#c. Christian

[prokopetz]

My issue with the Problem of Susan is that 90% of the people talking about it are trying to derive C S Lewis' theology and gender politics purely from the text of The Chronicles of Narnia, without any apparent exposure to his earlier work in theological science fiction or Christian apologetics, and if you are familiar with those sources it rapidly becomes apparent that this man was a fucking space alien. Like, no matter what conclusions you've arrived at based on Narnia, I guarantee you what he actually believed is way weirder.

[traegics]

"Don't think I particularly care if it's share by many," JJ admits, shoulders rising and falling nonchalantly. "Never really was one to give a shit of others opinions. Why should we take it seriously? Considering the last time Triad attacked us, we lost many and this time it was nothing more than some psychological dress up game."

"I mean, again, point taken but your logic probably isn't shared by many," he snorted, "nice to know someone isn't taking this as serious as most"

[godsfavoritedumpsterfire]

[lepetitdragonvert]

Thumbkin and Other Stories

Text Version by W. K. Holmes

Artist : Barbara C. Freeman (1906-1999)

Blackie & Son Limited

London and Glascow

[mioakem]

JESUS CHRIST from THE BIBLE is based off of C!TOMMY from the DREAM SMP. In this essay i will-

[traegics]

“Technically,” Ashton is quick to quip. “But also technically the only one older than me now is Charlie so-.” It’s a struggle to contain his amusement, laughter bubbling in his chest until at last he allowed it to release, filling the air around them with the hearty sound. “Oh man, you shoulda seen the absolute terror in your eyes,” the wolf chuckles. “Come on man, you’re a Kenner. It’s genetically impossible for any of us to ever look like shit at any age.”

"I'm technically older than you, asshole," he spat, annoyed at the other before listening in on the other's description and his eyes widened for a moment. "You're fucking with me," he was quick to say, "you know how I know? You are way too specific and I don't even like cheese puffs"

[happy74827]

Still Waters

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Sometimes all it takes is a brush with death to reveal the unspoken bond between you and the man whose secrets run as deep as the trust that you’re only now beginning to understand

WC: 1548

Category: Hurt/Comfort, [TW: Mentions of Choking, Drowning, Attempted Death}

Tonight’s the night… I finally felt productive.

『••✎••』

You wake to a haze, your head pounding like a drumbeat against your skull. The world feels tilted and unfamiliar, and for a moment, you’re not sure where you are. Soft cushions press against your back, a blanket draped over your body, warm but not stifling. The faint scent of leather and something clean—like antiseptic—lingers in the air. Your eyes flutter open, blurry at first, then sharpening on a ceiling you don’t recognize. Panic spikes, sharp and cold, but before it can take root, a shadow moves beside you.

"Hey, hey, you’re okay," a low and steady voice says, cutting through the fog.

Dexter.

His face comes into focus, hazel eyes locked on yours, calm but searching. He’s crouched beside the couch, close enough that you feel his warmth, one hand hovering near your shoulder, ready but not touching. "You’re safe. You’re just in my apartment."

Your throat feels raw like you’ve swallowed glass. You try to sit up, but your body protests—dizzy, heavy, a dull ache radiating from the back of your head. Dexter’s hand finally lands, gentle but firm, guiding you back down. "Easy. You’ve been through a lot."

You blink, trying to piece together the fragments in your mind. Your apartment. A bath. The sound of a door creaking. Then—nothing clear, just flashes of terror, water burning your lungs, a struggle. Your hand flies to your throat, trembling, and Dexter’s eyes track the movement, his jaw tightening.

"Why… why am I…?" you rasp, voice barely above a whisper. Your heart races, a sick feeling twisting in your gut as you try to grasp at memories that slip like wet glass.

Dexter hesitates, just for a second before his expression softens. He shifts closer, sitting on the edge of the coffee table so he’s eye-level with you. "You hit your head pretty hard. I brought you here to keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re… you know, stable."

The words feel like they’re hiding something, and a sudden memory slams into you, sharp and vivid: Dexter’s face above you, water dripping from his hair, his voice urgent but steady. "Do you trust me?" Then, the prick of a needle in your neck, the world fading to black. Your breath catches, and you narrow your eyes at him, a spark of indignation cutting through the fog.

"You drugged me," you say, voice sharper than you expect, though it cracks at the end. You push yourself up slightly, ignoring the dizziness. "What the hell, Dexter?"

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. His gaze stays locked on yours, unflinching but not cold. "I did," he admits, voice quiet but firm. "I had to. What happened back there… you didn’t need to see it. Trust me, you couldn’t have handled seeing it." There’s a weight to his words, something raw and unguarded flickering in his eyes. "Harry—he couldn’t live with seeing things like that either. I wasn’t going to let you carry it."

You open your mouth to argue, but the sincerity in his voice stops you. You think of the fear, the water choking you, the shadow of a blade. And then Dexter, pulling you out, saving you. The anger fizzles, leaving you tired and shaky. You sink back against the couch, staring at him. "You could’ve warned me better," you mutter, but there’s no real venom in it.

A faint smile tugs at his lips, more relief than amusement. "Noted. Next time, I’ll give you a heads-up." The attempt at humor is gentle, and it pulls a weak huff from you despite yourself.

Silence settles for a moment, heavy but not comfortable. You notice the way he’s watching you, like he’s cataloging every twitch, every breath, making sure you’re really here, really okay. Your chest tightens, but not from fear this time. It’s something else, something warm and unsteady.

You shift slightly on the couch, the blanket slipping down your shoulder. Dexter’s eyes flicker at the movement, and he reaches out, almost instinctively, to tug it back up. His fingers brush your collarbone, light as a whisper, and you freeze—not from fear, but from the unexpected jolt that races through you. His hand lingers for a fraction of a second before he pulls back, clearing his throat like he’s caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.

"You cold?" he asks, voice steady again, like he’s trying to smooth over the moment. He doesn’t wait for an answer; he just grabs another blanket from the armrest and drapes it over you, careful not to press too hard against your aching body.

"I’m okay," you murmur, though you’re not entirely sure if that’s true. Your head still throbs, and the weight of what happened—what must have happened—sits heavy in your chest. You don’t ask about the attacker, not yet. The gaps in your memory feel like a mercy, but they also leave you unmoored, like you’re floating just outside your own life. Instead, you focus on Dexter, on the way he’s sitting close but not crowding you, his presence grounding in a way you didn’t expect.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. "I’m… uh, glad you’re okay," he says, the words almost clumsy like he’s not used to saying them. There’s a vulnerability there, a crack in the calm he’s been holding so tightly. "When I saw you in that tub with his—" He stops, his jaw working like he’s swallowing something he doesn’t want to say. "I wasn’t sure that you’d be…"

As he drifts off, you notice the faint shadows under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. He’s been carrying this too, you realize—whatever happened after you blacked out, whatever he did to make sure you’re here now. Your throat tightens, and you reach out, almost without thinking, your fingers brushing his wrist.

He freezes, just for a second, his eyes snapping to where your hand rests. You almost pull back, but then he turns his hand, palm up, letting your fingers settle against his. It’s not a grip, not a hold—just a quiet connection, warm and steady. Your heart stumbles, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the antiseptic in the air.

"You scared me," he admits, voice barely above a whisper like it’s a secret he didn’t mean to share. His thumb brushes the edge of your hand, a small, unconscious movement that sends a shiver through you. "I don’t… scare easy."

You swallow, your voice soft but steady when you speak. "You care about me."

His eyes lift to meet yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. There’s something unguarded in his gaze, something that makes your breath catch. "Yeah," he says, a faint quirk on his lips, "I do."

The air feels heavier now, charged with something unspoken. You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him—but the space between you shrinks. His hand slides up to your forearm, steadying you as you sit up a little more, and this time you don’t feel dizzy. You feel anchored. Safe.

"Dexter," you say, barely a whisper, testing the weight of his name. It feels different now, intimate in a way it never has before.

He tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s waiting for you to say something else, but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward, close the gap, and press your forehead against his shoulder. It’s not a hug, not quite—just a need to feel him there, solid and real. He stiffens for a split second, like he’s not sure what to do, then relaxes, one hand coming up to rest lightly against the back of your neck, careful of the tender spot where your headaches are.

"You’re okay," he says again, quieter this time like he’s saying it to himself as much as to you. His fingers thread gently through your hair, avoiding the injury, and the touch is so careful it makes your chest ache.

You stay like that for a while, breathing in sync, the world outside his apartment fading to nothing. The fear, the pain, the questions—they’re still there, but they feel distant with him this close. Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him, and the way he’s watching you makes your heart skip. It’s not just concern now—there’s something deeper, something that makes you wonder how long he’s felt this way, how long you have.

"I’m going to get you some water," he says, breaking the moment like he’s afraid of letting it linger too long. He stands, but not before giving your hand a quick squeeze, a promise he’s not going far. You watch him move to the kitchen, his movements deliberate and practiced, but there’s a softness to him now that you’ve never seen before.

As the sound of running water fills the silence, you pull the blankets tighter around you, the ache in your head dulling to a manageable throb. You’re safe, you tell yourself, echoing his words. And for the first time in a long time, you believe it. Whatever happened in your apartment, whatever Dexter did to keep you safe, you know one thing for certain: he’s your anchor now, and you’re not letting go of that.

[fuckyeahreligionpigeon]

[thewordfortheday]

Isaiah 53:4-5

Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was wounded for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities; upon Him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with His stripes we are healed.

Thank You Jesus, for dying on the cross for me. For your immeasurable love and sacrifice, just for me. Help me to live a life worthy of your Name. Strengthen me to walk in Your will and Your way. Amen

[anyadarkseid]

🧎‍♀️SIR

[louisbxne]

DEXTER 6.06 | Just Let Go

[prokopetz]

Level 1: Characters in a fantastical setting with no clear analogue of any real-world culture or religion celebrate Christmas; the implications of this are never examined

Level 2: Characters in a fantastical setting celebrate a secular, non-denominational mid-winter holiday which just coincidentally involves many of the same rituals and observances as Christmas

Level 3: Characters in a fantastical setting celebrate a mid-winter holiday commemorating an invented folk-hero whose mythos furnishes elaborate alternative explanations for various Christmas observances

Level 4: Characters in a fantastical setting celebrate Christmas because in spite of the setting's history otherwise bearing no resemblance to that of Earth, for some reason Catholicism still exists

Level 5: Whatever C S Lewis was on

[traegics]

"It's Halloween, darling," Devyn counters swiftly, shoulders shrugging slightly. "I think it's safe to say quite a few people are giving off supervillain vibes. Besides didn't you ever watch Halloweentown as a kid? Great movie."

"Yeah, you're giving off supervillain vibes right now, you have to be behind this," he said with a nod, not even remotely afraid of the repercussions of his words. He had to remember to talk to Charlie about this when he saw her next, knowing that this person was definitely someone to keep on his radar.

[godsfavoritedumpsterfire]

“To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.”

-C.S. Lewis

[tangytangy]

C!Brutal Sniper and C!Pure Spy pls🥺🙏

this has been done for days i forgot to post it 💀💀💀

[draconym]

What's a movie you love but would discourage anyone else from watching?

I love this question but it's really hard for me to answer because I love inflicting bad movies upon people. I once hooked up with someone while watching Mega Shark Vs. Crocosaurus. So I may not be the right person to ask.