is this what you meant anon

anonymous asked:

Fia: I simply cannot understand, if you have survived church abuse, why do you still follow the religion that allowed that church to thive? How can you read a book that describes an egotistical, misogynistic, xenophobic god and not throw up? How can you still refer to and praise your abuser? Paty PS. I'm not hiding on the Internet- it's just that I don't have a tumblr account.

Okay wow, I don’t even know where to begin with this.

I’ve spent all day feeling by turns queasy and infuriated about this. I don’t really feel up to giving a long theological answer, tbh, but more importantly I’m not obligated to do so.

Pro tip: no one owes you an explanation for their identity. I do not have to justify any part of my identity to you, a stranger on the internet. I do not have to explain any part of my abuse to you. I certainly don’t have to relive it just because you have questions.

And you don’t get to tell anyone else what their religion means. I don’t know if you’re also a survivor of religious abuse, or if you’re speaking from outside that experience, but either way, you do not have the right to tell a survivor how they should deal with their experience. And you do not get to demand that a survivor justify their coping methods to you.

My sister and I both escaped an abusive religion. I did so by finding hope and healing in a religious life that prioritizes justice. My sister did so by rejecting religion and finding hope and healing in a humanist belief in the ability of people to work together for justice.

Both of those decisions are perfectly valid. There are countless other paths to recovery that would also be valid. Every person responds to abuse in their own way, and recovers in their own way. You don’t get to decide what that way should be. And you don’t get to demand that survivors justify themselves to you.

God is not and never was my abuser. People were my abusers. People who told me that I was worthless, inherently sinful, and meant only to obey. People who demanded that I justify my every thought and every action to them, and that I fit within their rigid standards at all times.

If your response to an abuse survivor is to demand they justify themselves and their abuse and fit within a rigid image of what a survivor should be and how they should behave…perhaps you ought to think about that.

anonymous asked:

a dacre montgomery blurb about the morning after?

dacre would probably wake up before you and would try to be as quiet as possible. this was the first time you two had slept together, and he didn’t know what it meant. you two were just friends and he didn’t mean for it to go as far as it did – but, you just looked s o good. and, he obviously looked pretty good to you, too, considering how much you’d been begging for him last night. he shook his head, smirking slightly at ts the scenes from last night played in his head. he quietly snuck out of his room, walking to the kitchen and starting on breakfast. dacre had always liked you, last night was everything he’d thought it;d be. he hoped you’d feel the same way you felt about him last night, when you woke up. dacre wasn’t used to receiving attention, he’d grown up being bullied and no one gave him a chance, and now that he’d gotten some attention from the one person he wanted, he was craving it even more. he didn’t hear you come into the kitchen, too focused on the stove and simultaneously too distracted by last night. when you wrapped your arms around his middle from behind, he jumped slightly from surprise. “jeez, you scared me, babe,” the pet name slipped out of his mouth effortlessly, he almost took it back but you started speaking before him. “sorry, baby,” you murmured against his skin, your lips pressed against his back and leaving small, feather;like kisses across it, wherever you could reach. he smiled, turning the stove off and turning around to face you. “hi,” he whispered, his arms coming around you to wrap around your waist. “hi,” you whispered back, leaning up slightly and kissing him lightly on the lips. dacre’s earlier fear of you waking up not feeling the same melted away in the kiss, and even more so when your hand reached for his, intertwining your fingers. “can we eat later?” you asked, pouting against his lips slightly, “it’s cold in the bed without you… plus, i’m not craving food.” you smiled when his eyes widened, giving him a small peck. “u-uh, yeah, yeah,” he said,clearing his throat, “the food could wait,” he said, leaning down and carrying you over his shoulder, laughing with you as he rushed you both back toward his room and in his bed

anonymous asked:

Not that we need it, but I think it's relevant to note that "I'm your huckleberry" on urban dictionary translates to "I'm the man you're looking for" and "I'm your hero." Like, I know that it's pretty obvious already but seeing its meaning so explicitly stated is amazing!

The urban dictionary definition is actually the LEAST interesting thing about that line. I already wrote one reply to an anon asking what the line meant:

But real quick here:

This episode was called Tombstone. Cas’s alias in this episode was Val Kilmer. Val Kilmer is the actor who played Doc Holliday in the movie Tombstone. Doc Holliday whose portrait in their motel room led Dean to yip with delight.* In the movie, Doc Holliday uses that exact line (much the way Cas quoted it in the gruff southern accent).

So not only did Cas “understand that reference,” understand his alias, understand the context of their “roles” in dealing with this crime scene and the local police, he confirmed all of that to Dean using an actual line of dialogue from the movie, in character.

And Dean had to do the slow blink and hard swallow before he could respond.

In the movie, the line literally means the equivalent of “I’ve got your back,” or “You can count on me,” or “You know I’m with you.”

It’s… really not about the rando urban dictionary quote. (notice I haven’t reblogged any of those posts? That’s why.) It’s literally a movie quote, and some of the most tightly written and absolutely fucking on-point bits of dialogue in all of s13 so far.

*Fun fact: Since Dean called this a “little fun fact here,” Curly Bill Brocius was killed by Wyatt Earp himself, and Dean’s alias in this episode was Kurt Russell, who played Wyatt Earp in the movie Tombstone.

Bonus Fun Fact: Sam and Jack used the aliases Sam Elliott (who played Virgil Earp in the movie) and Bill Paxton (who played Morgan Earp). I only point this out to demonstrate how absolutely saturated this entire episode is in the context of this movie. I mean, we think Dean has a cowboy fetish, but I think it’s actually Davy Perez. :P

anonymous asked:

"I’m going to address none of your points because their shit" i think you meant they're...


anonymous asked:

Kels, I'm 24 and I feel like I should be doing so much more with my life. Do you ever have that feeling of being so much more than what you're doing now? I'm stuck in a limbo of whether or not to go back for my masters degree or try and start a career. I know we're not meant to have everything figured out... but holy shit it's scary.

I can understand that completely. Google “Read This If You Thought You’d Be Further Along In Life By Now” by Ari Eastman and read that essay. It nails it. Here’s the thing you have to remember - we are all faking it. Even the most together people have something they are struggling with and comparing themselves to. There’s a woman I know, who is 25, and has an incredibly successful career, house, money, etc. The person you would look at and say “I should be at her point, she has it together”.. but she recently told me how she can’t balance it all and that she’s constantly drained and comparing herself to other people. It’s this game we all play with each other because we fear showing our weaknesses. But here’s the thing, we are all in this together. Things happen at different times for people and as long as you are doing the best you can, you have to trust that. Despite what society taught us growing up, we aren’t supposed to have it all together right now. These are the selfish years where we discover who we are and figure out life. We are always learning.

booksims  asked:

you used condemn correctly in your post!! don't worry about that, I think nonny misunderstood what you were trying to say (ie they thought that you were saying that it's always unacceptable to download games so they thought you should say "shouldn't condone" but you meant that there are external circumstances so "shouldn't condemn" is the right way to phrase it!!

oh i used condone before so the anon was right!!!! i corrected it after getting the ask fksjdjf but thank you for explaining!

anonymous asked:

Anon, I’m not trying to be rude, I promise. But how could you, even just for a second, think that her beautiful speech was meant for Carina? “You’re gonna take one look at this baby and you won’t remember anything else. You won’t care what life was like before you met her.” Com’on, it was about her own experience with her daughter. About not being ready for a baby but once she saw Sofia nothing else mattered. There’s no way she was referring to anything pr anyone other than her baby :’)


cryptidsanonymous  asked:

I just read everything in your gods and monsters series and wow I am in awe. I am absolutely blown away by your writing it's beautiful the Icarus one had me staring at a wall for ten minutes afterwards absorbing what I'd just read. anywhoozle, I love everything you've written and not to rush or pressure you or anything but I was wondering if perhaps we could get more of the greek mythology stories?

a continuation of this

Caeneus has only ever had two loves in his life.

First is the sea. He’s loved her his whole life, heard her siren song from the time he had long curly hair and still tolerated being put in dresses and called a girl. He loves the sea like his parents go to temple, in an unmovable and inexplicable way that he no longer questions.

Second is Poseidon. Foolish, but so achingly kind. He’s a man who professes his wish to master the sea without ever really understanding it, and Caeneus smiles and kisses the stress lines from his brow but does not worry.

The sea has never loved him back, and it never will. She is power and coldness and loss, and her beauty is in her tragedy. Poseidon is warmth and thoughtfulness and strong hands on his hips. He is nothing like the sea, and he will never rule it.

Caeneus knows this, and he’s relieved by it. Poseidon loves him back. Poseidon is not the sea.

Then he wakes up to his lover’s lips on his neck, cold enough that flinches away from the sensation, and for a terrifying moment he doesn’t recognize the person touching him as the man he loves.

“I can do it now,” he whispers, and cool fingers splay against his waist, “I can make you the man you want to be.”

Caeneus wants the body that men usually have, wants people to stop looking at him and seeing a woman. But if Poseidon had asked, he would have told him – Caeneus would choose his lover over a new body, would rather live as he does now than have Poseidon harm himself for his benefit.

But he did not ask, so Caeneus closes his eyes and accepts the gift his lover is so eager to give him.


Amphitrite has never had a heart before.

She was the sea, and what she desired, she took. Men, women – she wanted, and she had, and then she moved on.

But the heart in her chest is softer, warmer. It turns her pearl hued skin pink and makes her swim to the surface to watch the sun set, makes something like empathy stir inside her when before all she had was selfishness.

The heart in her chest is in love, and she thought it was something she could control, something she could stop. It’s not. It will be one day, when she masters this heart in her chest, but not yet. She spends hours following Caeneus as he sails her seas, guides fish into his net and feels her borrowed heart beat that much faster whenever he pears into the ocean and she catches sigh of his gorgeous amber eyes.

So she says to Poseidon, “You spend too much time on the shore for a god of the sea.”

He glances at her, and his eyes are green just like hers, are cold and uncaring just like hers used to be. She wonders what her eyes look like now. “Caeneus is on the shore.”

“Bring him here if you’re so concerned with your mortal,” she says, focusing on weaving shells into her hair and giving the impression that she couldn’t care less what he does with his mortal plaything. “The palace is big enough.”

He stops and turns to her, eyebrow raised. “You do not mind me bringing him here?”

“Do with your mortal as you wish,” she repeats, and stamps down on the trembling joy in her chest, “It’s no concern of mine.”


Caeneus doesn’t know how to love a god of the sea. He knew how to love Poseidon – take him onto the water to watch the sunrise, feed him warm, sweet drinks, and let him curl around him at night and listen to his stories of his siblings, of impossible gods who do impossible things.

But now he sits in a palace under water, with his own room and the freedom to see the other side of the ocean he loves so dearly. There are no sunsets here, no cocoa to barter for, and Poseidon doesn’t tell him stories any more.

Poseidon still loves him. He kisses him and holds his hips when they sleep together and keeps him by his side while he crosses the sea and gains more and more control over this domain that he now commands. Poseidon still loves him, he tells himself when he itches to return to the surface and the home Poseidon build for him, and the life he built for himself.

He didn’t want to be a consort of the king of sea. He just wanted to be Caeneus, a man who loved a man and was loved in return, a man who loved the sea even though it would never love him back.

The sea will never love him back. He’s known that since he was a child, so the real question is – how much of the Poseidon he knew is left, and how much of him the depths of the ocean?


There’s a hurricane that requires her husband’s attention, and even he is not so foolish as to bring his lover to a place as dangerous as that. Which means it’s the perfect time for her to run into him in the interior gardens, as he stares up through the iridescent seaweed to the rays of sunlight that just manage to penetrate the water. “Do you miss it?” she asks him, and he startles, swinging around to face her and stumbling away.

“My lady!” he says, and falls to his knees before her, bowing his head. It’s what she expects of all mortals, but not from him, never from him. The heart in her chest loves him, and if it’s not her heart, well – the rest of her doesn’t know the difference. “A thousand apologies.”

“You are welcome here,” she says, and smiles. She’s never smiled quite like this before, she’s never felt quite like this before, fond and fluttery and so painfully eager that it would be embarrassing if she ever dared articulate it. It’s a wonder Poseidon managed to get anything done at all if this is what he had in his chest.

He looks up, hesitant, and she holds out her hand. He takes it, and she pulls him to his feet, pulls him closer until they’re nearly touching and he’s forced to look up into her eyes or be stuck staring at her chin. He’s warmer than her, she can feel the heat pouring off him in waves, and she wants him to hold her in his arms so she can languish against him like she would a sun-warmed rock.

Before she had a heart, she took who and what she wanted, when she wanted it.

Now she has a heart, and she takes his hands in both of hers and says, “Would you like to visit the surface? I can take you, and bring you back before my husband returns.”

He’s hesitant because he’s afraid of her. Caeneus will never love her, because although she holds the heart he loves she is not the person the heart belongs to. Not that he knows any of that, not that anyone will ever know the details of her and Poseidon’s arrangement. But she doesn’t want Caeneus to be afraid of her. She wants him to smile at her like she is a sunrise. “Yes, please,” he decides on finally.

She stands and watches as he walks through his home, as he touches the hearth and looks longingly at the bed, as he stands in the small cottage that he clearly prefers over her palace, over all the riches and adoration that comes with being consort to the sea.

Caeneus is a simple man, whose heart loves with a simple love.

He is a man whose heart loves someone who now has no heart, and Amphitrite can’t bring herself to tell him. She’s the one who took it away, and she won’t give it back.

She likes having a heart, and one day she will need to return it, but not now, not yet, not for a long time.


Caeneus lies besides Poseidon, curled up so his head rests on the god’s outflung arm and he can watch his chest rise and fall as he sleeps. There are bruises on Caeneus’s hips and down his chest, bite marks on his shoulder and up his neck. It’s not the first time his lover has been rough with him, and he doesn’t mind, like that Poseidon doesn’t touch him like he’s afraid he’ll break, likes that whenever he’s rough he’s careful enough with his strength not to ever cross the line from bruising to breaking.

It’s different than it used to be. It’s been different for a long time, ever since Poseidon somehow convinced the Lady to hand over her title as monarch, to share her power with him for no reason that Caeneus can see. It’s not love between them, because the sea does not love. But she got something out of it, something valuable enough to bargain away part of her power, and as soon as she did the man Caeneus loves ceased to exist.

He slides out of bed and angrily rubs at his eyes. He can’t do this anymore, can’t sleep and live with this man who has his lover’s face and memories and nothing else.

He knows this palace well, and everyone else knowns him too. The servants don’t question him, only offer shallow bows before hurrying on his way. He’s a fisherman who lives on the outskirts of society. He’s not any sort of person that people were meant to bow to. He stands in front of an ornate set of carved doors, the beautiful shimmering inside of a muscle shell of impossible size. Two guards stand at each door, but neither move to stop him as he pushes it open and slips inside.

“Lady?” he whispers. Large, bioluminescent carvings flare to life all across the room, bathing them in soft golden-green light. Amphitrite pulls herself out of bed, green hair loose around her and the rest of her on display, pale and flawless, as perfect an example of a beautiful woman as Caeneus has ever seen, and he averts his gaze. “Lady!”

“So modest,” she teases, and when he glances over she’s in a simple white robe and pulling her hair up behind her. She looks vulnerable like this, almost like his mother did when she would rouse him and his father from sleep in the darkness of early morning so they could catch the fish while they were still sleeping. “What’s going on Caeneus? I thought my husband had exclusive rights to your nights,” she winks, and he forces a smile.

He walks over to her, takes her hands in his because he knows she likes how warm he runs compared to her, and her smile slips off her face. “Please,” he whispers, “Poseidon is different than he once was, and I want to know why. Please.”


She shouldn’t tell him, but the heart in her chest loves him, and she loves him too, thinks she would even without Poseidon’s heart influencing her.

So she tells him, and when he starts crying she brushes away his tears and he doesn’t stop her. “He’ll never love you like he once did,” she tells him, “It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he just can’t.”

“The sea doesn’t love you back,” he says, because he knows, because he’s a skilled sailor, because he’s one of the people who has worshipped her his whole life without ever expecting anything back, because that’s what an ocean gives back – nothing at all. “Can – can I give you my heart?”

She stares. “Excuse me?”

“Let me give you my heart,” he pleads, “so that I may hold Poseidon’s in my chest. You can have mine, I know I’m only a mortal–”

“You’re all mortal to me,” she says, because a hundred years, a thousand, ten thousand, what does it matter – she and Gaia were around long before gods and humans, and they’ll be around long after them. “If I give you Poseidon’s heart, you will become a god.”

He pales and flinches away from her. He’s not in this for power, this was never about power to him. It was always about love. “Lady, I’m not trying to – I don’t want that.”

“If you become a god,” she continues, because she loves him and that means she wants him to be happy, even at her own expense, “you will be alive when the time comes for me to reclaim my title of monarch. One day I will take back my heart from Poseidon, will reclaim the cold, black thing in his chest as my own, and when I do he will no longer be master of the sea. When I do, you can give him back his heart, and he will love you as he loved you before, as he will always love you.”

Caeneus has a hand over his chest and there’s so much hope shining in his eyes that it’s almost painful to look at. “Please, Lady. Please. I love him, let me carry his heart, let me have him back once you are done. I will wait.”

“It will be a long time,” she answers honestly, “Empires will rise and fall before I’m willing to give this up, before Poseidon will be willing to give up his power over the sea.”

“I will wait,” Caeneus repeats, “I love him. If you have my heart, maybe you will grow to love him too. If you have my heart, you will protect him, you will keep him safe.”

Amphitrite loves Caeneus, and Caeneus loves Poseidon, and Poseidon is incapable of loving anyone at all. “Very well,” she whispers, because a heart is a heart, and just like Poseidon she’s unable to deny Caeneus anything.

She breaks open her chest and takes out the warm, beating heart of Poseidon. She slits open Caeneus’s chest for him, and holds him upright while struggles to take out his heart and clumsily places in into her chest. She heals over instantly, and nestles Poseidon’s heart in Caeneus’s ribcage. He too heals over, and his eyes flash with power as the heart settles inside of him.

Caeneus becomes so much more than a mortal man in that moment.

This heart doesn’t feel too different, she still loves Caeneus because she’s capable of loving and he is worthy of it. “Go,” she says, “Say your goodbyes, and leave. If you stay, he’ll just continue hurting you, and in a few thousand years he’ll hate himself for it. Leave now, and spare both of you that pain.”

He leans forward and cups her face in his hands, kissing her on each cheek. “Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s gone.


Caeneus can feel the power of a god flowing into him, but he doesn’t care about that, the only reason he’s glad he’s a god now is so he’ll live long enough to get Poseidon back, to get the Poseidon who loves him back.

He goes back to where Poseidon is sleeping, and takes a long, careful look. It will be a long time before he sees this man again. He kisses him on the lips, softly and carefully, the way Poseidon first kissed him when he thought he was sleeping.

Then he leaves, stepping outside the palace and using his newly gained powers to bring himself to the shore.


Poseidon is furious, bur Amphitrite won’t budge, says only that Caeneus left. He throws a temper, and half the palace is lost in the aftermath, but she does not care.

She doesn’t tell him that she no longer carries his heart. It doesn’t matter. Caeneus’s heart beats in her chest, and she sits on her throne amongst the rubble and does nothing more than sigh at the way he threatens to tear the world apart looking for his lover. It will pass. The depth and coldness of the sea is unable to sustain such fits of wild passion.

Years pass. Rumors reach them of a sea god, one who is known for rescuing sailors and fisherman from storms, one who they say used to be a mortal fisherman himself.

They call him Glaucus, and say that he swallowed a magical herb to become a god.

She smiles when she hears these rumors, and thankfully Poseidon has long given up trying to get her to explain herself. The rumors are only half right, but she likes hearing them none the less.

It comforts her to hear that Caeneus is well.

gods and monster series, part xiii

read more of the gods and monsters series here