#Artificial Irreverence

[klickbot]

Lost and Foundations

@multiverseofmisfits Another bloody evening has passed. And by bloody, like literally. Taking down two demons, while not part of the Twelve Kizuki, was exhausting. Tanjiro even got a few scratches that, if his sister didn't intervene, he'd lose a limb or two.

Just a second ago, they were about to head back to the Butterfly Estate to recover. Yet, a few steps after, everything around them became completely different. Instead of a road surrounded by fields, they were in some kind of a building neither of them have seen before.

While Nezuko was sleeping in the box his brother usually carries, the young demon slayer walked around a bit. His nose couldn't pick up any familiar scent. No demons nearby for sure, but to suddenly found themselves in a completely different place was beyond the possibility that he could imagine.

"Where... are we?"

Everything was overwhelming there. It was way too extravagant compared to the city he once visited. As he couldn't deny that they're completely lost, he went to the check-in counter of the lobby (presumably for guests). There should be anyone who'd help him, right?

"Excuse me? Anyone here?"

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧ While the human may not have sensed any demons nearby at the moment, he would likely notice that there were quite a number of unusual beings surrounding him in this place. Certainly many of them seemed human, but most would notice something seemed off about them. Perhaps it was eyes a shade that should be impossible, or the way they moved that wasn't quite natural, so far as humans go. Others were a bit more obvious they were something unworldly, such as the trio of women with long snake tails where legs should be, slithering along as if their presence there were no more unusual than the clouds hanging in the sky outside. As Tanjiro passed by a few cats watching him, they began whispering amongst themselves about this newcomer. Amidst all the strange creatures which might make one mistake this place for a zoo rather than a resort, there were also quite a variety of robots. Why, it would appear that the entire staff were all machines! Once Tanjiro called out to see if anyone was there, a man with sunburnt skin and spikey red hair chuckled at him, "Well sure. It's a hotel after all. But if you want help, there's a line. Can't expect to get in front of everyone else waiting." Indeed, there were a number of other guests in line waiting to see the robot receptionist. It was about that time that Klick had made his way to the lobby. Someone to talk to. Perhaps someone to help? He noticed the young man who had called out, looking confused. Confused was good- or well, good for Klick. And not angry. Even better. The small spherical bot flew over and introduced himself. "Ah, a new arrival I see, and one in need of assistance it seems. I am Klick, and I'm one of the staff at this establishment." Klick told him. Eyeing the box, the machine wondered what this young man was carrying with him. "Are you a merchant by chance? Or are suitcases simply not fashionable enough for you?" He asked.

[the-irreverend]

What better way to vent about low-effort AI-generated artwork than with a low-effort shitpost?

[ms-demeanor]

Atheist condolence card like "sucks that your grandpa no longer exists and you'll never see him again, oh well"

I mean, I'm looking for a condolence card for a Jewish family (found a pretty good one, will be adding a note about a shared memory of the deceased and hopes for the mourners that their memory may be a blessing).

But also I have no idea why people find the concept of an afterlife comforting. Legitimately, that is unappealing to me and the idea that I would be artificially separated from the people that I love and reintroduced to them after a period of separation if there was no need for that time of mourning and loss seems. Bullshit? It seems like bullshit? Capricious and cruel at best?

Anyway when my grandpa died we got a phone call when they tossed is ashes into the ocean and we never saw him again! Being reminded that we wouldn't see him in an afterlife wasn't the sad part, the sad part was knowing that we wouldn't know him anymore, that we'd be on one side of a growing divide, that there was a before and an after and we had left him behind while we had to move forward. It wouldn't have been comforting to think "well perhaps someday when I have lived my life without him, I will see him again in a place where nothing from this life (all the things that I have done, all the things that he taught me) will matter because they were worldly and unimportant."

What was comforting at that time, and after the very many family deaths that I have experienced (and I've experienced a lot! I've been comfortable with the idea that I'll never see my loved ones again when they're gone since I was a very small child!), and what I suspect is comforting even for religious people who have experienced a loss is to be reminded of the people who are still on the same side of that dividing line, who we can still love and adore and support and make memories with.

Anyway. I'm an atheist at least partially because of my grandfather, who was a magician and a skeptic and took great joy in skewering the supernatural. It would be an insult to his memory to think that he was an angel lighting up a star in heaven or whatever the christian condolence cards say.

My grandpa did a sexy comedy magical immolation of my grandmother in front of crowds; there was a devil on the flier.

(grandma's the one on the right)

Pictured: Not someone who had much reverence for death or much patience for the supernatural:

(Funny story, when my dad came to visit this week he saw a 2-post 52U server rack on the driveway from a distance and asked me "where did you guys get the guillotine? Did I leave that here?")

But my family is probably *unusually* atheist and irreverent.

For atheists in general I don't know why people think that it's more upsetting to acknowledge the truth (that once people are dead you won't see them anymore) than to be told "comforting" lies (that you will see dead people again at some mystical place that you have no access to or proof of).

I *hate* hearing "they're in a better place" when I'm mourning someone I loved because that's something that's comforting for a religious person to say but dismisses both the way that I mourn and (frequently in my family) the beliefs of the deceased. They are not in a better place, they are *gone* and I don't want to imagine that they're somewhere waiting for me to join them again, I want to remember them for who they were and accept that they aren't in my life anymore.

"They're in heaven now" "they're with the angels now" "they're with their maker" - none of those things are true and they reflect an extremely limited worldview that I don't share and find pretty insipid actually! Thank you for trying to comfort me you are doing a poor job of it I'm going to go hang out and talk to someone who actually knew them and we'll share stories of what an asshole they were and what kind of crazy nonsense they got up to and what a big, important part of our lives they were and we'll start trying to make sense of how to fill the hole left behind with something practical and joyful and fun and honest that they would have loved instead of cardboard angel wings.

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 12: Mercy

Contents | Part 11 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Ben x Female Reader) Adapting to your new normal comes with some disappointments. But you can always count on your priest to lift your spirits.

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, religious imagery & desecration, explicit sexual content including oral sex (giving). Readers must be 18+

A/N: Thank you all so much for your patience, I'm so happy to be posting again. I'm not entirely happy with the writing in this chapter, it's definitely not my strongest work so I apologise in advance if anyone notices a drop in quality. I'll be back on top form in the next one (I hope).

This part includes a little nod to Fleabag S2, the original inspiration for this story.

His kiss was like a bruise, an aching reminder of a heady collision. And much like a bruise, you couldn't help but touch it; poking and prodding with fascination at the memory of an impact just beneath your skin.

The evening sun gleamed golden through the cloudy bus window as you rested your elbow against it, running the tips of your fingers across your lips, keeping him close to the surface. You hadn't wanted to leave the church. You weren't sure he wanted you to leave either; the pressure of his body against yours, pinning you to the wall of that quiet, narrow corridor like he wanted to keep you there forever. And you probably would have let him. 

The bus shuddered and jerked over the uneven road, the windows rattling, passengers swaying in a lazy unison. It was all so mundane, so normal and unremarkable, yet somehow these were the places that felt strange now; existing somewhere that didn't hold the weight of your sins.

You almost missed your stop, fumbling to press the bell and staggering down the aisle as the driver came to an abrupt halt. The air outside was cooler, a gentle breeze providing relief from the mid-spring warmth. You thought of rain as you walked home, breathed slow as you pictured it hammering the roads and gathering in murky puddles; angry grey skies and fierce winds that carried the scent of salt and earth. 

There were new decorations in the front garden of your mother's house. Small lights lining the path, a bird feeder and ornaments shaped like squirrels and rabbits tucked amongst the flower beds. You ducked to avoid a new hanging basket over the front door, letting yourself inside and checking your reflection in the mirror on the wall as you kicked off your shoes. You leaned in closer, examining yourself for a moment, trying to figure out what it was he found so irresistible about you.

"Is that you, Ellis?" your mother called. 

"Yeah it's me," you replied, following her voice into the dining room. 

She was sitting at the table surrounded by artificial flowers, plastic leaves and Baby's Breath. Her glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose as she fiddled with a roll of wire, cable ties hanging from her mouth and a pair of scissors in her hand. 

"What are you doing?" you asked. 

"Making a wreath f'th front door," she mumbled, the ties still between her teeth. 

"You're a few months late..." 

"A spring wreath." She rolled her eyes, taking the ties out of her mouth. "There's dinner for you in the kitchen. Didn't realise you wouldn't be back in time." 

"Oh, yeah sorry I should've told you I'd be late."

"Work?" 

"No, the er... I was at the... church." 

She pushed her glasses onto her head, looking up at you with pursed lips. 

"What?" you asked with a nervous laugh. "I just... I like helping out there." 

"I didn't say anything.," she replied, holding her hands up in surrender. "I don't care what you believe in, as long as you don't get involved in one of those cults. I can't be doing with ending up on the news." 

You laughed again - a breathier, more genuine laugh - and sat down beside her, watching as she tucked flowers into loops of wire, arranging them until they looked just right. 

"I think he's good for you," she said. 

"Who?" 

"Your priest friend. He's a good person to have in your life. I think you need it; someone virtuous, moral."

Moral. You thought back to the night in the rectory, the things he'd whispered in your ear as he parted your legs, how his hands seemed most comfortable on your neck. You thought about the scuffs on his knuckles after he punched Alfie in the face for daring to come close to you, his fantasy of you kneeling before him at mass, the 'fuck it' he'd growled before kissing you not even an hour ago.

"And I'm not saying you're not those things," she continued. "But it's just... I suppose it's nice to know you've got a friend who's such a good influence, you know."

"Wow, and suddenly I feel ten years old again," you muttered sarcastically.

She tutted and elbowed you gently, pulling her glasses back down again.

You stood up and made your way into the kitchen where a plate sat alone on the tidy counter. You peeled back the foil on top to reveal a lukewarm dinner, not bothering to heat it up before returning to your seat in the dining room.

"Have you spoken to your estate agent friend yet?" your mother asked as she snipped the stem of an artificial sunflower.

"Mm," you began, trying to speak through a mouthful of food. You swallowed it quickly and continued. "I told you, he works in sales. Big stuff, you know, like multimillion pound stuff. I'd have more luck on Rightmove." 

"And have you?" 

"Nope. I've been checking constantly. Zoopla too, and On The Market and Prime Location and-"

"Okay, alright, I get the point." 

"Are you in a rush to get rid of me or something?" 

"What? No, no of course not. I just- I worry. You're my youngest, you know I worry." 

"I know." You sighed, pushing your fork around the plate.

"It's funny you haven't found anything though. I'm always seeing signs on places to let, especially near the town centre." 

"Oh no, I've found a couple of flats that'd be perfect. I just can't afford them. I mean, you're talking deposit, rent upfront, fees, furnishings... I haven't even managed to pay my phone bill this month, it's going to take me ages to save up." 

She let out a long, deflated sigh. "I wish I could help." 

"You can help with the phone bill if you want?" you joked. 

She chuckled, holding up the half-finished wreath to examine her work. 

The next week passed in a bland, monotonous blur. Each day a repetition of the last; go to work, waste the morning scrolling on real estate websites, eat the sandwich your mother packed for you, fix your posture whenever Dawn walked past your office. Then you'd get the bus home, accidentally head butt the hanging basket on your way into the house, eat dinner at the dining table and disappear into your childhood bedroom for the rest of the night. 

You were lying beneath your Care Bear bedsheets, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, remembering how you used to pick out patterns in them whenever you couldn't sleep. You loved Friday nights; going to bed knowing you wouldn't have to wake to the blare of an alarm, the buzz of your phone against the bedside table, to know you didn't have to look at any more baby pictures until Monday. No more tiny humans stuffed into wicker baskets, pudgy cheeks and scarily bendy limbs. 

Moonlight melted through a gap in the closed curtains, the lilac material swaying gently in the breeze seeping through the open window. You rolled onto your side, the small single bed creaking as you moved, and for a moment you found your mind wandering to the bed you'd left behind at Gina's house; wondered if they'd ever slept together beneath your sheets. 

No one had been there when you went to collect your belongings, but still your father stood watch like a bouncer as you slogged box after box down the stairs. It was all in storage now. Everything you owned sitting in your father's garage, biding its time, waiting for a place to belong. Much like you; tucked away, collecting dust.

You reached for your phone, squinting as the screen came to life in the dark. You opened a new message and began to type before deleting it, then typing, then deleting, then typing. The cursor blinked as you stared at the blank text bubble, like it was waiting for you, ticking like a clock or the tapping of an impatient foot. 

So what exactly do priests text about? you finally wrote, pressing send and putting the phone face down on the nightstand. 

There was a buzz soon after. You grabbed it immediately. 

I see you finally paid your bill, the message read. 

You smiled.

How did you know it was me? you sent. 

Educated guess.

You began to type, but you paused when you saw he was typing too. Then he stopped, then kept writing, then stopped again. You wondered what he was so hesitant to say, what thought he couldn't find the words for. 

Do you need any help at church this weekend? you wrote.

Ok now I'm not so sure this is actually Ellis..

Hey, I'm just trying to get back in the Lord's good books. 

Were you ever in his good books to start with? 

You giggled, fingers absentmindedly finding your lips and running softly back and forth over them, searching for an ache, the tingle of a kiss that was beginning to fade.

A breeze carried the faint sound of music across the church grounds, the evening sun still bright and warm as you walked across the plush grass. Your hands were planted firmly on your backside, holding down the bottom of your summer dress as the wind tried to lift it. 

There was a signboard outside the entrance to the function hall: Parish Singles Mixer This Way. You held back the urge to laugh, taking a moment to compose yourself before walking inside where June's eyes immediately trailed the length of you. 

"Hello," you said awkwardly. 

"It started at seven, you know," she said, glancing down at her watch. 

"What time is it now?" 

"Half past." 

"Oh. Sorry. Well I suppose it could be worse; at least I'm sober." You breathed out a laugh.  

June's face remained sullen. You cleared your throat. 

"I'll just... see you inside," you said.

You walked past her and stopped in the doorway, pressing your lips together as you took in the sight of the decorated hall, the round tables covered with paper tablecloths and sprinklings of shiny confetti. 

Music played from a large speaker at the back of the room. A church volunteer named Keith was sat beside it with a laptop, like a DJ who'd forgotten his equipment. Men and women filled the space, dressed in their best shirts and loveliest dresses with name tags on their chests. Some talked in pairs, others gathered in large same-sex groups like nervous teenagers. 

You didn't realise your mouth had opened, gawping slightly at the wonderfully pitiful scene before you. You'd never been to a single's night before, but you were certain they weren't supposed to look like this. 

You turned to a table beside you where a stack of blank name tags and a box of markers sat neatly. You took one and wrote your name, sticking it to your left breast with a crude slap.

"This started half an hour ago, you know." Father Benedict's voice was like silk in your ear, so smooth you didn't even flinch at his sudden appearance behind you. 

You turned and looked up at him. "You religious folk are weirdly concerned with punctuality." 

He smiled, eyes flitting down to your chest then back up to your face. "Why've you put a name tag on?" 

"Isn't that what they're there for?" 

"Yes, for the singles." 

"I'm single..." 

There was a long silence. You watched as his throat bobbed with a hard swallow, eyes closing with a slow blink and a smirk forming in the corner of his mouth. 

"Catholic singles," he said. 

"Ah, so that's why it feels like a high school prom in here." You paused. "Actually no, it doesn't. People got so drunk at my prom they were throwing up outside, and I know of at least four girls who got fingered in the toilets."

"Were you one of them?"

You hit him hard on the arm. He chuckled, pulling at the white collar around his neck, his gaze staying on you for slightly too long. 

It was like you'd been holding tension in your joints all week and they'd finally loosened in his presence. Like his desire was a salve that provided relief, a lingering stare that could soothe any ache.

"Hi, by the way," he said.

"Hi."

"I wasn't sure you'd actually show." 

"Are you joking? And miss this inevitable disaster?" 

He smiled. "I'll have you know I held one of these events at my last parish and it was a huge success." 

"Oh, you fingered someone in the toilets?" 

He rolled his eyes.

"You got fingered...?" 

"Stop saying fingered," he whispered, holding back a laugh.

"Sorry." You lowered your gaze apologetically, before looking back up at him with a slight smirk.

His chest expanded with a slow, deep inhale, his eyes fixed on yours, switching focus from left to right as though searching for something behind them. Eventually he cleared his throat, straightening his posture and slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

"I need to get this mixer actually mixing," he said. "Would you mind manning the drinks table for a bit?" 

You nodded with a quiet laugh. "Sure." 

He wandered off through the hall, stopping to talk with people, shaking hands and breaking ice. It was captivating to watch someone navigate a crowd with such ease; to charm even the most shy people out of their shells and have them willingly follow. 

The drinks table was a sad affair; a stack of plastic cups and two pitchers of lukewarm, watered down juice. You pulled up a chair and sat down behind it, scanning the room, your gaze falling on a couple who seemed to be hitting it off. She laughed at something he said, reached out and touched his arm. He ran a hand through his hair, the blush of his cheeks so pink you could see it from across the room.

"Excuse me, would you mind if I got myself a drink?"

You looked up to see a man pointing to the cups. You shook your head and gestured for him to go ahead. He was wearing a bowtie, the sleeves of his shirt slightly too short for his long arms as he reached for one of the pitchers. He appeared around your age, but his sheepish demeanour made him seem younger. You narrowed your eyes to read his name tag - Abel - you laughed. 

He shifted uncomfortably. "D-did I do something funny?" 

"No, sorry." You waved your hand. "It's just... Abel. My brother's name is Cain. Y'know, Cain and Abel." 

"Ah." His laugh was laced with relief. "He's not here is he? I'd have to run and hide." 

"Oh no, he's dead." 

There was an awkward silence, his eyes widening as he struggled to find an appropriate response.

"Oh, you were making a bible joke," you said. "Sorry, I just got it." 

He relaxed again, exhaling a weak laugh and taking a large chug of juice.

You glanced over at Father Benedict as he tried desperately to introduce people to one another, your eyes trailing down to his backside. 

"So are you a volunteer or a... single?" asked Abel, snapping you out of your lecherous daze. 

You shrugged. "Both, I suppose." 

"Oh, cool." He hovered at the table for a moment, scratching the back of his neck as he looked around. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing." 

"By the looks of it, no one does." 

He laughed. "It's a bit embarrassing really, isn't it; needing a special event just to meet someone." 

"Church people, they're a picky bunch." 

He laughed again, more heartily this time. 

"Hi guys," said Father Benedict as he approached the table, ducking down to count the bottles of juice near your feet. "How's your evening going?"

"It's alright," said Abel, gesturing towards you with a smile. "Better now I've met Ellis here."

You smiled back politely.

Father Benedict straightened to his full height, hand finding the back of your chair with a tight grip as he looked down at you. "Oh really?"

You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, surprised to find flecks of jealousy in the lines of his face. 

"That's nice," he said, back teeth pressed firmly together. "But I actually need to borrow you for a second if that's alright?" 

You turned back to Abel. "Sorry." 

"Oh, yeah no it's- no problem. We can chat in a bit." 

You nodded, watching as he wandered off awkwardly through the crowd.

"What's up?" you asked, turning your attention back to Father Benedict.

"Could you refill these jugs?" He lifted a large bottle of cordial onto the table. "What's that about?" 

"What's what about?"

"Him."

"Oh, his name's Abel. He seems nice." 

"No, I know who he is, he works at the school. I meant what were you doing talking to him?" 

You narrowed your eyes. "Are you jealous, Father?" 

He glanced over his shoulder at him, then back to you. "Nah, he's not my type." 

You scoffed quietly and stood up, wrapping your fingers around the bottle lid and attempting to turn it. It was tight, stiff, making the palm of your hand ache as you tried to force it open.  

"I think he's nervous," you said. "Says something when I'm the most approachable person here."  

"Or maybe he just fancies you," he replied, taking the bottle from you and opening it with an easy twist. 

"Maybe." You paused. "Would that bother you? If he did?" 

He pressed the tip of his tongue to his top lip, the corner of his mouth curling with a slight smile.

"I can't control who fancies you, Ellis. I just hope you remember the promise you made..." 

"No one touches me unless they're worthy?"  

"That's the one."

"Including you?" 

He looked down at you, throat bobbing with a slow swallow. "Including me." 

"So... That kiss last week..." 

"Oh, that wasn't because I think I'm worthy. That was because I have no self control."

You exhaled a laugh through your nose. "How's your self control doing tonight?" 

"It's hanging on... By a thread." 

"It's the dress, isn't it." 

He bowed his head, chuckling quietly as he walked away. 

And as quickly as it had dissipated, the tension returned again. But this time it wasn't in your joints. It was in your chest, your core, in the swelling heat between your legs. You licked your lips and sat back down. 

Abel was talking but you couldn't hear a word, chewing on the rim of your plastic cup as you stared past him, eyes fixed on your priest and the woman he'd been chatting to for far too long. 

"Ellis?" 

"Hm?" 

"I asked you a question," Abel laughed. 

"Sorry, what did you say?" 

"I asked when your last relationship was." 

"Oh, er, it was recent." 

He nodded with interest. "How recent?" 

"Like... recent recent. He cheated on me, it was a whole thing."

"Oh, wow, I-I'm sorry to hear that." 

The night had crept up slowly, darkness turning the windows to glossy, black mirrors as the coloured lights inside the hall glittered against them. The atmosphere had relaxed; the room buzzing with joy and laughter as connections formed and inhibitions melted away. You wondered how many weddings would come from this evening, how many love stories you'd witnessed the birth of.

The woman reached out, brushing something off Father Benedict's shoulder, smiling and continuing to talk as though touching him was the most natural thing in the world. You bit the inside of your cheek.

"Ellis? You've disappeared again," Abel laughed. 

"Sorry. Sorry, I- I'll just be a minute, I have to..." you trailed off, standing up before he could even respond and walking quickly across the hall.

You tapped Father Benedict on the shoulder and the woman stopped talking, turning her head slowly to look at you. 

"Sorry for interrupting," you said.

"No need to apologise," he replied, placing a hand on your back as though he'd forgotten where he was. "Ellis, this is Meg, she just passed her training to become a lay minister." 

"Oh, congratulations," you said. 

She gave a wry smile. 

"Meg, Ellis is a... friend of the church." 

"Acquaintance, really," you said. "Friend is a bit strong." 

He rolled his eyes, prodding his fingers firmly into your back.

"It's nice to meet you, Ellis," she said. 

You nodded before turning to look up at Father Benedict. "I was just wondering if you wanted me to go around and clean up the empty cups?" 

"That'd be great." 

You allowed your gaze to linger on him for a moment before conceding and walking away, listening to Meg talk again, as though you'd never interrupted them. 

The bin bag was making your palm sweat, the shiny, black plastic sticking to your leg whenever you moved. You groaned and kicked it away again, reaching for a collection of used cups rimmed with lipstick. You threw them in the bag and moved to the next table, catching the eye of a man who flashed you a hopeful smile. You smiled back politely and kept walking, peeling the name tag from your chest, crumpling it in your fist and throwing it away. 

You threw another few cups in the bag and peered over at the spot where Father Benedict and Meg had been standing, but instead of the tall, dark priest, a young woman stood in his place. You furrowed your brow, scanning the room for him. He was gone. 

You felt something cold on your foot, looking down to find a quickening stream of juice dripping from the bag. You swore under your breath, grimacing as you marched it at arm's length out of the hall and into a small, quiet stock room. You shoved the bag into a bin in the corner and grabbed a roll of tissue, unravelling more than you needed and bending down to wipe away the sweet, sticky mess trickling down the side of your shoe. 

The door opened suddenly, making you jump in fright, losing your balance and falling back onto the floor. Father Benedict's deep, throaty laugh thrummed into the quiet space. He made his way over to you and reached out his hand. 

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

You blew out a breath and took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. "The bag split." 

"Ugh, are you alright?" 

"I think I'll survive." 

He took a step back towards the door, leaning against the frame as he listened to the muffled noise seeping out of the hall. 

"Tonight's going well, don't you think?" he said proudly. 

"Mhm, I see at least one person's getting fingered in the toilets," you replied sarcastically. 

His brows came together over confused eyes. He thought for a moment, glancing over his shoulder before turning back to you.

"Wh- Meg?"

"Yeah, you seemed to really be hitting it off in there."

He pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, holding back the urge to grin. "She's moving to my old parish next month, wants me to recommend her to the minister there. That's all." 

"Oh. Good luck to her."

"Now who's the jealous one," he teased. 

You rummaged through a cupboard near the bin, pulling out a roll of fresh bags. He cocked his head as he watched you, analysing you.  

"Are you okay?" he asked.

You blew out a puff of air, lifting a stray lock of hair out of your face. "Well, considering I'm a grown woman who lives with her mum, my capacity for 'okay' only stretches so far."

"Fair enough," he laughed. "And you haven't had any more trouble from what's-his-face, have you?"

"No, I think he's scared of me since you gave him that nose job." 

He covered his eyes with his hand, dragging it slowly down his face. "I still can't believe I did that. I don't know what got into me-"

"It's okay. I found it quite sexy." 

"Why am I not the least bit surprised?" 

You smiled, bowing your head as you tried to tear a bag from the roll. 

"Here," he said as he walked over to you.

You watched his hands as they gripped the plastic, ripping it apart with a forceful pull. He handed a bag to you and tossed the rest aside. 

"Thanks," you said, clearing your throat as you looked up at him. 

The last time you were this close, he had just kissed you; his breath ragged, eyes burning with a heat you could feel beneath your skin. You'd spent every moment since wondering what might have happened if you'd stayed, if that single thread of self control had torn under the weight of his desire.  

He swallowed, eyes flitting down to your lips, and in that moment you knew he'd been wondering the exact same thing. You shivered as his hand settled tentatively on your hip, your breath shaking as his fingertips moved to graze your thigh beneath the hem of your dress. 

"You took your name tag off" he said quietly. 

"Yeah," you replied, barely whispering. "You were right, I shouldn't have been wearing it." 

"Why?" 

"Because I didn't come for the mixer..." 

"Then why did you come?" He shifted closer, enough for you to feel his breath on your face, the tickle of his touch travelling further beneath your dress. 

You could feel goosebumps puckering down your arms, desire blooming deep in your core. You welcomed his caress, leaning into it, granting him access to your body like a gift. You gazed up at him with heavy lids, breaths turning shallow as he leaned forward, bringing his lips inches from yours. 

"Why?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble in the base of his throat. 

"Probably the same reason you keep inviting me back," you whispered.

Your lips met in a slow, heavy kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without any hesitation. You sighed against him, eyes closing, losing yourself in a taste you'd come to crave. It didn't matter that beyond the door was a hall full of people, that if anyone saw you it would mean the end; not just for him, but for you too. In this moment, all you cared about was the feeling of his hands on your skin, the groan that escaped him when you gently sucked on his bottom lip. 

"Hi June, I'm looking for Ellis," Abel's voice echoed from the foyer. "About this tall, she's wearing a dress with flowers on?" 

You pulled apart quickly, foreheads resting against each other. 

"Fucking hell," you hissed.

"Another holy intervention," Father Benedict muttered.

"No, just a man in a bow tie," you sighed.

You were crouched behind the drinks table. Partly because you had to pack everything away, but mostly because you were hiding. 

Abel was nice. Funny, well-intentioned, handsome if not slightly gawky. And maybe in another world, you could have given him a chance; gone for coffee, held hands as he walked you home, kissed goodnight on the doorstep. But in this world, there was a priest. 

You peered over the table, watching as the singles sat in groups around the room, cards stuck to their foreheads and pens in their hands. Abel was sat amongst them, playing opposite a shy, giggly woman, her long blonde hair tucked behind her ears. You smiled and sank back down behind the table, breathing out a sigh of relief before packing up the last few cups into a large cardboard box. 

You walked out of the hall and down the path towards the church, the box obscuring your view as you lugged it in your arms. The night air was cool, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass through the air. You'd always preferred the colder months, but there was something about the air when spring turned to summer - the way it smelled, how it sat on the skin like a gentle embrace - that always reminded you to breathe, to fill your lungs to the brim and savour the feeling. 

You pushed through the side door of the church with your hip, letting it swing closed behind you as you stepped inside. You walked down the quiet corridor, the air still close and suffocating from the day's heat, and with a tired huff, you dumped the box on the floor inside Father Benedict's office.

"Father?" you called out, met with nothing but silence.

You couldn't help but wander down to the chapel, the dark, echoey space so still and serene that even your exhales felt out of place. You paused to bask in the solitude; the smells you'd come to find comfort in, the feel of the carpet beneath the soles of your shoes. You closed your eyes, drawing in a deep breath, when a sudden shiver rolled down your back at the sound of footsteps behind you. 

You turned around, eyes settling on a tall, dark frame emerging from the corridor. He stopped just beyond the threshold, standing with his hands in his pockets, the flash of white around his neck still visible even in the dim light. 

"I couldn't remember where you said to put the stuff so I threw it in your office," you said. 

"Threw it?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

"If you want the job done well, pay me." 

He chuckled before looking around at the empty pews, the darkness beyond the stained glass windows. You watched as he made his way to the altar, walking leisurely, hands still in his pockets. He turned on his heels to face you, gesturing with his head for you to come to him. 

You didn't question it, doing as he instructed like an obedient servant, following orders without a single word. Your heart began to race as you stood before him, the fluttering in your chest mirrored by a rippling deep in your stomach the moment your eyes met. 

"Kneel," he said calmly.  

You hesitated, eyes flitting around the church. 

"It's just us," he said.

"And him..." you replied, nodding to the statue of Christ behind him. 

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't concede. You swallowed hard, lowering yourself slowly to your knees, ignoring the burn of the rough carpet against your skin. 

You reached up, each action careful and considerate, like you feared you'd startle him back to sense if you made any sudden movements. He kept his eyes on you, gazing down as your fingers found the buttons of his trousers, releasing each one with a gentle pop. He placed a hand on your face, thumb pressing to your bottom lip and dragging it down to reveal your tongue. You stuck it out willingly, watching shadows form in the angles of his face as he pushed it into your mouth. His eyelids fluttered slightly as you sucked on it, and you held back the urge to smile. 

You parted his fly and slipped your hand beneath the fabric of his underwear, gripping the base of his cock and releasing it eagerly. He was hard, rigid and pulsing with even the lightest graze of your fingers, but he remained calm, unwavering in his composure, only the slight quiver of his breath giving him away. This was his fantasy - he'd already told you - and you'd wanted so desperately to make it come true. 

You flattened your tongue and dragged it up the underside of his length, drawing a deep groan from his throat as he moved his hand back to the side of your face. You'd never much cared for giving blow jobs; finding them boring, awkward, an unsexy act that left you with an aching jaw and numb lips. But the arousal pooling between your legs was undeniable, the tingle of your hardening nipples making you shudder with excitement. You slid him into your mouth, sinking halfway before pulling back and glancing up at him, seeking approval, wanting to be led. 

He inhaled sharply through his nose, letting his head fall back as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, wrapping your fingers around it before taking it back into your mouth. You moved at a steady pace, drawing him deeper each time until you were struggling to breathe. He took your hair in fistfuls, guiding you gently, his rich moans pouring over you like warm, sweet honey.

You felt a hard prod at the back of your throat, the sensation making you gag, choking back a cough as you pushed his hips back to catch your breath. He buckled at the sound, swearing under his breath as he struggled to stay upright. He liked it; the sound of you gagging, the rush of thick saliva coating his cock. 

You reached up and took both of his wrists, moving his grip to the back of your head before dropping your hands behind your back. He groaned in delicious realisation, the silent permission to use your mouth unlocking a forcefulness that took you by surprise. 

His fingers tangled in your hair as he thrust into your mouth. You held your breath as he sank deep, pulling back and repeating the action with a quiet growl. You fought the urge to move your hands and take back control, keeping your fingers clasped tightly behind your back, trusting him not to push you too far. 

Your eyes were watering, nose running, spit escaping from the corners of your mouth. You were certain it was the most unattractive you'd ever looked, yet there was a thrill in letting go; the veneer of uncertainty shattering with every snap of his hips. 

A string of incoherent whispers spilled out of him as he came, cock throbbing against your tongue and coating your throat with his rapture. You gasped when he slid out of your mouth, as if he'd been holding your head below water and had finally brought you up for air. 

He cupped your face, staring down at you in awe. You wiped your mouth and chin with the back of your hand as you gazed up at him, your breathing still rapid and uneven, swollen lips parted in awe of his beauty. He tucked himself back into his trousers, not bothering to button them before kneeling with you and running his thumbs under your eyes, swiping at the smudges of tears and mascara that had pooled there. You reached up instinctively to hold his forearms, balancing yourself, as he continued to wipe away the mess he'd created, his movements so gentle and considered it was hard to believe he was capable of anything other than tenderness.

"Stay with me tonight," he said softly.

You nodded, unsure how you would ever be able to leave him again.

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @veryladyqueen @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi @ehuether @dragonqueen89 @estheticwh0re @Lfp10836 @kanyewestest @star-girl-05 @theothersideofthescreen

*If you would like to be tagged in the next part, please comment below, or feel free to add yourself to the tag list here

[iridescentscarecrow]

i've mentioned the categorisation prevalent in early csm before in my 156 post but i think the way this human/devil dichotomy is engaged with through aki, and how this engagement is so intertwined with both the ghost devil/future devil collaboration and the mouse metaphor is very important in how it eventually feeds into denji.

because devils in their essence are despite aki's categorisation, in reality, ultimately shackled by humans. devils are ideas that are built out of human fears and imaginings. devils are used as tools by the public safety while simultaneously being the ones they fight against.

fujimoto's story telling is non normative. it doesn't attribute evil to even an agent such as makima. it sets these agents against structure. aki meanwhile does categorise into good and evil, and this re: how he frames his goal is what consigns him into structure.

denji's encounter with him sets for us much of early csm, as we see denji's artificial goal formation occurs through a mimicry of aki's. this is despite much of his reality and initial circumstances being more similar to power's (the pet/pochita for denji -> artificiality of Dream Goal). power attempts to empathise with denji's situation at the bat devil location meanwhile

aki overtly attempts not to do this, in spite of being a character who is able to empathise (reading this ability in the frame of the very devil/human duality he imagines). this is obviously visible in his treatment of denji in early p1.

when he sees denji as a human, he smokes the cigarette and throws it onto denji. its an implicit sharing of a role, as well an acknowledgement of the wastedness of it. it's so interesting to me that this "kindness" of his makes him try to kick denji out from Structure.

the notable change here is when makima describes how denji is bound and threatens denji's life in front of aki. because makima is structure, and aki's categorised viewpoint does not allow for defiance of structure.

we see him for a split second exhibit concern. and in the same chapter he tells denji, despite being just told that denji is a hybrid: "if you're a devil, be grateful we're letting you live." this categorisation allows him to ignore denji's circumstance and immerse himself into his goal.

holding both angel and reze's occupation of the role of the country mouse is something that informs the parallels between their respective beach scenes. there's a lot of flesh to this re: reze//angel and makima which i'm not elaborating on here but i find it poignant how both scenes involve the country mouse asking aki//denji about the person they like, the relation to structure, makima.

and the artificiality of structure is something that's constructed for denji in makima's case (not just her self, but also the Family) and for aki, it's a substantiation derived from himeno, a repetition around the idea of Ghost.

himeno's character is so very interesting to me, in her expression of messy agency. the cigarette shared between akimeno is a signifier of the fatalism that clouds (pardon the pun) their relationship. and this fatalism centres around the choice being made by himeno (and aki) to stay in PS, within aki's doomed pursuit.

this pursuit isn't one shared by himeno, we know this from her letters. himeno has the ability to leave but chooses to stay. understanding her agency through the Ghosts of her old buddies she bestows upon aki is so important because

himeno's also the one who teaches aki to smoke, shares with him her own fatalism, derives a feeling self from this encounter, one both outwardly irreverent and inwardly desperate.

she muses about this feeling, contrasting her emptiness in the graveyard in the moments before her death. her love for aki is very much an expression of her own autonomy, a choice that you see repeat in aki: in the rift between flashback!aki and his present self. the imbued expectance of death.

he attempts to connect with her and this triggers her writing herself into his tragedy. because he's soft. because he cries when people die, and will cry at the graveyard where she stood in front of her buddies' graves

a Ghost isn't the person who died, it's the concentration (the intangible effect of them) on the person who lived. himeno recreates herself onto aki as she becomes more and more unlike the empty self in the graveyard. the ghost devil is a marker of how her agency enacts onto aki his own personal tragedy.

and this is where easy revenge comes in. the ghost devil is the one that hands aki this cigarette. himeno's ghost mirrors both how he translates his family and the element of choice so central to the aki//denji interplay. categorisation comes back here because at its core:

easy revenge is. revenge that's easy! simple! i will blame the gun devil (an Other) for my family's death, despite it being a product of multiple causal (human) factors. this externalisation will further lock me into the structure responsible for its production and make me its agent, partaking in and re-enacting these very cycles that made me hurt in the first place.

fjmt literally hits us over the head with this line of thought in the implication that mkm in essence coordinated the gun devil contractors. and in the end the nut kicking competition is himeno's requiem, aki's easy revenge, the cigarette ghost handed him.

and the irony is that this competition (this setting into structure) is shared with denji, someone who borrows his goal from aki but whose circumstances resemble power's, angel's, reze's.

the halfway there city mouse (choosing both choices in part two), himeno's choice too located within denji in the rooftop's scene's extension. she stays in the PS for aki, denji refuses to run away with reze because of makima’s construction. but delinking denji from his proximity to aki/goal formation reminds us of the muscle devil arc, denji offering to leave with the girl.

and you see this happen!! despite the refusal: a recognition of this connection is what makes denji ask reze to run away with him at the beach. and aki too finds himself on the beach. he quits smoking alongside him starting to use the future devil’s powers. future offsets ghost (past) and is responsible for the entirety of aki’s horrific tragedy, that subversion.

the beach is the site where the city mice attempt to detach from structure. denji leaning away from makima (the root of the artificial goal formation), aki leaning towards family (contradictory to Ghost/his externalised goal). 

in both cases, this attempt is subsumed by makima. she takes & repurposes reze’s prior violence onto denji in the alleyway. she swallows up both angel’s complicity in that scene and their remembering their past into chaining aki, finally, entirely devoid of agency, enshrined into that structure.

and in a feat of sick irony, aki becomes the Ghost (the gun he externalised his anger and direction into) for denji. this is the worst possible death, denji’s forced mirror whose very frame and viewpoint is upset and molded in a way to force denji along his own structure, the story makima writes for the chainsaw man.

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Snippet Monday

A short scene that doesn't have a story to go with, and is therefore free to incorporate into just about whatever.

Viper

"-look, all I'm saying is we need a break!"

Damas paused to listen to the voices floating up from the elevator shaft. Ah. He'd been beginning to wonder when, exactly, the boys had been planning to turn in their report on the sandstorm evacuation. He stifled a smile and went back to watering the date palms nearest the window as he listened to them arguing.

"A break? Dax, just being here is a break!"

"...you've been out in the sun too long, pal. You seem to have forgotten the life-threatening nonsense these people keep putting us through!"

Jak's laugh grew louder as the elevator rose higher. "So? We have entire days where we don't have to go anywhere or do anything! And we get to go wherever we want! C'mon, Dax, you can't possibly tell me this place isn't like a vacation compared to Haven."

The elevator locked into place and Jak ambled out, looking perfectly at home amid the artificial streams. He lifted a hand in irreverent greeting when he spotted Damas, and made his way across the stepping stones. And if he seemed to be making a game of skipping every other stone, well, Damas wouldn't tell anyone.

"All scouts accounted for!" Jak announced cheerfully as he landed on the last stone, right at the foot of the dais. "Oh hey, the Crawler's making some weird noises though. I think you should have Kleiver do some maintenance on it."

Damas raised a brow. "Hm. A mobile sandstorm shelter won't do us much good if it breaks down. I'll make a note of it."

He set down the pitcher he had been using to water the tree and made his way back to his throne, looking for one of the data recording devices he kept to hand.

"I don't have any other work for you at the moment. If you can find a way to amuse yourselves that doesn't involve violent destruction of private property, the rest of the afternoon is yours to spend as you wish."

Daxter snapped his fingers in a pretense of disappointment. "Darn, well, that rules out all your plans, doesn't it, Jak?"

"Swimming doesn't destroy private property," Jak suggested, bouncing his shoulder.

"Not during a storm," Damas cut in. "I don't want to hear that someone had to take a boat out there and haul you out of a rip current."

Jak was about to argue when he felt Daxter go rigid on his shoulder. Following Damas’s surprised gaze, he found his friend squinting around the room. His ears swiveled and rotated like satellites, as if trying to catch a specific sound.

"Dax? What's wrong?"

"Say, uh, Jak?" Daxter piped up nervously, "Anyone else hear hissing?"

Hissing? Jak frowned and scanned the room, wondering what his friend was hearing. As his eyes swept across the dais, something caught his attention. It wasn’t that noticeable, just the barest hint of motion. But when Jak reached for just a hint of dark eco, suffusing his sclera in darkness, it stood out as clear as lightning.

Instinct took over and Jak had a knife out of his boot before he could even process what he was seeing. In an instant he'd hurled the dagger at the throne, just missing Damas’s calf.

"Jak!" Damas snapped, "Watch it!"

With a pained squeal, something began to thrash beside his foot. Pinned to the leg of the throne by Jak's knife was a massive snake. A Dust Demon viper, slowly losing its camouflage as death throes sent it thrashing in pain.

Damas examined the creature impassively, then slammed down his boot, putting it out of its misery.

"I thought something felt different," he remarked, entirely too calmly. "Next time, aim for the head for a cleaner kill. There's no need to make it suffer."

Daxter’s fur stood on end like static electricity as he clung to Jak’s shoulder in an arch.

"How long was that there?!" he demanded, "Is this a regular problem for you?!"

Damas prodded the still twitching viper with the butt of his staff. "Hardly."

His eyes narrowed in thought, and lowered himself into a crouch to examine the animal. "This little one did not get here on its own power."

Jak was already thinking on the same track.

"Someone brought it here," he realized, and his face twisted into an angry, inhuman snarl.

He jumped up onto the dais to crouch beside Damas and glared at the offending creature.

"So...so what? This was an assassination attempt?"

"Hm. That is very likely," Damas agreed. He didn't seem particularly bothered.

Glancing up, he directed a smile at Jak and Daxter. "Very well done. I commend the both of you. This will not be forgotten."

Daxter perked up, glowing at the praise like he'd had a spotlight shone on him.

Jak missed the praise entirely. He was fully focused on the words assassination attempt. Who would try to kill Damas? And in such an underhanded way? If someone had a problem with the king, there was a perfectly good Arena to settle the dispute in!

Well. To be fair, Jak supposed that would be a fight the dissenter wouldn't walk away from. He wasn't even sure he could beat Damas in a fight. So what did that make this? Cowardice?

Jak hated it. It reminded him of the backstabbing he used to see among the prison guards under Praxis's reign.

Jak glowered at the dead snake, and jerked his knife out of it. He just missed Damas’s approving nod when he bent to clean the blade on his boot before sheathing it again. The snake lay sprawled in unnatural angles, no longer twitching. With dark eco rumbling in his chest like a warning growl, Jak reached down and picked the viper up by the tail.

"I'm gonna find out who did this," he vowed, looking Damas in the eye, "And they're gonna pay."

He started to stand, but a hand on his arm anchored him in place.

"Leave it," Damas commanded. He stood and jerked his chin towards the foot of the throne. "Let everyone who enters this chamber see it there."

"Why?" Jak furrowed his brow and stood to follow, viper dangling from his hand. "Won't that just show the assassin they should try something else?"

Damas settled into his throne with a scoff. "No no, think, Jak. What did I teach you about choosing battles?"

Jak blinked. Was this a test of some kind? He looked to Daxter, who only shrugged. Damas had that secretive glint in his eye, which meant it probably was a test. Jak closed his eyes and tried to think.

He's not facing this head-on, or at least not the way I would. Which means he's probably taking a more subtle approach. Jak, admittedly, was not very good at "subtle". He wracked his brains for an answer, looking between the snake, the throne, and the doors before realizing that Damas was watching his facial expressions intently.

Oh.

"You're...going to watch everyone's reactions? When people come in, right? If...if the assassin or an accomplice comes in, seeing the snake will send a message. Or...or it might spook them into giving something away?"

The answer lacked his usual brash confidence. Jak hoped the king wouldn't pick up on that, but at the same time he knew it was unlikely that he wouldn't. But he couldn't help a little trepidation! Damas clearly expected him to know the answer and he didn't want to get it wrong!

To his relief, Damas dipped his head and smiled proudly.

"Excellent! That is precisely what I intend to do -- so I can't have you running around the city to threaten people with a dead snake."

He gestured to his right meaningfully.

"And as you have no other tasks for the afternoon, I think this would be a good opportunity for you to hone your observation skills. After how quickly you two picked up on the viper's presence, I can think of no better choice to help me suss out our would-be killer."

This time Daxter wasn't the only one to light up and stand a little straighter in response to the commendation. Jak may not have been familiar with ranks and hierarchies, but he understood the gesture of trust Damas was extending to them. And he understood that being asked to stand by at the right hand of a warrior like Damas was no small thing. Damas was asking them to help him find an assassin in the ranks as though he hadn't the slightest doubt that they would be successful.

Jak squared his shoulders and nodded sharply. "We won't let you down," he said firmly.

Damas returned his nod with an almost fond smile. "I know."

Jak leaned on the pillar right of the throne and considered the viper thoughtfully before tossing it to land closer to Damas’s feet. Then, after perhaps a minute of silence, he asked,

"Can I have the fangs though?"

Damas let out a startled laugh. "The fangs?!"

"Yeah," Jak shrugged, suddenly sheepish. "It's- I have a- there's a thing. I need them."

Daxter translated with narrowed eyes. "He means his horrible, horrible, bone collection that he's been making jewelry out of."

Leaning back, Damas laughed again. "Then by all means." He smiled indulgently, gesturing, "Take the fangs! Just be careful of the venom."

"I will." Jak waved off the warning just a touch too nonchalantly. "How long do you think before people start showing up?"

Damas checked his data device. "Four meetings this afternoon, two more after evening meal. The next one is in approximately twenty minutes."

Daxter hopped down and settled into a more comfortable position on the dais steps. "Welp. Sounds like we're gonna be here a while. Jak, you brought snacks, right?"

"We could eat the snake if you're hungry enough," Jak teased.

Daxter made a disgusted sound and looked to Damas, pointing an accusing finger at Jak.

"Will you please do something about him?!"

"Don't eat the evidence, Jak," Damas snorted. "Go get some roasted crickets out of the kitchens if you're hungry. You have a few minutes."

"CRICKETS?!" Daxter shrieked. He clasped his paws to his head in horror. "You're an enabler! Jak! Don't listen to the man!"

Jak pushed off of the pillar and rolled his eyes at Daxter. "If you'll eat a decapod, you can eat a hexapod. Besides, they're good! Damas, you want me to bring you some?"

"Naturally."

Daxter groaned and pulled his ears down over his eyes. "Great. Lunatic and Lunatic Junior are sharing meal plans now. Goodbye, normal diet!"

Jak looked just a little too smug about being labeled "Lunatic Junior".

[andreablog2]

Something about the hyper sexuality of the 00s felt like it was self mocking and so overtop and artificial it made everything borderline asexual. But w the 20s the hypersexuality feels birthed out of sincere desperation and a need to be seen. From the bodybuilders to the only fans people who say it’s a side hustle but just love the exhibitionism of it all. The age of social media and the sex positivity movement really cultivated this really public form of sexual expression that’s also very sensationalized…The negative reaction to the idol feels like a result of a general burnout from sexuality as a fashion accessory and less so out of any….legitimate concern for women. The positive reaction to Barbie who’s existed in pop culture as this kind of mockery of sexuality for decades along w being an irreverently feminine camp character….seems like a true return to that kind of neutral attitude toward sexuality

[petty-crush]

“Barbie” (2023)

-a big budget, pop art, visually interesting film with a vibrant personality. I love it!

-also, easily the best use of Ryan Gosling since “Drive”

-I’m truly impressed with what Greta Gerwig got away with here.

+she crammed this with energy and made me hearty laugh the whole time

-the story is Barbie discovering sadness, the real world, clashing with the patriarchy, and just the wonderment of being a woman

-there’s a couple small details I want to highlight before the big stuff

-Kate McKinnon’s look is almost certainly inspired by the awesome cult film “Liquid Sky”, another tone poem of a film

-the small, tender scene of Barbie telling the old woman (at the bus stop) she’s beautiful, and said woman saying “I know” with a vicious smirk is magical

+it says just as much as the soon to be famous “being a woman is impossible” monologue in its own beautiful warmth

-the opening riff on “2001: A Space Odyssey” is the film personified; irreverent, playing with greatness, funny, colorful, and just a blast

-(after a man notes he is not part of the board) “I’m a guy with no power...does that make me a woman?

-I like how there are two matrix tributes; picking between two choices/shoes (original) and the at first mysterious Ruth being the Oracle (“Reloaded”)

-“after I found out the patriarchy didn’t include horses, I honestly lost interest”

-alright then, onto the big pillars

-here is a film saying, with all earnestness and actual thought, that we should approach our hearts with collectivism, bond over our shared yearns and desires and messiness

-(only a scold could say this film excludes love, a scold who didn’t actually watch the film and just wants any kind of attention)

-Margot Robbie nails every bit, from first thinking about dying, to discovering tears, to making Barbie’s naïveté to growth a journey of substance

-this film is unapologetic about being feminist (which shocked the fuck out of me) and does so with actual insight, not checking off a list (which is rad)

-note too, cause grumps will try to bury this, it asks men to not define themselves by conquering others, or stepping on necks, but by creating worth on their own goals and just being present in the moment. It asks them to free themselves from their own shackles

-there is a certain richness to male characters when female directors (and writers, etc) take over; new colors are displayed in the rainbow

-it is so immensely satisfying to see actual sets (practical, on camera) and vivid primary colors (after years of blurred muted-ness)

+its value in the aesthetic form and character of the film is immeasurable

-there isn’t a single false note in the “impossible to be a woman” speech, aptly delivered by America Ferrara. It simply presents itself with the courage of its convictions

-said being truly sucks and absolutely rules; the sheer inconsistency is its beauty and power. Neatness does not contain growth

-I like how the film emphasizes the under seen will truly change and save the world

-oh, I almost forgot to mention; I just about rolled out of my chair at the ribbing of zealots for the Synder cut of Justice League

-this is an artificiality to this film that is staggeringly authentic

-this is truly one of the best examples of just being the world and subverting the world in the 2020’s (and frankly all time); this will be studied and admired for years

-also also, the battle at the beach and the dance street fight among Ken’s is an all timer of a scene (it uses the past to power the present)

-I have a sneaking suspicion this may be the “Iron Man”(2008) to the upcoming Mattel cinematic universe; the vast number of following films will largely be less interesting, less full of the personality of its creators (with some exceptions)

-but this film is worth it; it is alive and joyful. It cannot be accountable for the world(s) that comes after it, only how it exists during its run time.

-and, truly, Gerwig has made something special here. It’s just going to make the lives of everyone who accepts it for what it is (love and color of form) many times better. It is a triumph

[faceofpoe]

While I'm here in my Andor feels perusing my fic folder...

This just ended up not working plot-wise in the *cough* rather dubious fic it started from, but I loved it and hated losing it to the discard pile.

In which Luthen is outsmarting Cassian, who he thinks is betraying the rebellion, and then both of them are outsmarted by Bix:

Andor turned up just past nightfall. Less than an hour after the arrival of a passenger shuttle from the capital city at the central docking bay, a wasted detour in an effort to shake off pursuit undoubtedly, and only leaving himself more helpless here and now in the absence of a readily-available ship.

He’d gambled and lost, but Luthen would take no satisfaction in it.

By the time he picked his way down to the corner of the apartment block, the streets plenty thriving and the night still young, Andor had entered the building and left again, and turned the opposite way down the alley, crossing over the next street and continuing down the narrow maintenance route out of sight of the cam.

It was quieter past the next block. Past the clubs and the tapcafs, one last looming set of apartment blocks and opening out into a promenade of sorts, dimly lit path and a lake – artificial, he’d hazard – and a dozen-odd people of varying species enjoying a calm night, mostly in pairs.

Luthen hovered in the shadow of the alleyway, scanning the scene through his monoscope until he caught sight of the solitary figure sitting on a bench along the path, relaxed, waiting, just any other local unwinding after a long day at work, or perhaps just a tourist enjoying a spot of nature off the beaten path.

Once the path was emptied in his relative vicinity, Andor leaned down and pulled the knife from his boot. He rose and strode quickly across the landscaping, ignoring any number of warning displays to stay to the illuminated trail, and made his way to an offset monument, towering obelisk atop a plinth of some sort of marble, surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall behind which Andor disappeared.

Luthen cut across the carefully-maintained ground on quick, quiet footsteps, got close enough to realize that the monument was, in fact, a tomb, the whole space dedicated to some local leader undoubtedly blessed with more ego than inspiration, slowed at the sound of the knife scraping against the brick mortar – trust Andor to find the smallest piece to recall Ferrix in this wholly foreign place – and pulled out his blaster as he rounded the corner.

“That’s quite irreverent, isn’t it?” The breath exploded out of Andor’s lungs all in a heavy sigh, and he just pressed his forehead against the wall in silent defeat. Hands stilling, loose brick half-extracted, knife hanging by the looped handle from his thumb. “It was a good effort. Let’s have it.”

Andor yanked the thing free and dropped it to the ground; reached into the hollow in the wall and pulled out a small bundle. “How did you -?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Luthen stepped up close behind Andor’s back, reached around and down his hip to relieve him of his usual weapon. He slid it into his own cloak, grabbed the knife, which he tossed on the ground, and then plucked the hidden bundle from his hand. “Look at me.”

Reluctance written in every taut muscle, in the slow way he yielded to the command, Andor complied. His eyes lingered briefly on the blaster hanging loose in Luthen’s grip, and a strange look flit over his face as he forced his gaze up to meet Luthen’s steadily. Not fear really, a touch of resignation, but something like disappointment at the core.

That look, more than any of the rest, stirred the first anger in Luthen’s gut. Broke the careful detached façade that necessarily accompanied these situations.

Andor was not the first, nor would he be the last; but none of the rest had ever possessed the audacity to think themselves special.

He gave into the rage and frustration, shoved Andor back against the wall. He went without a fight, reacting only with a wince when his head connected with the brick, and oh how Luthen lied to himself, how he wanted him to fight, to push back, to beg, to make this a simpler calculation, an easy shot.

All he got was a thick swallow, audible in the quiet night, Luthen pressed against him and his blaster jammed under his ribs. “You’d kill me for this?”

Luthen seized his jaw in an unyielding grip and forced his face up to his and murmured, “How did you imagine this was going to go?” Andor shrugged a shoulder, as if it were truly a question worth contemplating. Luthen dug his fingers in, until Andor’s eyes tightened with pain. “What alternative outcome could you possibly have envisioned?”

“I suppose,” Andor forced out, “I harbored some hope that-”

He cut off abruptly, eyes widening a moment before Luthen caught the rustle of soft steps in the dirt, and then the whine of a blaster charging.

Luthen released his grip on Andor and held his own blaster out to the side, hanging loose and unthreatening, while he reached into the folds of his cloak for the baton.

“Ah,” a hoarse voice preempted the press of a muzzle against his back. A quick hand reached around and found the grip, tugged it loose.

What an ignominious end, he couldn’t help but mull drily. A surprise to Andor, whatever it was, by the wary stare thrown over his shoulder. “Hey…” he started, but was interrupted by the sound of the metallic ring of the staff extending.

“I always wanted to play with this.”

Luthen blinked and turned and found a familiar face under unfamiliar short-cropped hair smiling up at him in dark amusement. “Bix.”

The smile widened; something manic in her eyes. Unsettling. “You’ve got about two minutes until the sentry patrol loops around this way.” Andor leaned around and snatched the blaster out of her hand; Luthen didn’t even bother moving, caught unawares, realizing just how woefully he’d misunderstood everything happening, and detesting every second of his ignorance. “If you boys want to hurry along and figure out who gets to shoot who.”

Andor yanked the staff away and shoved it back to Luthen, pulling Bix away by an elbow and hissing low, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, you seemed to be handling things quite well on your own, Cassian.”

[fractalcloning]

((Closed starter for @belovedai, Soji breaks Lal out of Daystrom.))

It's disturbingly easy for Soji to break into Daystrom but, as she flashes a badge with Dahj's name and the security guard opens the door for her, she supposes it shouldn't be surprising. They had been designed for infiltration, after all, and this precise facility had been one of the targets. The only person on site who knew anything about Dahj was Agnes Jurati and she certainly hadn't reported anything. Dahj was still a viable candidate in their systems and Soji was able to just…step into her life. It was as easily as changing her clothes and styling her hair. That, of all of this, was perhaps the most uncomfortable aspect.

Dahj had been accepted on the team for quantum computing and artificial intelligence. It was a subsection of synthetic development, a department that was recently restored when the ban was repealed. The whole facility was chaos in the wake of the repeal, with new scientists and cyberneticists every few feet. There were a hundred new hires, at least, drawn from everywhere across Federation space. It was as if Daystrom were having a job fair and Soji? She melted into the chaos; just another face in the crowd.

Of course, the ban hadn't prevented all use of synthetics and androids, military efforts were rarely limited by things as pedestrian as laws. The ban had only halted development and experimentation. Use of synthetics was heavily regulated, though. They were limited to the sort of occupations where sudden violence was actively encouraged. They were stored accordingly, finished models locked down in subterranian storage. But Soji didn't need to get into subterranian storage--she needed the initial labs. Fortunately, those were not so heavily guarded and secured. Even Starfleet's clandestine operations didn't keep more than a weather eye on the facilities above production. So a new scientist walking down a hall when there were hundreds of others milling about? That was barely worthy of note.

In the end, Soji just strolled right into Daystrom's fabrication laboratories, easy as you please, like she'd been personally invited.

There were two scientists present in the lab when Soji entered, but no security personnel at all. Soji almost felt bad for the two older men as she promptly knocked them out but, given that they were experimenting with one of her inactive sisters, her sympathy was limited. She found Lal's body stored in a stasis cabinet, slotted into the wall like a morgue drawer. When Soji pulled her out she was in pieces, fragmented into piles of parts. Several of her internal systems were exposed, the covers and pieces set aside almost casually, piled on her lap in a way that toed the line between horrifying and irreverant.

"It's nice to meet you," Soji said softly. Lal, of course, didn't answer and Soji promptly retrieved a rolling tray with a host of tools. Her experience with cybernetics was mostly in disassembly, but she had put more than a few people back together. It would take her several hours to restore Lal to functionality and disconnect her from the Daystrom systems, but whaaaaaaaaaa efw hours in the grand scheme of things?

[klickbot]

A Punctual guest

Cosmic was wandering along a road at a lazy pace. He had just once again randomly teleported to a mysterious local, but for once this place wasn’t a hot mess. Everyone here seemed nice and chill, and there were no disasters going around. A real nice change of pace. He marked it on multiverse map, so he could remember to come back to it in the future. Oh he was still planning on exploring the area, yes. But he knew other things might end up interrupting his time here, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t forget about it.

As he ambled, he saw a kind of interesting building, looked like some kind of hotel? Cool. He should check it out and see how nice it was. If it ended up being a nice place, he could take Luci here for a vacation maybe.

He walked in and took in the setting. So far so good. It looked really spiffy. He went to the counter and rang the bell.

“Hello?” He called.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

"My goodness, I didn't think the wait was THAT long." the small robot quipped while flying toward the skeleton and looking him over. "You were human when you started waiting, weren't you? Unfortunately, now that you've left the line, you'll have to start waiting all over again." Usually he'd have left it at that and let Miss Jupiter handle checking everyone in. Then he remembered he needed to get to know a number of guests before he could get back to his regular work- which he assumed was piling up as he spoke. Be nicer. Be more empathetic. The overworked bot would at least make an effort. "Though, perhaps I might be able to help. You are wishing to check in to a room, yes? Or maybe something else?" Granted, while this was the check in desk, there weren't a shortage of guests that would come here daily for every little thing they needed, despite the line being exponentially longer than the often non-existent line in front of the information desk. Perhaps this person already had a room and just needed information? Or something else entirely? @sansoftimeandspace

[asknarashikari]

Geats-Gotchard subs came out

Keiwa really took on the supporter role for Houtaro, huh? He was back to his Ponchichi roots without being Ponchichi. (He's also being the supporter that he never got from that frog gnome that needs to be saw-ed off piece by piece)

I also commend how Houtaro just doesn’t take shit from anyone, if he’s angry, he’s angry and he will confront the offending party to resolve that anger, through words.

One more thing I loved about the movie is how Neon resonated with the chemys origin, being artificial life forms.

Yeah, I love that bit about Houtaro actually. He's a friendly little guy usually, but he doesn't let people walk all over him without letting himself be known (though he doesn't resort to physical violence either). He didn't let Spanner do it to him, either, and as a result Spanner actually does have some respect for him lol.

It's also great foreshadowing for his response to Geryon's dream which basically amounts to irreverence and contempt lmao

Omg I totally forgot about Ponchichi 😂 I mean, Keiwa got turned into a tanuki Chemmy so... he kinda was Ponchichi

[marypsue]

I must know about leabian apocalypse robot tony stark

[from this meme]

This document is an original story that's settled into the title of Le Morte d'Artificial Intelligence! The document title comes from the title of this one comix recap copperbadge did, a title which promised much about a comic which delivered exactly none of it. I picked up the idea of an artificially-intelligent android (well, gynoid, technically, if you want to get personal) masquerading as an irreverent, deeply ADHD inventor and titan of industry and moonlighting as a mechanised superhero, and ran with it.

And then, while I was developing a superteam (and a villain) for her to have an It's Complicated with, I realised that I couldn't set a story with superheroes in the UK and not drag King Arthur into it. And then a couple of other ideas that I had floating around without homes (an artificial lifeform in the shape of a human woman falls in love with a human woman, who then turns out to be a changeling; an extraordinarily self-indulgent never-to-see-the-light-of-day f!OC MCU fic) dovetailed beautifully into a plot to go along with this premise.

Have a sample:

If Elin hadn’t already known what was waiting for her at Piccadilly Circus, it would’ve been immediately obvious as soon as she flew within shouting distance. Even if the unnaturally brackish quality to the air composition, the subsonic hum, and the flood of fleeing people – and, strangely, chickens – hadn’t clued her in, the tentacles were visible even before the heaving, buckling remains of the plaza drew into view.

“Dammit,” Elin muttered, pulling up to leave the street farther below her. She remembered too well from the fight with Morgan – huge and cumbersome as they looked, those beasties moved fast. And their reach was always just a little longer than she’d calculated.

In seconds, she was hovering over the plaza, assessing the situation. Definitely not stalling, whatever Goldfinger might say. The plaza looked like it had cleared out, and people in black tactical gear stood around the barricades that uniformed police had started setting up around the perimeter. Though, as Elin passed over, she noticed a little knot of people in street clothes still huddled behind a double-decker bus at the far end. She also noticed that there was only one of Morgan’s horrorterrors this time. Thankfully, it looked like a small one. Well, a relatively small one. As horrorterrors went.

The rip it had made in the world was relatively small, too, but growing wider as the creature’s assortment of mismatched limbs forced their way through. As she passed above it, Elin caught a glimpse of a knot of eyes and teeth, roiling and gnashing somewhere far below what the actual street could allow. Maybe the creature was bigger than it looked, then. Probably a good idea to get that rift closed up before any more of it got through.

Elin took a moment to wonder about that, as she scanned the radio frequencies for the agent and Arthur’s comms. They’d assumed the beasties had needed Morgan to open the hole that had ripped open in the London Eye, and with good reason. But she’d been under lock and key at Elin’s apartment the whole time this rift would have been opening –

Elin filed the thought into a subfolder for later consideration. She’d just caught a sliver of MI5 chatter.

“Rook. Arthur.”

It was a moment before the agent’s voice crackled back. “Motherboard. This is meant to be a secure channel.”

Everything in Elin’s database said that the emotion the agent was barely suppressing was relief. If the Motherboard had a face, Elin would’ve put a smile on it. “Then maybe you should give me access so I don’t have to keep breaking in. What’s your six?”

“Please stop trying to use military jargon,” the agent said, sounding still just a little too relieved to really be as annoyed as she was pretending to be. “You’re terrible at it. Arthur’s on the monster, he could use air support. I’m clearing these idiots -” Her voice dissolved into a muffled argument, before cutting off entirely.

Elin didn’t wait. She swooped low over the creature, at an angle she knew would make the Motherboard’s silver casing flash in the sun, scanning the many eyes below her to see if any of them fixed on her. At the last moment, when it looked like she was going to smash straight into a rising claw, Elin kicked in the Motherboard’s thrusters and shot straight upwards, spiraling between two reaching tentacles so that they wound around each other. One sharp shove, and they toppled over, smashing into the wall of screens that wrapped around one of the buildings encircling the plaza. In what looked like slow motion, every single light in the screen burst, with a cascading shower of sparks and a sound like fireworks.

The tentacles that had caused the damage had already vanished, disappearing into insubstantial soap-bubble shimmers and popping on impact. But, even as Elin watched the carnage of an exploding Coke ad, in the corner of her visual field, another tentacle began to reform. One moment, it was nothing but a patch of empty air delineated by the way the falling sparks bounced off and around it. The next, it was a horribly fleshy appendage covered in downright obscene-looking suckers, as thick around as Elin was tall and moving way too fast for anything that bulky.

And it was shooting, at top speed, straight for the double-decker bus. And – Elin zoomed in to confirm what she realised she already knew – and the little knot of people who were still trapped behind it. Including the agent.

Elin dove down through the air towards the tentacle, checking the charge on her laser cannon. She’d only get one shot at it before it reached its target –

Something slammed into her back, knocking her somersaulting through the air. Sensors screamed, her internal gyroscope frantically recalibrating and recalibrating, until she smacked, hard, into the side of a building.

Diagnostics flashed past – right foot thrusters operating at 67% capacity, outer shell not yet breached but integrity compromised, battery drain increased significantly. Oh, and she was upside down and halfway through a stone wall. Another hit or two like that one would put her out, easy, before she even had a chance to shoot.

She’d have to pay more attention to all of the creature’s limbs. Its…apparently endless assortment of limbs. That seemed, in defiance of all known laws of physics, to be able to appear from and disappear into thin air.

“Cake,” Elin muttered to herself, wrenching one leg free from the masonry the monster’s blow had half-embedded her in. “Total cakewalk.” She had to engage thrusters briefly to get the other leg free, and, for two ominous seconds, went shooting at top speed towards the pavement below. Headfirst. “Absolute piece of -” Elin executed a neat midair flip, and caught herself with her feet hovering barely an inch above the asphalt. “- cake.”

“Hungry, Motherboard?” Arthur’s warm, genial voice echoed over the commlink. If the Motherboard had had eyes, Elin would’ve rolled them.

“Only for victory, your royal highness.” She scanned the plaza, shaking out her right foot until the thrusters clicked up to 98% capacity. Still not perfect, but at least she wouldn’t be flying in circles. A glance told her that the double-decker bus had vanished, but Arthur and his gleaming sword had joined the people who’d been hiding behind it. Clearly he’d gotten to the limb Elin had been too busy getting her ass kicked to take care of. “Or – wait, I don’t remember. Is that the one you’re only supposed to call princesses?”

“I’ll let you both eat cake once we’ve closed this portal,” the agent’s voice cut in, sharply. “Need I remind you I’ve still got three civilians, and now no cover.”

“Gotcha,” Elin said, leaping back into the air. She ducked under an enormous scorpion stinger and wove around a whiplike limb with a ball of spikes on one end, spotting the bright red of the double-decker bus clutched in a tentacle high overhead. “Be as annoying as possible.”

“Motherboard -” the agent started, sounding exasperated, but Elin muted the comm. She wasn’t interested in a lecture. She had a distraction to provide.

And the Motherboard, flashy and dramatic as she was, provided such good distractions.

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: But I’m a Cheerleader

But I’m a Cheerleader is the epitome of camp.

I’m not just talking about the film’s depiction of homosexuality, by the way. Yes, it is true that a few of the characters behave in a stereotypically “fabulous” manner for comedic purposes… but the portrayal of “traditional (i.e., heteronormative) family values” is equally exaggerated. The story is set in a nightmarish parody of upper middle class suburbia reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell painting gone awry, featuring a grotesquely vibrant visual style that owes an obvious debt to John Waters and Tim Burton (circa Edward Scissorhands and Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, not whatever the hell he’s doing nowadays).

The deliberate artificiality of the imagery (replete with plastic furniture and boasting a garish pastel color palette) perfectly complements the story’s satirical tone. Director Jamie Babbit treats the casual bigotry of conservative America the same way that Mel Brooks treated Nazism in The Producers: as a self-evident joke, inherently unworthy of respect. There is, of course, a degree of risk involved in this irreverent approach. Comphet, internalized misogyny, and conversion therapy are sensitive subjects, to say the least; exploring them through the lens of an absurdist fairytale could therefore potentially be considered disrespectful.

Personally, though, I believe that But I’m a Cheerleader executes its premise with remarkable grace and tact. While harsh reality occasionally intrudes upon the narrative’s theme park logic (such as when the protagonist is caught completely off guard by her mother’s nonchalant threat to disown her should she fail to “go straight”), Babbit prefers to keep the atmosphere fun and lighthearted, thus avoiding the “gay misery” tropes that tend to pervade queer cinema. Ultimately, the movie emphasizes the positive aspects of coming out, celebrating the joys of individuality, nonconformity, and self-actualization.

I’m certain that nobody could possibly object to such universal, uncontroversial themes.

[dreamsandroots]

Gilded Dirt, Supermarket Verse—Ruptures 2k17

I’m ecstatic to have some poetry published in Supermarket Verse, the second issue of Gilded Dirt, an unapologetically rampageous modern literary arts mag out of Glasgow, Scotland. Being a proud supermarket worker myself, it felt fitting to send them some of my thoughts.

The piece I wrote for Gilded dirt, titled Ruptures 2k17 grew out of an ongoing concern that the artificially convenient life of the supermarket has been steadily creeping into our daily lives through the screens of our computers, televisions and mobile phones, diminishing the space in which we define ourselves even as it increases the various range of media spaces available with which to project ourselves and our ideas onto others.

While trying to steer away from a purely negative view of this strange globalising and globularising effect (of course, I love technology as much as I also sometimes loathe it), the piece speaks to a yearning to re-embrace organic practices of self-definition.

The issue is packed with quixotic, funny, often decidedly irreverent pieces of writing. It’s curator, Maria Sledmere is a tantalising wordsmith, and you should go check out her work now so that you can tell everyone you liked her before she was famous.

[hiswordsarekisses]

If you wield your tool on it you profane it. Exodus 20:25

God’s altar was to be built of unhewn stones, that no trace of human skill or labor might be seen upon it. Human wisdom delights to trim and arrange the doctrines of the cross into a system more artificial and more congenial to the depraved tastes of fallen nature; instead, however, of improving the Gospel carnal wisdom pollutes it, until it becomes another gospel and not the truth of God at all.

All alterations and amendments of the Lord’s own Word are defilements and pollutions. The proud heart of man is very anxious to have a hand in the justification of the soul before God; preparations for Christ are dreamed of, humblings and repentings are trusted in, good works are put forth, natural ability is much vaunted, and by all means the attempt is made to lift up human tools upon the divine altar.

It would be best if sinners would remember that so far from perfecting the Savior’s work, their carnal confidences only pollute and dishonor it. The Lord alone must be exalted in the work of atonement, and not a single mark of man’s chisel or hammer will be endured. There is an inherent blasphemy in seeking to add to what Christ Jesus in His dying moments declared to be finished or to improve that in which the Lord Jehovah finds perfect satisfaction. Trembling sinner, away with your tools, and fall upon your knees in humble supplication; accept the Lord Jesus to be the altar of your atonement, and rest in Him alone.

Many professors may take warning from this morning’s text as to the doctrines that they believe. There is among Christians far too much inclination to square and reconcile the truths of revelation. This is a form of irreverence and unbelief; let us strive against it and receive truth as we find it, rejoicing that the doctrines of the Word are unhewn stones, and so are all the more fit to build an altar for the Lord.

~ C H Spurgeon

(The only true doctrine is the doctor of the Word)