#sacre writes

[infairvorona]

wanderlust exerpt

scene between Ava and Damien

“I found someone.” Damien said, leaning against the footboard of my bed.  He says it so nonchalantly, like he’s talking about the weather. I found someone. I think it’s supposed to rain today.

I try to keep my straight face as I ask, voice tempting to quaver, “Oh, really? That’s great.” My heart feeds like a pound of lead, ruminating in my chest. I’m sure it will turn to storm clouds later and I’ll be face down on my mattress or the floor, soaking it with my ill-begotten tears.

“Yes,” he continues, and I swear I see blush on his cheeks, “she’s quite lovely. Sort of a little thing.” He gives me a half glance. Was that a smile I just saw? “She has these soft curls and waves, her laugh is like a songbird, and her eyes are like the color of a forgotten sea. I’m lucky to have her.”

“That…that sounds nice. She sounds pretty.” I’m fighting back too many tears right now. Why would I care? Why do I care? Because he’s lovely. My brain chatters. Because he’s kind, he’s loving, he cares. There are so few who truly care.

He smiles, a little one but I can feel so much emotion behind it. When he turns to me, his eyes are filled with something else. Like honey, like sweetness, like love. 

“I haven’t officially asked her yet. Trying to work up the nerve.” He runs a hand through his dark curls. “Would you like to see her?”

I have to swallow hard before I answer; the lump in my throat threatens to render me useless. “Yes.” I say. No, I think. Please, I don’t want to see someone who sounds so lovely.

Damien takes my hand and sweeps me towards my vanity. He pulls out the chair for me and I can feel my heart drumming in my ears. 

I sit, somewhat obediently. 

He turns his attention towards the mirror on my wall. It’s covered in seashells, some kind of hubristic offering to Aphrodite. I am gorgeous, I am loved. My mantras never seemed to truly mean anything.

“So,” he says, placing his cool hands on my shoulders, “she’s got those lovely ocean eyes. They remind me of the coastline back home,” he brushes his fingers on my temples, just next to my eyes, “her laugh is like songbirds so early in the morning, like bright chimes in the wind,” he smiles as his hands brush my pale curls from my forehead, “and her curls are lovely. She once told me her color was natural. The cause of early graying; or I suppose, early white hairs. She had told me so many times how she wished she could change it but I could never work up the courage to tell her how I felt.” He tucks a stray hair behind my ear and smiles. “Eyes like the ocean, a laugh like a song, and hair as bright as moonlight.” 

Oh. is all I can think. “Oh.” is all I can say.

Damiens smile wavers for a moment, suddenly unsure. 

“Is that too much?” he asks, his voice soft and sheepish. “I could take it back.”

“No.” I say, with a little too much force. You don’t know what it means to me. 

He smiles and I can’t help but smile back.

“Why me?” I ask.

“Why not?” he replies.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders, snaking it like Float. He presses a gentle kiss to my head and I think I might’ve exploded had I not had more restraint. He keeps his lips there, amongst my pale curls until he pulls back, finally.

The look in his eyes is unexplainable. Longing, love, want, and need. No one has felt that way, not for me. 

His smile is crooked as he says, “Your hair smells like strawberries.”

I reach behind me and pull him down. I give him a kiss on the cheek, my mind running wild. 

As I pull back, I look at his deep brown eyes, like chocolate, like caramelized honey. 

“You smell like mint.” 

He gives me another smile and leads me to the bed. I fall in step beside him as we lay down. He wraps my sheets around us both and we hold each other. 

Longing, love, want, and need. That is all I feel as he holds me in his strong arms. And that is all I want, for as long as I may have it.

[vigilskeep]

read my powerpoint boy

[zelda-the-sacred-realm]

Writing/Art Challenge!

I officially start the writing/art challenge dedicated to my AU!

How to participate:

The challenge starts August 15th, and ends September 10th. All work must be completed and published no later than the deadline.

To make sure I see your participation, remember to tag me " @zelda-the-sacred-realm " in your post!

There are two categories, Writing and Art, you can create a short story or an original artwork, or you can do both and participate in both categories!

This challenge should be developed around the theme "ADVENTURE" and you can use all the characters you want from my Au.

There are 2 winners: a 1st place for Art, a 1st place for Writing.

You can use any type of media to create your artwork!

It is forbidden to trace, copy or republish art that is not yours. (I will ask you for two small wips of your work in case you win).

Drawings and stories must respect the family friendly canon.

If you have specific questions about the challenge that aren't answered here, please ask, I'll give you the info you need.

‼️This challenge is only available on my profile, if you win I will contact you in direct message to have your shipping address, I will never ask you for payment information so be wary of any profile that might pretend to be me and ask you for payment information.

Thank you for your support! Please share this to help everyone see it! 💖

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

Officially closed! Thank you all for participating, I'll announce the winners soon!

[gehennnas]

Repent, Motherfucker!

[laufire]

jason's lazarus pit was golden jason's lazarus pit was golden jasonslazaruspitwasgolden jason's lazarus pit was golden JASON'S LAZARUS PIT WAS GOLDEN

AND PIT MADNESS IS *NOTHING*

[crustaceousfaggot]

Disco Elysium: Revachol is a city unlike any other. A great city, a turning point in the history of the world. A great mass of connected tissue, a piece of meat divvied up by major world powers after the single most devastating war in recorded history. It is a city of shining lights and bullet-pocked concrete and rain-slick streets. There is no city in the world with more contrasts than Revachol. The broken, magnificent, disgraced former capital of the world. A great sky on fire, reflecting off broken glass. Revachol the Monarchy, Revachol the Commune, Revachol the Administrative Region where all forms of government have failed. Revachol the Resolver, the answer to the great burning questions of history.

Pjõl: Hey so someone blew up Revachol. The whole thing. Yeah it's gone now. This is gonna be mentioned exactly one time by a secondary protagonist using it as leverage in an argument with his girlfriend. Don't worry about it.

[lord-squiggletits]

I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

[mistfallengw2]

Feel free to be more specific in comments/notes if you want! If you want to elaborate further, how do you organize them? By role, species, age, alphabetical order, vibes or something else?

[biteofcherry]

🧚🏻‍♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now you must pick one CE fictional babe and share a hoe thought including the prompts: forest + “I can hear you breathing.” 😏 Go on and spread those shameless hoe vibes and your legs 😘❤️

The Sacred Hunt

Curtis Everett x reader

summary: Traditions were sacred. You were always vehement in seeing to that. But you never considered that at some point you may become a core part of one of your people's traditions.

warnings: sliiight dub-con (not really, but just to be sure); chase kink of sorts; arranged relationship (kinda); exp**cit se*ual content; loss of vir-g-i-n-ity;

Author's Note: This is a story of firsts - my first fic written on new laptop and my first time writing something for Curtis! @stargazingfangirl18 you kinda deflowered my Curtis virginity here with your prompt 🤣 I hope the wild mess of it will be a sufficient sacrifice to sate you.

Main Masterlist

Smoky scent of bonfires has dispersed into warmed aroma of pine and ferns the further you got into the forest. The wild beat of music and pounding of feet stomping to the rhythm, as people danced in celebration, completely died out. There was only the spooky hoot of owls hidden in the tree nooks.

And the echo of your heart, thundering rapidly in your chest.

You crossed the point of expected escape quite a while ago; stopping only for a second to look at the prepared bedding on the forest floor, before you bolted further.

You shouldn't have done that, you knew. But you couldn't make yourself to simply wait there for the champion to appear in his scary glory and seal your fate.

The Hunt was sacred.

While other seasonal celebrations were approached with variously eager engagement, all the villages in the area went beyond reason to organize this night. To show deepest kind of gratitude to the best hunter of past seasons.

The Hunt happened only once a decade, taking into consideration all of young and older hunters who provided for all the villages throughout the seasons. Elders chose the one most worthy of the title and bountiful benefits.

Each household provided a gift for the Hunter, from a barrel of mead, to a roll of silk.

The greatest prize, however, was a bride.

Each village appointed a female of age, ripe for the taking. It was considered an honor and, to be quite honest, was a position desired by many women.

Any of them could say no; they could decline the offer and wouldn't be forced to participate. They simply never wanted to say no.

You admitted you were one of those women, as well. To be wed to a husband who is strong, hard working and respected; to have your pantry and chests filled with gifts at the start of your married life.

Truly, you gasped in disbelief, then almost jumped in joy, when the elders picked you as one of the betrothed to choose from. Perhaps the honor of being chosen was enough, as it also put additional value to you as a wife for any other men who would be looking for a bride once The Hunter rejected you.

But then, as you stood in a semi circle with few other young women and The Hunter stepped into the light cast by the biggest bonfire, your elation skittered into fear.

The elders chose Curtis.

It shouldn't come as a surprise. He was the one who brought the biggest prey, who showed inhuman endurance during long, freezing winter hunts. He protected your villages from Wilford's raids and got rid of the tyrant permanently.

Yes, Curtis definitely deserved the title and the gratitude.

And a dutiful bride to share a life with him and ease his burdens.

But staring at him as he walked out of the shadows, you felt yourself cowering away. Curtis was big and intimidating. His naked chest bore scars, his corded muscles flexed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Wolf pelt was thrown over his shoulders, the hollowed head of the animal resting atop Curtis' head, shiny animal teeth glinting right above Curtis' astonishingly blue eyes.

He was a quiet and brooding type, rarely smiling for anyone. You couldn't imagine sharing a warm, soft moment with him.

Though you certainly could imagine a rough and heated communication of bodies...

When Curtis stopped in front of you and offered you his hand, you felt like fleeing that very moment. Yet your trembling fingers slipped into his large hand; your world narrowing to the brutal shades dancing on Curtis' face, as everyone else disappeared from your peripheral vision.

A cup of mead was given to Curtis and he took a sip before lifting it to your lips. Without taking your eyes off of him, you swallowed the thick, sweet drink; felt it's heat fill your veins.

Then you were led to the edge of the clearing where a line of torches and flower garlands were forming an entrance into the woods.

For The Hunt to be complete, The Hunter had to chase his prey and claim victory.

It was mostly a formality nowadays: a joyful chase through the forest, until the couple reaches the prepared spot where they were supposed to consummate their bonding.

You followed the expected motions, running into the woods toward suggested direction. Lush greenery soothed you, for a moment you even felt a spark of excitement.

Then your feet stopped at the edge of the narrow clearing, where linens and pelts and adorning trinkets were splayed. You could imagine yourself there, naked and spread for your future husband. When your mind inserted the image of Curtis - a dark, rough shard in that fair, soft setting - you nearly squeaked.

"Will you lay down, or do you want me to help you?"

You jumped in place at his deep, low timbre resounding unexpectedly right behind you.

You didn't even sense him approach!

Not a snap of a twig, not a rustle of leaves. Not even your own instinct, which you considered to be quite good, warned you of the hunter's approach.

You turned around, nearly bumping your nose right into Curtis' naked chest. He smelled of sandalwood oil and earth.

You forced your eyes upward, meeting his gaze. He wasn't looking at you with anger; rather with curiosity. And a hungry gleam that caused your thighs to clench.

There wasn't a single logical though behind your action, but you simply bolted.

You ran through the woods blindly. Ferns licked the skin of your thighs, as your simple, short white shift lifted up. Moss made your feet slippery, the ground wasn't easing your moves either.

You slowed only for a split of a second, just to catch a breath and decide on direction. You forgot a single heartbeat was enough for a skilled hunter to strike. It was definitely enough for the best of hunters.

"I can hear you breathing."

Curtis' tone held a hint of amusement as he leaned against a tree trunk, opposite of the one you were braced against.

Before you made a single step to ran again, Curtis moved. He was so damn fast! Breath stuttered in your chest as he pinned you against the tree with his heavy mass.

"Was the chase for my benefit, doe?" He asked, tracing a single finger along your cheek.

"I-" you tried to regain steady breathing.

"I enjoyed it," though he didn't smile, somehow you sensed he was genuine, not mocking you. "Though to the mystic depths of the night forest, I'd rather enjoy sweet, moist caverns of my bride."

His other hand squeezed your thigh. Your pupils blew wide as Curtis slid it up, pushing it beneath your shift.

You clenched your legs, your hands landing on Curtis' bared chest. You didn't push him away; the heat seeping from him and the firm structure of his muscles made you pause.

The finger on your cheek disappeared. Curtis brushed the petals on the flower crown adorning your head.

"The other women," he spoke, "they looked excited and in bliss. But you-" he picked a single petal, then traced the delicate pad along your lips and down the column of your neck-

"You looked determined. So sure and ready for your future."

Curtis cocked his head, eyes holding yours as he dipped the petal into the valley of your breasts.

"What changed it?" He asked.

"I-" it was really hard to think of anything when Curtis' hands were touching you.

And he made the contrast between teasing tickle of a petal on your breasts and a massive hand pushing between your thighs maddening.

"I don't know," you sighed, spreading your legs a bit in defeat.

"I think I got a little scared." Your hands moved to Curtis' shoulders, your hold tightening.

"I can be scary." Curtis nodded. "But you have nothing to fear, doe. I will never hurt you."

He paused; his gaze dropping to the petal swaying on the swell of your breast as it rose and fell in quickened breath. Curtis bowed his head slightly, then blew the petal away.

"As long as you don't run from me," he lifted his head, stark blue irises sparking with mischief and lips curling into a wolfish grin.

Then his hand was tearing the top of your shift, exposing your breasts, while his other hand cupped your mound.

Calloused fingers squeezed your breast as Curtis' mouth claimed your lips in a hungry kiss. Oxygen seemed to stop flowing to your brain for a moment, your heart stopping in shock, when you felt the pressure of his power.

Was it how prey felt when a predator sank its teeth into their neck? A freezing shock that melted into surrender for the inevitable.

You tensed like a string, but your body quickly gave in. Lips parting obediently, you allowed Curtis' tongue to tease yours. Your hands pushed at the pelt on his shoulders, yanking the whole cover off of him, so your fingers were finally able to move to the back of his head.

A keen spilled from your throat into Curtis' mouth when a single, thick digit pushed into your core.

Curtis cooed softly, trailing wet kisses along your jaw. His teeth scraped your earlobe, drawing your attention to the sting of it as he rubbed a thumb against your clit.

"We have to sate the hunt, doe," Curtis rasped, pushing another finger in and thrusting them into you quicker.

You scraped at the back of his head, crying out at the intrusion. It was more, so much more, than your small fingers. He reached deeper, too; stretching you and touching spots that seemed to both hurt and be deliriously pleasant.

"A good hunt demands blood." His breathy growl made you shiver.

Curtis pulled his fingers out of you, suddenly; your wetness smeared on your skin when he gripped the back of your thigh.

The world twirled as he laid you down on the forest ground, quickly cutting off splashes of green of the tree crowns with the frame of his huge body hovering above you.

"Please!" You whined, hands clawing at Curtis' sides.

You weren't sure if you were pleading for mercy, or if your own need was so bloodthirsty.

He spread your legs wide, settling himself between them. Your shift was rolled up on your belly, your slick glistening on the thatch of curls around your folds.

Curtis' gaze was focused between your bodies and your own eyes shifted downwards too. You let out a strangled gasp at what you saw.

Curtis was palming his cock - big, like the rest of him. When he rested it over your mount, the tip of it reached almost your bellybutton.

He would be so deep...

Your fingernails pierced his skin as Curtis guided himself into your opening. He was barely in and it already stretched you impossibly.

Then he pushed more of his weight onto you, bracing himself on his forearms on both sides of your head. He looked down at you; drinking in the metamorphosis of grimaces on your beautiful face as he thrust into your virgin cunt.

Your cry echoed through the forest as the merciless slide split you in two. Every second felt like torment that dragged overwhelming pleasure along with the sting.

And he kept on driving in, even when you felt there's not an inch left inside you to fill.

"There you go, doe," Curtis moaned, rocking his hips and pushing his cock deeper and deeper. "That's a good girl. That's it."

When he finally stilled, buried so deep inside it felt nearly uncomfortable, your forehead was dewy with sweat and your thighs were shaking.

You felt so full. Wetter, too. Your arousal mixing with a dab of virginal blood.

"You're mine, doe," Curtis mouthed against your lips, nipping your bottom lip with his teeth.

"Yours," you mewled, feeling your walls fluttering.

Though Curtis didn't seem to mind you scratching his sides, as you tried to tame the tension and need bubbling inside of you, he yanked your hands off of him. He put your hands above your head, gripping your wrists with one of his hands.

And then he started moving.

The pace wasn't fast, but each thrust was rough and forceful, causing your body to jolt. Your untried pussy welcomed each stroke like the first one - resilient to the stretch and loving how Curtis made you take it anyway.

Curtis bent his head, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. Was it the sucking, or the way his hips shifted and the head of his cock bumped into a special spot, but your knees drew up and your back arched.

You screamed into the night as your first orgasm shook every bone in your body.

Trickle of your juices, pinked with your blood, dripped into the ground beneath you.

A long while later (when your voice grew hoarse and your brain stopped registering anything beyond the feeling of Curtis owning every part of your body), Curtis' cum soiled the forest floor too.

He spilled deep inside, groaning against your lips as his dick twitched. He kept rocking erratically, pushing excess of his cum out of you.

You were a boneless mess when Curtis picked you up a few heartbeats later.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he nestled you against his chest. His scent became headier, earth and musk overpowering the subtle sandalwood.

Curtis carried you back to the abandoned bedding. He laid you down on soft linens and you welcomed the clean, fresh fabrics.

"No rest yet, doe," Curtis rolled you onto your side and settled behind you.

He gripped beneath your knee and pulled your leg outward. He guided his cock between your folds, rubbing the head back and forth over your oversensitive clit.

He caught your hand when you tried patting him away in protest.

"Tradition of The Hunt is sacred," he said. "Evidence of the coupling is necessary for our betrothal to be officially binding."

In the back of your mind, you knew that. There were foggy memories of a hunt ten years earlier; a couple returning in the early morning from the depths of the woods and matrons of the elders going in to check upon the consummation evidence.

But you were sore and exhausted, your brain wasn't working in logical ways. You never imagined how draining sex would be.

And you happened to be chosen by the hunter known for limitless endurance.

"Besides," Curtis pushed into you, "I want you again."

"I will never stop wanting you, doe."

[sag-dab-sar]

📖 Myth & Sacred Scripture 📖

In Hellenic Polytheism and Mesopotamian Polytheism (and others but I don't want to speak for them) there is no sacred scripture where the words of a God are given to a myth writer and that writing is then declared holy by some form of religious authority.

The idea that myths are the literal actions of the Gods come from a concept of sacred scripture. Sacred meaning the words have holy implications or they have a fundamentally important connection to the divine. This understanding of religious writings is demonstrated in:

Protestant Christianity where the Bible is divinely inspired (usually derived from 1 Timothy 3:16 & 2 Peter 1:12). Additionally, in Trinitarian Christianity Jesus is God making his words in the Gospels the literal words of God.

Islam where the Quran are the words of God given to Mohammad via the angel Gabriel over the course of his life.

Judaism where traditionally the written Torah are the words of God given to Moses at Mt Sinai.

**There are more examples but I'm not going to try and talk about something I did not study.

This pervasive idea of scripture being the words of God embeds itself into a general view of what religion supposedly is because:

Christianity is the largest religion in the world.

Christianity is the dominant religion in English speaking countries, so when we have these discussions in English it tends to have that cultural Christian viewpoint.

Islam is the second largest religion in the world.

Islam considers the Jewish and Christian scriptures to also be given from God, but they have been corrupted in one way or another. This combination can put a mistaken emphasis on sacred scripture being a fundamental aspect of religion.

Even though Judaism is a very small religion the the written Torah is considered part of the Christian Old Testament (first five books). Christians interpret the scripture completely differently but the idea of Moses receiving the Word of God at Mt Sinai continues into Christianity from Judaism.

In many "dead religions" the closest you can come to the "words of the gods" might be the writings of ancient oracles or those who communed directly with spirits & gods. However, in Greece and Mesopotamia there was no centralized religion or continuous tradition to overview and canonize them into sacred scripture. Additionally, those are not usually what people are talking about when they refer to myth.

Myth is extremely important, but mythic literalism is a misstep people make, often due to our preconceived notions of sacred scriptures and their connection to the divine.

-dyslexic not audio proof read-

-I hope this makes sense-

[yeyinde]

does anyone know who made that Price post that went something like "telling captain Price about your terrible relationship with men and your father only for him to make you call him daddy during sex"? i saw it on my dash once and then never again and i think about it almost everyday

[fairestwriting]

Um Hi! Can I get Idia with a feline beast man s/o that basically becomes his comfort animal when he has to go outside? Their always purring, and cuddling, and they will play with his hands to help distract him?

Idia Shroud

Idia "Known Cat Person" Shroud's mental health may have just significantly improved.

Honestly, he probably has a thing for feline beastmen in the first place... It's not the only reason he's interested in you, of course! But... no one can deny that anime will put some interesting thoughts in a person's head.

He really thought you were way out of his league. For quite some time, he's too nervous to even ask if he can pat your head, despite his obvious staring, holding his hands back. When your ears twitch, he finds it just so cute, it might be bad for his heart.

As he gets more comfortable you can easily get a smile or a little laugh from Idia by sitting close enough for him to hear your purring, or cuddling up and letting your soft tail curl around his leg. He might just forget every single one of his troubles.

And, as expected, going out does get a lot easier! He feels nearly bold, holding your hand as you two walk around. Whenever he gets overwhelmed by the surroundings he leans in a bit closer to listen for purring, or look up at your ears moving on the top of your head.

It's cute. He's so endeared, the worries melt away a lot more easily. He's still not too keen on talking to people, especially strangers, but can stomach waving and smiling at a friend with way less difficulty.

Your support really means the world to him, he might've never truly imagined himself becoming so... sociable. Even though he still freaks out sometimes, and prefers staying home above all else, giving your hand a squeeze while you're outside and taking a deep breath solves a surprising amount of things.

(It also helps that catpeople are just... so adorable. No time to be anxious when he's overwhelmed with cuteness.)

if you wanna support my work, you can buy me a ko-fi or commission me!

[zelda-the-sacred-realm]

Survey! Vote is important!

This is a project that I am still organizing, but I would like to have your opinion and know who would be interested in participating

I want to create a challenge, which includes Artists and Writers

The challenge will include a "Theme", in which those who participate will have to create an art piece or a story, dedicated to Zelda the Sacred Realm!

There will be SR themed prizes, I can't say what they will be yet but I'm organizing, and there will be 2 winners, one for art and one for writing! (If we exceed 70 participants I could add second places)

I also ask you to reblog this and writing "I want to participate" so that I can start counting participants

If you want, tag who you think might be interested!

Thanks for your attention, and I'll update you at the end of this! 💖

[drysaladandketchup]

for the "things you said" writing meme -- matthew/leon, 12 :)

Thank you for the request <3 I realised very quickly I have no idea what constitutes a 'mini' fic. I struggle to write 'mini' anything lol. Hopefully this still satisfies :)

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

It takes all of Matthew's willpower not to reach over and smash his phone just to shut off the alarm. All that saves his wallet and an awkward trip to the Apple store is the split-second realisation that the shrieking in his ear isn't his usual alarm.

It's a ringtone. Not his own, either.

He pries his eyes open to find the world through the window is still dark. One of the balcony doors is still ajar, letting in a cool night breeze. He's lying on his side in his own bed, the end of the all-star weekend memorialized by several aches and bruises.

His hips and ass are a little sore too, but that's unrelated. Technically.

The ringing stops. Someone huffs behind him.

Someone. Yeah, no, Matthew knows who it is. They may have met up at the bar once the media was done swarming, but Matthew was far from drunk. Painfully sober, in fact. If he's being honest with himself, he was hoping things would turn out this way.

One more time. One more moment. Because it's been a long time since they were them. Longer still since the sex was just sex, since hate became want. Matthew is strong in a lot of ways, but not against this.

"Davo." Leon's voice is low, and still gruff from sleep when he answers his phone. He sits up on his side of the bed, trying not to disturb Matthew, pulling the covers back up over Matthew's shoulder like he thinks he'll freeze to death in this balmy Florida winter.

Usually Matthew's a heavy sleeper. But never when Leon's around. He makes it impossible for Matthew to completely relax, to let time slip by. Leon's just too big of a presence, almost too much to bear. It was more important that everything linger, to bask in the strange comfort of their relationship, whatever it was. They had so little time. Even less, now.

"I know it's late. No, no, I'm not at the hotel. I'm... I'm with Tkachuk."

Leon says his last name like it's wrong, like it's rotting on his tongue.

When he corrects himself, says, "Matthew", it's better, lighter. Like it's ambrosia.

Matthew remembers when Leon Draisaitl saying his name wouldn't have meant a damn thing to him. When that simple act didn't fill him with fondness.

In the silence, Matthew can hear McDavid talking on the other end, but can't quite make out what he's saying. Matthew tucks up under the duvet, breathing quiet and even, trying to focus instead on the distant sound of waves and the ticking clock on his wall.

Ticking. Always ticking. Time bleeds out when they're together.

He doesn't even remember falling asleep last night, but he wishes he hadn't now. He wishes he'd stayed awake longer, just to... just to see him. To look Leon in the eye, to talk about everything and nothing until dawn, to feel big, too-warm hands on his body more and more and more. He wants to make sure he'll remember how Leon feels, sounds, tastes.

"Connor," Leon says, a warning, followed by a sigh. "I know. I know, okay? It was stupid, but..."

Maybe it was. Matthew has a good thing here in Florida. Better than ever. He was happy to leave Alberta behind and start over. So why did leaving make him feel like a coward?

Because leaving was about Calgary, and the Flames. About his career and his future. It wasn't about Leon. Leon was the wrench in the gears; the one thing he didn't expect to have to say goodbye to, the kind of hurt he never could have accounted for.

"I needed to see him." Leon sounds helpless. He's not the only one.

The only time he's heard Leon so lost was after his team was knocked out of the playoffs last season. The Oilers meant nothing--Matthew was pretty fucking glad considering they'd beat out the Flames--but he never wanted to hear Leon like that again.

He definitely never wanted to be the cause of it. Not like this.

Leon is still mumbling into his phone. "Yeah, I'm fine. He's... we're good. He's happy."

A hand settles on Matthew's head. Fingers play with his curls, nails scratch his scalp. A thumb presses just behind Matthew's ear, stroking the soft skin where only hours before Leon had put his lips, whispering sweetness and filth in equal measure.

It takes everything for Matthew not to groan, to whimper and surrender, roll over and climb on top of Leon and take all over again. Beg him to take something--everything--from Matthew.

"I don't know," Leon says then.

It's easy to guess what McDavid asked.

He's happy. But are you?

"I can't even tell him I still love him."

Still. Matthew didn't even know there was a before, let alone a still. Leon never said anything. Fuck, if Matthew wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe, he'd roll over and punch him.

Then again, what did Matthew ever say? They never talked about it. Never let those closet hook-ups and slipping out back doors and little drinks and dinners and overnights excused as practical necessity be anything more than that. A bunch of chirps and half-truths and aborted discussions because it was all becoming too much. There was too much uncertainty. Too many ways it could go wrong.

It did go wrong. It became something. It became real.

Maybe that would have changed something. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything at all. It doesn't matter now. Matthew left, and neither of them said a word about things like love, because it was easier to hope it would shrivel and die with distance and time.

"I know I'm being stupid." Leon pauses when McDavid interrupts, then huffs. "No, I am. Fuck, I really thought I'd get over it. Maybe I will. Eventually."

Don't you fucking dare, you piece of shit, Matthew wants to scream.

"Not sure I can, though." Leon swallows so loud Matthew can hear it. Then quieter, like he's not sure he's even allowed to admit it, he says, "I don't really want to."

He's still playing with Matthew's hair, occasionally dragging a finger over his bare shoulder or down his back, tracing imaginary lines across Matthew's flesh. Like he's something to be memorized and cherished.

They're both so fucking stupid. Matthew bites his lip and tries not to choke on the lump in his throat. Could be his heart, climbing right up and out of his mouth. He clings to the sheets with shaking hands.

"I'm not going to fuck up what he's got here," Leon says tiredly, voice thick with tension and pathetic resignation.

Leon's not here to drag him back. He wouldn't do that. So why is he here? Just to torture them both? Being with him doesn't feel like torture. It feels like winning. It feels like defiance and decadence and too much and not enough. It feels like what could have been and what could still be.

He didn't find Leon at that bar and bring him home out of pity, or nostalgia, one last fuck for old times sake. It was... it just was. Not an ending. Not some final goodbye. Proof maybe there could still be something. Getting over it was never an option, Matthew knew that well before he stepped onto the ice as a Panther and found himself staring Leon down all over again.

Matthew's vision is blurring. His eyes sting, warm and wet. There's blood pounding in his ears, and a hand clutching his heart, a vice around his lungs. He hardly remembers how to breathe.

He doesn't catch the rest of Leon's conversation, except something about meeting Connor back at the hotel tomorrow. Meaning he's staying the night, at least. He's staying.

When Leon hangs up the phone, Matthew finally comes up for air. He relaxes his shoulders, listening to the soft thump as Leon taps his phone against his forehead over and over. Then it clatters on the side table. Leon sighs, sniffs, and sinks back under the covers. He tucks right up against Matthew's back, still burning like a furnace, soft muscle and skin brushing Matthew's spine in all the right ways.

He throws an arm around Matthew and finds one of his hands, worming his fingers through the gaps to hold it. His palm is sweaty, not that it matters at all to Matthew. He can't help squeezing Leon's hand a little, but if Leon notices, he doesn't say a word.

Not until he's wrapped tight around Matthew, near suffocating, like any part of them that isn't touching is a sin.

"Love you," Leon mumbles, barely more than a whisper, pressing his lips right to the base of Matthew's neck. Matthew's body can't seem to decide whether to shiver or melt under the heat.

Leon says it like it's inevitable. Painful. Pitiful.

What he's saying is, I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I'm sorry I don't know how to say it now. I'm sorry it's too late, it's the wrong place, the wrong time.

Like he doesn't think Matthew could ever understand. And that's the worst part of it all. They're still not on the same page. Tearing down what they never built.

If Leon's only brave enough to say it when Matthew's asleep, then Matthew will just have to be brave enough to say it in the light of day. He doesn't run, and he won't now that he knows he doesn't have to.

He stares into the night outside his window, listening to Leon breathe, feeling his heart beat through Matthew's chest like that's where it longs to be.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe they can stop chasing time long enough to make the most of what they have. To make up for what they've wasted. And whatever happens after, well, maybe they can stop being afraid of that, too.

[exhaustedwerewolf]

okay not to waste energy being mad about the minecraft movie of all things but I am actually kind of heartbroken by how cynical it feels.

for example, making the creatures that inhabit the world offputting is so indicative of the underlying attitude the film seems to be taking to me. how many millions of minecraft animals, despite being pixels and code, have been genuinely loved by players around the world?

minecraft, despite everything it’s associated with these days, is incredibly earnest in a way that I feel few properties are these days… and genuinely one of the most beautiful games I’ve ever had the pleasure of playing. in its surprisingly melancholic moments in a solo survival world. in the laughs it’s given those far apart from beloved friends, allowing them to be roommates in a beautiful forest cottage or a volcanic fortress or a treehouse palace they’ve built together when thousands of miles apart. in the things people working alone and together have made of it- libraries of banned books made accessible through the medium of the game, scale models of worlds real and fictional, redstone machines with intricate circuitry and incredible intelligence and diligence behind them, in the friendships forged in the pursuit of these creations.

minecraft is collaborative and creative and contemplative in a way few games can be. minecraft, to those who have ‘beaten,’ it, says: everything you need is within you, the darkness you fight is within you, the light you seek is within you, you are not alone, not separate from every other thing, you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code.

minecraft, when so many games are about escaping from yourself, is about connection with your self, your creativity, the plants and earth and animals and structures around you, the people around you.

for it to be, in this context, a self-referential, debasing cash grab, is not a surprise to me but does feel like a disservice to what the heart of this game is, and symptomatic of a wider trend in a storytelling climate increasingly dominated by spin-offs and reboots and tie-ins and remakes. the writers could have had the courage not to break the fourth wall, not to point and laugh and decry the silly memeable ‘get a load of this guy,’ block game, (and by extension ridicule themselves,) but I understand. it’s the same instinct to make the self-effacing joke before you can be laughed at by others for showing your honest self, to cringe from the vulnerability earnesty demands. that’s fine. personally- and I’m probably not alone- I just wish it wasn’t this game.