#why are people saying biblically so much

[karinyosa]

okay a bunch of people online have started saying “i need [x] biblically” and i feel the need to say. i am like 90% sure this phrase comes from the biblical euphemism for sex and i want to ask. is this common knowledge??? do you guys know that that’s what you’re pulling from???? because a lot of the time i see people saying this about people they desire carnally and i’m like ok. and other times i see people say this about like taking a nap or food and i’m like hm. could go either way. it’s also enough of an aberration from the other phrase for me to wonder if the resemblance is deliberate or not

to “know someone biblically” is a euphemism for sex. in the bible they’d say something like “he knew her” or “they knew one another” instead of “they had sex”. “i knew him biblically” is a fun “polite” kind of old fashioned way of saying yeah we had sex one time. or an underhanded way of asking about someone’s sex life. i’m like not sure if this is common knowledge???? but i see a lot of people saying it and i’m like in what way do you guys mean that because that is very much an existing expression kind of, you guys just don’t use the word “know”

[botseeksbot]

food . water . vbros women being written well .

[tangyyrine]

I know Marvel caters to straight men because so many MCU fanboys who hate queer people have Deadpool or Loki as their fav

any one else completely forget that straight men are marvel fans like sir these characters are for the girls and gays wdym straight men are the target audience?!?

[cherriesncinnamon]

forgive me / father charlie x fem!reader

synopsis: after recently becoming involved with the catholic church, you soon start having inappropriate fantasies about your priest. desperately wanting to atone, you confess your sins.

warnings/tags: handjob, unprotected sex (don't try this at home), mentions of self harm/repentance, priest x reader (i mean no harm to the catholic community, this is just fiction).

word count: 1.3k.

a/n: sooooo🥰 i'm obsessed with nicholas chavez. i'm not gonna lie, i haven't seen grotesquerie fully, but after seeing his scenes i had to write a one shot about father charlie. this is completely and utterly feral. me when i need him biblically.

link to another father charlie piece i've done due to popular demand!!

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

I've never been a religious person. I've always believed that a higher power is unprovable, leading to my agnosticism. My mother is a devout Catholic, but she's never particularly pushed her beliefs onto me. That was until recently when she threatened to disown me if I refused to come to church for another Sunday.

The people are insufferable, the sermons are unstimulating, and I cannot bear knowing I could be doing something much more exciting with my morning. I sit at the very end of the pew, arms crossed in anguish, awaiting a middle aged, balding priest to appear and preach for an hour. But to my surprise, a much younger version emerges instead. Dark thick hair, darling brown eyes, and a charming smile. My eyes widen with intrigue at the strikingly handsome man before me. He begins to speak, walking up and down the rows of people, truly passionate about what he's saying. I'm paying attention to the words, but not so much the message. After the communion and the drinking of the wine, my mother and I mingle for a bit, chatting uselessness to the bored housewives. Church is the only liberating part of their week, and now I know why.

As if by a miracle of God, I become Catholic overnight. My mother is shocked at my interest in coming to church the following week, and the week after that, and that week after that. Each time I see him, my desire intensifies. Knowing that he has taken a vow of celibacy only entices me more. I imagine him bending me over the pews, his singular ring leaving an indent in my upper thigh. I need to confess. I need to release this demon that is plaguing my thoughts.

On a stormy Friday evening, I make my way to the back of the church, placing three hesitant knocks on his office door. The rest of the building is vacant, candle light being my only source of sight. His voices seeps through the door, permitting me to enter.

"Ah, Miss Y/L/N, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He welcomes me in with a warm smile, putting down the pen he was holding to usher me to sit.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I- I've come to confess." I swallow, stuttering my words in fear. Father Charlie cocks his head in question.

"I see. Anything you say should be in confidence, your confession will be safe with me." He replies, nodding in reassurance. I fiddle with the hem of my skirt in anticipation, heat rising to my cheeks from simply being alone with him. I drape my long hair over my shoulder and clear my throat.

"I've been having impure thoughts, Father."

"Okay. And what do these thoughts detail?" He probes, clasping his hands together on the wooden desk. The Bible sits closed next to him; I can feel it judging me.

"Sexual thoughts. I want to pleasure myself, but I know I can't." I grip at my throat which has become tight, my stomach tingling with the remembrance of my fantasies. Charlie loosens his Roman collar, eyes searching the room for anything to look at besides me.

"I think about you, Father. You punishing me for my sins, taking me, sliding yourself into me." I spill, cheeks on fire and wine red. Father Charlie is quick to stand up from his chair, pacing to the other side of the room.

"I have taken a vow. Please do not seduce me." He begs, reaching for the door handle.

I stand in front of him, his tall frame towering over me, eyes fixated on mine. His chest is heaving, lips slightly parted as he breathes. Standing on the tips of my toes, I whisper.

"Don't you want to know what it feels like, Father? Just once?" My bottom lip lightly grazes his ear lobe, increasing his breathing pace. Our faces are mere centimetres apart, and I'm using all of my might to stop myself tasting him.

"I cannot abandon my faith, I mustn't." He insists, expression pained and frustrated. His brow is furrowed, forehead glazed in sweat. I can tell he is holding himself back with all his strength, and I'm feeling brave.

I take my fingertips and slide them over his clothed cock, smiling as it hardens under my gentle touch. Charlie goes to remove my hand, but quickly retracts when I speed up, using my palm to add pressure. I slowly undo his leather belt, lifting the waistband of his black pants. Taking him in my grasp, I stroke his thick length, watching in euphoria as his head tips back in bliss. His hands seek the stability of the doorframe for support, his knees weakening more every second.

"Feel me." Slipping my panties to the side, I guide his fingers to my pussy, slick with my arousal, begging for contact.

"Oh, forgive me Lord." He cries out, teasing my entrance with his digits while I excite his tip dripping pre-cum with my thumb. He stares at me in awe when I lick myself off his fingers, cock throbbing, veins pulsing blood into him until he's unbearably hard.

Hungry for my kiss, he devours my lips, biting my bottom lip playfully. Our tongues slide across one another, his hands gripping the sides of my face. He tastes like the Merlot we have at communion; sweet and fruity. My hands snake around his neck, twirling the thick locks of hair at the nape. His lips take interest elsewhere, peppering erotic pecks across my jaw, to my neck, and to my chest. I unbutton my white dress shirt, revealing my braless breasts. His eyes widen, immediately manhandling and kissing the supple skin.

"I want to feel you inside of me. Please, Father." I moan, perching myself on the edge of his desk, skirt hiked up to my hips. I spread my legs wide, fully revealing myself to him. He exhales in defeat, slotting himself between me.

Charlie rests his hands on either side of me on the desk while I line up his cock to my entrance, pushing my hips towards him. Grabbing my waist, he enters me, his length filling my walls like a glove. His voice groans deeply against my neck, his hand pressed on my lower back for support. His thrusts start off slow and juvenile, but quickly speed up to a pace we both can't take for long. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him in deeper. I moan sweet noises with every movement and caress, realising that this is better than I could've imagined.

"You feel so good, this feels so good." He sobs, nails digging into my hips so hard they leave streaks of blood. The cross around his neck swings in my face, reminding me of how sin can feel so good.

Waves of pleasure wash over me, the coil inside of me tightening by the second. I pull the back of his head close to me as my climax arrives. I bite his lip hard in satisfaction, tasting his blood on my tongue. It's not long before he follows in a moaning mess, burying his head into my chest, grabbing my breast as his warm cum fills me.

It takes a minute of getting our breaths back to move. I use a tissue to wipe his seed off my thighs. Father Charlie hastily redresses, fixing his collar and clutching his necklace.

"Lord, forgive me. Forgive me for this cardinal sin. Forgive me for enjoying it." He prays on his knees, staring up at a portrait of God. I place my hand on his back, feeling some guilt.

"I need to repent. You need to punish me." He says, picking up his leather belt from the floor and placing it in my hands.

"How can something that feels like this be a sin?" He asks me, tears in his eyes. I shake my head, not knowing the answer myself. He takes his shirt off, showing me his scarred back.

"Punish me, please."

[comas-are-for-sleeping]

ok SO. addendum i actually am finding this author more and more interesting. so he is an atheist and did make this trilogy specifically to criticize the (catholic???) church and organized religion in general, is what i have gathered from vaguely skimming articles? and wrote this to retaliate against narnia which, makes sense, but i am. intrigued. because to a degree he is very against the authoritarianism and other aspects of the church/magistarium but they also have the alethiometer which tells the truth, often in cryptic ways, and which they have faith in.... and also one thing HOLD ON. let me send another ask for that one but i will say it is VERY COOL and I LIKE IT

OH YEAH I REMEMBER READING ABT IT BEING A DIRECT THING AGAINST NARNIA AKSJSKA

[conspicuous-clown-car]

alright so what we’re not gonna do is hate on others interpretations of sun and moon

idk why i’ve seen people complaining more and more often about how people in the dca fandom interpret sun and moon, but i am

listen, as a biblically accurate dca truther and a huge fan of canon compliant dca i understand how frustrating it is for your favorite character to be heavily misinterpreted, i get it. i do. it can be frustrating how little “canon” dca stuff there is. (i say “canon” because that word can be used very loosely within the context of fnaf)

but at the same time, spewing hate on others’ characterization, redesigns, or aus of the dca simply because you don’t like it? or bc it’s not canon compliant??

how incredibly childish

this is the one fandom i’ve been in where there’s been so much support and love for all kinds of art/writing/interpretations of the dca. honestly the most creative, positive, and chill fandom i’ve ever experienced, i love it.

i’m just concerned that the idea of people’s interpretations of the dca being “wrong” is going to spread and could be actually harmful if it goes too far.

i get the jokes about early interpretations of sun and moon as goofy as hell and pick me or whatever the fuck and how it skewed people’s perceptions of them. but like,, okay and?? just let them be!! i get it, it’s cringe or whatever, something something media literacy. but no one’s getting hurt!!

so for fucks sake just let people have fun, we all like jesters here man its not that serious

[artist-issues]

“At least it's not ferociously attacking God quite as directly as Steven Universe did…”

Not that I’m surprised by this statement, but can you elaborate on this? Kinda intrigued by your thoughts on Steven Universe.

Okie dokie, you’re not the only one who has asked me about this, so I suppose I’ll poke the hornet’s nest. 😅 I haven’t talked about this before because I assumed that everyone who wanted to hear my kinds of opinions on stories wasn’t watching or interested in Steven Universe.

It’s like asking vegetarian if they enjoyed a turkey dinner. The turkey dinner was so obviously not made for vegetarians to enjoy, so why would the vegetarian even bother analyzing the turkey?

But I think if some people are asking me why I think Steven Universe is anti-God (of the Bible) its because maybe they don’t know what the turkey is. Not completely. (Maybe not you, because like you said, you’re not surprised by my comment.) So I’ll explain my thoughts on Steven Universe.

If you’re just following me because you liked some stuff I posted, but didn’t realize that I’m a Bible-believing Christian and don’t want to hear about it, unfollow me now. Because I’m going to talk about some hot button issues here and the trolls will come out.

Steven Universe is really well-done. The jokes are funny, the writing is believable, the characters have great chemistry, great design, the concept is fascinating, the slow build-up and reveal of the plot elements is great. But when you watch the throne room scene in the last episode of Season 5 “Change Your Mind,” it’s alarmingly clear how much the whole show is not just settling for defending and championing the LGBTQ+ worldview—it goes all the way to attacking what Christians believe, on the other side.

Anything that’s pro-LGBTQ+ is doing that by default, but this show goes out of its way to do that.

You have to understand: God created and designed us. Deeper than that; He created and designed romantic relationships, and invented marriage. He didn’t just create love—He is love. So when humans come along and do what we’ve always done since the fall, and say, “I’d rather define what Your thing is and how it works for myself, God,” it’s not only an incredible slap in the face, it’s an attack on God’s actual identity—and it’s destructive for us and the people around us. Like a fish insisting it can breathe oxygen.

But Steven Universe goes beyond that. It knows that the Christian worldview is it’s biggest opposition. It digs right down to the heart of the worldview-battle. LGBTQ+ worldview says, “I should get to love what I want and be who I am, because I’m me. Love is love. (By which I mean, any action or relationship I choose to call love is love, because I’m the one calling it that.)”

Biblical worldview says “No, wait, you shouldn’t base your decisions on you alone; what you want changes day to day, and you’re broken, so you can’t ever be satisfied based on what you want—the Bible says God made you for something, and you rejected that, and it broke you. You’re not how you’re meant to be: even what you want and what you think love is is twisted up and can hurt you and others. But if you submit to God He’ll help you, He’ll fix what’s broken and give you new life by making you how you were supposed to be: He’ll live in you and through you.”

Are we beginning to get the picture?

See, the whole thing with the opposing views between LGBTQ+ and Christian people is as old as time. It’s not a new debate. It’s Satan and Eve in the garden. She says, “This is not how God said things should be,” and Satan says, “Are you sure that’s what He said? He knows if you do this thing, you’ll be like Him. You’ll be god: you’ll get to decide ‘how things should be’ for yourself.”

He lied and said that disobedience would satisfy her. That she knew what her own heart needed better than the God that made it did. That the very act of being imperfect would make her godlike.

And then Steven Universe comes along and says “if every pork chop were perfect, we wouldn’t have hotdogs.”

And has a cast of created being characters who’s imperfections (Garnet’s forbidden “love,” Pearl’s obsession, Amethyst’s insecurity) are supposedly “the best thing about them; what makes them who they are.”

And has a main character who used to be a part of the god-like creator relationship, but used her power to come down to earth and completely change who she is into a fully different person.

And has a godlike Creator character who claims she “doesn’t need” her created beings (just like the God of the Bible) but they all have a little part of their creator in them so she has to repress their imperfections; she holds them all to a standard that’s impossible to reach called “perfection” and punishes them when they don’t meet it even though it hurts them to try; she expects them all to do what they were created by her for; she fixes them when they can’t meet her standard by shining her light through them and making them extensions of their Creator.

And has a main character who argues, fights back, tries to stop her, and is answered with lines that sound surprisingly like what LGBTQ+ people hear when Christians argue with them: “you’re only making things worse; you’re just deceiving yourself; even while you resist it your actual light can’t help shining through,” etc.

White Diamond just wants everything to be perfect. Like her. She just wants her created beings to “be themselves.” But what she means is, be how she created them to be.

And she’s the bad guy. She’s playing God in this show, and Rebecca Sugar is saying, “If God is telling us that can only be happy by being perfect, as He is perfect, and doing what He created us to do, then He’s wrong. Our imperfections are what make us special—unique—individuals—free—and there is nobody who has the right to take that freedom away from us, not even out creator!”

And you know what?

If God were like White Diamond, like Rebecca Sugar believes Him to be, Steven Universe would be right.

But He is NOT.

God is not a dictator who forces us to conform to a standard of perfection and then smashes us when we don’t meet it. He is a King who made us perfect to begin with, and we rejected him, because He allowed us to do that. He knew that true love was love that had to be chosen, and He wanted us to love Him by choice, so he gave us the option. But Rebecca Sugar doesn’t understand—there was never “Choose God or Choose Yourself.” There was only, “Choose God or Choose Nothing.” There was nothing except God. Then He created everything. There is no version of reality where you have something better than God, or even slightly less good but different, to pick. You’re not jumping from one ship into a smaller one, but at least it’s yours—you’re jumping from one ship into a void, and then complaining that there’s no other ship. That’s humans. That’s not God. / White Diamond didn’t make her creations perfect (Amethyst) and she didn’t make them for love. She made them for power. That’s not the God of the Bible.

Even when we did choose to try and love ourselves instead of God, and therefore warped our ability to perfectly love at all, He didn’t smash us. True, everything fell and was cursed, which is exactly what He warned us would happen if we chose it, but it was a natural consequence of breaking ourselves. And then He didn’t leave us that way. He didn’t give up on us. And He certainly didn’t just zap us, snap His fingers, quick-fix it and turn us all into robots who are extensions of Him, who say they love Him but only because it’s His voice puppeting us to say it.

No. He came to us, chose to give up His life at the exact point on the timeline when Romans, masters in the art of slow, humiliating, torturous death, would be the ones to carry out His crucifixion, and saved us Himself. Through the sacrifice of His own life. And even then, we still have a choice. We get to choose to accept that incredible self-sacrifice when we don’t deserve it, and be given new life and a relationship with the Creator who knows us and loves us better than we can love ourselves or receive love from others—OR we can just keep stubbornly insisting that our slavery to the opposite of what God wants is somehow freedom, and our twisted versions of love are genuine, and we’re not broken, and die like that. Die broken creatures who lived their whole lives stomping their feet and screaming “I’m not a creature, I’m a god!”

White Diamond sacrifices nothing, because Rebecca Sugar doesn’t know the God of the Bible. She just knows her idea of Him. She’s never actually gotten to know Him. If she had, she’d learn how silly and twisted her idea is.

Because you know what, yeah, if every pork chop were perfect, we wouldn’t have hot dogs. But people aren’t pork chops. And hot dogs have flavor (not better than pork chops) but they are awful for you.

Christians aren’t perfect cuts of meat with no individuality or flavor. Just because we all know and love the same God doesn’t mean we have no personalities. It just means we don’t think so freaking much about what we are, or who we get to be, or what we like and want. Jeez, what a self-centered, narcissistic, self-obsessed way to live. She plays Steven like he’s this wonder-child, innocent and full of heart, who encourages his friends to love and keep trying. But honestly?

This is very pretty animation but it’s not real. Steven looks happy hugging Steven but self-love doesn’t ultimately get you that.

That’s all based on the premise that what he’s encouraging them to do is actually good, and will make them happy, and will help them love better. And it just won’t. Not in real life. That’s not how any of this works. Self-love is just self-obsession. And that is a sure-fire way to hurt you, and everyone around you.

You’ll never be free by choosing to run to a worse master. You’ll never be satisfied with your crappy attempts at loving yourself, because you were made to be loved flawlessly and forever by someone who is Love Himself.

And choosing to identify with your imperfections doesn’t make you uniquely you. It just makes you exactly like every other human being marching in the same line since the Fall.

White Diamond’s not relational. She’s up high and distant. That’s not God. He made you to be in relationship with Him. He loves you, totally and perfectly, and He proved it by sacrificing for You.

So yeah. That’s the problem with Steven Universe. Come get me, SU fans.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Devil in a Dark Wood

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader Historical AU

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Witch AU, Historical AU, early colonial America, Puritanism, biblical themes & scripture, suggestive themes, brief descriptions of injury, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, brief descriptions of sex, horror/suspense

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Witch AU) A/N (2): Enjoy my religious trauma!

Arriving to new shores a married woman, you find happiness with the man you're betrothed to without ever first meeting him. But beyond the place you call home is a dark wood. And in that dark wood, something waits for the perfect opportunity.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Pendle, Massachusetts, Late April, 1662

The earth speaks to you.

Back home, the ground is alive with the song of faeries, elves dwell within the trees, and kelpies call from the waters. Nature is alive there. A buzzing that wraps around all living things.

But it is different here in the New World.

Here—there is an echo. There are no nymphs. No sweet songs to lull the wayward wanderer into dancing.

There are teeth here. Teeth in the dirt. Teeth in the bark of the trees.

And a thrumming.

A thrumming that sounds like a thunderous heartbeat.

You hear your name. It is called like a command by a stern, male voice. Eyes opening, you disconnect from the unyielding noise of the ground, and focus on the man in front of you.

A man of the cloth. Reverend Shepherd—if the letter in your haversack is correct.

There is no smile on his face but a sternness etched into every crease and wrinkle. His mouth is a thin line turned downwards, with a balding head, and a slight swell to his belly that reminds you of the one your father grew when he began favoring drink.

Your father.

The reason you’re here.

The reason you stand on the very edge of the New World a newly married woman.

"Reverend Shepherd?" you ask, inclining your head in submission.

The motion is painful. You are not like him. You are not like the people who have settled here. You were raised to be wild and barefoot. Raised by a woman who taught you to listen. To put your ear to the ground. To sense the world sitting just on the other side.

“Child,” he says, gaze narrowing. “Your hair.”

Frowning, you reach up. Some of your hair pokes out from beneath your white cap. “Pray pardon me,” you murmur, discreetly tucking it back.

“I am Reverend Shepherd,” he confirms with a brief nod. “I bid you welcome to Pendle.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“And the journey?”

“Pleasant,” you reply, keeping your gaze downcast. “Calm seas.”

“A blessed crossing then. God’s favor came with you. Pray that it stays.”

Your stomach twists at the jab. It is clear what Reverend Shepherd means. You are an outsider. An unknown factor. A disciple that he believes may not fall in line. God’s chosen are already here, and you do not belong.

“Are you to be my escort?”

“Indeed,” he sighs as if the notion bothers him. “And we have much yet to walk. God favors a quick step. We best be off.”

Clutching the haversack to your chest, you nod. “Of course, Reverend.”

This is just an exchange, a way for your father to rid himself of you and to pay off his drinking debts. Your father is no man of God. Wives are needed in the New World. The crown paid handsomely to bring you and other women to these shores.

Grief is a sour thing.

It is a weight upon the living.

Your mother, a woman so wonderful that the world couldn’t contain her, sent herself up to the stars, leaving you with only your father for company.

He is just a man.

Simple. Kind.

And then a poison.

Grief wove its way between bone and blood until he no longer wanted to see your face. The remembrance pained him. And that pain led to long nights away, only for him to return with liquor on the breath and empty pockets.

It is why you were sent away, why you were sent far across the sea. Sold off to a husband you’ve never met. All because of a man who cannot control his grief.

How will your memory be written?

Are you simply your father’s daughter in the King’s ledger? Not even a name. Just…daughter.

Perhaps. That is how it is after all. A history of a woman is rarely written.

Reverend Shepherd turns away and starts walking. You almost slip in the mud as you follow. He passes the docks, moving further away from the center of Pendle.

“Are we not to stay in town?”

“In town?” Reverend Shepherd’s frown deepens. “No, child. Your husband lives beyond the township.”

“How far, pray tell? Are we not to take horses?” you ask, a little breathless.

Reverend Shepherd scoffs. "Why should you require such a convenience? Walking allows for reflection and penance. Do you know your prayers?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Child?” prompts Reverend Shepherd.

“I do,” you nearly bite out.

“Let me hear them. A good wife can recite the Lord’s prayers when prompted. Scripture will help us pass the time.”

As the two of you walk, your voice becomes monotone, reciting but not listening. Every word is like an empty scallop shell. Mud sucks at your boots, threatening to relieve you of your shoes. Reverend Shepherd remains ahead. Never slowing down. Always keeping a few paces forward.

“Good,” says Reverend Shepherd. “Now, I shall begin and you shall continue. I have no master but You. Now law but Your—”

“You’ve yet to speak of my husband,” you interrupt, frustration growing by the lack of information.

It’s not in you to be obedient, especially around bothersome men.

Reverend Shepherd turns abruptly, the middle of his brow creased in severe displeasure. “Prayer, child. I have no master—”

“His name, Reverend. At least allow me that.”

“Disobedience of woman is an act against God. Your father assured me of your obedience. Of your purity and piety. Is he mistaken?”

Yes. I do not belong here.

“He is not,” you mutter.

Reverend Shepherd holds your gaze until you turn yours downward. When he sets out again, you scowl at the back of his head, reciting perfectly all that you were taught before departing for different shores.

Outside Pendle, the road twists between clumps of trees. Farms stand between, but Reverend Shepherd stops at none of them. He rattles off scripture, keeping his back to you as he does so. It only dampens your mood.

"The Lord is my—"

At the bend in the road, you pause your recitations. A peaceful buzzing surfaces up from the ground, slithering into the soles of your feet, traveling upward into the crown of your head. A sturdy wooden fence lines the road, sectioning off the homestead from travelers. The main gate sits open, a dirt path leading inward toward the cottage. Corn lines the path, and you hear the gentle bleat of a goat in the distance.

Reverend Shepherd turns, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Pray pardon, Reverend," you say before the chastisement can leave his lips. "Is this..."

The irritation retreats slightly, his gaze turning passive. "Is it home? Indeed." Reverend Shepherd glances across the farmstead. "The Riley family owns this land. The eldest son, Simon, tends to it."

Simon.

Your husband's name.

Only a name. Nothing else.

The entire journey across the sea was rife with your swirling imagination. What kind of man did your father sell you off to? What might he look like?

Reverend Shepherd presses on. "The younger son lives in town."

You don't reply. It's best not to. Women are expected to be seen and not heard, and you have already overstepped your limits.

Following at the proper distance, you keep silent. Reverend Shepherd walks quickly, eager to be rid of you.

The thwack of an axe piercing wood echoes in the air, drowning out the bleating goats. You clutch the haversack against your chest, the weight of it finally catching up, arms heavy with the load. Reverend Shepherd moves with purpose, following the sound of the thwack and the subsequent clatter of splitting wood.

Beyond the cottage, divided by another wooden fence, is the forest. The trees are tall, towering over everything, pointing toward the grey sky like arrow points. From them, you hear whispers, faint and unclear. A soft chill cools your skin, and you shiver, the whispers disappearing as you and Reverend Shepherd walk around the side of the cottage.

The two of you come to a stop next to a large pile of wood.

Before you is a man with no shirt or doublet to be seen. His back is to the both of you, and your breath catches at seeing so much bare skin. Old scars mark his flesh, yet you're unsure if they're from some accident or from grislier means. The man's shoulders are broad, giving way to muscled arms and a tall frame. Of what you can observe, his figure is thick, honed from hard labor.

Lifting the axe above his head, he brings it down on the log in front of him. The wood splits cleanly.

"Simon." Reverend Shepherd's voice is smooth with authority.

At the sound of his voice, Simon straightens as if struck. Just his head turns, glancing over his shoulder, gaze sweeping over Reverend Shepherd and then landing on you. His eyes widen slightly, and then he fully pivots in your direction, giving you a clear view of his face.

Simon has scars here but they only add to his features. He is handsome with a strong jaw and prominent nose, and his eyes are a golden brown that remind you of sun rays through amber. The hair on his head is slightly askew from the gentle wind.

"Reverend," greets Simon.

While your husband addresses Shepherd, his gaze is entirely fixed on you. There is no smile, but there isn't a frown. You're unsure of Simon's first impression or what he might be thinking.

"Your wife arrived."

Reverend Shepherd makes you out to be little more than an object. A thing delivered.

"Thank you for escorting her here," replies Simon. "Had I known, I would have fetched her myself."

Reverend Shepherd holds up a hand. "Think nothing of it. The Lord values hard work, and her delivery is but His reward for all you do."

The corner of Simon's mouth twitches. He's still holding on to the axe. "Allow me to see you off, Reverend."

"I can see myself. A blessed day to you, Simon. And to an... easy marriage."

Easy. Obedient. Subservient.

You are to bow your head and grovel at your husband's feet for the rest of your days.

"God go with you, Reverend," replies Simon, taking a step forward in your direction.

The two of you silently watch Reverend Shepherd disappear beyond the cottage and down the path. Neither of you speaks, the air heavy with an unresolved tension. The wind kicks up, and you smell pine. A goat bleats, and you shift on your feet.

"Good morrow, Simon," you murmur, arms tightening around the haversack.

Simon blinks, shoulders relaxing, a warm smiling spreading across his face. It's genuine—full of kindness. Even the edges of his cheeks darken with color.

"Good morrow," he replies. "I—" He glances down at himself. "Forgive me. My appearance is unbecoming. Not how a husband greets his wife upon their first meeting."

You take in all the exposed skin and an itch forms in the tips of your fingers. A carnal desire floods upward, seizing your heart and mind. The urge you feel begs you to touch, to step forward and run your hands over that slick flesh. This man is your husband now. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

The Reverend would beat these thoughts out of you if he could read your mind.

But he cannot. The Good Reverend isn't here.

And your husband is half-undressed and blushing before you.

"Unexpected," you say slowly. "But nice."

His blush deepens.

Perhaps God has sent you someone you can be yourself with. Not completely,as any mention of the voices from the trees or the teeth in the ground would send you straight to a pyre, but someone who might listen. Truly, kindness and patience are all you want. If Simon is that, then you'll be happy.

Flustered further, Simon glances around like he can't quite look at you. Running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, he finally settles, resting the axe against the stump.

"I should bathe," he says, but not in response to you, more like he's simply speaking to the air.

You take a step forward, moving toward him, taking in more of his muscles. It is clear he has not been without. His largeness isn't from hard labor alone. Simon is eating well and often.

"Allow me." In seconds, Simon is before you, hands grasping the haversack.

"Thank you," you murmur softly as he tucks your belongings under his arm like it weighs nothing at all.

"Would you like to stay here? I won't be long."

"Where are you off to?"

Simon heads for the cottage and you follow. "Just on the other side of the fence is a stream."

You glance beyond the fence line. "May I join you?"

Somehow, Simon's face grows brighter. "I—join me?"

"The ship—"

"Of course," he says quickly. "I imagine there are few opportunities to bathe aboard a vessel. Fewer even for privacy."

You follow Simon to the door of the cottage. He enters but you linger a moment, hesitation halting your momentum.

Like a thunderous stampede, reality comes crashing down around you. There is no ship take you back. No mornings spent in the mist. This place is your home now, this man responsible for you until your death or his.

Simon emerges, shirt on but doublet unbuttoned. In his arms is a small basket. "This way," he says with a grin.

At the back of the property, Simon opens up a small gate and leads you to the stream. The forest is just beyond. Now that you're closer to the towering trees, that thrumming from earlier returns, and a sense of gnashing as if a wolf nips at your heels comes with it. Your gaze narrows as a dark shape moves between the trees. It is tall, and at first, you mistake it for another tree. Whispers rise up again, and is that—horns?

"I do not know your name."

You inhale sharply, hand pressed to your chest as Simon holds the small basket in front of him. You tell him, and then glance back at the forest.

"Something amiss?" he asks, matching your stare.

"No—I." You lick your lips. "The forest feels strange."

Simon nods. "It is. Most avoid it."

"Do you?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. Rosie always wanders off. Wish she'd just go down the road to John's but she favors the forest."

"Rosie?"

Simon laughs. "Apologies. Rosie is one of the goats."

"I see," you giggle.

"She’s a sweet thing. Sanderson favors her."

"Is that another goat?" you ask with a smile, reaching back to untie your apron.

"It is. John gave him to me as a kid. Raised him myself. He's a strong buck now. Hates everyone but me." He shrugs, and then leans forward as if to tell you a juicy secret. "Once bit Reverend Shepherd in the arse."

You burst out laughing, and then quickly cover your mouth. "I should not. God will punish me."

Simon's grin is wide and sweet. "In death, maybe. But as your husband, it's my responsibility to punish you."

"And pray tell, what would befit such a punishment?" you tease, undoing the buttons of your waistcoat.

Simon's smile falters, his gaze lingering on your chest. Your waistcoat hangs open, and the ties at the top of your shift are loose, revealing bare skin. Simon swallows, clearly enraptured by this small reveal of flesh.

A nervousness slips in, but it's not fear. A desire swirls low in your belly, a feeling you haven't felt since you were a young woman and a village boy you favored gifted you flowers.

This is your husband. He will know all of you eventually. You will share the same bed and give him as many children as your body is capable of. There is no need to be nervous.

"Simon?" you prompt, removing your waistcoat.

He coughs, clears his throat. "You're correct. The forest is strange. You are not to go in unless I'm with you." His change in demeanor briefly startles you.

"Is it dangerous?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. But folks in town are…fearful of what they don't understand. I don't want—I don't want anyone believing things about you that aren't true."

Witch.

"Why would they?" you whisper.

Witch.

"There's a tree,” continues Simon. “Large. Dark bark. Not like any other tree in the forest. At least none that we've seen. Reverend Shepherd and his wife wanted it cut down. Said it was a sign of the Devil. But Pendle's blacksmith took axe to tree. The blade broke upon impact. Not a scratch on the bark." Simon sighs and offers you soap from the basket. "Rosie tends to wander near it."

"Woods always hold strange things. Might be a nearby plant she likes chewing on."

"Perhaps. But I'll go after her if she does. It's not a place for you."

The water in the stream is incredibly clear, flowing steadily. Simon produces two washing cloths, offering you one before taking his, dipping it into the stream. It is not truly bathing, but it is refreshing, the cool water a calming entity against the slight burning beneath your skin.

There is silence afterward, and once clean, the two of you return to the cottage. Simon shows you your new home, already built to accommodate a family. There is a small barn for the animals, and coop for the chickens. You meet Rosie, an all-white beauty that constantly chews on your apron. Sanderson is big, black beast of a buck with grey horns curled backward and away from his head with eyes so pale they’re almost white.

Sanderson does not bite you, but he follows Simon around the homestead, lightly tapping Simon’s outer thigh with his horn like he wants attention.

The first night—that very night—Simon does not touch you. At least, not at first. He allows you your space, keeping his distance. But he observers silently, his gaze lingering on those flashes of bare skin. There is nothing harmful in his gaze, only a deep appreciation, and a longing you can’t quite place.

From what you were told to prepare you for this moment, you expect Simon to flop on top of you. For you to remain silent and still. To thank him afterward whether or not you enjoyed yourself.

Simon is patient. He is gentle. And above all, kind.

“May I touch you?”

You slip into bed in nothing but your shift. Simon is without, only wearing loose breeches that have seen better years.

You curl up next to Simon, facing him. Reaching out, Simon’s fingers lightly brush the curve of your bottom lip and then your jaw. Descending, his fingers find your throat. Then collarbone. He traces the neckline of your shift, and then his fingers tangle in the ties at the front, pulling them loose until your shift opens further.

“Do I tread too far?” he asks, softly.

His touch is awakening something. You sense a tingling, coiling outward.

“No,” you reply. “Continue.”

Simon’s hand slips between shift and your body. His palm is warm, and then he’s guiding it over one shoulder, exposing it to the cool air. Leaning in, Simon’s lips press to the curve of the joint. It is a small thing, but this one bit of contact causes you to shiver, for the tingling to further travel outward.

As he draws back, you tilt your head. Then it is Simon kissing you, and you accepting him. He is not forceful here. There is no claiming. It is exploration, and you find yourself reaching out, hands gliding over his chest.

He is all hardness, and yet nothing about him terrifies. Strength resides within him, but he is ever so gentle. Taking his time. Savoring.

The shift lowers as Simon pulls it downward. He palms one breast, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

With a soft groan, Simon’s head dips, trailing kisses along your neck, moving over collarbone, descending down until his mouth explores the valley between your breasts, and then further still.

The tingling explodes outward into the tips of your fingers and toes. You are buzzing—the restlessness of the world coming with you.

The shift is over your hips. Down your thighs.

Gone.

Utterly gone.

Your legs part as Simon continues to trail kisses downward. His hands squeeze your thighs, and then he’s kissing you between your legs, lingering there as the buzzing ascends into a crackling that sucks all air from your lungs.

“Simon,” you gasp, fisting his hair.

He abruptly lifts his head, lips shiny in the light of the hearth. “Have I harmed you?”

Harmed you? No. Hardly.

“No,” you gasp. “I—this is unexpected.”

Simon places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning on an elbow. “My understanding came from observing the farm animals.” A small smile spreads across his face. “But after service one Sunday, Reverend Shepherd rounded up all the unwed men. Told us the King was sending us wives.”

“Were you happy when he told you?”

“No,” chuckles Simon, absently stroking your thigh. “I was scared.”

“And now?”

“Still scared.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Simon gives a small shake of his head. “No. I am scared of how my heart feels.” You gently place your hand against his cheek. Simon turns into the touch. “Reverend Shepherd explained. Made this sound like a duty. A chore.” He sighs. “But I do not see how.”

Shifting, Simon drapes himself over you, gaze intense. “My heart is full but my mind is confused. God demands duty but I see no duty here.” He closes the distance, lips brushing over yours. “A wife is not a chore.”

Your fingers find the band of his breeches. They surrender easily under your touch. Legs widening, Simon settles between. There is a small tangle—a clumsy back and forth as the two of you adjust. It stings at first, but quickly fades, leaving you boneless as your bodies meet repeatedly.

You whisper his name, and Simon groans yours.

He shudders, burying his face against your next. Warmth and wetness blooms in your womb. You tangle yourself around him, holding Simon close.

Inside your chest, something cracks. Splits. Fractures.

Part of you believes it is just this moment between husband and wife, but a whisper runs beneath, and a slithering like that of a serpent. The forest is creeping in—pushing in. Making room where there is none.

But it is quick, and it is fleeting.

It is after the first night that the two of you truly begin to explore. Simon starts with simple touches, and you accept them all, wanting to understand to be close to someone. He is happy you’re here with him, and you’re happy to be his.

Unlike the rest of the men in town, Simon listens, and values your opinion. His jokes are terrible, and his willingness to subvert and ignore Reverend Shepherd’s doctrine makes him the pariah. The only time the two of you make it into town is for Sunday service, and while townsfolk are friendly, they don’t interact with him unless they have to.

Between it all, you help out on the farm, tending to the animals, and whispering sweet encouragement to the crops when Simon isn’t looking. They all flourish under your care, the land bountiful and beautiful. When others suffer, you and Simon’s land remains strong and steadfast. He is quick to share in the wealth—to take care of others.

A home is built.

Love flourishes.

And for three years, life is peaceful.

The forest hardly whispers. The teeth do not gnash. There is quiet in the wood, and you see no glance of horns.

Simon's hand rests upon your stomach. He turns on his side, pressing a kiss to a spot just above your navel. As he descends, you playfully shove his head away.

"I cannot," you laugh. "I am sore everywhere."

Simon grins and then pushes up, stealing a kiss before rolling over you and heading to the mantel above the hearth. Retrieving his bible, Simon returns, settling back in beside you. The leather cover is worn in places.

His gaze takes in your nakedness. “Stay like that for me.”

You are uncovered and bare before him. Simon’s seed rests heavy between your thighs.

Opening the bible does not result in reading scripture. Simon picks up a charcoal stick. Turning the bible vertically, Simon starts to sketch.

Neither of you read from it. There is nothing to be read. The pages are covered with Simon’s sketches. Most of them are of you—of pieces of you—even the place that is well-loved even now. There are less lewd images etches across the parchment. All of the animals are there. So is the cottage.

If someone—anyone—were to discover these drawings, they’d blame you.

A hex. A curse. A spell.

You have turned him from God.

But Simon doesn’t think so, and you care not. God has given you nothing but this man. Everything the two of you are is only because of the effort and love the two of you have brought. God did nothing but drop you at Simon’s feet.

You thank Him for it, but nothing else. And if that will send you into hellfire, then that is where you will reside.

In silence, you observe your husband. Simon’s gaze darts from the page to you and back again. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and the middle of his brow is creased with concentration. You remain as you are until he turns the bible around to show you.

There you are, sketched over a page of Leviticus.

“Your talents are lost on farming.”

Simon chuckles and then he closes the bible, placing it upon the small bedside table before returning to you. His hands explore, reaching. Then you're opening again, allowing him in.

Sleep is peaceful, and Simon does not wake you in the morning when he leaves to check on the animals.

It is his firm hand shaking you awake.

“Simon?” You rub at your eyes, yawning.

“Rosie is gone.”

“Again,” you groan, digging around in the bedding to find your discarded shift. “That’s the third time this week, Simon.” Finding it, you slip it over your head, retrieving your stockings.

“Keep finding her near the tree.”

A whisper of a voice brushes against your ear and you swat at it like a pesky fly.

You frown. “All three times?”

Simon sighs, and nods. “I’ll go for a look.” Kissing the top of your head, Simon retrieves his musket. “Be back before supper.”

Simon does not come back before supper.

The food grows cold.

And when it’s entirely dark, and the whispers from the wood become overwhelming, you take a lantern, and rush up to road to John Price’s homestead.

John takes a horse to town. Returns with a small party of men.

“It’s best you not go with us. Won’t know what we’ll find.”

“He’s my husband, John. I’m going.”

With lanterns lit, and hunting dogs are your heels, you enter the woods.

The moon is swallowed up as if eaten by a beast, plunging everything around you into utter darkness. The only light you have is that of your lantern and of the other lanterns carried by the menfolk.

And yet, it does not seem like enough.

The darkness here is eternal, and all around you is a dreadful silence.

“Simon!”

“Can you hear us, Simon!”

The only response is the echoing of your collective voices. No insect buzzing. No owls hoot. Nothing scurries underfoot. Even the leaves and twigs you step on are absent of sound.

The forest is consuming, eating away all noise until the only thing you hear are the thoughts in your head.

At the back of the pack, you do not see the tree. Don’t hear the cries for help.

It isn’t until John is approaching you, urging you away that you know something is wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong.

There are teeth in the New World. Teeth in the ground.

Jaws. A maw.

It has eaten your heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Licked the tips of its fingers.

The forest has devoured. Consumed your husband for a meal.

Reverend Sheperd prays for three days over Simon's body. When he leaves, the women gather around you. Each day, one or two depart, and by the end of the second week, there is no one but you holding vigil.

Simon does not stir though his breathing remains steady. The town likely whispers of the Devil's work, that Simon's long sleep is a curse.

Do they blame you?

Perhaps.

Maybe.

You cannot form enough resolve to care what the townspeople think. If they do blame you, they'd have to drag you from your home by the hair. You’ll draw blood and break bone if anyone attempts to remove you from Simon’s side.

Tucking the blanket in, you curl up next to your husband, cheek resting against his shoulder. He smells of the forest—damp leaves, crushed berries, and sharp pine. Breathing deep, you commit your husband's scent to memory.

Life is a fragile, fickle thing. The thought of growing old here, of giving Simon children, of watching them grow and have families of their own filled you with such purpose again after your father’s betrayal. It is not the future you expected for yourself, but it is the one you’ve found happiness with.

"Come back to me," you murmur, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. They fall, dampening Simon's skin. "Come back, my love. Come back."

Simon remains silent and still.

Night arrives and then departs, bringing the morning with it. No one comes to visit. No one comes to check on either of you. Responsibility is on your shoulders now. Without your guiding hand, the farm will fall into decay, the fencing will rot, weeds will overtake the crops, and animals will starve. A part of you wants to hand it over to God, to allow him to lead.

But God did not protect your husband. He looked away, leaving Simon to his fate.

A deep sigh escapes you, gracing the air with your accepted reluctance. Slowly, you lift your head from Simon's shoulder. He has not changed in these two weeks. Without food or water, Simon should show signs of wasting. But there is no hint there is anything amiss.

"I will fix this," you say, addressing Simon as if he'll answer.

You rest your palm against the side of his face. Warmth radiates from him, but your touch does not rouse him from his sleep.

A sharp howl pierces the air.

It is not a wolf or dog. This sounds like agony. Like despair. Like a dark creature pulling itself from the earth.

Turning abruptly toward the door, every limb solidifies, turning your blood to stone.

Something is out there. Something that does not belong.

Slipping on your shoes, you creep toward Simon's hunting musket. Grasping it, you reach for the blackpower and musket balls, preparing it like Simon showed you. The howl ceases, but your blood remains chilled like morning frost. The hunting musket is heavy, and the sweat in your palms makes holding it difficult. You can hardly keep it upright.

Grasping it, you hold it in the way he showed you, heading for the door. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. Not a sound.

Reaching out, you unlatch the door, guiding it open just enough to point the barrel outward and to glimpse the morning.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves but the tall grass and the corn stalks.

Opening the door wider, you cautiously step outside. Your gaze scans the dirt. No footprints of animal or man.

The air vibrates, and beneath your feet, you sense a creeping static. Tilting your head, you listen—not with your ears but with all your senses, tapping into the ground like your mother taught you.

A tug comes. A gentle pull that lulls your attention leftward.

You take a step in the direction of the feeling, the creeping static intensifying until it suddenly disappears, as if pulled from existence.

"Child." The voice—no, voices—speak with two tongues. "How fares thy husband?"

Turning slowly, you glimpse not man or animal but a combination of the two. The creature stands at nearly twice your height on two cloven hooves. Its head is that of a black goat with red eyes and horns so dark they resemble the night sky. Draped in black robes, and hands clasped in front, you notice they aren't hands at all.

Not human hands, but claws. Talons. Long and spindly like thin twigs.

"Devil," you whisper, because what else could this creature be but a servant of Satan.

The creature only blinks. "To the Good Reverend Shepherd and his flock, I am devil and demon," it says, imitating the voice of the stern religious leader. Switching back to its natural voice, the creature continues. "To others, a guardian. A friend. A god."

You aim the firing end toward the creature. "How do you know of my husband?”

"He came to my tree looking for his goat." The creature’s head cocks to the side as if listening for something. “Rosie. That is the name he called before all went silent.”

The tree.

The one made of dark bark.

The one that breaks the axe on first strike.

"Was it you that harmed him?" you accuse, voice shaking. Sweat pools in your palms, the metal of the musket slippery in your hand.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" it purrs.

“Answer me! Was it you that put hands upon my husband?”

"It is not Godly to accuse thy neighbor of treachery when proof is lacking.”

"But you don't deny it?" you snap.

The creature is silent for a long moment as if frozen in ice. “No,” it finally says. "I did not cull your husband.”

"Who?" When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Who?"

“A man of flesh.”

“Which man?”

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" the creature repeats, the dual voices reverberating in your chest.

“Answer me, demon. Or be gone.”

“Does my appearance offend?” it asks slowly. “You…puritans seem bent on burning.” It unclasps its spindle-fingers. “Would you prefer a change?”

"Whether devil or guardian or beast, my ears do not wish to hear more. Be gone."

"No."

No.

Startled, you hesitate. And then your resolve bleeds back into bone. Raising the weapon higher, you plant your feet into the ground, squaring your shoulders. "I said—"

The creature raises its hand, palm upward, forming a fist. The barrel of the weapon bends skyward. Fires. Smoke and ash fill the air.

Blinded, you cry out, falling upon the ground, arm over your eyes protectively. The musket falls from your arms.

"Again, child," comes its voice—a whisper in your ear. "Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You swing your arm outward and only meet air. With a touch of hysteria, you swipe your arms out and around you, expecting to meet solid flesh.

There is nothing. Nothing.

"Be calm, child. Calm."

Chest heaving, you blink through the pain, searching for the house.

Simon. You need to go to him. To protect him.

The world is in color but it is fuzzy. Unclear. The dirt beneath your palms is rough as you crawl, digging into your skin, stinging until you know blood blooms in the wounds.

"Go away," you whisper. The creature does not answer. "Leave. Leave my husband and I in peace."

As your vision clears, a dark shape steps in front of you. The creature towers, hands outstretched placatingly. "Listen, child. Listen."

"Simon," you whisper, every limb shaking as you try to push yourself up to a seated position.

"God abandoned Simon. Abandoned you."

Your arms give out, and you collapse. With every remaining morsel of resolve, you start to drag yourself through the dirt.

"Simon."

"A shadow darkens your door. Not that of any devil—but of human suspicion. Townsfolk consume gossip like plague consumes a newborn babe."

Dirt collects under your nails.

“Suspicion. Godly suspicion. Devil-spun no doubt but by human tongue.”

You drag yourself a little further.

“Witch.”

“Leave us,” you murmur, voice weak and cracked.

Your vision clears a bit more—the sting receding. It is enough to push up to your knees.

“I hear all,” the creature says. “No wooden board or stone or packed dirt can hide a whispered word.”

Witch.

Witch.

“There is nothing the Godly despise more than a woman alone in the world.”

Its words cut deep. They tear into you, ripping out the dreaded truth. The townsfolk will lay blame. And what a perfect perpetrator you are. Why would Simon Riley, one of their own flock, befall such a fate unless someone had done it to him.

Witch.

On shaky legs, you face the creature before you. Its red eyes have softened. Pity rests there, and you do not know what to make of it.

The goat head shifts, gaze moving to somewhere within the house. You glance behind you and only see the open door. When you glance back, the creature is gone.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You spin and find the goat standing inside the doorway. He's too large to fit. He's bent in half, peering out at you.

"Get out of my home, demon."

It only blinks, and steps out of view. You rush toward the door, charging inside, finding no one. The room spins as you head for Simon. All you want is to be beside him. If this is a punishment, then so be it, but you will weather it at his side.

Kneeling beside your bed, you grasp Simon’s hand. You bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I'm seeing things, Simon," you whisper.

Spindle-fingers slide over your shoulder, the creature’s palm coming to rest against the joint. It is no hallucination. There is no iciness, but warmth. Not hot—not an inferno as Reverend Shepherd always preaches—but a comforting one. Like a burning hearth in the middle of winter.

Closing your eyes, you listen.

There is no static. What assails your senses is this creature’s age. There are stars and dust in his aura—of sleeping beneath mountains—of a time before trees when there were only teeth.

“I can heal him,” comes its two-toned voice. “Make him whole.”

In this, you hear the truth. There are no lies. The words weave around you, spinning and encasing you like angel wings.

“Pray tell me, stranger. What price for such an offer?”

“Stranger,” muses the creature. “Thou hast named me.”

“What price?” you prompt.

A beat.

“You.”

“Me?”

Stranger bends until it’s crouched next to you. “I shall heal your husband. Ward him from harm and illness. He will live to an old age. Pass peacefully in his sleep.”

“A nice thought,” you murmur, gazing on Simon’s face.

“But in return, you shall come with me.”

You turn to face Stranger. It gazes at you intently, waiting for a response. As you peer into its red depths, something dark—tentacle-like—slithers in the red and promptly disappears.

“I have nothing to offer.”

Removing its twig-like claws from your shoulder, it presses the point of one to your forehead. At contact, the air comes alive, coursing through vein and bone until your skin glows with a deep radiance of brilliant white light.

“A blessing doth dwell,” its two voices sing. The power surges and then recedes as Stranger removes its claw. “Join me. Be my bride. Walk the forests.”

“Agreements are not freely given. I come from a world where the Fae walk. Bargains favor wing and wit. Not mortal flesh.”

“I am Elder,” purrs Stranger. “Trickery is foul tasting.”

“But after you heal him? After I agree to go with you? What then?”

“You shall see him not. Never know his touch. All memory of you will be erased. He nor the townsfolk will remember you. A hint, maybe. A feeling. But it shall always slip away.”

A life without Simon. A life without his gentle touches and drawings by candlelight. You will bear him no children. Never again enjoy the carnal rite that is your most sacred vow.

Yet, he will live.

Simon will thrive.

You detect no deception. The air is still and calm. No tension.

“What must I do?”

Stranger turns and you follow its gaze.

Upon the table is a large book. Ornate. Shiny. Gold-plated. Open.

You swallow. “I’m…poor with my letters.”

“It needs not names but blood. Just a drop.” Stranger elongates. Still too small for the space, it bends its upper half to accommodate, its back scraping against the ceiling. “Sign the book,” he prompts.

“Forgive me, Simon.”

Pressing your lips to the back of Simon’s hand, you send forth a silent prayer. Pushing up, and leaning over him, you place a second kiss to his forehead. You breathe him in, infusing the memory until it resembles vines, tangling the essence of Simon into your brain.

Retreating, you offer up your palm, splaying your fingers in extension.

Stranger gently takes it, bringing it over the golden book.

Pointed claw meets human flesh.

A sharp sting.

A pause.

A bead of blood wells.

Hovering. Hovering.

Then—

The dark bead lingers on the blank page.

Silence.

And then a sucking sound as the parchment absorbs the blood.

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[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!eddie

part 2 here | ao3 link here

Eddie chose a career in voice acting to avoid shit like this.

Forced socializing. Schmoozing with hotshot directors who are used to everyone kissing their ass until their lips bleed. And Eddie doesn’t do that shit. 

… Okay yeah sure, Eddie kisses asses. But only in the literal, consensual kind of way. Usually after a few mediocre dinner dates, at least.

But this particular fuckhole of a director is insisting that Eddie attends the production shoot of the commercial that he’ll be narrating for. Which is weird - that’s not how this process typically goes. Eddie gets the script and records it in his studio. Easy peasy.

“I do things a little differently with my projects.” The director sneers into the phone’s speaker. Eddie silently gags at the oozing amounts of ego on this guy. “I want to immerse you into my vision.”

Ew. Eddie would rather immerse himself into a nap, but whatever. A job is a job.

“Understood.” Eddie agrees with minimal teeth-clenching. “I’ll be on set shortly.”

The phone clicks dead with nothing but a chuckle from the guy. No ‘goodbye,’ no ‘thank you.’ Rude… but that’s kind of an industry standard, so why did Eddie expect anything different?

He folds the script into his back pocket, throws on a shirt that screams ‘Los Angeles disaster gay,’ and makes his way to the studio lot.

Fucking yay. 

Upon arrival, the director immediately escorts Eddie into the green room. Rambles on about needing him to meet the lead model for this commercial.

“Isn’t he just posing with the product?” Eddie lets his snarkiness run loose with that question, knows it right away.

Luckily, the guy is too busy snapping at a crew member to notice. “You’ll be voicing his character’s inner narrations.”

“Right.”

“And I want your tone to be seamless with the energy that he’s giving in this shoot. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.” Mostly loud.

The director swings open the door and reveals maybe the most cosmically beautiful person that Eddie has ever seen.

“Eddie, this is Steve.” The director says. “Steve, this is Eddie.”

Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact.

But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout.

Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

“Nice to meet you, man.” Steve holds out his hand while someone brushes more powder onto his shiny, glowy skin. God, that’s the best damn skin Eddie has ever seen. Powder be damned, Steve doesn’t need it’s chalky finish.

Eddie shakes himself out of this spell, takes Steve’s hand like he’s somehow worthy of touching him. “Yeah, you too.”

Lame. So lame. On a scale of one to Star Wars prequels, his response is the CGI in Attack of the Clones. ‘Yeah, you too?’ Ugh, what a dumbass.

The director tells them to get acquainted and to be on set in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Eddie has to be convincingly normal for ten whole minutes. Pfft, that’s laughable, but he’ll give it a shot.

“That guy’s a total asshat.” Steve grumbles.

Oh. Eddie could smother him in kisses for saying that. Lick Steve clean of all that stupid powder and probably die of talc poisoning. Death By Licking a Model is one hell of a way to go.

“Yeah.” Find some new words, Munson. “Major asshat. But he happens to be paying my bills this month, so technically, he’s my favorite major asshat.”

“Oh, same.” Steve laughs. It’s fucking glorious too. Eddie kind of wishes he had brought his microphone so that he could capture such a wonderful sound with high quality recording software. Is that creepy? Maybe he should dial it back. 

... As if. This guy’s hair is sculpted with effortless perfection and his shoulder blades could slice through a French baguette. No way Eddie can dial it back or keep it together.

“So you’re doing the voice work on the commercial, right?” Steve asks.

‘Yup.” Eddie shoves both hands into his pockets. “Indeed I am.” 

Okay, that was borderline Yoda. Get a grip.

Steve seems unfazed though. “That’s cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles warmly. Nerves mellowing out. “And I can’t wait to see you in action out there.”

“Hope I can give you some good inspiration.” And Steve winks, legit winks at Eddie. Does it like it’s normal too, like he winks at everybody. He probably winks at nuns just to see if he can get them to consider conversion.

Eddie is so hopeless. Fucking tragic at this point.

They walk into the studio and are greeted by a somber, archaic set design. There’s a massive throne in the middle that is draped with fur. 

It’s… tacky. That’s the nicest adjective Eddie has to describe it. Tacky bullshit.

“I thought this was for a cologne ad.” Eddie says, eyeing the snowy backdrop.

Steve nods. “It is.”

“So what’s with the secondhand Game of Thrones set?”

“Mr. Asshat thinks this is his cinematic debut.”

Eddie snorts. Loves that he already has inside jokes with this beautiful, beautiful creature. “Someone should tell Mr. Asshat that this is visual plagiarism.”

“Nah.” Steve runs his hand over the tacky fur piece. Smirks to himself as he speaks. “I say we let him suffer.”

Eddie’s legs wobble. “Damn, you’re hot.”

He sounds ridiculously uncool, so breathy and gone. But Steve shrugs in a non-pitying kind of way, so maybe Eddie's uncoolness is excused. Or expected.

While the camera and lighting crew finalize their positions, Steve takes off his robe, revealing his costume.

Torn, muddied pants. Ripped and clawed to shreds. A billowy white top that’s completely unbuttoned. Un-laced? Eddie’s not entirely sure about the mechanics - just knows that Steve’s chest is out, that’s all he can focus on.

There’s a dented crown that the stylist places next to the throne, right at Steve’s feet. It’s shimmery yet tarnished, catches the light in a kaleidoscope effect.

The product is called The Fallen King, so deductive reasoning tells Eddie that Steve is meant to be the physical embodiment of this scent. He recalls something in the script about his title being slandered by promiscuity and forbidden love. Apparently they’ve bottled up that smell into a cologne. 

Do people really want to smell like a dethroned monarch? That’s a thing? Huh.

Just to make the sexual torture even more unbearable, Eddie gets to spectate alongside Mr. Asshat himself. Which also means that Eddie almost has a center view of Steve’s performance.

Cause that’s exactly what he’s giving. A performance. A full display production of his body, his face. His whole godlike essence. 

It’s unfair how fucked Eddie is from watching Steve pose. He can hold the oddest positions without budging a single tendon. So still. Durable. Strong.

Every last thought in Eddie’s head is impure from that observation. He wants to wrap his fingers around Steve’s muscles until he finally moves, twitches. Eddie wants to watch as Steve’s pretty lips part, falling open with sighs. See how long it takes for those sighs to turn into moans.

Steve slumps back into the throne, legs spread obscenely far apart. His gaze droops low and dark, practically eye-fucking the camera. It’s crazy how jealous Eddie is of that stupid inanimate object. The things he would do to get eye-fucked by that golden sex god up there…

His internal porno gets interrupted by a new pose. A wicked one. Steve is on his knees now, looking up into the camera lens. He sinks into the dreamiest expression. Looks dazed, all spaced-out and helpless. Eddie kneads at the growing heat in his pants with the heel of his palm. Hopes it’s not fucking obvious that he’s so horned up right now.

The director clears his throat and yells over the camera’s constant shuttering. “Can you tilt your head back, Steve?”

And Steve does. So obedient, so exceptional at his job. His head rolls back on his neck, shoulders sagging with the shift of weight.

Eddie is chewing the inside of his cheek, nearly ready to take the horny loss and go jack off in his car. Steve is in the most ideal position now, totally vulnerable. Eddie could fuck him so good like that, let Steve melt into his touch. He’d treat him like treasure, spoil him with dick and praise. Eddie would catch him if his legs give out. Would lick Steve’s kiss-bitten lips until the swelling goes down.

God, Eddie is so sick in the head for conjuring up x-rated scenes like this. In public, surrounded by strangers. Literally on the clock. He seriously needs to get his head checked for having such a whorish imagination.

The shoot ends shortly after that last pose, the one that rocked Eddie’s world. He closes his eyes for a minute, takes a few deep breaths. Tries to inhale some goddamn decency.

“How was it?” Steve heads his way, snaking his arms back into the bathrobe.

Eddie blinks hard. “It was… you were…” And the words stop. Nothing else comes out, his throat is strangled and bare.

Steve gives a soft laugh, nudges Eddie’s arm with his elbow. “Guess you do better when there’s a script in front of you, huh?”

Oh. So he’s pretty and darkly playful? This is too good, too delicious.

Eddie wets his bottom lip, recovers quickly. “I do better when there’s not an earthbound angel in my presence.”

“Wow.” Steve raises both eyebrows. “That’s quite the compliment.”

“Oh come on - you must get compliments all the time.”

“Not like that one though.”

“No?”

Steve takes a step into Eddie’s space. “Definitely not.”

They just stare after that - mostly because it’s Eddie’s turn to speak but words are so secondary when there’s this much beauty to behold. Gazing becomes his top priority.

And before the conversation can lead to an exchange of last names or phone numbers, Steve is rushed off by his agent. Maybe his publicist. Maybe his mom, Eddie has no fucking clue. Just someone taking away his shiny new toy. He sort of feels like reenacting that scene in Cast Away when the volleyball drifts into the ocean. Be dramatic as all hell about this ending.

Eddie doesn’t actually jack off in his car, although he really wants to. No, he decides to use all of his adrenaline and pent-up hormones for the voice recording. It gives his vocals this strained, chesty sound. Sinful and corrupt. Cracking with emotion in certain spots, spiking the volume in all the right ways.

It might be too much, a little bit too suggestive for a lousy cologne advertisement.

But as he listens back, Eddie can’t help but picture Steve. Imagining snapshots of him from every angle, especially the unspeakable ones. The recording barely sounds like a script anymore. It almost sounds like Eddie whispering the lines directly into Steve’s ear. A dirty secret between them.

This is it, he thinks. Sends the audio file to his sound mixer without a second read-through, without a retake. This might be the best voiceover Eddie Munson has ever done.

[etz-ashashiyot]

Quotes from "Executed Jews" I want to especially highlight:

Two distinct patterns of antisemitism can be identified by the Jewish holidays that celebrate triumphs over them: Purim and Hanukkah. In the Purim version of antisemitism, exemplified by the Persian genocidal decrees in the biblical Book of Esther, the goal is openly stated and unambiguous: Kill all the Jews. In the Hanukkah version of antisemitism, whose appearances range from the Spanish Inquisition to the Soviet regime, the goal is still to eliminate Jewish civilization. But in the Hanukkah version, this goal could theoretically be accomplished simply by destroying Jewish civilization, while leaving the warm, de-Jewed bodies of its former practitioners intact.

For this reason, the Hanukkah version of antisemitism often employs Jews as its agents. It requires not dead Jews but cool Jews: those willing to give up whatever specific aspect of Jewish civilization is currently uncool. Of course, Judaism has always been uncool, going back to its origins as the planet's only monotheism, featuring a bossy and unsexy invisible God. Uncoolness is pretty much Judaism's brand, which is why cool people find it so threatening — and why Jews who are willing to become cool are absolutely necessary to Hanukkah antisemitism's success. These "converted" Jews are used to demonstrate the good intentions of the regime — which of course isn't antisemitic but merely requires that its Jews publicly flush thousands of years of Jewish civilization down the toilet in exchange for the worthy prize of not being treated like dirt, or not being murdered. For a few years. Maybe.

I wish I could tell the story of Ala's father concisely, compellingly, the way everyone prefers to hear about dead Jews. I regret to say that Benjamin Zuskin wasn't minding his own business and then randomly stuffed into a gas chamber, that his thirteen-year-old daughter did not sit in a closet writing an uplifting diary about the inherent goodness of humanity, that he did not leave behind sad-but-beautiful aphorisms pondering the absence of God while conveniently letting his fellow humans off the hook. He didn't even get crucified for his beliefs. Instead, he and his fellow Soviet Jewish artists — extraordinarily intelligent, creative, talented, and empathetic adults — were played for fools, falling into a slow-motion psychological horror story brimming with suspense and twisted self-blame. They were lured into a long game of appeasing and accommodating, giving up one inch after another of who they were in order to win that grand prize of being allowed to live.

Spoiler alert: they lost.

[...]

But Soviet support for Jewish culture was part of a larger plan to brainwash and coerce national minorities into submitting to the Soviet regime — and for Jews, it came at a very specific price. From the beginning, the regime eliminated anything that celebrated Jewish "nationality" that didn't suit its needs. Jews were awesome, provided they weren't practicing Jewish religion, studying traditional Jewish texts, using Hebrew, or supporting Zionism. The Soviet Union thus pioneered a versatile gaslighting slogan, which it later spread through its client states in the developing world and which remains popular today: it was not antisemitic, merely anti-Zionist. (In the process of not being antisemitic and merely being anti-Zionist, the regime managed to persecute, imprison, torture, and murder thousands of Jews.) What's left of Jewish culture once you surgically remove religious practice, traditional texts, Hebrew, and Zionism? In the Soviet Empire, one answer was Yiddish, but Yiddish was also suspect for its supposedly backwards elements. Nearly 15 percent of its words came directly from biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, so Soviet Yiddish schools and publishers, under the guise of "simplifying" spelling, implemented a new and quite literally antisemitic spelling system that eliminated those words' Near Eastern roots. Another answer was "folklore" — music, visual art, theater, and other creative work reflecting Jewish life — but of course most of that cultural material was also deeply rooted in biblical and rabbinic sources, or reflected common religious practices like Jewish holidays and customs, so that was treacherous too.

No, what the regime required were Yiddish stories that showed how horrible traditional Jewish practice was, stories in which happy, enlightened Yiddish-speaking heroes rejected both religion and Zionism (which, aside from its modern political form, is also a fundamental feature of ancient Jewish texts and prayers traditionally recited at least three times daily). This de-Jewing process is clear from the repertoire of the government-sponsored Moscow State Yiddish Theater, which could only present or adapt Yiddish plays that denounced traditional Judaism as backward, bourgeois, corrupt, or even more explicitly — as in the many productions involving ghosts or graveyard scenes — as dead. As its actors would be, soon enough.

The Soviet Union's destruction of Jewish culture commenced, in a calculated move, with Jews positioned as the destroyers. It began with the Yevsektsiya, committees of Jewish Bolsheviks whose paid government jobs from 1918 through 1930 were to persecute, imprison, and occasionally murder Jews who participated in religious or Zionist institutions — categories that included everything from synagogues to sports clubs, all of which were shut down and their leaders either exiled or "purged." This went on, of course, until the regime purged the Yevsektsiya members themselves.

The pattern repeated in the 1940s. As sordid as the Yeveksiya chapter was, I found myself more intrigued by the undoing of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, a board of prominent Soviet Jewish artists and intellectuals established by Joseph Stalin in 1942 to drum up financial support from Jews overseas for the Soviet war effort. Two of the more prominent names on the JAC's roster of talent were Solomon Mikhoels, the director of the Moscow State Yiddish Theater, and Ala's father Benjamin Zuskin, the theater's leading actor. After promoting these people during the war, Stalin decided these loyal Soviet Jews were no longer useful, and charged them all with treason. He had decided that this committee he himself created was in fact a secret Zionist cabal, designed to bring down the Soviet state. Mikhoels was murdered first, in a 1948 hit staged to look like a traffic accident. Nearly all the others — Zuskin and twelve more Jewish luminaries, including the novelist Dovid Bergelson, who had proclaimed Moscow as the center of the Yiddish future — were executed by firing squad on August 1952.

Just as the regime accused these Jewish artists and intellectuals of being too "nationalist" (read: Jewish), today's long hindsight makes it strangely tempting to read this history and accuse them of not being "nationalist" enough — that is, of being so foolishly committed to the Soviet regime that they were unable to see the writing on the wall. Many works on this subject have said as much. In Stalin's Secret Pogrom, the indispensable English translation of transcripts from the JAC "trial," Russia scholar Joshua Rubenstein concludes his lengthy introduction with the following:

As for the defendants at the trial, it is not clear what they believed about the system they each served. Their lives darkly embodied the tragedy of Soviet Jewry. A combination of revolutionary commitment and naive idealism had tied them to a system they could not renounce. Whatever doubts or misgivings they had, they kept to themselves, and served the Kremlin with the required enthusiasm. They were not dissidents. They were Jewish martyrs. They were also Soviet patriots. Stalin repaid their loyalty by destroying them.

This is completely true, and also completely unfair. The tragedy — even the term seems unjust, with its implied blaming of the victim — was not that these Soviet Jews sold their souls to the devil, though many clearly did. The tragedy was that integrity was never an option in the first place.

[...]

In Jerusalem that morning, Ala told me, in a sudden private moment of anger and candor, that the Soviet Union's treatment of the Jews was worse than Nazi Germany's. I tried to argue, but she shut me up. Obviously the Nazi atrocities against Jews were incomparable, a fact Ala later acknowledged in a calmer mood. But over four generations, the Soviet regime forced Jews to participate in and internalize their own humiliation - and in that way, Ala suggested, they destroyed far more souls. And they never, ever, paid for it.

"They never had a Nuremberg," Ala told me that day, with a quiet fury. "They never acknowledged the evil of what they did. The Nazis were open about what they were doing, but the Soviets pretended. They lured the Jews in, they baited them with support and recognition, they used them, they tricked them, and then they killed them. It was a trap. And no one knows about it, even now. People know about the Holocaust, but not this. Even here in Israel, people don't know. How did you know?"

— Excerpted from "Executed Jews," Chapter 4 of People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn

(All emphasis mine)

Read the full chapter here.

[crayons-and-glitter-glue]

I think about Sun and Moon's original versions a LOT, and I don't get why people say they're not expressive!

Or perhaps, I do, and I just wanna ramble. Anyways! Big ol warning for lots of talking, some fursuit gifs and analyzation of body movement.

So, they have flat, immobile faceplates, right? Technically, yes!some argue that this makes them immediately inert and expressionless and opt to enhance their expressions. And this is a-okay! Do what you like!

But as someone who used to be a costumer, and wears a fursuit on occasion,

(Sorry, I love this gif so much)

BUT! When in a mascot costume, fursuit, or any other costume with a mask over one's face, the performer has to learn how to move in order to portray the emotions necessary for character engagement with the audience! Whether it's exaggerated head bobs, using your hands to talk, or making everything a bit of a spectacle, even the way you tilt your FACE can affect how you look.

Even MUPPETS do this with their limited range of expression. And we can easily draw those conclusions of how the boys were programmed to act in canon!

Take Sun's default animation in the daycare, just standing there.

It's very obvious here what he's trying to portray, and who his programmed audience is- little children! When costuming around little kids, you wanna use big gestures, and get on their level because you can seem HUGE AND SCARY to them! You wanna get down towards the ground, make big sweeping cartoon motions, and make sure all your movements are ROUNDED- not jabbing, sharp, or sudden- so that the kid isn't ever surprised, but rather delighted by your performance as a costumer. I'll show you an example by the amazing performer, Temba the Bat! (Made by Toxicoon, I believe.)

Big sweeping motions, slow without being too spooky, and generally friendly motions while swaying the head! Looks kinda similar right?

Another point is, though, these exaggerated motions don't really... turn off when feeling other things. Sun and Moon don't have a customer service mode, and that's WILD to me that their programming requires them to act like this all the time. Exhibit B: Sun's pain in the transformation scene.

He's making such exaggerated motions and movements to INDICATE he is in pain or holding something back. He's gripping his face like something is trying to come out of it, and even dramatically falls backwards to indicate a loss of control in his body. Whether the way the fall looks so cartoonist was intentionally programmed in, I couldn't tell you.

And then... there's Moon.

This is SO cartoon villain sequel, isn't it? The hands tapping delicately on the surface, the exaggerated head tilt, all of it is so wildly exaggerated in such a smooth way to let you know "Ah! I'm in danger! Great!"

And yet... he still is low to the ground. Still in that pose of going after someone SMALL. Performing for someone small. His evilness is almost completely exaggerated and, dare I say, fabricated by his programming. Of course, the virus probably had something to do with it but LIKE! Look at that range of motion!

Idk what the point of all this is, I just wanna say: it's totally understandable to make the boys super duper expressive in the artistic, flat 2d styles i see a lot!

But man I do hope someone draws them biblically accurate while expressing something else because that would be hilarious to see Sun throwing a temper tantrum by banging his fists on the ground and flailing while his face is just

:D

[anniflamma]

This isn't a question, but rather a love letter to your art<3.

Thanks to you, I've started enjoying Greek mythology and the Bible again (I mean from a point of artistic, mythological, historical, and theological analysis; my status with any kind of religion is being agnostic XD).

And I already enjoyed Epic the Musical, but I really love the designs you make, how you empathize with the symbolism and lore of the Gods when designing them, and how you make Odysseus so human with his crude expressions that makes me empathize with him (And he's one of the characters I hated the most from Greek mythology lol)

And then there’s your art about the bible, I have to admit that I tend to avoid the biblical religion because of the weight it still has on our daily lives, the damage it has done from the past to this day, and how they deny it with current hypocrisy (I live in Spain, there the official religion is catholic), but your lgbt drawings have really encouraged me to open the bible and see it from an objective and neutral point of view, and just enjoy it as another book and not as something I’m forced to follow.

Also I didn’t know there was so much LGBT content in the bible XD Seriously, thank you so much, if you had a patreon, I would pay you for the amount of happiness and culture you have given me (^///^)

By the way, reading your posts I found out that you recently experienced an internet drama that has become so popular lately. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry that both you and that poor artist had to go through this, that human hypocrisy has no limits or shame, and that I agree with everything you say. Just because we like a character or an author doesn't mean we agree with their crimes or ideologies.

I hope you have a nice day<3

Hi! I’m sorry it took me a while to respond! I mean it, I’ve read this over and over, and it makes me so happy. I’ve been thinking about how to respond, but sometimes it's hard to get it out into words.

It makes me so happy that my biggest interests make others interested in it too. Heck, when people ask questions, I get all giddy!

Talking about biblical/christian saints, greek myths, history, different cultural views and changes was kind of the whole point of why I started this tumblr blog. I have so many drafts filled with random info about LGBTQ+ saints..... Now�� I post mostly thirsty drawings of greek gods with hairy chests... T.T

And I sympathize a lot when it comes to religious trauma. I consider myself lucky in these matters, my mom is Catholic, and she has her views that I don’t agree with and hurtful. Yet she still supports me in her way and watching my bible retelling animatics, everytime I post a new bible animatic, she writes me: "What have you done to Daniel..."

I also have my hurts and anger towards hypocrisies too, and I guess this is my way of countering that?

LGBT content in the Bible is something that really fascinates me. I think it's important to keep in mind that people from about 2,500 years ago had very different views when it came to gender and sex compared to how we see it today. In a way, the Bible does have strict social gender expectations, and if you didn’t fit in, then you weren’t considered part of that gender. But at the same time, it acknowledges that your sex. I think it’s in the Talmud were it discusses the fact that, throughout the Bible, there were about eight genders:

Zachar: male.

Nekevah: female.

Androgynos: having both male and female characteristics.

Tumtum: lacking sexual characteristics.

Aylonit hamah: identified as female at birth but later naturally developed male characteristics.

Aylonit adam: identified as female at birth but later developed male characteristics through human intervention.

Saris hamah: identified as male at birth but later naturally developed female characteristics.

Saris adam: identified as male at birth but later developed female characteristics through human intervention.

Some scholars even believe that Abraham and Sarah were Tumtum. A Tumtum is not considered to be very distinct but rather flexible between male and female sex/gender—"sometimes he is a man, and sometimes he is a woman." The simple fact that God said Abraham had a womb and from it, he would have children. Some say that this is why he is a Tumtum, while some historical linguists argue that ancient Hebrew didn’t have the vocabulary for male genitalia yet. Both arguments are valid, and I like them both!

There’s tons of stuff I could bring up—Joseph with his princess dress, Naomi and Ruth, David and Jonathan, and the discussions around whether Daniel was a Saris Hamah or a Saris Adam. We know he was called a saris, but we’re just not sure which. And then there's Jael, whose story is filled with a lot of phallic symbolism, and even her name is very gender-neutral.

I think I’m going to end here. I could yap about these things forever! But thank you again taking your time writing to me and I hope you also have a nice day! <3

[soulrph]

chaotic unhinged lines from 2022-2023 (prompt edition).

basically in 2021 i made a list of prompts inspired by lines in tiktok videos and instagram reels that made me laugh so hard i cried! and now i have returned with another list! these may provide an alarmingly clear image of what my sense of humor is (aka broken) but i figure a little levity is always a good thing! more prompts are forthcoming, but in the mean time: bon appetit!

knowledge has always chased you, but you've always been faster.

no... no, that was mango apathy juice. from the farmer's market.

of all these people, you are the one i understand the least. i want to get to know you better, but like, not that much better.

i-i will CHEW YOUR MEAT!! WHAT are you doing?!

ooooh god, no, you wouldn't be long getting frostbit!

you are evil. like a hobbit.

WHY MUST YOU FAIL ME SO OFTEN?!?!!?

i have had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn't it.

AHEM!! fill my cup.

may god ignore you like you ignored my greetings.

i will avenge you mister van gogh.

call off work bestie, we need you to solve a murder. here's fifteen dollars.

you're not in love. you may think you are, you dumb fuck, but you're not.

go ahead and put the ranch away.

sadly, "hopefully" doth butter no parsnips.

forget school, i want to be an italian sandwich.

you shouldn't skip work, you are a lawyer and he is a hamster.

you can stop roleplaying now. you're free.

her coupon game was so fucking raw.

i'm sorry guys... he's making a salad.

you could get a straight guy here if you learned to make a good pasta. i'll teach you how to make a risotto that'll get you married and out of my basement.

hey, do you want me to get together a plate of roast beef and hide it in our room so we can have night meats?

it's not the most ethical thing in the world, but in a pinch you can hand off a cursed object to basically any baby.

no, children, you're wrong. once upon a time, there was a piece of wood.

and i'm not saying she deserved it, but i am saying that god's timing is always riiiiight.

hydrate or die-drate, ya DICK!

why did the monkey fall out of the tree? because it was DEAD.

new york city is a fictional place written up by someone with a sinister mind and a knack for comedy.

this is grindr my guy.

wait, i didn't finish teaching you the difference between human and wolf anatomy.

it's time to tell your grandmother that she was wrong. do not be afraid.

vanilla vodka... you fucking child.

without ash to rise from, a phoenix would just be a bird getting up.

you are fucking alive. do what you want.

why are you cradling me like a baby, friend? this isn't how guys of my generation hang out.

i hope a hedgehog shits in your cereal, you difficult person.

you know, i am not as mean as i would like to be. and i think people should appreciate that more.

see, i am not a kangaroo.

well, i'd like to help, but... you see... not as much as i'd like not to.

rest in peace you fucking onion fairy.

when god sings with all his creations, will a turtle not be part of the choir?

i fight for a seat in heaven, every. single. day.

map maker? can you find me somewhere on the map where this big man thinks he's the king?

you bald-headed demon...

so... there are 24 million pigs in australia... and 24 million people... so if you ever feel lonely, there's like, a pig out there that's sort of your cosmic twin.

remember, alcohol is god's apology for making us self-aware.

i'm straight!! stop CONFUSING me!!!!!

you guys want something to eat? because... i know we'll die if we don't eat.

he is a BIBLICALLY gorgeous man. i wanna feed him grapes. i wanna fan him with the frond of a date palm from the forests of Lebanon. i wanna find the alabaster vial of perfume oil that one woman broke for jesus and comb it through his hair. like... he's stressing me OUT.

i'm not sad! i'm freaking HUNGRY!

maybe, if we wait a little bit longer, a fuck will fall into my hand, and i can give it to you.

it's not my fault you thought you lived in this IKEA.

let's leave my mother out of this.

jason may kill people but he's not bad enough to kick a dog.

i run for LUMP!

oh no, i'm all out of caring, baby!

you don't think it mcbe that way... but it mcdo.

what is this enticing bowl of white?

serious question, do his nipples sparkle?

what in the reese's peanut butter fuck is going on here?

if your parents don't buy it, stop loving them!

i just hope you know just how much you've decreased productivity today.

that was poetry at its FINEST.

and if you let that motherfucker shenan ONCE, you best believe they're gonna shenanIGAN!

may god bless the dinosaur that died to make the fossil fuel that was treated to become petrol in the car that took her mom to the hospital to give birth to her.

that's modern milk for ya. what a time to be alive.

you have attachment issues. please fix it.

remember when people had secrets? we should bring that back.

the moon landing was an elaborate marriage proposal.

i don't like the cobra chicken.

i didn't know eggs were this expensive? it's time to lay my own, i fear.

so you're saying the reason i don't have a girlfriend is because i'm not a big enough threat yet.

god gave him a top lip, that's why he's so powerful.

it's a common mistake, but frankenstein was actually the author.

i finally got a pocket-sized diary!!! also i don't get the concept of life.

if a beautiful woman disagrees with me, i will immediately change my view. i've no principles.

how did you all end up married to such boiled potatoes?

if so much as one tear drops from their eye... i will slap you back into your mum.

you are ringing a phone that does not like to be rung.

look how Dr. doofenschmirtz had a fucked up childhood but didn't project his trauma onto his teenage daughter. he projected it onto a platypus.

it is mathematically impossible for you to get a wedgie.

i'm breaking up with you. i love you, it's just... i don't think you could protect me from a mummy.

if you can't do fractions....... you will fucking die.

that's right; in the year 1791, all of our bottoms were killed in a Big Bottom Massacre.

people always assume i'm mean. like CAN you BELIEVE THAT CRAP?! like WHAT would make you think i'm MEAN?! I'M THE NICEST PERSON ON THE PLANET!

the chocolate milk is strikingly overpriced and at the same time very easy to steal; another of god's little tests.

someone's gotta tell the waiter that i ordered mashed 'taters and it sure as shit ain't gonna be me.

if i had a week i couldn't list all the reasons that wouldn't work.

[writingwithcolor]

Any advice for handling race in reincarnation situations?

@swamp-spirit asked:

I'm writing a story that includes characters being reincarnated with completely different appearances. It's a fantasy world, and most of the characters are being reborn in the same region, but I still want a range of skin tones and features in the main cast (this is a comic). I have weird feelings about a character being 'reborn' with notably lighter or darker skin, but it also feels implausible and lazy for people to Just Happen to have a similar appearance when the theology of the story doesn't support it. Characters being reborn, and taking out things specific to real life groups, what are the major things you'd want an author to read up on or take into account? (Note: there is not a 'white' looking ethnic group in this story)

I don’t think it’s a problem as long as the skin tones don’t have any correlation to the circumstances that they’re reincarnated into.

- SK

It’s an interesting question, because in most religions where reincarnation/ transmigration of the soul is a feature of “what happens after death”, remembering one’s past life is not really part of the package deal. From what you’ve written, it’s not clear to me where the “memory” of these characters’ lives are held. Is there a 3rd person omniscient narrator telling the audience who each person is in their next life or do the characters themselves retain memory of past lives?

Assuming this is your typical reincarnation scenario where characters retain no memory of previous lives, it doesn’t much matter. The next life is the next life. Who a person was in their previous life and that identity, in theory, means nothing to them. This also means whatever personality, values, experiences and so on they had in their previous life no longer has meaning. They are, in effect, another person. However, you say you feel awkward about the above which makes me wonder if characters are remembering past lives, in which case…

If you study pretty much any major Asian religion where reincarnation is a part of the belief system, having no memory of the previous life is par for the course. In present-day religions like Jainism, Sikhism, Hinduism and Buddhism, only “special” (I’m using the term very casually here) entities like bodhisattvas, guru, arihant, buddhas, etc. usually get to keep their memories, while the rest of us (literal) mere mortals are supposed to lose our memories between lives as a part of Samsara. In Hinduism, even the gods often forget their previous lives, unless their reincarnation had a targeted purpose (Like being born to defeat an evil entity). 

For most people, it is only through prayer, devotion, meditation and accumulated virtuous/ good/ compassionate deeds that humans are thought to deepen their understanding of the nature of the universe, and thus have the capacity to remember past lives (I’m, again, paraphrasing very loosely here from several years worth of university history+religion courses).  

This is why the isekai genre in Japan is largely regarded as a “cheat”/ parody genre of fantasy. The protagonist, according to common Japanese cultural beliefs, which are quite heavily grounded in Buddhism, is definitively “cheating.” Not to get too ironically biblical, the character’s success often comes from the forbidden knowledge borne of their previous life. 

Thus, there are two ways I look at your characters’ predicaments: 

It’s not technically reincarnation - not by the way most major world religions define reincarnation, anyway. You have people who died now inhabiting other bodies, but that’s not the same as the transmigration of the soul. Also, you want to delve into the weirdness (and maybe heaviness) of “Wow, I went to sleep with one face and woke up with another.” There are certainly stories about people who have had dramatic cosmetic plastic surgery, weight loss surgery, HRT, etc. and then experienced the difference in the “before” versus “after” of how their altered physical appearance makes them feel, as well as how other people treat them. Even if the community your characters are born into now differs from their previous community (Which I guess would make this more a “I traveled between dimensions, and my appearance altered in the process” sci-fi adjacent affair), their new life will still have social environments with differing attitudes towards human physical appearance that will affect your characters’ emotional states. 

Isekai it up and play with the ridiculous contradiction of having past lives and differing memories of one’s appearance. Isekai manga, manhwa and webtoons all make use of this trope heavily, especially with protagonists who experience a “glow-up” (Ex. Going from a Plain Jane OL to beautiful fantasy heroine) or, by contrast, protagonists who end up in very different forms from their original lives (Tensura, I’m a Spider, So What?). I’d be creative and go even more granular. Being able to tan after a lifetime of getting sunburns or no longer needing glasses might be nice, but what if the new body lacks the enzymes to process dairy or alcohol? What about dealing with differences in hair texture? Skincare routines? What about living life as a very tall person after being quite short or vice versa? What if you bumped into an acquaintance from your previous life, and one of you clearly got a more “coveted” reincarnation?  See how far of an extreme you can take this idea until it feels too uncomfortable or ridiculous. 

Marika.

[queerfables]

Alright GO fans, let's talk Sodom and Gomorrah. This biblical story comes up a few times in Good Omens canon, a kind of offhand mention each time, and the most interesting part to me is the implication that Aziraphale was there.

If you only know the cliff-notes version, you've probably heard it as the story of God condemning homosexuality to the point of wiping out several cities over it. Maybe you've heard this too, but - that's not exactly what happened. Look, I'm an atheist, I have no dog in this race. If I thought it was about smiting people for homosexuality, I'd be happy to call God a wanker and move on. But I've read the story of Sodom and Gomorrah (You can too! It's very short!) and I've read other parts of the Bible that reference it, and I think a much more straightforward interpretation is that it's about offering hospitality and protection to strangers. It's also about the consequences of wanton cruelty, and God laying waste to those deemed beyond salvation.

In Good Omens, the book, Aziraphale and Crowley discuss Sodom and Gomorrah this way:

"Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy," said Crowley sourly.

"Yes? Did you ever visit Gomorrah?"

"Sure," said the demon. "There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass-"

"I meant afterwards."

"Oh."

According to the book, then, Aziraphale at least saw the city after it was destroyed. Maybe Crowley saw the aftermath too or maybe he just heard about it. They both understand it as horrific.

The show is more direct, and suggests that Aziraphale was there during the actual destruction. Gabriel asks if Aziraphale remembers Sandalphon. Aziraphale does.

"Sodom and Gomorrah. You were doing a lot of smiting and turning people into salt. Hard to forget."

Aziraphale regards Sandalphon warily during the conversation. I believe we're supposed to interpret this scene based on the popular understanding of Sodom and Gomorrah as cities that God wiped out because of the inhabitants' sins. The obvious implication, then, is that Sandalphon is the heavy, the one called in to deal with disobedience. He's trigger-happy, relishes violence, and Aziraphale has seen what he's capable of. From the careful way Aziraphale discusses their prior acquaintance, I think he feels the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah was a tragedy and believes Heaven's actions were disproportionate and unjust.

I'm confident this is how we're supposed to read the scene. In the context of the story, we're supposed to understand that Aziraphale doesn't approve of the smiting, and that he feels threatened by Gabriel and Sandalphon coming into his bookshop and pressing him about Armageddon. But I'm fascinated by what it would mean if Aziraphale and Sandalphon's history really tracks onto the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. Because if Good Omens' version of Sodom and Gomorrah is at all biblically accurate, and if Aziraphale was there... it's kind of mind-blowing, actually, that he still feels so much compassion for the people who died and still thinks Sandalphon was wrong.

I'm going to explain why, but fair warning, it gets ugly. I promise nobody is actually raped, and I think that promise in itself says plenty.

According to the Bible, Sodom and its surrounding cities are accused of being overrun with sin. God sends two angels to Sodom to verify this, intending to destroy everything if they find it to be true. In the world of Good Omens, I think one of these angels must be Aziraphale. The other one is likely Sandalphon, but in the Bible it's God rather than either of the angels who rains down burning sulfur on the cities so it's possible it's someone else, and Sandalphon is only on smiting duty. Without anything else to go on, though, let's assume it's Sandalphon.

So our two angels arrive at Sodom in the evening, and at the gate to the city, they meet Lot. Lot is an immigrant who has made his home in Sodom, and I think the implication is that this is why he's not completely steeped in sin like everyone else. In any case, he immediately offers to put the angels up for the night, and although they'd planned to stay in the square, Lot is really insistent. He is a good host! Also, he knows the city is dangerous. So the angels go to his house and he makes dinner for them, and then before they can go to bed, a mob shows up at the door.

See, the men of Sodom have heard about the strangers staying with Lot. They surround his house and demand he hand them over. The New King James Version puts it this way: And they called to Lot and said to him, "Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us that we may know them carnally." Several other translations say that the men wanted to "have sex with them". But I mean. It's a fucking mob. They've surrounded the house. We all get what this is, right?

So Lot goes out to meet the men, and he says "Don't do this terrible thing." Off to a good start! Then he says, "Tell you what, I have two virgin daughters. Do what you like to them and we'll say no more about it." Oh boy. Dad of the year award, right there. But still, he insists, "The angels are under my roof and my protection."

The men outside Lot's house are pissed. They say, "You're an outsider, who are you to judge us?" They threaten to do worse to him than to the angels. They swarm him and almost break the door down, but the angels pull him back inside.

The angels then strike the mob with blindness to stop them getting into the house. They say to Lot, "Look, you gotta take your family and get out of here. God sent us to see how bad things were and, uh, long story short, we're burning it all to the ground. You get it, right?"

Maybe you know the rest. Lot's son-in-laws don't believe him and won't leave the city. Lot's wife looks back and turns into a pillar of salt. Lot and his daughters take shelter in a small town called Zoar, and from there flee to the mountains. Everything else is destroyed.

It is a tragedy. The plains are leveled down to ash, until there's nothing left that can even grow. Was there really no one innocent in those cities? No children or animals? (You can't kill kids). Still, I think about that awful night under Lot's roof and I don't think I could blame anyone for giving up on all of it.

So what if that's the story? There were two angels in Sodom before it fell. What if it really was Aziraphale and Sandalphon, trapped through the night in a stranger's house, surrounded by men who want to rape them. Whatever their power as angels, that has to be terrifying.

If it was Sandalphon there with Aziraphale that night in Sodom, I have to wonder what he was like. There isn't any kinship or understanding from Aziraphale. Despite knowing the circumstances better than anyone, he still sees Sandalphon as a threat. Given that, I think Sandalphon must have taken a truly disturbing kind of joy in raining down vengeful fire and brimstone, beyond what you might expect from someone who was afraid or angry. Maybe he was never afraid; maybe instead he revelled in the violence building through the night as the reason he needed to tear everything down. Maybe he was afraid in the terrible way that exposes the depths someone will sink to to protect themselves (maybe offering his daughters was never Lot's idea). Or maybe Aziraphale just tried to reach out to him afterwards, to offer understanding and ask for some in return, and Sandalphon shot him down so coldly and viciously that Aziraphale knew immediately this wasn't something he was allowed to have feelings about. Whatever happened that night, it left Aziraphale feeling more of an outsider from Heaven than ever.

But if it happened that way, it happened this way too: Aziraphale survives a night like that, and when he looks out into the breaking dawn, he thinks, these cities don't deserve to burn. He sees the good in a place that's just shown him its absolute worst. I think that says everything about him as a character, actually. Of course he won't give up on Heaven. Of course he'll fight tooth and nail for his home on Earth. Whatever the worst is, there are still things worth saving. There are still, always, people worth protecting.

On that note, before I wrap this up, I want to go back to Lot's words to the men of Sodom, and draw a parallel that makes me feel some kind of way. Because when Lot declares the angels under his protection, what he says is essentially, "Do not do anything to these men, for they have come under the shadow of my roof for protection." And all I can think about, reading these lines, is Aziraphale standing in his bookshop as it's surrounded by hostile demons, and telling the angel under the shadow of his roof, "You came to me. I said I would protect you. And I will."

[alvivaarts]

Writing Tips For You (as if I don’t currently have insane writer’s block)

-Can’t start a scene? Write the setting instead. What is the lighting like? Is this place comfortable? Is it familiar or not? What should you point out now so it doesn’t suddenly appear when it becomes important for the characters? SET! YOUR! STAGE!

-Everyone says “show, don’t tell”. I like to think of that as “what are your character’s physical reactions? What are they feeling?” You can say “Character looked dismayed”, or you can say “Character grimaced with dismay.” See the difference?

-Struggling with dialogue? Talk to yourself while you’re writing. You might be blocking yourself if you subconsciously think some dialogue feels unnatural.

-Context, context, context! This applies to everything from the small interactions to the big plots. Every force has an equal and opposite reaction, allow interactions and events to grow as such.

-Context, context, context pt 2! But worldbuilding! If your character is performing an act, how does that fit into the physical reality they already exist in? How is it possible? Can you imply (imply, not explain) that these things are commonplace or why they wouldn’t be?

-Build the action. (Stealing this from theater class like twelve years ago.) You can’t just put a character into the scene and say ‘they made a sandwhich’. What has to happen for the sandwhich to be made? Your character has to walk into the kitchen, open the cupboard, get out a plate, get out the jam and peanut butter, get out the knives, open the fridge, get out the bread, close the fridge, open the bread bag, lay down two slices of bread on the plate, close the bag, open the first jar, pick up the first knife, scoop up the jam, slather it on the bread, put the knife down, close the first jar- and so on and so forth. Every small step is necessary for you to understand, and to engage your readers. You don’t have to go into ridiculous detail like I just did, but even understanding that for yourself helps remember the ‘state’ of your scene at any given moment.

-See above, but it’s not a scene and a sandwhich. The scene is your whole story and the sandwhich is your plot. What small steps MUST happen to reach the climax? Does changing one of those small steps change the result? How?

-Emotions are best portrayed when you have experienced them or can get insight from those who have experienced them. Let yourself get emotional in a scene. Allow yourself to be empathetic and vicariously experience what your characters are.

-Reread your own work! Your writing style and characterizations can change over time, but if you feel like you’re losing them, don’t be afraid to look at where you started to ground yourself!

-Proofread your own work 2-12 hours after you finish a section! Not while you’re writing! Don’t let yourself get carried away with writing things ‘right’, just get the ideas out.

-Have a friend or volunteer proofread for you too! This can help pick out things you repeatedly say, words you might misuse, grammar and punctuation that might need correction, and phrases that are hard to digest or don’t make sense.

-Make sure you’re making an effort to use regionally/era specific words and slang both in dialogue and in your writing. There are plenty of websites and videos online that list and discuss regional and era slang worldwide. Not to mention, we can connect with people all over the world using the web just to ask! Using incorrect phrases can really break immersion and make characters feel- well, out of character! I.E. an 80s jock saying ‘dope bruh’, American characters (generally) saying ‘lift’ instead of ‘elevator’, so on and so forth.

-Research research research! Research bloodloss limits, research how laws and jobs operate in different regions and countries, research weirdly specific myths and biblical themes, research as much as you can! You can only build a richer environment to write in!

-If you actively want to implement themes, allow them to reflect the experiences of your character. Example character is an Italian American who was orphaned at 13 after his orthodox Catholic parents died, he has been in and out of foster care his whole life, and the moment he got out his military job became strict and he allowed himself to be blackmailed to protect a child in a similar position. This has plenty of fun themes and symbolisms, like sacrifice, fate, lack of control, love, losing autonomy, etc, all of which can be framed under the impactful history of his Catholic childhood. This evokes the imagery of farm animals, servitude, animal tags/dog tags, holy spaces being used for other purposes. Play with it!

-Build three base playlists! One for your overarching story, one for songs that remind you of the main character and their story arc, and one for how you feel when you’re writing/songs that weirdly remind you of your story. You can cycle through these to help get into your mood.

-Consume other media! If all you do is focus on writing, you WILL lose steam and inspiration. Don’t be afraid to watch new shows, read new books, look at more artwork, read more poems, listen to more music. You might get a flicker of inspiration for themes, motives and ideas, and you’ll continue to fill yourself instead of dumping your focus out on your writing.

-Understand how each major character thinks and instinctively reacts to things. Some characters can stay calm, but others might instinctively react to things ‘angrily’, others might try to run away. This is an easy way to figure out character flaws and impliment easy conflicts.

And last but not least:

-Take breaks! Don’t worry about forcing yourself to keep a posting schedule (unless you’re being paid. I’m not. I’m doing this shit for free and for funsies) if all you do is spend all your time worrying about your writing, you won’t be able to relax your brain. Spend time with friends, play games, go outside!

I hope this helps!