like, we can’t show you a smell, mind if we just go insane for 30 seconds?

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Shadekit: Hey we are all really small, do you wanna sleep in a pile.

Icekit, Stormkit and Sparkkit: Yes.

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Blisswhistle: “Fuck it, we ball” (Malnourished, heavy eye bags, dehydrated, on the verge of insanity.)

-

Goldshine: Evil infodumping where you just tell lies.

Sparkspeckle: Tiktok

Icesheep: 5-minute crafts

Shadebreak: Resume

Stormwhisper: Men

-

Nimblekit: I fucking hate the hand that feeds me, I think i’ll do something fucked up to it.

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Nimblekit: Sick injury bro, would be a shame if i added insult to it.

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Pearlstar: I laugh at my own jokes because I am my target audience. Y’all just happen to be there fr.

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Gravel: I wish they sold offbrand cars, get me a damn honder.

Firebeetle: Pulling up in the revolver.

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Shadebreak: When two buses pass each other and the bus drivers don’t wave at each other, like omg... did you guys break up...

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Blisswhistle: I can still crack a joke mid-breakdown, that’s why everyone is lucky to have me in their lives.

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Gravel: They don’t kill the presidents like they used to.

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Berrykit: The LMAO+ community.

Nimblekit: It’s LMFAO+ this is party rock erasure.

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Sparkspeckle: It’s harder than you think to communicate with someone who isn’t familiar with the world of spongebob.

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Goldshine: Pipe down your honor, you weren’t even there.

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Goldshine: JFK?? Like from umbrella academy?? Haha... you know he’s not... real, right?

Stormwhisper: Wait, I though JFK was from clone high??

Sparkspeckle: JFK, as in Jesus Fucking Khrist, from the bible?

Icesheep: Isn’t JFK that fried chicken fast food chain.

Shadebreak: Guys cmon, it’s Jennedy Fennedy Kennedy, you gotta know this.

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Goldshine: Mfs be named “James” and it only be one dude.

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Nimblekit: Does violence have to be the last resort, can’t it be like third.

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Lilacpaw: Free my man, he did all of it but I don’t care.

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Pearlstar: Let me get this straight. Grabs the nearest heterosexual. Now, where were we. (He is holding nobody)

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Blisswhistle: I’m so done with self care, it’s time for others harm.

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Shadebreak: Fun fact. Shut the fuck-

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Sparkspeckle: Nuh uh

Icesheep: FYM “NUH UH”???

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-⚡ anon

Genuinely made me laugh, I love these

[valyrfia]

from a physics major...how did you choose what to specialise in in grad school? also what were your favourite classes in your bachelor's (i'm doing statistical mechanics right now and i want to kill myself :) )

statistical mechanics and wanting to kill yourself....that sounds familiar...

I actually did very well in stat mech but I retain absolutely NONE of it. I think it's used a lot more in solid state and particle physics but I can exclusively reveal I did NEITHER of those.

My favourite subject at undergrad was by far and away GR. The maths is just so beautiful, the Schutz book which is the bible is also SO easy to follow and I'm lucky that tensors click quite well for me and make mathematical and physical sense. MTW is also forever on my Christmas list (and yet no one has been thoughtful enough to get it for me yet....heartbreaking). I also did a course in quantum information in my final year which I only took because my girlfriend was doing it and I almost failed that exam but I found the theory of it super interesting, especially quantum encryption! I also loved the course that ended up being what my PhD is adjacent to, but not sure I really want to share that information on the open internet because god knows my field is quite small in the grand scheme of things.

[blakeandaffairs]

The Big Bad Lore Discussion: JESUS

Justttt gonna step over the landmine that is the current situation of this tag, as today I'd like to discuss an important lore point in the game:

JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF.

I made a short little post asking about it, but the more I really thought about it, the more I realize how deep the rabbit hole goes. Jesus' existence itself is already an enigma, but it's even moreso in whb???

Let's discuss, and for context, was forced to take Salvation History and Creed in college, hold on tight, this is gonna be a yap session

The Plotholes

Several issues immediately arise because of the fact that...well, God disappeared shortly after Solomon.

Why is this a problem? Because Solomon is approximately 900 years before Christ, now I know the timeline is all screwed up as well in whb, but if I'm assuming the bible canon, then, none of the things past Solomon had happened, including the birth of Jesus.

This conflicts with the fact that Minhyeok briefly mentions his neighbor, who is a Christian, and the fact that Christmas exists. Meaning some form of Jesus DOES exist, but just in the written scripture.

Why is that?? Well I have several theories:

1. Jesus already exists

Not LITERALLY. Without God there then how was the miraculous conception was supposed to happen, but since Jesus is considered the Word of God, and the Word of God has existed ever since the creation of the world ("On the First day, God SAID let there be light"), and with those first words uttered, Jesus was made manifest in it. He just isn't able to manifest physically due to a lack of God.

2. Jesus is some form of copesona or propaganda of the angels

We know that, at least according to Ppyong, that the scriptures are apparently propaganda made by the angels to make devils look bad, if that's so, to what extent? I'll assume it's somewhat minimal, they just want to make the devils look bad, because in general, Solomon is painted in a pretty good light, which is uncharacteristic of them. But how do they come up with someone like Jesus? It seems strange of them

The answer: Gabriel

Since Gabriel is the one that announces the birth of Jesus, it's likely he knows that Jesus already existed, and was expected to be born, but with God's disappearance, Gabriel, the unhinged, likely more unhinged, probably started making up stories about the Son of God that was never to be.

3. Jesus the person, existed, but he was just an ordinary mortal

We already believe the Jesus Christ, or more specifically, Yehosua Messiah (original Hebrew name) existed historically, it's likely this is the case as well. He was probably mythologized with the inception of the new testament, it's not the first time this has happened (Gilgamesh the king became the legend he is with the Epic of Gilgamesh)

Why Jesus likely doesn't exist

1. Usually, people are normally referred to as Son/Daughters of God, but in Lucifer's selfie story, he doesn't call us that (calls us Son of Adam/Daughter of Eve), meaning the original sin that those two committed have not been cleansed. (Jesus' death would have cleansed everyone of it)

2. In the Gamigin Event, Lucifer is said to be second only to God, which is odd, that's Jesus' spot. ("he is seated at the Right Hand of the Father, he will come again to judge the living and the dead")

3. It's a bit iffy, but the Christmas Event was also termed 'X-mas', which usually excludes the celebration of the birth of Jesus.

4. Since Jesus is the Son of God, he would have inherited the throne of God as well, and it's likely he would stop the ongoing genocide of the devils

IN CONCLUSION:

It's likely that Jesus was something meant to exist, but with the disappearance of God, that never truly happened.

But these are my thoughts. If y'all managed to make it this far, then I thank you for listening. If this gets enough views, I'll probably make more (such as the Solomon and Lilith conundrum)

[fdelopera]

Hi curious anon here. You mentioned in one of your posts (I think the sennek one? If I’m spelling it right) that the exodus from Egypt was metaphorical as the enslavement in Egypt didn’t happen, but I thought it did? Can you explain? (If you’re happy to of course)

Hi Anon! Thanks for your question. My response is looong lol (you got me going about a special interest), so buckle up!

Sooo I’m going to make a few guesses here, based on the way you’ve phrased your question. Judging from the fact that you’ve written Sukkot as “sennek” (I've looked through recent posts, and I think this is the post you're referring to), I’m going to guess that you’re not Jewish.

And judging from the fact that you think that Shemot, or “Names” (commonly written in Christian bibles as Exodus), is a literal historical account of Jewish history, I’m guessing that you have a Christian background.

You’re not alone in this. And I’m not saying this to pick on you. Many Christians have a literalist interpretation of the Bible, and most have zero knowledge of Jewish history (aside from maybe knowing some facts about the Holocaust). And so, what knowledge of Jewish history you have mostly comes from the Tanakh (what you call the Old Testament).

Tanakh is an acronym. It stands for Torah (the Five Books of Moses), Nevi’im (Prophets), Ketuvim (Writings). Also, the Tanakh and the “Old Testament” are not the same. The Tanakh has its own internal organization that makes sense for Jewish practice. The various Christian movements took the Tanakh, cut it up, reordered it, and then often mistranslated it as a way to justify the persecution of various groups of people — I’m looking at you, King James Bible.

But back to Shemot, the “Exodus” story. The story of Moshe leading the Israelites out of Egypt is more of a Canaanite cultural memory of the Late Bronze Age Collapse between around 1200 – 1150 BCE, which was preserved in oral history and passed down through the ages until it was written down in the form that we know it in the 6th century BCE by Jewish leaders from the Southern Kingdom of Judah.

Since the text is influenced by Babylonian culture and mythology, just as Bereshit is (which you know as Genesis), it is likely that some of the writing and editing of Shemot took place during and after the Babylonian exile in the 500s BCE.

Now, I’m guessing that what I’ve just written in these two paragraphs above sounds very strange to you.

Wait, you might say, didn’t the Israelites conquer the land of Canaan?

Wasn’t the "Exodus" written by Moses’s own hand during the 13th century BCE?

And wasn’t the Pharaoh in the Exodus Ramesses II (aka Ramesses the Great), who ruled in the 13th century BCE?

Actually, no. None of that happened.

The Israelites didn’t conquer Canaan. The Israelites were the same people as the Canaanites, and these are the same peoples as who later became the Jews, as I will explain. The Semitic peoples who would become the Jewish people have been in this area of the Levant since the Bronze Age.

Moshe was not a historical figure and did not write the Torah.

The “Pharaoh” in Exodus is not any specific Egyptian ruler (Ramesses the Great as the “Pharaoh” is mostly a pop culture theory from the 20th century).

Okay, now that I’ve said all that, let’s dive in.

The first ever mention of Israel was inscribed in the Merneptah Stele, somewhere between 1213 to 1203 BCE. Pharaoh Merneptah, who was the Pharaoh after Ramesses the Great, describes a campaign in Canaan to subdue a people called Israel. But there is no mention of plagues or an exodus because those things didn’t happen. The Canaanites were not slaves in Egypt. Canaan was a vassal state of Egypt.

In fact, the events that occurred during the reign of a later Pharaoh, Ramesses III, relate more to Jewish history. Ramesses III won a pyrrhic victory over the Peleset and other “Sea Peoples” who came to Egypt fighting for resources during a time of famine, earthquakes, and extreme societal turmoil. And Ramesses III would witness the beginning of the end of the Bronze Age.

The Canaanites, who were a Semitic people in the Levant, gradually evolved into the people who would become the Northern Kingdom of Israel and the Southern Kingdom of Judah (i.e., Jewish people), but during the 13th Century BCE, they were Canaanites, not Jews.

The Canaanites were polytheistic, worshiping a complex pantheon of gods; they didn’t follow the later Jewish dietary laws (i.e., they ate pork); and their religious practice bore little to no resemblance to the Jewish people of the Second Temple Period.

So, to reiterate, the people in Canaan who called themselves Israel during the Bronze Age were a Semitic people, but they were not recognizably Jewish, at least not to us Jews today. Canaan was a vassal state of Egypt, just as Ugarit and the Hittite Empire were.

Canaan was part of the vast trading alliance that allowed the Bronze Age to produce the metal that historians have named it for: bronze.

Bronze is a mixture of copper and tin (about 90% copper and 10% tin), and in order to make it, the kingdoms of the Bronze Age had to coordinate the mining, transportation, and smelting of these metals from all over the known world. This trading network allowed for the exchange of all sorts of goods, from grain to textiles to gold. Canaan was just one of these trading partners.

Well, between 1200 BCE and 1150 BCE, this entire trading alliance that allowed Bronze Age society to function went (pardon the expression) completely tits up. This is likely due to a large array of events, including famine and earthquakes, which led to an overall societal disarray.

Some of the people who were hardest hit by the famine, people from Sardinia and Sicily to Mycenae and Crete, came together in a loose organization of peoples, looking for greener pastures. These were all peoples who were known to Egypt, and many of them had either served Egypt directly or had traded with Egypt during better days. According to ancient records, this loose grouping of peoples would arrive at various cities, consume resources there, and then leave for the next city (sacking the city in the process).

Just to be clear, these people were just as much the victims of famine as the cities they sacked. There were no “good guys” or “bad guys” in this equation, just people trying as best as they could to survive in a world that was going to shit.

Well, these “Sea Peoples” (as they were much later dubbed in the 19th century CE) eventually made their way to Egypt, but Ramesses III defeated them in battle around 1175 BCE. He had the battle immortalized on his mortuary temple at Medinet Habu.

We don’t know much about these Sea Peoples, but we do know what the Egyptians called them. And from those names, we can figure out some of their origins. Peoples such as the Ekwesh and the Denyen. These were likely the Achaeans and the Danaans.

If you’re familiar with Homer’s Iliad, you’ll recognize these as some of the names that Homer gives to the Greek tribes. Many of the Sea Peoples were from city states that are now part of Greece and Italy.

Yes, the Late Bronze Age Collapse of the 12th Century BCE didn’t just get handed down as a cultural memory of the “Exodus” to the people who would centuries later become the Jews. That cataclysm also inspired the stories that “Homer” would later canonize as the Trojan War in the Iliad and the Odyssey. The Exodus and the Trojan War are both ancient cultural memories of the same societal collapse.

And neither the Trojan War nor the Exodus are factual. However, despite having little to no historicity, they both capture a similar feeling of the world being turned upside down.

Well, back to the Sea Peoples. Remember the Peleset that I mentioned a few paragraphs ago? They were one of these “Sea Peoples” that Ramesses III defeated. They were likely Mycenaean in origin, and possibly originated from Crete. After Ramesses III defeated them, he needed a place to relocate them along with several other tribes, including the Denyen and Tjeker. It was a “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here” situation.

So, Egypt rounded up the surviving Peleset and sent them north to settle — to the land of Canaan.

Now, if you have some Biblical background, let me ask you this. What does “Peleset” sound like? What if we start it with an aspirated consonant, more of a “Ph” instead of a “P”?

That’s right. The Peleset settled in Canaan and became the Philistines.

This is where the real story of the people who would become the Jews begins.

As the Mycenaean (aka Greek) Peleset settled in their new home, they clashed with the Semitic Israelite people of Canaan. Some of these Canaanites fought back. These Canaanites also organized themselves into different groups, or “tribes.” (See where this is going?) Some of these tribes were in the Northern area of Canaan, and some were in the South, but there was a delineation between North and South — aka they did not start out as one people and then split in two. They started as two separate groups.

If you’re following me so far, you’ll know that I’m now talking about what would in time become the Northern Kingdom of Israel and the Southern Kingdom of Judah.

Well, backtracking a bit. The Bronze Age was ending, and the Iron Age was about to begin. The Peleset/Philistines were experts at smelting iron, which was harder to work with than bronze due to it having a much higher smelting temperature. When the Peleset settled in Canaan, they brought this iron smelting knowledge with them, and they used it to make weapons to subdue the local Canaanite peoples. The Canaanites therefore had to fight back “with sticks and stones.”

Hmm. Does that sound familiar? Who is one of the most famous Philistines you can think of from the Tanakh (the Old Testament)? I’ll give you a guess. It’s in the Book of Samuel (in the Tanakh, that’s in the Nevi’im — The Prophets).

That’s right. Goliath.

The story of “David and Goliath” is likely a Jewish cultural memory that was transmitted orally from the time of the Canaanite struggles against the Peleset.

The man who would become King David used a well-slinged stone to fell the much greater Goliath, and then he used Goliath’s own iron sword to cut off Goliath’s head.

In this metaphor, we can see the struggle between the Canaanite tribes and the Peleset, as the Canaanites fought to hold off the Peleset’s greater military might.

Historically, the Peleset eventually intermarried with the Canaanites, and within several generations, they were all one people. Likewise, the Mycenaean Denyen tribe may have settled in the Northern Kingdom of Israel, intermarried with the Canaanites, and become the Tribe of Dan.

The Book of Samuel, containing the story of David and Goliath, was written down in the form we would recognize today in the 500s BCE during the Babylonian Exile. It is a cultural memory of the time that the Canaanites were unable to wield iron weapons against a much more technologically advanced society, and it would have resonated with the Jews held captive in Babylon.

And with this mention of the Babylonian Exile, I come to the question that remains. And I think the question that you are asking. Where did the story of Shemot, the “Exodus,” the “Going Out,” come from?

And more importantly, why was that story so important to canonize in the Torah — the Jewish people’s “Instruction”?

The Shemot was likely written down and edited in a form that we would recognize today during and after the Babylonian Exile.

So, what was the Babylonian Exile? And what was its impact on Judaism?

To answer that, I need to start this part of the story about 130 years before the Babylonian Exile, in around 730 BCE. We’re now about 450 years after the Late Bronze Age Collapse, when the Canaanites were fighting the Peleset tribe.

Between about 730 and 720 BCE, the Neo-Assyrian Empire conquered the Northern Kingdom of Israel.

Now, you may know this as the time when the “Ten Tribes of Israel were lost.”

In reality, the Assyrians didn’t capture the entire population of Israel. They did capture the Israelite elite and force them to relocate to Mesopotamia, but there were many people from the Israelite tribes left behind. The Ten Tribes were never “lost” because many of the remaining people in the Northern Kingdom migrated south to the Kingdom of Judah.

One such group of people from the Northern Kingdom of Israel maintained their distinct identity and still exist today: the Samaritans. These are the people who today are the Samaritan Israelites. They have their own Torah and their own Temple on Mount Gerizim, where they continue the tradition of animal sacrifice, as the Jews did in Jerusalem before the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in 70 CE. The Samaritans keep the Sabbath, they observe Kashrut laws (i.e., they keep kosher), and they hold sacrifices on Yom Kippur and Pesach. In short, they have maintained religious practices that are similar to Judaism during the Second Temple period.

This mass migration into the Kingdom of Judah in the late 700s and early 600s BCE is where Judaism as we know it today really started to take shape.

At that time, the people of the Northern Kingdom of Israel were polytheistic. They ate pork. They did many of the things that the writers of the Torah tell the Jews not to do.

This is where many of these commandments began, when the priests of Judah needed to define what it was to be a Jew (a member of the Tribe of Judah), in the face of this mass migration from the Kingdom of Israel.

You see, the Ancient Jews didn’t know about germ theory or recognize that trichinosis was caused by eating undercooked pork. That’s not why pigs are treyf. Pigs are treyf because eating pork began as a societal taboo. In short, pigs take a lot of resources to care for, and they eat people food, not grass (i.e. they don’t chew a cud). So if you kept pigs, you would be taking away resources from other people. When you are living in a precarious society that is constantly being raided and conquered by outsiders, you have to make sure that your people are fed, and if you’re competing with a particular livestock over food, that livestock has to be outlawed.

This time period is also likely when the Kingdom of Judah started to practice monolatry (worshiping one God without explicitly denying the existence of other Gods). The people of Judah worshiped YHWH (Adonai) as their God, and the Northern Kingdom of Israel worshiped El as the head of their polytheistic pantheon. The Jews put both of them together as the same G-d. That is why the Bereshit (Genesis) begins:

When Elohim (G-d) began to shape heaven and earth, and the earth then was welter and waste, and darkness over Tehom (the Deep), and the breath of Elohim (G-d) hovering over the waters

NOTE: This is a modification to Robert Alter’s translation of the first two lines of Bereshit (Genesis) in the Tanakh. In a few paragraphs, I will explain the modification I’ve made of transliterating the Hebrew word “Tehom,” instead of (mis)translating this word as “the Deep” as in nearly every translation of Genesis.

Then over the next two hundred years, monolatry would gradually become monotheism. One of the Northern Kingdom’s gods, Baal, was especially popular, so the Judean leadership had to expressly forbid the worship of this god during the writing of the Tanakh.

The message was clear: If we’re going to be one people, we need to worship one G-d. And the importance of the Babylonian Exile cannot be overstated in this shift from monolatry to monotheism. The period during and after the Babylonian Exile is when most of the Tanakh was edited into a form that we would recognize today.

So, I come back to the question, what was the Babylonian Exile? It began, as many wars do, as a conflict over monetary tribute.

Around 598 BCE, the Judean King Jehoiakim refused to continue paying tribute to the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar II. And so in around 597 BCE, Nebuchadnezzar II’s troops besieged Jerusalem, killed King Jehoiakim, and captured much of the Judean leadership, holding them captive in Babylon. Over the next ten years, Nebuchadnezzar II continued his siege of Jerusalem, and in 587, he destroyed the First Temple, looted it for its treasures, and took more of the Jews captive. The deportation of the Jewish people to Babylon continued throughout the 580s BCE.

So, by the 570s BCE, the majority of the Jews were captives in a strange land. They were second-class citizens with few rights. The Jews feared that their people would start to assimilate into Babylonian society, intermarry so that they could secure greater freedom for their descendants, and then ultimately disappear as a unique people.

The Jewish leadership knew that this assimilation would begin by the Jews worshiping Babylonian gods.

So the Jewish leadership had a brilliant idea. They said, “We are not in danger of our people drifting into polytheism, assimilation, and cultural death, because we declare that the Babylonian gods do not exist. There is only one G-d, Adonai.”

Now we have left monolatry, and we are fully in monotheism.

And so, the Jews in captivity took Babylonian stories that their children heard around them, and they made these stories Jewish.

That is why the opening lines of Genesis sound so much like the opening lines of the Babylonian creation story, the Enuma Elish.

And remember when I mentioned that I had transliterated “Tehom” in the first two lines of Bereshit (Genesis) above, instead of using the standard translation of “the Deep”? That is because Tehom is a Hebrew cognate for the Babylonian sea goddess Tiamat, who the Babylonian god Marduk defeated and used to shape the heavens and the earth, just as Elohim shaped the heavens and the earth.

When you read the Enuma Elish, you can see the parallels to Genesis:

When the heavens above did not exist, And earth beneath had not come into being — There was Apsû, the first in order, their begetter, And demiurge Tiamat, who gave birth to them all; They had mingled their waters together Before meadow-land had coalesced and reed-bed was to be found — When not one of the gods had been formed Or had come into being, when no destinies had been decreed, The gods were created within them

That is also why the flood story of Noah and the Ark sounds so much like the flood story from the Epic of Gilgamesh.

That is why the story of Moshe’s mother saving him by placing him in a basket on the Nile River parallels the story of King Sargon of Akkad’s mother saving him by placing him in a basket on the Euphrates River.

In order to survive as a people, the Jews consolidated all gods into one G-d. Adonai. Shema Yisrael Adonai eloheinu Adonai ehad. "Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One."

The Jews said, yes, we acknowledge that we are hearing these polytheistic Babylonian stories in our captivity, but we will make them our own so that we can continue to exist as a people.

But back to your question. What about the story told in Shemot, the “Exodus” from the Land of Egypt?

I think by now you can see the parallels between the Jewish people held as captives in Babylon and the story that they told, of the Israelites held as slaves in Egypt.

And so, the Exodus story, which had been told and retold in various ways as a means to process the cataclysmic trauma of the Late Bronze Age Collapse (similar to the oral retellings of the Trojan War epic before they were written down by “Homer”), now took on a new meaning.

The Exodus story now represented the Jewish people’s hope for escape from Babylon. It represented the Jewish people’s desire to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem that Nebuchadnezzar II had destroyed. It represented the acceptance that it would take at least a generation before the Jews would be able to return to Jerusalem.

And it represented a cautionary tale about leaders who become too powerful, no matter how beloved they may be.

At a Torah study this Sukkot, the Rabbi discussed why the writers of Devarim (Deuteronomy) said that Moshe couldn’t enter Canaan, even though he'd led the Israelites out of Egypt (which, again, didn't literally happen). And one interpretation is because the Jewish leaders were writing and editing the Exodus during and shortly after the Babylonian Exile, and after seeing the Kingdom of Judah fall because of bad leadership. And they were saying, “It doesn't matter how beloved a leader is. If they start becoming a demagogue, and start behaving as someone who is drunk on their own power, you can't trust them as a leader. And you need to find new leadership.” And damn if that isn't a lesson that we could all stand to learn from!

So, was the Exodus story historically true? No. But does it matter that the Exodus story isn’t historically true? No, it does not. It was and is and will continue to be deeply meaningful to the Jewish people. The Shemot, the Exodus, the breaking of chains, the escape from the “Pharaohs” that enslave us — these are still deeply meaningful to us as Jews.

Was Moshe a historical figure? No, he was not. Is he one of the most fascinating, inspiring, and deeply human figures in Jewish tradition, and in literature in general? Yes, he is. Moshe was an emergent leader, an everyman, a stutterer, and yet he was chosen to lead and speak for his people. He was chosen to write the Torah, the “Instruction,” that has guided us for thousands of years. It doesn't matter that he was not a historical person. What matters is what he stands for. He is the one who directed us in what it is to be Jewish.

Now, fast forward to 538 BCE, around 60 years after the Jews were first taken as captives to Babylon. The Jewish people’s prayers were answered when Persian King Cyrus the Great defeated Babylon in battle, and allowed the Jews to return to Jerusalem, where they began construction on the Second Temple, which was completed around 515 BCE.

The Persian Zoroastrians were henotheistic (they worshiped one God, Ahura Mazda, but they recognized other gods as well). They also had a chief adversarial deity, Angra Mainyu, who was in direct opposition to Ahura Mazda.

Just as the Jews had incorporated Babylonian stories into their texts as a way to preserve their identity as a Jewish people, the Jews now incorporated this idea of “good versus evil” (i.e., It’s better to assimilate the foreign god to us, than to assimilate us to the foreign god).

This shift can be seen in the later story of the Book of Job, which is in the Ketuvim (Writings). Jews have no devil and no hell. There is no “eternal afterlife damnation," and there is no “original sin.” Jews believe in living a good life, right here on earth, and being buried in Jewish soil. Some Jews believe that we go to Sheol when we die, which is a shadowy place of peaceful rest, similar to the Greek realm of Hades. In the Book of Job, the Hebrew word “hassatan” (which Christians transliterate as “Satan”) is just a lawyerly adversary, like a “devil’s advocate” who debates for the other side of the argument. It’s certainly not anything akin to a Christian “devil.”

However, throughout the Second Temple period, various apocalyptic Jewish sects would arise in response to Greek and then Roman persecution, inspired by the Zoroastrian idea of a battle between “the light and the dark.”

In the 1st and 2nd centuries CE, this would lead to a search for the Moshiach: a human leader (not divine) who was descended from the line of King David, and who would restore Jerusalem. And that would not culminate in Jesus (Jews don’t recognize Jesus as Moshiach — for us, he's a really cool dude who said some very profound things, but he's not That Guy).

Rather, the search for Moshiach would stem from the events leading up to the Jewish War, which concluded in 70 CE with the Romans destroying the Second Temple and sacking Jerusalem, and it would culminate in the Bar Kochba revolt between 132 and 135 CE. The Bar Kochba revolt resulted in a Roman campaign of systematic Jewish slaughter and “ethnic cleansing” that nearly destroyed the Jewish people a second time. But that’s a story for another day!

In closing, I encourage you to learn more about Jewish history. And don’t just learn about us from the Holocaust, our darkest hour. Learn about our full history. I highly recommend Sam Aronow’s excellent series on YouTube, which is an ongoing Jewish history project. The YouTube channel Useful Charts also provides excellent overviews of Jewish history.