#god DOES work wonders except he uses them to attack me personally with irony

[peachcitt]

disappointed this morning because i put on a cute outfit and wouldn’t be seeing many people while wearing it because all i had to do today was take my car to the shop but good news‼️🤩☺️ i got into a wreck on the highway so a hundred strangers drove past me and saw how cute i looked😇😊🥰😘god works wonders🔥💯👆

[gwiiyeoweo]

Umbra sends Noctis way, waaaaay into the past and into Somnus' own bed. Well, the second part he did himself.

Pairing: Noctis/Somnus Rating: Explicit

The Royal Lucian genes are a helluva thing. 

When Regis once remarked how similar his son looked to his father Mors, Noctis thought it was pretty common and definitely nothing out of the ordinary. If his biology classes taught him anything, it was that grandchildren can bear a striking resemblance to their grandparents compared to their parents. Noctis had only seen Mors through news articles and the grand portrait adorning the Hall of Kings, its walls dedicated solely to the everlasting frames of royals past. He couldn't really see how a gray-haired man could look so close to 15-year old him, but when he Moogled a younger snapshot of Mors he almost mistook the old photo as himself.

There were definite similarities in bone structure and hell, even that tiny mole near the corner of their mouths. 

But this? This is like staring into a straight-up reflection.

He’s literally looking up, eyes half-lidded and face twisted in pleasure with a touch of pain, but through the haze of heat lighting up his body and mind, Noctis can’t help but think of the irony and plot twist and — 

“You’re thinking again,” Somnus reprimands, voice just a mark away from a growl, “of something other than me.” 

As if in punishment, the man digs his fingers into Noctis’ thighs — just another set of marks to add to the blooming bruises along his wrists and the curious rough circles on his collarbones and neck — and hoists his hips up into a better angle to slam himself into. 

It does the trick. Something like fire and lightning, something like magic hits Noctis in all the worst and best ways, and he scrambles for purchase, hands flinging up to claw at the pillows as he arches his back and keens.

He’s learned that Somnus can be gentle in his own ways, if one overlooks the narcissism that veils his true heart — a heart that, beyond blood and family and love, treasures his people and will tread through fire and sacrifices if (when) necessary. But the young king makes for a rough and merciless lover. With every brutal thrust, he draws out a sob and smiles ever the wider for it, Noctis’ wanton cries a sweet music to his ears. He only slows when he has Noctis babbling his name in an incoherent string of stammers and gasps, rewarding him with a soft kiss to his temple before he picks up the unrelenting pace again. “Much better,” he purrs, watching the way his near-copy writhes and sings with a gaze that scorches.

Noctis will admit, that fucking his great-great-great-great-whatever grandfather was never on his agenda; though given the many generations separating their blood, they were probably just as related, if not less, as he would be to Ignis or Gladio, considering how their families were borne out of the Caelum line to begin with. Hell, being transported all the way to this ancient Lucian era was a minor surprise to this fork in the road. The night before they set off for Ardyn and Insomnia, to reclaim the throne and bring back the light, he asked Umbra for a last trip down memory lane, only for the dog to throw him ages further and in free fall thousands of feet up. Good thing he was used to falling by now, and he was never more thankful to still have his warping powers and the Armiger. 

Except, he sort of screwed himself over by warping right in front of Somnus Fucking Lucis Caelum. 

‘Shiva’s tits, ’ he couldn’t help but think, not out of fear or anxiety but because Somnus looked exactly like he did when he was still twenty. He thought he must have landed in a time before all that… shit went down between the two, before Ardyn turned saint turned martyr trying to foolishly save the world one person at a time. Before Somnus went with the ‘go big or go home’ method and burned down anything that did so much as cough.

Before their clashing ideologies led them to clashing swords. 

He never really thought he’d be grateful for being stuck in the purgatory known as the Crystal, but it’s a perk to see their ancient history play across his eyelids like a giant home theater. 

Somnus probably shared similar thoughts at seeing his living reflection, considering the bulging eyes and the white cast across his face — which, really, would have been rather comical in any other circumstances — but it wasn’t until later when Noctis was one hundred percent sure that had been the reason, when he looked in the mirror and realized he was smaller and younger and twenty again. Because while Noctis thought he was looking at a past version of himself, Somnus was looking at a near replica of his own. Age and all, minus the hairstyle.

Without revealing his true origins and the outcome of the future, Noctis had to think on the fly, and he still curses himself for not having the same quick mind that Ignis does (Did? Would? Time travel is weird). 

“I’m a Messenger,” he said a second too fast, internally beating himself up for being so godsdamn stupid. “I didn’t have a physical form, so I took on the first one I saw. You.”

It worked out in his favor that Somnus was never a god-fearing man, a downright heretic compared to Ardyn, but that explanation was enough to satisfy him. And his ego, probably, that a demigod would choose to liken himself to Somnus’ visage. Oh, and that he currently has said demigod moaning and flushed beneath him, pliant and desperate and sobbing with ecstasy.

“Somnus, ” Noctis cries out, hands moving from the pillow to grab at the man’s arms, blunt nails leaving pink trails in their wake. 

Somnus smiles at that, wicked and slow despite the exertion that sweats down his skin and brow. He recognizes the sudden tightness around his cock, of Noctis clenching around him and his stomach straining its muscles, as well as the swell that coils within his own. 

“Hold on, pretty thing,” Somnus purrs, moving one hand from Noctis’ thigh to his cock, keeping a grip just a hair from pain but miles away from release. “Together we go.”

‘Arrogant prick, ’ Noctis thinks, despite the frustration and heat haze of pleasure filling his mind to the brim. Somnus may as well stand in front of a mirror and flirt with himself if he’s going to continue spewing words like that at someone who looks exactly like him. But he’s teetering on the edge, held back by a cruel hand and a vicious pace, and he’s desperate enough to even meet Somnus’ thrusts by rocking his own hips in conjunction. 

It’s not long until Somnus gives out, and Noctis thinks he blanks out for a moment when all he sees is white, when that same exhilaration runs through his nerves and spine and taps into something deeper than a great orgasm ever could. 

Their first time together, Noctis was stuck between fear and wonder when he came to the realization that his magic, as faint as it is ever since it had been culled by that Marilith attack, was reaching out toward Somnus’ own and that — yeah. That’s kinda weird.

He’s had sex with others before, men and women alike, some ending poorly and others fan-fucking-tastic. But that whole magic thing? Still virgin territory. The side-effects of fucking another Caelum, he now knows. He still hasn’t hashed out the details of it, though Somnus is becoming ever the wiser about it, who first chalked it up to the benefit of fucking a so-called Messenger but now has his own suspicions. A matter of time before the ruse is up and Noctis has to come clean about it all like, “Hey! I’m actually from the future and your great-times-a-hundred-somethin’-grandson. The future’s shit, by the way, cause Bahamut and all of you are dumbasses!”

But for now, Somnus cleans them up with nary a fuss about dirtying his dainty royal hands as he wipes them both down with a wet cloth, which is surprisingly soft and fluffy for their time period. Sure, he could be a dick and a half when it came to his personality, but Noctis likes to think of him as a prissy cat that actually loves cuddles and attention. Especially when Somnus drapes an arm around him and practically buries his face into the crook of Noctis’ neck, breathing in their combined scents of each other and their aftermath. 

Noctis gently rakes his fingers through the man’s scalp and stares at the ceiling of the canopy bed, wondering how exactly his new ‘future’ will play out. He doesn’t know if or when Umbra will return to take him to the present — he turns his head at every faint bark he hears, and Somnus teases him for it relentlessly — and he damn well doesn’t know if anything he does here will change the timeline anyway. But he likes to believe and hope that he can do at least something, anything to lessen the blows of tragedy when they come. 

“You’re thinking again,” Somnus sighs, though his tone is less out of irritation and more of concern. Noctis has figured out how to read these tiny differences, like how those brows like to just slightly crease when worried or how he sets his jaw when angered. His eyebrows are lowered, barely, as his gaze searches for the cracks of truth hidden beneath Noctis’ true face. Too bad he won’t be getting them, not now. “After such a rousing time, even.”

“Messenger problems.” Noctis turns his head to return the gaze, but less inquisitive and more secretive. 

“Then tell me, dear night.”

Noctis feels something funky in his chest. Which he’s quick to ignore because he definitely does not want to admit what it is. He lightly taps his forehead against Somnus’ own, craning his neck slightly to meet each other, and does his damned hardest to look at him with as much feigned honesty as he can muster. It’s gotten easier lately, to lie and twist half-truths, but not without effort. 

“One day. When you’re ready.” 

‘When I’m ready, ’ he means instead. He wants to trust Somnus, but he won’t be ready for the backlash if the worst case scenario happens. 

Somnus stares back, lips working themselves into a retort and Noctis expects an argument or a demand to know now. It wouldn’t be the first they clashed with words, Somnus standing on his pedestal and believing his birthright and lineage granted him the secret musings of the gods with Noctis standing just as stalwart and refusing to budge. But tonight instead, he harrumphs and concedes to their middle ground, closing his eyes and burying his face further into the crease between Noctis and the pillows to murmur, “It best be soon, Noctis. I am not known for my patience, unlike my long-suffering brother.”  

Noctis only manages a hum, pushing back the anxieties and what-if’s should that time come. When it comes, he corrects. He knows it’s inevitable, that the truth will rear its head one way or another. But it’s up to him on how it’ll all play out and if the results will end up in fortune or disaster. 

Right now, though, he’s exhausted — the good kind, not the fatigue that makes his bones ache and his muscles quiver — and Somnus is true to his name, pulling Noctis into sleep with his warmth and soft breath ghosting across skin. He’ll put more thought into it in the morning, come up with a more serious plan rather than half-ass snippets. Sooner rather than later, because Noctis isn’t known for his patience either.

“Goodnight,” Somnus manages through the lethargy in his voice.

“Good… sleep.” Noctis glances down in hopes of catching a reaction to his pun.

And he does, when Somnus opens his eyes for just a moment to make sure the other catches his definite eye roll. Noctis smiles at that, and he takes that image with him into his dreams.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “The Ties that Bind: Chapter 3 - An Unintended Foursome” (Rated NC17)

Blaine and Kurt are dating, in a long-term relationship, with New York City as their playground. Everything is as close to perfect for the two of them as can be, especially for Blaine, who’s living the dream as a songwriter beside his up-and-coming designer boyfriend, both of them without a care in the world. Until one night, he’ll find himself connected in a bizarre way to seven other human beings he’s never met, trying to solve a mystery - the hunt for a killer and to save a life, all while trying to come to terms with his new forced membership into the collective.

(This is a re-write that I got several requests for, based off of the Netflix series Sense8, with a little loose interpretation on some of the specifics - i.e., how the collective get their powers and why, what they need to accomplish as a collective, and the fact that all the players aren’t necessarily spread all over the world. Quite a few of them are in NY. Also, this story is going to focus on Kurt and Blaine, with the other characters being satellite to the story, though their stories may end up being explored deeper in one-shots. YOU DON’T NEED TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THE SHOW SENSE8 TO FOLLOW THIS. THIS STORY EXPLAINS IT ALL.) Warning for violence, blood, psychic abilities, psychic bonds, angst, anxiety, sex work, and death (not Kurt or Blaine).

Read on AO3.

Chapter 1 - In the Beginning

Chapter 2 - Abandoned Warehouses in My Mind

Chapter 3 (2559 words)

Blaine can’t sleep.

He shakes all over, shakes too much, like he has caught a chill beneath his skin that he can’t ward away, even huddled under Kurt’s thick comforter, with his boyfriend’s arms around him. His mind is fractured, his thoughts scattered. He finds it hard to keep track of them, or to hold on to a single one. Thinking about simple things that should keep him grounded – his phone number, his address, his middle name - become painful. And then, in the middle, he recoils. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking of those things, things that could be used to identify him, locate him. Not when God knows how many people have access to his head.

He tries to empty it, make it blank. But every time he finds quiet, a moment of nothing, something interrupts – a thought, a memory, a voice, a conversation - and none of it belongs to him. He thinks about going for a jog, figuring the cold air and physical exertion will clear his head, but he doesn’t want to run into any other ghosts … or worse, the men Jake spoke of. Apparently, the thugs who beat Kitty, raped Kitty, and shot her through the skull aren’t the big baddies. There’s someone else Blaine has to worry about out there, someone he doesn’t know exists.

Someone he has yet to see.

How does he defend himself, and Kurt, when he doesn’t know who’s after them? Or why?

What if these other people have psychic abilities, too? Does Blaine really have psychic abilities? Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, so he isn’t exactly sure what to call it. Conveniently, Jake disappeared before he could relay that information. Blaine tries to summon him back. He thinks about Kitty, pictures her eyes, her face, her voice, her murder, and uses those to try and lure Jake into his mind. He even tries calling out for Kitty, the prospect of actually making contact with her scaring him half to death. But he has no luck on either account, and he feels defeated.

Then there are the others – the people Jake spoke about, the ones that Kitty gave him. Jake had been the first, that black lady a sort of second, but they wouldn’t be the last. There are more than just them. Blaine can feel them, and they could show up at any time - in Blaine’s apartment, at his work, while he’s in the toilet. Or he could be zapped to wherever they are. And then what? What would happen? And when would that be? The uncertainty is maddening. Blaine hears them, their existence a low hum throughout his body. Sometimes they laugh, one of them even screams, but then they’re gone. For hours, there’ll be silence, and then another will come back. He sees things he’s sure aren’t meant for his eyes. He sees the moon, but not over New York City. He sees a restaurant kitchen, smells veal and garlic cooking.

Then nothing.

For over an hour, everything goes back to normal except that he’s not, and he knows it. He’s finally ready to try and sleep when he feels a touch on his shoulder. He thinks it’s Kurt. He’s about to say something to him, but he blinks, and suddenly he’s staring into the face of a beautiful Latina, with shining brown eyes, smiling at him … but not at him. It lasts less than a second, and then she’s gone.

Well, he was right before. He’s not going to sleep, and he doesn’t want to be alone. Not that he is alone. He’s destined not to be alone, for however long that lasts. But he needs his boyfriend. He doesn’t just need the distraction; he needs Kurt. He needs the connection he has with him, a connection to a person he chose.

A connection that belongs to him alone.

He turns in Kurt’s arms, feeling guilty that he’s waking up his boyfriend, who’s been blissfully dead to the world this whole time. At least, that’s what Blaine thought. But the reality has been much different, hidden from him while he’s had his back turned. Kurt might be lying still, but he doesn’t look calm - his brow drawn in at the center, his teeth clenched, his jaw tensed from the pressure he’s putting on it. His lips move, angrily telling someone in his head what for. What happened tonight was horrible and frightening for Blaine, but watching him go through it, helpless to stop it, must have been as bad for Kurt.

Blaine remembers feeling that same way when Kurt was attacked a few years back. Walking home from a dinner date with a friend, he came across two homophobic assholes beating up a gay man, and Kurt ran to his rescue. The victim ended up ditching Kurt, leaving Kurt to get beat up instead. Blaine received the call at home when Kurt was en route to the hospital. He ran out so quickly, he almost forgot to put on his jacket or lock the loft door. But along the way, he got caught in a net of unfortunate mishaps. His bus got stuck in traffic. The train he diverted to broke down. The taxi he caught after that ended up behind a three car pile-up. It was a mess, and the whole time, Blaine felt too far away.

Useless.

Kurt is a force of nature, fiercely protective of everyone in need, especially the people he loves. Looking at Kurt, his eyes closed, feverishly defending Blaine to the voices nagging his brain, Blaine knows Kurt is the most wonderful, most compassionate, most caring man that he has ever met. The irony of their relationship, though, is that the two of them met while Kurt was being bullied at school. It had gone on daily for years, and no one seemed to notice. The few people who did notice, didn’t seem to care. Kurt wasn’t actively searching for a safe space at the time. In fact, he’d given up hope that he could find some peace and normalcy in his life. But he ended up finding that at Dalton.

Along with finding Blaine.

Blaine helped Kurt confront his high school bully. He helped Kurt overcome the stigma of being the only out gay person at his school. Blaine was there for Kurt, held his hand, stood up for him, transferred schools to be with him, and it felt good. Blaine loved being his boyfriend’s protector. But more and more, Kurt has grown beyond the need to have Blaine protect him. He’s become stronger, more confident, more secure with who he is, his identity, and how he presents that identity to others. He doesn’t need to hold Blaine’s hand anymore. In fact, there have been several times when Kurt has forded ahead and led the charge when Blaine would have stood fast and waited.

Kurt is a fearless, self-sufficient man. He isn’t a delicate flower who needs his boyfriend to protect him.

He doesn’t rely on Blaine.

But ever since they moved to New York, Blaine has begun to rely on Kurt.

He’s relying on Kurt now, to get rid of the fear within him. He needs to have the one person that belongs only to him.

He kisses Kurt on the cheeks, on the eyelids, on the mouth. Kurt’s lips stop moving, his tirade over, and his eyelids pop open.

“Oh God!” He laughs, gasping as if his heart stopped and restarted in the space of those kisses. “Blaine! You’re awake. You scared the crap out of me!”

“Did you think it was someone else?” Blaine kids, but Kurt doesn’t buy into the façade. He sees through Blaine’s attempt at humor. He knows that Blaine’s not okay. He felt him tossing and turning, heard him mumbling in his sleep, calling out names Kurt didn’t recognize.

He heard Blaine crying.

Kurt puts a hand to Blaine’s cheek. “Baby, what’s wrong? Please, tell me.”

“Nothing,” Blaine lies. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But Kurt knows better.

“Blaine, you know that whatever it is, whatever’s bothering you, no matter how it sounds, you can talk to me.”

“I know,” Blaine says, pulling Kurt against him, “but I … I don’t want to talk right now. I just need …” He kisses Kurt’s forehead, his hairline, the bridge of his nose, hoping his actions will speak for him because his mind just wants to shut down.

Kurt moves to fit better against him, returning kisses to his chin, traveling along his jaw to his neck. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Kurt throws a leg over Blaine’s hip and rolls on top of him, but Blaine pushes back, pins him to the mattress, and Kurt lets Blaine have him the way he needs him. Blaine undresses Kurt, kissing his way down his body. He moves so slowly, he’s gone beyond taking his time, but Kurt doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t tease him.

He doesn’t say anything when Blaine’s breathing hitches, when it sounds like he’s choking down a sob.

Blaine makes his way back to Kurt’s chest, up the column of his neck, and kisses Kurt’s mouth with his eyes open. He doesn’t want Kurt to disappear. He doesn’t want to end up somewhere else. He needs to live in this moment, needs to figure out a way to keep the magic/spirits/hallucinations from taking over without his permission.

“Oh, God … Blaine,” Kurt moans when his boyfriend’s fingers explore, toy, dip inside and scissor before slipping out and venturing elsewhere. “Oh, yes, Blaine. Oh God …”

“… Santana …”

It rings in Blaine’s head, clear as the sunlight seeping in below the curtains, but it’s more than that. It’s imprinted in his blood, turns everything inside him to ice. Blaine’s first instinct is to stop when he hears a woman’s voice moan that name inside his head - not Kitty’s voice, one of their voices - but he keeps going for Kurt’s sake. He doesn’t want Kurt to know anything is wrong. Kurt will want to talk about it for certain, and Blaine can’t risk that. He moves quickly - spreads Kurt’s legs, lubes up, and buries himself inside his boyfriend’s body. Kurt yelps in surprise, but as Blaine doesn’t seem to be taking his time about things anymore, Kurt winds his legs around his boyfriend’s hips and holds on tight.

“Oh, God …”

“… Santana … oh, Santana …”

“Blaine, I … I love you …”

“Santana …”

“I ...”

“… want you …”

“… Blaine …”

“… Santana …”

“Fuck!” Blaine grunts, squeezing his eyes shut and shoving his head into the pillow beside Kurt’s left ear. Kurt moans, locking his legs tighter, under the impression that Blaine is close to cumming, and he lets himself go with it.

Blaine takes a breath and holds it. He focuses on his physical presence, and tries to let his body run the show without him while he gets his mind straight, but he made the mistake of closing his eyes … which means he’ll have to open them again. And when he does, Kurt might not be there. But Blaine can’t hide. The ghosts or whatever will find him eventually.

It’s only a matter of time.

He opens them slowly, a sliver with each inhale of breath, hoping he’ll glimpse the unexpected before he has to come face to face with it. He suspects he already knows. He can feel it by way of a peculiar buzzing in his head, a pinging in his body that wasn’t there before, announcing its arrival.

When his eyes open, Kurt is gone.

He can still hear Kurt’s voice - his sweet, high moans; his breathy pants; signs that he’s so, so close - but beneath Blaine is a woman, her long, blonde hair spilling over the pillow; blue eyes wide with alarm, but not frightened. She’s completely naked, and he knows that wherever she is, she has to be having sex with someone – with Santana – right at this moment. She gasps when she sees him, surprised, but completely turned on. She’s not Kitty.

She’s one of them.

“Blaine,” she whispers.

He shakes his head, muttering, “No, no, no,” and she disappears. He’s looking at Kurt again, head thrown back, hands locked on Blaine’s forearms, pounding his hips against Blaine’s body, siphoning the ecstasy from his stilled hips. Blaine holds on to this image, keeps his eyes open till they burn. He can’t leave Kurt. Kurt can’t disappear.

Kurt swoops up to kiss him, but before their lips touch, Blaine sees the blonde woman, and this time, he’s kissing her. She moans into his mouth. It’s delicious, sinful, fulfilling, but he feels himself backing away.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He really wants to.

But he doesn’t want to.

Not because he feels like he’s cheating, though he kind of does, even with Kurt right there, unaware of anything going on. This woman doesn’t feel like a separate entity. She’s a part of Blaine, somewhere inside him. She’s in his head, in his body, flowing through his veins like blood and filling up his lungs like oxygen. She’s in his thoughts, her fantasies aligning with his until not only are he and she having sex on his bed, but somewhere in between what’s real and what’s illusion, Kurt and Santana are making love, too, in this blonde woman’s room, somewhere in California.

Which means that she’s fucking Kurt, and Blaine doesn’t want that. He wants Kurt for himself. He wanted to keep this one thing for him and him alone. But now that’s gone, too, and he didn’t have a choice. None of this was his choice. This woman, Brittany (he knows because of Kitty’s voice in his head, and her partner enthusiastically calling out her name with every bang of her headboard against some distant wall) is with him, while having an intimate moment of her own, which is why the universe, or whatever, chose this moment to connect them.

Fuck!

“Blaine?” Kurt’s brow wrinkles with concern. “Are you alright? I don’t think you’re cumming, baby.”

“I am,” Blaine lies, and he hates that it’s becoming a habit.

“Blaine” – Kurt runs a hand up Blaine’s arm – “you’re trembling! Are you sure you’re …”

“Can we not talk about this?” Blaine begs, moving when he realizes he’d stopped and Kurt’s been doing most of the work. “Please, just … not right now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Kurt pulls Blaine down to his body. “We won’t talk about it.”

Blaine nods, thankful that he doesn’t have to explain more than that.

That he doesn’t have to lie again.

He wraps his arms around Kurt’s torso and hugs him till he’s finished, finding too late the closeness that he craved.

He can’t let Kurt know. Kurt can never know. This is going to be Blaine’s secret, Goddammit, no matter what it costs. He’s going to take it with him to his grave.

Kurt cums with his teeth in Blaine’s bicep and, “I love you,” on his lips, starry-eyed and sated in Blaine’s arms. But Blaine’s orgasm is weak, his head too wrapped up in complicated scenarios and worries and fear. He can’t be carefree with Kurt like this. Not yet. Not with all these people he’s carrying with him.

Maybe not ever again.

[skeptic42]

I got a response...

Yay!

@ws-lover-245:

This is horrible. You claim God isn’t real, and try to prove it with this scientific and historic evidence, but you cannot create one thing. Life. You can’t create new life, only God can. I’m praying that you see this, and realize that God is real and Christianity is Not False.

First, thank you for the response.  I appreciate your candor and politeness

Second, a note to any of my followers.

DO NOT ATTACK THIS PERSON, IF YOU DO, I WILL BAN YOU.  THIS IS A RESPECTFUL DISCUSSION.  I DON’T AGREE WITH CHRISTIANITY, BUT I RESPECT, AND WILL DEFEND, OTHER PEOPLE’S RIGHT TO.

Science can’t refute the existence of a god.  Not simply because god exists outside of the universe, but mankind cannot leave the solar system.  So we cannot check everywhere for him.  By the same token, nothing can prove that god exists, except god himself.  And if god does exist, then he’s chosen the most peculiar ways to reveal himself.

What history proves is that the bible is a compilation of stories taken from other cultures and modified to fit the Hebrew mindset and culture.  Take the Genesis creation story.  Read chapters 1 & 2.  It looks like one is a general overview, the second focuses on certain events.  Now read the first one and write down in order (in a column) the events that happen.  On a separate sheet of paper, do the same with the second more specific story.

I’d like you to do that before continuing, your choice ...

If you put them side by side, you will see that there are differences, not just in the detail, but in the order of events.  One would think that in writing a book, it would be easy to keep things in order.  This is most likely because they are separate accounts, and were compiled into a book.  Moses is often credited with writing it, but that is doubtful, especially if you consider that he continues to write after he dies.  Or he’s a very good predictor of the future.  Or god told him what to write.  IF so, then how can an all-knowing wise god get the order mixed up.

In Sumerian mythology, a great king save all of life on earth by loading animals into a large square boat.  Sound familiar?

The Flood story doesn’t make sense on many levels.  God kills all of mankind, and all of the animals.  Why the animals?  It was mankind that was wicked, not the animals.  Why destroy the entire earth?  Why not just snuff out all of the wicked people?  God has unlimited power.  He can do anything.  Why flood the earth for a whole year?  Why all the suffering?  Never mind the doctrinal debates.  Did Noah take fish on board?  No, they survived in the water.  Yes, the flood churned up so much silt that it killed everything outside the ark.  Which is it?

But more importantly, the story predates the existence of the Hebrews.

Exodus.  40 years in the desert.  Egypt has been scoured by people diligently working to prove the exodus story.  There is very little evidence that they were even in Egypt.  When they left, it was some 2,000,000 people.  2 million.  600,000 men.  They had wives, they had children, they took their livestock.  Moses was 80 when god he saw the burning bush.  2 million people living n Egypt for well over 80 years (it would have taken centuries to reach that number of people in those days) would have left some evidence of their passing.  There is very little evidence that that many Hebrews were enslaved in Egypt under an unnamed Pharaoh.

The role of gods in most cultures in that region was more civic in function.  Anything you did, you paid homage to the appropriate deity and hoped they favored you.  The other guy was doing the same thing.  Sound familiar?  Every high school football team has god on their side.

Ever notice in Genesis that god says Adam will be “like us.”  Well, that the trinity you might think.  If it was, then where is there no reference to Jesus, a son, or the holy spirit prior to the NT?  Every culture believed in gods.  They also believed the other culture’s gods existed as well as their own.  The Romans are famous for incorporating the gods of other cultures into the Roman pantheon.  They often left cultures in place and just impose tax upon the people.  “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”  Why that wording?  Why not “Thou shalt not worship false gods.”  It’s because the author(s) of exodus believed that many gods existed.  They were a bit unique in following only a single god, having that god be the divine arbitrator of morality and the law.  I’ve often seen christians (I used to go to church), claim that the nature of the Greek gods and such being just exactly like that of mankind was proof that they were created by mankind.  They missed the irony that god “created man in his own image.”  Man created god in his image, then claimed the reverse.

I cannot take dirt of a rib and make life out of it.  I do however have the capacity to create a new life.  That life is absolutely wonderful, and brings me great joy.  And as she grows, I want to expose her to as many things as possible to learn about the great diversity of life and the human world.  She is free to choose her road, it is her life, not mine.  I have my own road.  I will teach her the skills on how to think critically, realize human shortcomings and how to be wary of them, how to respect all life, to think about the future, and to know that hers isn’t the only way.  But I will not teach her what to think and to believe.

I did see your response, and I appreciate it greatly.  I hope that you will look into other positions, understand confirmation bias, and read things with an open-mind.  I would recommend that you research Secular Humanism.  They not perfect, and that’s just fine, they’re are Human.   They don’t have all the answers, but it’s important to search for the answers, to understand that the answers you find may not be right, but they are the best we have at the moment.  When you stop searching because you have the answer to life, the universe and everything, then you start to die.  And when someone tells you that they have the answer, then they are trying to fool you.