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mysticbewitched · 11 months

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My Beliefs Have Evolved..

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▪︎ I'm about to piss off some popular bloggers & start a major fire in this community.

{ Lights, Camera, Action.}

A serious epiphany hit me hard out of nowhere as I was wandering through some of my old posts way back when I first started this blog. As I was reading through some of my old writings from my former posts, I realized that I held certain beliefs at those times that no longer resonate with me anymore.

I did not realize at the time, but I took some teachings of things from Neville in a *literal manner* that were never supposed to be taken in that way and some aspects of my understanding of the law of consciousness were completely distorted due to the ridiculous amount of ignorant misinformation and misinterpretations flooding through tumblr.

I admit that in the beginning, I was one of the ignorant ones, and it was because of all the information you're constantly seeing spread around like chaotic wildfire in this community.

It clearly warped my understanding and I thought I finally had Neville's teachings all figured out.

Let me tell you, I was beyond wrong.

Recently, I had discovered that I've been missing the main puzzle piece: the entire source of the law of consciousness.

For that reason alone, I want everyone to know that I will most definitely be revamping and transforming quite a lot of my older posts to reflect my newer, evolved beliefs to reflect the philosophy of nondualism.

Now before you start stressing out, I want to explain to you that Neville Goddard was actually teaching nondualism at the core of his teachings, which a lot of people wrongly mistake as something separate or completely different from the law of consciousness.

They could not be more mistaken, and they simply do not understand it. The law of consciousness is the expression of nondualism at its core.

I'm here to tell you that they are the exact same philosophy with different delivery. That is truthfully what Neville was teaching about all this time.

Now whether or not you believe in nondualism, that's entirely up to you, and you are free to believe whatever you wish. - I just want you to truly understand and realize that Neville Goddard was, in fact, truly teaching nondualism.

Admittedly, Neville did start off his teachings with some limiting beliefs, but he eventually evolved in his beliefs and his teachings after he experienced the promise.

The law of consciousness is just a name for the physical expression of nondualism's philosophy. Simple as that.

For everyone who is here for the "law of assumption" and you are being led to believe that you are somehow separate from your own reality, or the law of consciousness is a law "operating outside of you"- you are seriously not being taught the law of consciousness in the way that Neville Goddard actually intended for you to understand the whole core his teachings.

*Your understanding of the law is being warped and twisted out of shape because of all the countless amounts of misinformation.*

Neville Goddard and Alan Watts both taught nondualism at its core. However, their styles of teaching were different from the other, and they were focused on different aspects of nondualism.

Neville focused his teachings on the true operation of the law of consciousness shaping our own lives from within us for his listeners to understand how to consciously create their own realities while Alan Watts' teachings were more centered around our true self as unmatched, infinite awareness and how we as awareness are the original source of the universe experiencing the physical expression of itself.

Nondualism is all about oneness and unity, not separation.

All the total bullshit you hear these days coming from the most popular bloggers in this community about: "The 4D vs. The 3D", "The 3D conforming to your desires", or "The 4D is more real than the 3D" -

Blah, blah, blah.

Throw all of that shit out of the door.

All of that implies separation. There is no separation.

You are the prime *source of all creation* and one with all. This is what true nondualism is all about.

You are source of the universe.

You are God of your own reality and all things come from *within.*

All comes from within. This is the core of nondualism: absolute oneness and unity.

You are one with your reality.

Consciousness is the only reality.

"All things come from within; nothing comes from without-" - Neville Goddard

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A lot of my former beliefs were about:

▪︎ The "3D conforming" - That's a huge no, no. There is no damn "conforming" going on, and I will explain all about that in another post. "Conforming" implies separation, and there is absolutely no separation. You and your reality are *one*. Simple as that.

▪︎ Taking Neville's whole "mirror" comparison in a literal manner to imply separation between imagination and reality.

Guess what? That teaching from Neville was *never* meant to be taken as literal.

I'll say it louder for the people in the back this time. There is absolutely *no* separation. Your reality "mirrors" your state of mind because there is no separation between you and your reality.

You can thank the ridiculous flood of popularized misinformation flowing through this platform for making me think there was some sort of invisible, barrier between imagination and reality that performed as a literal mirror in action.

What the hell was I thinking? Most definitely not. Those former beliefs of mine are history and deep in the trash where they belong.

▪︎ Focusing on the "time" with manifestations:

I actually now feel as if focusing your attention on the "time" implies a lack mindset because you're just supposed to focus on enjoying already having your desires in the present moment.

"Time" does not matter.

Stressing out and worrying about the "time" is a strong indicator of a victimhood mindset, and I only want to empower my followers to step into their power and change their mindset to manifest their dreams.

I firmly believe that the more confidence in yourself and your own ability to manifest, the less "time" it takes for the physical manifestation of your desire to be expressed in your reality.

▪︎ Thinking as if the "law of assumption" was a law that was somehow operating outside of us. -

Oh, hell no, it's not. Not even close.

The law of consciousness is *you*.

Everything is coming from within you.

You are the *infinite source of all creation.*

It's simply a beautiful and freeing realization.

Free yourself from the chains of misinformation.

▪︎ { I will be doing a post sometime to explain nondualism in greater detail and how it is actually about the true nature of the law of consciousness under a different name and form of delivery. }

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None of the former beliefs reflect my views anymore, and people who are still following these beliefs are only overcomplicating and distorting their understanding of Neville's teachings about the law of consciousness.

I resonate far deeper with the true intended teachings of nondualism from Neville and Alan Watts compared to the popular ways that people are trying to teach "law of assumption" these days on here.

I'm just not having it, chief.

I have stepped away and opened my eyes. I am on the outside looking in and I am now seeing just how much distorted misinformation are being blindly accepted as the end-all and be-all from even most of the Neville inspired blogs.

The teachings from Neville in this modern community are incredibly warped and distorted. These people just don't get it, man and I remember being in the exact same position, myself.

I shake my head when I think about the old, ignorant version of myself. I really thought I had it all figured out and I was missing the main piece of the puzzle the whole entire time to tie everything together.

It is now safe for me to say that I have definitely strayed far away from the distorted misconceptions and "popular" ways a lot of bloggers are trying to teach "law of assumption" these days. I'm just not having it, man. The ignorance is unbearable.

*Knowledge is power* and you want to make sure that you are being exposed to the right information from others that will simplify everything and actually help you achieve success on your manifestation journey.

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#loassumption #law of assumption #manifestation #manifesting #law of manifestation #neville goddard #nondualism #nonduality

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luckykiwiii101 · 6 months

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MASTERLIST - XoXo 💋

💋 💌- HOW TO CHANGE YOUR SELF CONCEPT AND MANIFEST YOUR DREAM LIFE WITHIN A WEEK. (Answers most questions about manifestation!!)

💋 💌- HOW TO APPLY STATES FOR THE VOID (Not my post!)

💋 💌- SUCCESS STORIES

💋 💌- HOW TO ENTER THE VOID INSTANTLY! (DISTRACTION METHOD!!!)

💋 💌 - MY FIRST VOID SUCCESS

💋 💌- DISTRACTION IS KEY TO ENTER THE VOID FOR THE FIRST TIME CONSCIOUSLY!!!

💋 💌 - HOW TO ENTER THE VOID WITHOUT VOID CONCEPT (GUARANTEED)

💋 💌- HOW TO SEMI-EXPERIENCE THE VOID STATE WITHOUT BEING IN THE VOID STATE!!

💋 💌- STOP IDENTIFYING WITH FAILURE!!!

💋 💌 - A 9 YEAR OLD ENTERED THE VOID STATE!!

XoXo - Gossip Girl:

💋 💌 - XoXo - Gossip Girl (You will have your dream life in the next 7 days)

💋 💌 - The Blair Bitch Project

💋 💌 - Much “I Do” About Nothing

💋 💌 - You aren’t a Victim, So Drop the Act!

💋 💌 - Feel like overconsuming?

💋 💌 - How do realities work? (What happens when you manifest?)

💋 💌 - Are You Scared Of The Void State?

💋 💌 - Enter The Void In Less Than 2 Minutes

💋 💌 - How To Get Your Mind To Shut Up Whilst Entering The Void State

💋 💌 - Are you really going to let HER win?

💋 💌 - Not So Sugar&Spice and EVERYTHING Nice After All

💋 💌 - How To Make Everything Sugar&Spice And EVERYTHING Nice After All (Guide to EVERYTHING)

💋 💌 - Tumblr Is NOT Your Safe Place!!!

💋 💌 - Does A Certain Queen B Feel Like Giving Up?

💋 💌 - What Would Blair Waldorf Do?

💋 💌 - Your 3D Face May Be Drenched In Tears, But Your 4D One Isn’t (You can still be unmotivated and manifest)

💋 💌 -THE 3D IS A FAKE WANNABE

💋 💌- DOUBTING THE LAW?

💋 💌- EPIPHANY #1

💋 💌 - HOW TO ACTUALLY FEEL FULFILLED

💋💌 - EPIPHANY #2 (The Law is Failproof)

💋💌 - EPIPHANY #3 (The 3D Conforms Fast)

💋💌 - IMAGINATION, LIFE IS YOUR CREATION

💋💌 - MOTIVATION IS NOT THE KEY

💋💌 - HOW TO MAKE YOUR DESIRE NATURAL 2 YOU

💋💌 - PLACEBO? I THINK NOT!

💋💌 - STOP REPEATING THE OLD STORY (WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE SCARY MOVIE?)

💋💌 - STOP EMBODYING THE UNDESIRED STATE (WHY’D SHE LEAVE? WHY’D SHE RETURN?)

💋💌 - “UPPER EAST SIDE QUEENS AREN’T BORN AT THE TOP. THEY CLIMB THEIR WAY UP IN HEELS, NO MATTER WHO THEY HAVE TO TREAD ON TO DO IT.”

💋💌 - NUMB TO THE FEELING

💋💌 - “NOTHING FULFILLS ME”

💋💌 - HEY IT’S ME, YOUR IMAGINATION

Quotes:

💋💌 Come On, Vogue!

The Ultimate Manifestation Mindset:

Hey Upper East Siders. Want THE perfect self concept? Here’s how:

💋💌 - WORK LIKE A HUMPHREY

💋💌 - THINK LIKE A BASS

💋💌 - ACT LIKE A WALDORF

💋💌 - LOOK LIKE AN ARCHIBALD

💋💌 - DRESS LIKE A VAN DER WOODSEN

#loassumption #loa tumblr #loablr #loa blog #loa success #law of assumption #void concept #void state #void #manifestation #neville goddard #success stories #success story

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marinas-drafts · 7 months

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Crawfever 1

Plot: You weren’t the first war widow to indulge in this, and young Elvis wasn’t the first young man who justified it…

SUMMARY: I adore the notion that Elvis Freakin’ Presley himself might have shown up at your doorstep to fix your electrical problems in the early 50’s. The concept that all that untapped charisma and talent and beauty could be found just going about his business, helping housewives with their glitches…well, this came out of the imagining of what one such call might look like. And if it devolved into poorly written Southern Gothic literature, blame Eudora Welty. 🥰. Also, A Streetcar Named Desire may have influenced my artistic choice of copious descriptions of sticky southern summers and the *feelings* they can provoke. This hasn’t been proofread by any eyes except my own exhausted ones.

Note: there were three other parts to this but I lost them with my old blog, alas. You can find them on tumblr still on my main blog. 💋

An Electrician Named Elvis

Summer in Memphis is a sticky, windless, oppressive thing, only relieved by the occasional swim, creaking fans and a chilled beverage held to the throat. The ice box is revered as a savior during these months and those nights the electricity shorts out due to the thunderstorms rolling across the Mississippi are spent in anxious fretting that it would turn on again by morning. But by ten o’clock this morning there’s no such luck, even though the lines have been fixed you’ve been told it’s a problem closer in.

Probably in the house.

Exactly the sort of problem your Billy would have solved himself with no extra cost but the odd washer or wire.

But Billy’s not here so instead you’ve got Crown Electric sending out whoever they deem expendable enough to waste on fixing a housewife’s ice box.

If it’s Marvin they send, you just might flip -you appreciate the man but haven’t any patience for that or him. Not today, not on top of milk going rancid and your baby girl having a pathetic breakfast before school. You can’t mend Marvin’s pants any faster for all that he mows your lawn. The lawn you pay him to mow. The lawn he owns as your landlord anyhow -oh and there’s the sound of the Crown truck coming to a stop on the drive.

You recognize that staring at the ice box won’t do much good so you go to the screen door in time to see a whole lotta leg swing out from the drivers seat.

You’re not sure you’ve ever appreciated a pair of legs so much as you do this blazing morning, and as they stretch out you have an epiphany of sympathy for the wolf whistles you yourself have received on windy days.

This pair goes on for miles, and they’re owned by an eager, doll-faced boy.

Heavens, is this his first job? At least it isn’t Marvin and you won’t be pestered about rent or mending, but wether or not a man who favors pink socks under his drab olive work-suit can fix a problem that’s befuddled many a handyman before him -well, that remains to be seen.

He’s halfway up the drive when he catches sight of you behind the screen door, his face animates and he jogs up the rest of the way. Taking the front steps two at a time.

You push the door open.

In the shade of your doorstep his complexion looks softer than any of your sister’s and you’re greeted by the same expression you see each morning when you wake your young daughter up -a desire to please. The effect is a little unsettling on a grown man, so obviously well proportioned, towering over you and decked out in a rough handyman’s attire.

“They said you’ve got an outage ma’am?”

“Yes, couldn’t fix it with the lines apparently.”

“Probably just the lightening shorted somethin’ out.” He assures you, voice going ever so gentle, like he’s comforting someone deeply bereaved.

Like he’s gonna fix all your troubles by turning the ice box and fans back on.

That won’t cure all your troubles, but it would be a start, a way for you to handle the rest.

“May I come in?” He adds softly when you say nothing.

You’re still standing in the doorway, unconsciously guarding it as you’ve been doing since you got that wretched telegram in ‘44. Nine years ago. Nine years and no one but relatives and Marvin when collecting the rent have crossed the threshold since.

Certainly no long limbed boy with hair as black as Billy’s and the intention of helping you around the house. Fixing the house, rather. No, damn it, just the electricity like it’s his job to do.

Just as Billy would have done if Billy were here.

This ain’t Billy, Billy had an earnest, sweet face and none of this boy’s ripe prettiness. Billy never talked softly either.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, right this way -what’s you’re name?”

“Elvis…Presley, ma’am.”

“Welcome to the oven, Elvis.”

The house has become a swampy inferno and though the windows are open the curtains hang limp, there isn’t a breeze between all these houses packed close together. It’s stifling under the low ceiling and whatever fresh look he had maintained flying down the road in his aired-out truck is melting now.

“Downright nasty in here.” He comments, and then he grins at you as the sweat begins to collect atop his cupid’s bow. “No wonder you’re out of sorts.”

“Yeah that’s gotta be it.” You manage to return the grin, ignoring the insinuation, “And spoilt milk always makes me testy.”

“You kept your ice box closed?”

“Sure have.”

“Then it might be alright. Only been off a few hours, right?”

“Since midnight.”

“Well, then, should be fine.” He’s got that comforting voice going on again and you reckon that either there’s an old soul in that daisy fresh face or else he’s spent most of his young life reassuring somebody. Reassurance flows from him naturally, and for once, you don’t feel like shrugging the comfort off.

And there’s a strange clench in your heart at how long it’s been sense you let someone metaphorically pat your back and tell you everything will turn out right. You’ve got lots of relations and a few friends who busy themselves and you with worrying about how you’re gonna manage to raise your daughter, earn a living and climb far enough out of the fog of widowhood to be considered socially acceptable again. It’s nice that some boy who’s never had his guts ripped open overseas wants to restore your ice box to you and make everything alright again. It’s precious that he thinks that’ll do it.

You’ve been pondering too long and now you’ve got a frog lodged in your throat and it ought to be awkward but he doesn’t look away, he just shyly peaks down at you under copious lashes and smiles encouragingly. “The electrical panel is in one of the bedroom closets, I’m guessin’?”

“In the Master.”

“Alright then.”

You usher him back to the stuffy little room that's glowing orange from the drapes trying to block out the noonday sun.

You’d pulled some clothes out of the closest beforehand to make it easier for him to reach the panel. When you’d done that you were imagining Marvin or man of his stubby frame working on it, but Elvis is unfazed, he just gracefully folds his long limbs into a squat in the tiny cubby and cranes his neck until he level with the panel. He’s got his tool kit balanced on one thigh and he gives you a thumbs up to suggest your presence is no longer needed. He is starting to look as miserably sticky as you feel, his black hair turning somehow darker with sweat.

His lips pucker up as he starts unscrewing a bolt. It’s rather obscene.

“Would you like some lemonade?” You’re offering as you need some yourself.

He looks startled you’re still standing there but after a minute’s hesitation he asks: “is it pipin’ hot?”

You laugh and he immediately looks pleased with himself. Damn, he’s so young. “I’m gonna crack open the ice box” you explain.

His humored look flees and earnest blue eyes go round in protest. “Ma’am I haven’t fixed this yet! I just got in here!”

“I know, silly,” you swat the air at him, “take it as a sign of faith you’ll manage it.”

He grins back, and a man squatting in a sweltering closet oughtn't to look that alluring. You assure yourself it’s just the domesticity of the whole thing. Billy changing a bulb or scrubbing a dish or hanging Christmas lights that one Christmas you had him to yourself -that’s the stuff that made you throw yourself at Billy in the mid afternoon of a balmy work day.

Raven haired young Elvis might work for the electrical company and be earning a commission with each moment of his work day you waste but if you squint a bit, he could be a beautiful boy who wanted to wife you up and give you babies and rub your feet when you’d been on them all day.

Lately you’ve gone out of the habit of assuming someone who looks as fresh as he does would be eyeing up a sweat soaked war widow, but young Mr. Presley had either never been shamed for his lack of subtly or never bothered to hide it because while his looks were tender, they weren’t respectful in the proper sense. You only wished you could see his revering expression as you sauntered away from him back into the kitchen.

The ice box was tolerably cool for having been kept shut. The milk was safe for now but would spoil sooner for the dip in temperature. That waste didn't rankle you as much as it had an hour ago. The thought “that’s alright” actually made it past your lips for the first time in months and you couldn’t help but marvel that you might have lost a bit of your cantankerous streak on the front steps.

With a sudden swoosh and buzz the small pedastol fan on the counter top buzzes back to life and the light in the ice box clicks on.

You whooped “you’ve done it!”

Heavy footfalls came out of the back bedroom and Elvis came into view with a bewildered look on his face: “You haven’t got a A.C. unit ma’am?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh you should!” He warmed up to the argument, “They make the air crisper than anything, sucks the river mist right out the air.”

“Not gonna be able to manage that on a war widow’s pension.” You retort nonchalantly, handing him a glass of chilled lemonade which he takes slowly and carefully, eyeing you over the rim.

“So that’s what happened.” He said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You seem so sad. That’s what started it?”

If he stayed this empathetic for the rest of his life he’d end up burned out and hollow before he hit fifty. He had no business looking out to solve every hurting person’s problems, not when he was so obviously lost himself.

“Three days into the Normandy campaign, at least that’s what they told me.” You've explained your husbands absence many times in the same way, but you aren’t sure you ever had a more sympathetic audience than this boy who is pressing the beaded lemonade glass to his cheek and looking at you like he knows exactly what it’s like to have your sweetheart get burned up by a nazi flamethrower. He doesn’t say a word of comfort on the matter, he doesn’t need to, his eyes show it all and his lips part and he murmurs:

“But he gave you a child?”

“He sure did, bless him. Her name’s June,” your lips quirk up just at the thought of her “my baby girl. She’ll be turning nine, day after tomorrow.”

The sorrow has gone off his face and he looks like he’s scheming now, and somehow that’s the most alarming expression to yet grace his features. He leans in across the kitchen counter, all familiar like, and that’s worse than anything: “Tell me, Mrs. Crawford, yeah, see I caught your name in the directory -but, tell me, does your June like to swim?”

“Loves it almost as much as watermelon.” You know you must look wary, but the last time a man leaned over a bar and eyed you up in this way you ended up married to him. Actually, scratch that. Billy was a darling and a delightful flirt but he didn’t have one ounce of the raw, unconscious danger this boy holds in his pinky finger alone.

“I’ve got a heap of cousins,” he begins quite randomly, “ranging all ages, and we’ve got a watering hole we found just south of town where the trees keep it all cool and the farmer doesn’t mind us so long as we don’t upset the cows. And I’ve got a truck, you see, and I was thinkin’ when you needed to cool off you could come join us. My mama would love to make a picnic out of little June’s birthday, I just know she would. What do you say to that?”

“Mr. Presley, I don’t know you nor your cousins. And I’m sure your mama is real nice but-“

“Right, because I reckon otherwise you get out a lot these days.” You hardly expected that amount of sass coming from his earnest face and it takes you aback.

You try a different route. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you smiling and wet from something besides sweat.” It’s a sweet sentiment, if it didn’t come from a man eyeing you up like he has been these past five minutes.

“I don’t know about her birthday,” you give in a little, “my parents always like to be around for it and she likes them to be.”

“Of course, of course” he nods. “And she doesn’t know me.”

“No she doesn’t.” It kills you to turn this down but you aren’t one to go do things your child isn’t interested in in her name.

“Tell her about the swimmin’ hole, then” he says all easy and confident as he straightens himself up from the counter and chugs the lemonade down, “and I’ll be back day after tomorrow with an extra valve so this don’t happen again. No need for it going off every time the rice fields get some rain.”

You’re clutching your glass to your chest and not even the icy chill against your sticky breast can make your heart stop thumping. “You’ve gotta come back?”

“I suppose I could ask Marvin to come instead.” He shrugs a tad too nonchalant, and looks away from you as he maneuvers around you to place his glass in the sink like the good, house tamed boy that he is. Except you’re very afraid you’ve miscalculated and welcomed a wolf in when you thought you were entertaining a lamb.

“How do you know about Marvin?” You demand.

“I work with him?” He replies hesitantly, brows and lips drawn up and eyes glittering with concern at your tone.

“No, no” you smack him lightly on the bicep and realize your mistake when he breaks out into a dimpled smile, “I meant why did you smirk when you said that he could come instead of you?”

“You’d rather your landlord come by and see your still in the back?” He’s cocky now, a hip jutted out against the cabinets.

“How the hell did you notice that?” You cried out, half laughing, half outraged, “You weren’t back in that bedroom longer than ten minutes.”

“I’s just curious what type of moonshine you were makin’.” He mutters, smirk barely wavering. “I’d never judge nobody for how they make ends meet.”

“Alright, you can come back.”

“Marvin talks about you.” He tosses this piece of information out there real cooly. You nearly get whiplash from how fast he changes direction, “Told me you’re a marvelous woman who takes care of the whole block but won’t let no one take care of her.”

You aren’t sure you’re comforted by the fact his tender smile is still in place. But you’re glad that he doesn’t seem to taste an awkward moment when it smacks him in the face. You find you like talking with him about these long neglected subjects.

“Marvin’s alright.” You concede. “He helps me out plenty. And now there’s you. And I thank you for fixing my fans.”

To prove your point turn from him and rest your elbows on the countertop, leaning to push your face up to the blast of the little pedestal fan, letting your hair fly wildly around you.

Somewhere behind you can hear him chuckle. It sounds alarmingly close. “It’s made my day.” You say, voice distorted by the force of the whirring blades.

That’s when you feel him drape himself over you, his chest a centimeter away from your sticky back and an elegant hand on each side of yours against the counter. His voice warbles just as funny thanks to the fan when he says: “Mrs. Crawford, I’m gonna get you a Chrysler air cooling system, just you wait and see.”

Presumably he’s draped himself over the length of you to get in the direct line of the fan’s breeze, but you doubt there’s any other man at Crown Electric who’d dare act on that impulse as he has.

“Oh are ya now?” You don’t even have to try to sound incredulous. You are incredulous he’d dare do this, that he’d read you so well to know you’re starving for a little closeness in this soggy kitchen. “Well, that’s real sweet of you, Elvis. How on earth are you gonna manage that?”

Why he, a stranger, would buy you such a thing is left unasked. Again, it feels domestic and you want to hold onto that fuzzy feeling for a moment longer. Also, you’re desperately trying to keep still, one tiny shift or move and you’ll brush up against some part of him, and at this point you’re not sure there’s an inch of this man that’s benign. Playing along seems safer than trying to disentangle.

His head dips down and the strands of his hair tickle the tips of your ear as his voice drops low:

“I’m gonna make a lotta money, mama.”

“Oh? Is there any money left in Memphis?”

He giggles then, and he never sounded more boyish than when he did that, his voice bouncing off the tinny fan. “Dunno how I’ll manage but it will involve singin” he takes one hand from the countertop and pats your hip familiarly, and right then any bit of deniability on your part goes out the window because you don’t correct him for it.

“‘Cause we’re so short in singers in Memphis?” You tease instead, wishing you sounded less interested. Less gasping.

“Yeaaaaaah baaaaaaaaby” he hollers above you into the fan, laughing again as it spooks you and you jerk back, right into the lanky breadth of him.

There’s a brief wrestling match after that involving you trying to get away from his lithe limbs as fast as you can and him trying to keep you from toppling over by wrapping his lean arms around your shoulders.

That stills you.

No one’s rested their chin atop your head in nearly a decade, and you could sob in frustration that it’s that little motion of his that makes you hungry and angry all at once.

You coulda had this. You had it for one good year. You could have it again if the whole block wouldn’t gape at the fact you were robbing the damn cradle.

Young Mr. Presley seems to have a taste for housewives pushing towards thirty and you aren't too proud to deny you’ve suddenly grown an attraction for sweet boys who just wanna make life sweeter. You two could write a sweet fiction, however brief.

“I wanna see you happy,” he mutters soft in your ear, “tell me you’ll let me come around again.”

“I’ll tell you what, Elvis,” you place your hands atop his forearms, leaning back, “you come around, meet my June, fix that washer business and I’ll feed ya a good meal while you tell her ‘bout that watering hole.”

“Really?” He’s beaming and you crane your neck back further so you can see it clearly. It’s a sight to be admired. “Day after tomorrow, that’ll work?”

“Yeah it’ll do.” His unabashed joy gives you the upper hand for a moment and you do the safe thing, pulling away and giving him a once over. “Tell me, does that nice mama of yours know you go round putting moves on widows?”

He has the audacity to blush at that, looking down at the floor, abashed for the first time since this shameless encounter. “She worries they’ll be the ones putting the moves on me.” And he rolls his eyes as if that sensible woman were delusional.

“Can’t imagine why.” You say dryly. “Now, you scoot, I’ve got mending to do.”

He wakes up at that, grabbing his tool kit and ducking his head not to hit the low ceiling as he makes his way to the front door. You trail after him enjoying the view of something so virile and alive in your house. Since when have men’s waists been so pretty?

“So, see you day after tomorrow?” He looks more vulnerable outside, not so sultry in the glow of blazing sunlight, and the anticipation of somebody wanting to see you puts a pep in your tone, brightens your face -you can feel it, and see it mirrored in his.

“Yeah,” you lean against the frame, “and after that…”

“Yeah?”

You let him fidget, “after that you’ll show me how you plan on getting me that A.C. Unit.”

He snaps his fingers and points at you, “I’ll bring my guitar then.”

“Oh yes, you’d better.”

He’s halfway back to his truck when he spins around and takes a few steps back towards you, “Say, d’you play anything?”

It’s been awhile and you’re rusty but you reckon you’re about to begin indulging in many long abandoned pastimes so you tell him: “Harmonica.”

“Ah,” he sways back on his feet, going back to his truck only to turn, one foot on the runner boards, looking at you admiringly. “You’ve got the lips for it.”

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog @aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo

#elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis imagine #elvis #elvis smut #baby elvis #army elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presely smut

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iamthat-iam · 8 months

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i just had a lil epiphany and i wanted to check with you if correct. ^_^

so i technically don't have to do anything to detach from the ego since the ego isn't real at all? its just that I have to disbelieve and stop taking it to the actual me when the actual me is self. and me disbelieving in something isn't an action, it's a decision "i" make.

because here's the thing. my ego spends hours on Tumblr searching for ways to get her desires. even like searching ways to detach from the ego. she's doing something to get rid of "herself". she trying to find methods to do. but that doesn't make sense. because "i" am just identifying with my ego. all i have to do is to let it go. i can´t let go of the ego THROUGH the ego. if i find myself DOING something to realise self or to be self, that just doesn't add up. because the ego is the DOER self is the OBSERVER. so the moment I actively DO SOMETHING it's just me identifying with the ego. self has ALWAYS been there. it's just that "i" took these illusions to be literal thus, falsely believing in them.

i think now i understand what ada and yall meant to let go of the ego. it's not an "action" it's a mental decision. because once ΅i" choose to TRULY let go. i wouldn't be bothered by the ego again. it's only the attachment to the ego that bothers me so much. even after letting go of the ego, if i still find myself being bothered by it. that means i truly haven't let go yet and "i" still take her to be me. i think that's also the same thing in law of assumption about letting the old story go. it's the mental decision to just stop identifying with it. then it doesn't exist anymore.

so in conclusion all there is to be done is to just dismiss the ego. whenever a thought about her or her life pops up, i just observe it without any identification. i let the ego do whatever she has to do throughout the day, but i maintain the knowing that the ego is not me.

also just realised all of this is like a rpg game. (role-playing game). the ego is the character im playing, but ofc i always complete her daily tasks and everything as a player who's playing her. but throughout the game, i'm just watching her, observing her. never during any part of the story do i say that she is me. and if i don't like her, i am free to choose another character to play. basically another ego. or even just customise the one im playing right now. anything. basically the point is that they are all unreal, and all below me. all of them are created by me. thus they are NOT me. the ego is a form of consciousness, a creation thus it is NOT me.

feel free to let me know if im wrong on any part. but other than that thanks for your blog. you are one of my all time favourites out there.

All of that is right :)

#understanding

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renlyslittlerose · 9 months

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Last week was the one year anniversary of me posting my first obikin fic, and over the last year being a part of the fandom has brought me so much joy and happiness and enthusiasm once again. Some of you knew me before 2019 and were aware that I was working on my Masters in the Classics, which included a massive thesis. While working on the thesis I was also working part-time at the museum, as well as battling a few chronic illnesses - some of which still affect me today - all of which drained me physically and emotionally. When I had finished my thesis and graduated from the program I was well and truly burnt out.

2020 was rough for everyone, and I was contented to just exist without doing much of anything that could be seen as creatively productive. But then 2020 came and passed and I thought maybe I should get back on the saddle, and started working on my own original story. I fell off of social media, didn’t interact in fandom, and tried to grind out a story that wasn’t working like I had hoped it would. 2021 and I still wasn’t ‘feeling it’; I had gone from writing about 1-2k words a day to 500 words a week - if I was lucky. A part of me wondered if I was tapped out for good, that I didn’t have it in me anymore, and that my thesis was my last creative outlet - my last hooray. I know it sounds a bit dramatic, but when you go from creating almost every day since you were sixteen years old, to suddenly believe that the well has run dry is terrifying. Maybe I was done for good - maybe I wouldn’t create something I was proud of.

And then Kenobi came out. I was a massive prequels fan since I was nine years old and the Phantom Menace came out, and an even bigger Darth Vader fan, but I had never interacted with the fandom in any meaningful way. I was contented to just watch the films and the shows and leave it at that. But as I was watching I had the epiphany that Obi-Wan and Anakin were actually ~roommates all along. I started reading obikin fic, came back on tumblr to see what sort of fandom there was, and suddenly found myself with ideas again, and a desire to create something.

So I wrote my first fic ‘Sacred to the Gods’ based off of a thesis I wrote during my undergrad about the psychology of a Greek demigod. It took me about a week to write, but in that time I had a lot of fun - the words started to come more easily, the vibes were there, and the passion was slowly but surely returning. One fic turned into another, and then another, and suddenly I had written two multi-chaptered long-form fics, some shorter multi-chaptered ones, and a bunch of oneshots, all about our favourite duo.

And in the that span of time, not only was I able to rediscover my passion for writing and feel inspired again, but I met so many amazing, incredible, kind, passionate, creative people who welcomed me with open arms. I was used to fandom being sort of a gate-keepy thing, where if you were the new kid in town it would take you a while to work your way into any circles. But it didn’t happen with this fandom. I went up to a few people, held out my macaroni art, and was overjoyed to see them take it and immediately put it up on their fridge.

There are a lot of people I want to thank, and I should thank, from those who read my stuff, those who send me asks on tumblr, those who bookmark and kudos and comment, and those who followed me, but there isn’t any space to do all that. So I hope that a general ‘THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU’ will suffice. Thank you for giving me my passion back, thank you for supporting me, thank you for being an awesome community that has it’s issues, but still cares deeply about the art they’re creating, and who care about fostering a community.

However, there are a few people I would specifically like to address, because I don’t think this post would be complete without you. I’ll put it behind a cut because this post is already cumbersome:

@bi-wan || My beloved! You were the first person to follow me on tumblr after reading one of my fanfictions, and the first to reach out to me to be my friend. Thank you for reaching your hand out to me and dragging me into the fold. Because of you I’ve made so many good friends who I treasure dearly - including you. 🥰

@ragnarlothcat || I feel like you and Cam are a packaged deal, and so I thank you for being curious about me and checking out my work, and for allowing me to occupy both you and Cam’s comfy little raccoon haven. You’re so supportive, and your work was some of the first I read in the fandom which truly secured my desire to be a part of it. Thank you 💖

@intermundia || I’ve told you this before, but you were the first person I approached in the fandom when I decided I wanted to dip my toes into the experience, and your warmth and welcoming nature secured my desires to be a part of this group. The fact that you support my stories and are so passionate about it really fuels my desires to keep creating (as well as feeding my ego). Thank you for being such a good presence in the fandom.👑

@theseptemberist || I have a feeling that Will told you about me, and I am so glad that he did because we’ve struck up such a friendship that I can’t see myself without. Our chats on discord over the past few months have been wonderful in so many ways that are too innumerous to say here. Thank you for sharing your heart, and for being so kind and empathetic. And thank you for sharing your encyclopedic knowledge of fandom tea ☕

@unspuncreature || Just like Rag and Cam come as a team, you and Cal (and Wren, even though I’ve never spoken to her but feel like I know her) are the trio that delight and entertain. Thank you for your brilliant art and creativity, thank you for letting me bounce all my ideas off of you, and thank you for collaborating with me. You’re brilliant 💗

@kyberkenobi || Beyond the fact that your filthy brain inspires me and delights me, and the fact that you’re willing to goed me on when I come up with something that’s delightfully nasty, your maturity when it comes to fandom is refreshing. At the threat of sounding like a proud grandma, you’re still so young and yet you’ve got a lot of shit figured out - most importantly, that fandom is supposed to be for fun and write what you want to write. Can’t wait for us to finally collaborate one of these days 💕

@dininginspace || What can I say? You’re a delight, you’re incredibly funny, you’re kind and understanding, and you’re the best cheerleader a loser like me could ask for. The fact that you jumped on the Buffy bandwagon when I drove by on it secures you as one of my favourite people. Thank you so much for your early and continued support 🧛‍♂️

@nuandia || Thank you for chatting with me all the time; keep up your writing, it’s brilliant and worth it, even if you doubt it sometimes. 💖

@grapenehifics || I had just finished watching MASH when you commented on Moonlight Serenade. The noise I made when I saw your username, followed by the continued joy I get whenever I see you on my dash or in my inbox, or when I see you’ve posted something new for the world to enjoy. 🧡

@palfriendpatine66 || You’re a delight. You’ve got things figured out, and how you can write so much with the life you’ve got is incredible. Keep going - you’re a gem. 💎

@binaryeclipse || Love chatting with you on discord, and being able to throw out random things about Canada into the chat that doesn’t need explaining - you just get it. Especially when it comes to Alberta politics. It doesn’t always feel like a safe space out there when you’re an Albertan who loves her province but also hates so many things about it, but you make me feel as if I can be a contradictory mess and still feel as if I belong in Canada. Your muse will come back soon, I trust in this ✨

@treescape || Your work is sublime and an inspiration. I read your fics first when I went hunting for things to read, and was immediately captivated. When you followed me back and weren’t at all weirded out by me bounding over to you like an excitable golden retriever, I was very grateful - I am very grateful. Can’t wait to see what you create next. 💛

@starsdies || Thank you for listening to me; thank you for being so inspiring; thank you for helping with community events and exchanges. And thank you for streaming The Last of Us for me because I’m too cheap to buy HBO Max. 🙏

@tessiete || You fact-checked the details I put into Moonlight and all I can say is THANK YOU. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting too lost in the details, but its people like you who google that shit that makes me feel good about my obsessions. 🌸

#personal #obikin #thank you everyone #I know this is messy and gushy and gross but whatever #Im sick with a cold so I get to be mushy gushy

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lotusmi · 1 year

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asks closed + break ☕

“As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” - Neville Goddard

Hi, everyone, how are you? Well, I wanted to come here so that we can talk a little, how are you doing? ♡

I am not sure if this is what I want, but I am sure this is what I need right now, which is, really take a real break. As most of you know, I really never left Tumblr completely. I was always here, and even when I closed asks, I would reply to my dms and all of that. The thing is, as you know, I started my first break and I now see how I needed it. I always thought I should post as much as I could, reply all the asks and more.. And Tumblr was in my mind all day, always wanting to resolve things or come with new ideas, I actually let myself aside just to be here and this is not healthy. I have no doubts that being here was something way more important than just reply asks. My goal was always help, this blog was a dream to be honest. This was indeed, my soul purpose and what I did here I did with heart. It was something that I desired for so long. This blog made my life have meaning, I learned not only about the law, but I made friends, I learned about others cultures, I cried with you, laughed with you. I can't even describe how my heart felt warm with every message, every success, everything. In this little site we talked about the great mystery of creation, about love, about a lot of wonderful, marvelous things. I always felt that if I was off, I would lost something amazing.

In one day I was a little girl who just felt lost in this earth, I used to feel like I was not meant to be here. With time I learned all about consciousness, creation, existence, love, awareness, more. And in this blog I found a place where I could feel like belonging to. I wanted this place to be a place where you could go to feel free, loved. To remember you that nothing is lost, all you can want is here. That it is possible to live a life with meaning, that everything is possible, that dwelling in Self and healing ourselves is important, that existence is beautiful, that death is not the end isn't that just so wonderful?

Okay, but I am trying just to say that I really need this time with myself, I just found out that I love myself again, that I can love myself, that Imagination is really my heaven, and I feel like my next journey is within myself, I want to learn more, explore more, understand more, I want to really dwell in all I learned to another level. And I need to be out of here to do that, so that's why I closed my inbox.

All you need to know is already within you, you don't need to seek more. If you want the comfort of my words, you can check my masterlist and my old asks too. Most of my posts are also in @lotusandsamba and the reblogs in @reblogsfromlotus. If i have any kind of epiphany I will come to share. I still am wondering if I should let or not the asks opened if since maybe some of you will want to send success or something? I will be manifesting your success, ok?!

Well, that's it. May the love be the way, may you love your Imagination and yourself. I hope you all be alright, I love all of you that were here with me and all my precious mutuals. I am sure that when we talk we will share a lot of success! Have a nice day, I love you!

#lotusmi #lotus's thoughts

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decadentworld · 1 year

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The Baptism.

Billy’s journey to changing his last name, in a last attempt to fully disassociate himself from Neil, takes him to a place he’d never have expected.

※ Billy Hargrove-centric. Side Billy Hargrove/Male Reader.

※ 3,106 words

※ Personal work (not request).

※ Trigger warnings: Child physical, verbal, and emotional abuse. Gaslighting. This might be very triggering for some people.

※ Content & warnings: Original character. Hurt/Comfort. Billy cries a lot. Character death. Non-graphic mentions of smut at the end. Neil is in jail because I said so but it’s not mentioned.

※ Work available only on Tumblr and under ArchiveOfOurOwn pseud of the same name (DecadentWorld). Do not repost, edit, or redistribute. Do not use for TikTok videos.

Billy’s always wanted to do change his last name. Initially, he wanted his mom’s last name, but after everything that’s happened and the growth he’s had, he finally understood that, while his mom might have showed him some kindness, she still abandoned him. Left him to rot in that cemetery he had to call house, with the man who murdered him on the inside. She did; Billy did not jump to conclusions. He did his detective homework and found her having already formed another family. So, in that same vein, he does not want to associate himself with her anymore. It hurts to have this notion of his challenged, but it’s getting better with time.

Billy thinks. Paces, in his mind. Scratches at his head, thinking what else there could be, where he could get a new last name from.

At your now shared house, his newfound group of friends (friends!) try to give him some help. Mostly.

“What about your grandpa’s last name?”, asks the puppy of a metalhead he has as a friend.

“Dumbass. That’s ma’s last name, too.”

“Oh. Right.”

The exasperated babysitter chimes in. “Can any of your relatives reclaim you?”

“No living relatives that I know of, Harrington. Plus, I’m already legal. What’s the use?”

“You can still be adopted if you’re over eighteen. Maybe Susan could adopt you…? She has the grounds for it, now.” The badass columnist has a point. But.

But.

Billy looks uneasy. “M-Maybe not.”

There’s a bit of rueful tension after this. You, his anchor, hold his hand and rub circles on it with your thumb.

Billy’s newfound emotional support lesbian chimes in with a sly smile, and she’s joking, but. “Maybe you could take his last name, hm?” Points at you. Wiggles her eyebrows.

Billy blushes so darkly he has to hide in your chest. But quickly deflates. Right. It’s not allowed.

Maybe he cries a little bit over it at night.

And one day, the epiphany.

His littlest superheroine touches his cheek again, like he always allows her to, ever since that 4th of July.

“You have a memory right here. On the tip of your tongue. Wants to come out.”

“Which of all, mousey?”

Her eyes quickly flit over left and right. “A woman. Is old. Has kind eyes.”

Billy feels something rattle at his chest. “What do you mean?”

“She is good to you. Touches you like I am. Makes it better. But is so… ‘ephemeral’.”

Billy doesn’t realize he’s tearing up. Doesn’t even ask the girl where she learnt that big person word. “Wh-What— What does she look like?”

“Red hair, but it’s… She dyed it. Her teeth are all crooked. Her right eye is—”

“White.” Billy can’t speak. “C-Cataract.”

How could he forget? How could he have forgotten?

Granny Maude.

Billy saw her exactly one time in his life, but he’s not sure why he might have forgotten about her even then, for all the impact that she had in his young life.

Billy’s mind fills in the blanks. A little Billy running away from home, limping all the way across the empty beach at night, right after Neil laid into him with steel-toed boots included. When he can’t run anymore, he still runs a little more, just so that he can collapse on the doorstep of a random house and bang his fists on the door.

That’s the only time in his life when Billy asks for: “Help.”

He sees her so clearly right now. He recalls almost being thrown off by her appearance at first, but quickly pushing this aside when she takes him into her little secluded house, sits him on her rickety old individual sofa, asks him if he’s alright, gives him water, aspirin, treats him so nicely that he cries. Ruefully tells him he looks like someone she knows. Asks his full name so that she can call the police.

“Hargrove?” It’s not a common last name. The old lady has a foreboding at the back of her mind. Quickly puts her hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Sonny, what is your father called?”

Little Billy tells her. It can’t be possible. The septuagenarian runs to the phone but the banging on the door stops her.

“Maude, open up! I know he’s in here!” The booming voice of the monster roars.

The woman continues to the phone, dials the emergency line, starts to rely the message but the quick turning of a key in a keyhole makes the phone slip off her hands and shatter on the floor from the impact.

The big bad barges in and rips the base of the rotary phone off the wall for good measure.

“You never told me you had a son! I have a grandson?!”, she screams at him with all the vigour a 74-year-old can manage.

“Senile bitch. This doesn’t concern you.” The villain’s boots shake the foundation of the house as he approaches his son. He grabs him by the hair. “I fucking hate you right now. I do not want to hear a single word from you—”

“How can you treat your own son like that—”

“Shut up! Cops are on their way and not for me. Maybe they’ll finally commit you.” He turns to the boy. “Go to the fucking car. Get in and don’t let a single person see you. If anyone does, I’ll fucking kill you.”

It’s a bit of a blur after that. From what the therapist told him, it’s normal that his mind might have supressed some memories, especially if they had to do with Neil’s abuse.

Wait. The words. He remembers— He keeps hearing them—

“She doesn’t exist, William. She’s not fucking real. Forget that you ever thought up someone like that. She’s not real.”

He understands. Neil forced him to forget she ever existed.

And as always, with everything Neil said, Billy obeyed.

Billy finds himself hysterical and screaming with how much he’s crying after resurfacing from this memory. Jonathan, Will, Joyce, and Jim are now on the sides of him, trying to calm him down without understanding much of what’s going on.

“H-He made me forget her. He m-made me think she n-never existed. But she’s real. She’s real.”

She’s real. Or was.

Deep digging doesn’t do much this time. Any leads on who Maude Hargrove is or might have been are hard to follow. Which is when it occurs to them to hire Murray, see if he has any knowledge on genealogical tree tracking.

And he does. He’s an expert, actually.

“Largo al factotum, I said.” And with that sentence, he closes the case.

Maude Rathbone.

It turns out she never took her husband’s last name. Billy commends her for it, knows how unusual and frowned upon that must have been in her era.

Maude Rathbone passed away at the age of 77 in 1981, when Billy was about to turn 14, about four years after that fateful night. She died not in the comfort of her cozy old home or in a caring nursing facility, but in a psychiatric hospital. Neil did end up committing her that night. Dialed the charm up and told the police officers he was so worried for his mother, that he was afraid she was turning senile, that she had called him into her home because she was seeing a boy that just wasn’t there. No one even bothered to check Neil’s car, within which a frail little boy was fearing for his life.

Billy learns a new word in therapy the next day: ‘Gaslight’.

Murray helps them more. The next few days you, Billy, and Hopper gear up and go to the psychiatric facility all the way in California to get more answers.

Everyone there believed Neil that time. Who wouldn’t have? A charming middle-aged man versus an old woman they found undesirable because they thought cataracts and crooked missing teeth and cheap red dye was a sign of poverty, of carelessness, of mental illness. All things society is not ready to tolerate. The folks in charge at the psychiatric are nonchalant as they imply all this when the three ask for a Maude Rathbone, saying she wrote letters to a boy that didn’t exist, that they assured her the boy received if only to palliate the outbursts of a senile elder in her last days. Only, those letters never left the facility.

But when Billy soon-to-be-ex-Hargrove announces himself as that very boy, the people in charge can’t believe it.

“Of course I’m fucking real, you fucking assholes! ‘You never thought to look me up or anything?!”

Hopper lets him have this. He all but demanded to be brought in with you and Billy if there needed to be some more convincing on his behalf, but he figures it’s not necessary, in the end.

Obviously, they allow him to take all those letters and the rest of her trinkets with them. It’s the least they can do.

Later in the evening, at the hotel, you comfort Billy, who’s already started to cry as he reads the first letter.

Dear Billy,

You are real and I am real. Whatever my son has told you, because I know he has, is untrue. That man is a real piece of work and never told me about you. War changed him, but that’s not an excuse for him, because he walked right into it all on his own. He would get violent with me, cut all contact with me because I was spot on in telling him he was spiraling. Reminds me of Mortimer, but the piece of shit died before he was even born, so I had quite a few years of peace before all that.

Billy laughs softly between his tears and lays his head on your shoulder. Mortimer Hargrove was her husband, Neil’s father. So his grandfather was also shitty, but he felt glad Maude could lay into him and say things like they were.

Neil got paranoid after some time. I knew he thought I was going to report him to the police. I wouldn’t have. I didn’t have anyone. No one would have believed me. So of course I believed you. He hurt you badly, his own son. I think it’s fate that you knocked on my door last night. I still don’t know if it was completely out of the blue, or if you felt like I would be welcoming enough, and for that, you are very brave.

Tears drip constantly on the yellowed sheet of paper. Billy was about to enter a void of self-deprecation, but the next few lines stop him in his tracks and pull another laugh out of him, because it’s like she was reading his mind at the moment she wrote the letter.

Now, don’t you dare think any of this is your fault, sonny. I know your kind, because I was it. I know you’re probably thinking I got put in this place because of you. Stop it. None of this could have been avoided. I would’ve surely ended up in a place like this sooner or later.

Billy disagrees. The way she expresses herself in these letters is so clear; she was extremely lucid for a 74-year-old at that moment.

Billy’s heart breaks as he keeps reading the last few lines.

Please, find me. Come live with me. We can run away from him together. I could prove to them that you’re real, and they’d give me the grounds for adoption. I know there’s no saving that monster.

I love you, sonny. I will find you somehow.

Gammy Maude

Billy breaks down in your arms. “Sh-She only knew m-me for like ten minutes and she still lov-ved me.” He starts hyperventilating. “She f-found me. She found me, in th-the end!”

It takes well over half an hour before Billy’s composed enough to keep reading the rest of the letters. His heart breaks a little more with each one.

At first, they end with:

Hope to see you soon. Love you.

But as he keeps going, it gradually turns into:

Neil’s not letting you see these, is he? Please write back.

And then, into:

Are you real? Lord, give me a sign that my sonny is real.

Fuck Neil. Fuck the police. Fuck the psychiatric handlers. Fuck society. Fuck everyone who ever saw this little old woman and wholeheartedly believed she could be a menace. Billy cries for her. Mourns her, because Lord knows no one ever did.

For the night, Billy forgets that this all started because he wanted to change his last name. Even if he can’t, in the end, he’ll content himself with this.

But he can!

“Look, she’s a direct relative. Blood-related relative. They have to allow you. It’s basically your God-given right. And if for whatever reason they wanna fight it, then all these letters of hers? They’ll be as good of an evidence as there can be. Look at the writing. The exact same as all the legal files on her name. And the signature! God, I love your grandma. She made this so easy.” Murray is almost histrionic as he shoves sheets upon sheets of paper on the table.

Billy can’t help but agree. Gammy Maude was a genius. She somehow had the foresight to add her signature onto the letters, like she knew they could be used as evidence someday.

Everything is arranged that same day.

Billy starts crying before Hopper even hands him his new identification card.

“Kid, you haven’t even seen it yet. Save the tears for after.” Another one of Hopper’s hidden skills: be persuasive enough to accelerate the ID card making process, photo-taking included. So much so that the shiny new plastic is in Hopper’s hand before the day even ends.

“C-Can’t help it, chief. This is my new life we’re talking about.”

Hopper just gives him a gruff chuckle and puts a hand on his shoulder. Billy takes the card and pointedly doesn’t look at it until he goes to stand next to you, near the stairway outside. There are curiously-colored flags in this part of California. They make Billy feel even more accepted and at home.

“Come on,” you gently encourage him. “Look at it.”

He does. The tears can’t stop.

You hold him through it, and even as his eyes get so blurry from the tears that he can’t possibly read what’s printed in the plastic card anymore, he still looks at it like his eyes are pulled to it.

That’s how everyone’s going to call him from now on.

Billy Rathbone.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Billy doesn’t answer you, and you realize that he didn’t even take in your question. He cries, so hard that you worry for him, but he’s smiling so widely at the same time, and that dissipates any doubts you might have.

“You did it, honey.”

“N-No. We did it. A-All of us.”

You hoist Billy up and spin him around, rejoicing in his screaming laughter.

Back in Hawkins, things gradually change for the better.

Steve challenges him for a basketball match, wanting a redo of their previous rivalry without the bitterness.

“Come on, Rathbone. You stomped on my crown twice. Was King of Highschool and Keg as well. Not gonna let you be King of Basketball, too.”

God. Steve is so obvious with this attempt, even trying to channel his King Steve persona into his words, but Billy’s smiling so much he temporarily forgets he should respond with anything at least vaguely antagonistic.

Steve smiles shyly. “Creamed your pants for a second there?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable. Bring it on!”

Robin all but drags him to a big gathering with the party. “Hey! You guys remember Billy Rathbone?!”

Robin’s even more obvious than Steve, emphasizing his last name so overtly Billy’s almost worried for a second of how everyone’s going to react. Eddie and Steve almost chide her.

No need for that. The kids look at him in wonder. El gives him the biggest grin ever. Lucas raises his eyebrows amusedly. Dustin gives him the toothiest toothless smile. Erica only looks smug for once in her life. Will has the softest smile on his face. Mike can’t keep his self imposed grimace of someone who’s sucking on a lemon for long enough because it’s clear he’s trying not to smile.

And Max?

From her sitting position on her wheelchair, she extends her fully healed right arm. “Let me see it.”

“Let her see it! Yeah!” Robin is so enthusiastic about Billy showing Max his new ID that she’s almost jumping in place.

Max takes a good look at the shiny new plastic. Then slowly looks up at him.

Billy doesn’t know what to make of her expression and the sepulchral silence that follows before she speaks.

“Of course you had to go and call yourself Rat Bone.”

Everyone laughs. Billy does, too. He doesn’t know why he was worried.

Wait. He’s tearing up a little bit as well.

Max downright forces him to hug her.

“Don’t you dare say anything, shitbird. What kinda name is May Field? Sounds like… uh…”

“Yeah, yeah. Give yourself an aneurysm thinking of something, will you.” They separate. “Just tell me everything after it.”

And he does. He tells them about Gammy.

“Hey,” you say to Billy, him so comfortable deep in the bedsheets after you’re done laying all your love on him. “If… no, when we’re able to marry,” and he of course has to blush to the tips of his ears, even after you’ve literally just finished making love, “…you’re not gonna take my last name, right?”

Billy tears up. “Please, d-don’t make me—”

“Of course I won’t. That was a threat.” You smile at him while you make him this oh-so-scary threat. He smiles as well. “You better not. ‘Billy Rathbone’ just sounds too good to change.”

There’s always hope.

Billy Rathbone wears a different necklace nowadays. Whereas he used to have a Virgin Mary one, which belonged to his egg donor, he now has one in the format of a locket. There is a photograph inside, the only one Murray could find. But it’s perfect.

Of course, he did not crop the original photograph. He put it through the photocopier once, twice, three times before it was the perfect size.

In this locket, he keeps a photocopied picture of Maude Rathbone, smiling with her gorgeous missing and blackened crooked teeth, sporting a lovely frizzy hairdo that’s just the perfect hue of vintage red, looking at the camera with one ethereal cataractous eye.

#stranger things x male reader #billy hargrove x male reader #angst #fanfic #I’m thinking I could turn Rebirth into a series and put this work in it.

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toyourlovemp3 · 5 months

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jigsquad + adam ranked based on how much they'd love lana del rey

1. Hoffman. Obsessive lana stan. Contributes to the #lizzy grant #coquette #female manipulator tags on tumblr daily. Thinks playing dangerous was literally written for him.

2. Adam. Loooves lana and (if we're in an apprentice au) listens to her songs all the time while working on traps. Relates deeply to wanting to fuck that old man.

3. Amanda. Relates very personally to her songs as a young woman who has faced mental health issues and addiction, imo. Sings Ride with Adam at the top of her lungs while working on traps.

4. Lawrence Gordon. Wouldn't *quite* get her appeal at first. Listens to Blue Jeans and has an epiphany. Mostly casual enjoyer.

5. John Kramer. "This young lady seems troubled, I think she would benefit from playing a game with us". Absolutely doesn't get the appeal.

#sawposting #jigsquad #mark hoffman #adam faulkner stanheight #amanda young #lawrence gordon #john kramer #lana del rey

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hkblack · 1 year

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On Crowley and Sweeney Todd

I made a joke about writing a dissertation in a Discord Server, so here’s almost 3k words on why it's so significant that Neil specifically calls out the song Epiphany, and vaguely hints at the "original" Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett. As someone who has worked on Sweeney in different capacities from both high school nerd to a professional context--this gets real fascinating.

I really break down the plot of both the “original” Sweeney Todd story and the Sondheim musical, because I know not everyone was an obsessed theater nerd as a teenager, and I want to make sure you all get the important bits of this other story that may or may not have been destroyed by a certain movie that we will not discuss. I’d apologize for making a long post, but welcome to Tumblr, twitter folks, let’s DO THIS.

Let's start with context.

The String of Pearls [Featuring SWEENEY TODD THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET] was a Penny Dreadful story from the 1850s written by ?? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (there's some guesses, but no one is 100% sure)

In it, Sweeney is a barber--what's important to note is that historically this is the time of the barber-surgeon. Victorian London was all about that one stop shop sort of life. Got a weird abscess you need checked out and also want a bit of a shave? Go to your local barber surgeon! He's got sharp things, makes sense to me! He and his neighbor, Mrs. Lovett, seem to run fully independent shops. She's got a thriving meat pie business; he's got a thriving barber business.

Cool.

The story itself is actually of a young sailor who has arrived at the city with a pearl necklace given to him by his mate who was all, "When next you go to London, give this to my lady love for me." Said mate is presumed dead at sea, because no one has heard from him for like a year. Johanna, the lady love, knows this sailor is coming--but he and the pearl necklace disappear before she sees him. She does some investigating, starts thinking there's something fishy going on with these Sweeney and Lovett characters and digs deeper. Surprise--human meat pies! Turns out her lover has been kept captive by Todd and Lovett in the crypts and tunnels that connect their shops and was forced to make pies. Bad guys get locked up (hung), good guys get married. And you, young Victorian Lad, are meeting with your mates after a day of work going "DID YOU CATCH LAST NIGHT’S GAME OF THRONES PENNY DREADFUL?"

This, you'll note, is vastly different from Sondheim's Sweeney Todd.

In Sondheim, Benjamin Barker is married to Lucy, and they've just had a bouncing bundle of joy, Johanna. The powerful Judge Turpin wants Lucy, but she's not interested, and Barker keeps going "back off my wife, bro" So Turpin uses his power, and gets Barker shipped to mfing Australia, and then does exactly what you'd expect a man in power do to vulnerable Victorian woman. Distraught, Lucy takes lye. Here's a moment of goodness for Turpin. He takes in Johanna, recognizing his own culpability here. Lucy meanwhile is left to live on the streets, half mad from brain damage. Years pass. Barker comes back with the alias of Sweeney Todd, set on, finding his wife and daughter, and possibly getting revenge on one person, and one person only.

Let's jump to Lovett. In Sondheim you have to really pay attention to the subtext to get her story. She's a widow. She knew Todd before he was shipped off. She desired Todd no differently than Turpin desired Lucy.While Turpin gets Johanna, Lovett gets Todd's old house. Her husband is dead (who knows how), and she's making do with her pie shop. When Todd walks in her door she recognizes him almost immediately. She tells him, sort of, that his wife is dead (at least when Todd goes: she's dead? she never corrects him). She tells him Turpin has his daughter. He wonders what to do, and Lovett comes up with a plan. The plot is this: take over the upstairs and turn it back into a barbershop, get a following with this new Sweeney Todd name, become the best barber in town, lure the judge in, murder the judge. Prosper! It's rough around the edges, but the man has just found out his wife is dead and his daughter has been raised by a predator. Cut him some slack.

They go out and Todd gets into a competition with a "traveling barber" who also is a dentist (barber-surgeon, remember?). Todd wins and tells everyone where to find him. This includes the Judge's lackey, the Beadle. Clever marketing, man, it'll kill ya.

And it almost does! Said traveling barber also recognizes Todd and goes to confront him at the shop. Typical blackmail shit. Angry that his plan may not be able to work, and it'll be because of this one person, Todd lashes out. For a show with a high body count, the murder of Pierelli is probably in the top three in terms of brutality. It's just lash out and murder--because you're depressed, and your wife is dead. He hides the body quickly and is discussing with Lovett what to do when the Judge comes knocking.

Thrilled that his plan has just jumped a few steps, Todd gets him in the chair, does some schmoozing, and is really taking his time to just--savor the moment of revenge.

Now let's pause and rewind. On the ship into London at the beginning of the show, there's a bright eyed bushy tailed kid who Todd meets. This same kid sees our dear Johanna (now a teenager, who is being lusted after by her creepy Judge guardian) and falls in love. Kids these days. He and Johanna decide to run off together, but he needs help.

So of course, this kid, this optimistic fool that Todd had to deal with the entire way into London, bursts in right as Todd prepares himself to make the killing blow. The Judge hears the plot to "steal" his Johanna, thinks Todd is in on it and therefore awful, shouts and leaves.

Now Todd could, in this moment, murder the boy too, but he doesn't. He sends him out--and then we get Epiphany.

In good stagings of Sweeney Todd, Todd is depressed, morose, and kind of quiet up until Epiphany. He's unsure, he just--look there's a lot going on, okay? A lot of folks would say in the beginning you get to see bits of Barker still around and see the man struggling to be this identity he's created to hide himself and maybe, even, protect himself. He doesn't come up with his own ideas (and even after this, he lets Lovett drive a lot). He's the kind of "moving through the motions" you would expect of a man whose been sent to a labor camp in the harsh climes of Australia and has just found out his wife is dead. Epiphany is when Todd really wakes up. He snarls and rages against the world. Epiphany brings back a refrain from the very first song. Bright-eyed bushy tailed sings about there being no place like London in that "wow isn't London grand!" way and Todd responds by saying London is a black pit full of people full of shit, only the vermin of the world inhabit London. This comes back in Epiphany. Instead of being intent on revenge on one person who caused direct harm, this is where Todd snaps and decides to say "eff it everyone in this hellhole is now responsible for my suffering" Benjamin Barker stayed put in his place. He followed the rules. And Judge Turpin put his foot in Barker's face, that man essentially died, and Todd rose from his ashes. Todd says that everyone deserves to die. He starts with saying “they all deserve to die”, then says “no we all deserve”. He says, “the lives of the wicked should be made brief” and that death "for the rest of us will be a relief, we all deserve to die.”

He has this brief moment of grieving his daughter in the song before suddenly shouting "Finished!" Here he starts to really address the audience, inviting imaginary people to his barber shop to die at his hand. He says, "I will have vengeance, I will have salvation!" and starts referring to himself as "Sweeney." It's quite interesting when you listen to it or watch the incredible George Hearn perform it because he breaks again near the end to grieve his wife. There are some people who say that Todd and Barker are two different men, like split personalities or Jekyll and Hyde, as opposed to Todd being Barker’s alias and alias alone. And when you listen to the music--Sondheim isn't telling you no. This grand beautiful sweeping symphony swells under Barker's grieving moments, before getting cut by Todd shouting out. And finally at the end of Epiphany you get this absolutely transcendent and awfully dissonant moment of Barker's sweeping symphony and Todd's unhinged noise as he sings "I'm alive at last, and I'm full of joy!"

And it's awful and immediately followed by one of the funniest and most recognizable songs--Have a Little Priest. In which, again, Lovett comes up with an idea of how to deal with Pirelli's body, and any of the other bodies that Todd might want to make available.

Epiphany could just be a vent song. "I'm going to kill all those miserable assholes who did this to me," says Todd. And Lovett could, in theory, go "A'ight. So, look, this is how we get you back into good graces with the judge, we can work with this!" because she does do that part. Getting the judge to come back has nothing to do with the murder of other people. She does not have to encourage the murder for "practice."

There's a dead man in the trunk in the room. How much more practice do you need to slice a throat with a sharp object as a barber-surgeon? We're good boo.

But she does. And she starts with a little priest. And that temptation, if you must, only works because of Todd's own rage fueled venting.

So. Okay. -deep breath-

Let's go back to Crowley and why this could be his favorite moment.

We know Crowley hated the 14th century. We know Crowley took credit for many of humanity's worst hits. We know he drank after finding out about the inquisition. TV!Crowley shows us a Crowley who takes a carpenter from Galilee and shows him the world, who frowns at the execution of someone whose crime was to tell people to be nice to each other. We see him grumpily get a drink after having to deal with Caligula. We see him offended at the very thought of being aligned with Nazis.

Gaiman has said that for all that "sauntering vaguely downwards" Crowley is probably not nearly as bad as Heaven thinks, but not nearly as "good" as he'd like to say out loud. But one thing Crowley in every universe agrees on is that the phrase "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here," is pretty damn close to accurate because Hell could never be as awful and as terrible as humans are to each other. And in that, Crowley perhaps agrees with the idea of there being a hole in the world like a great black pit filled with people full of shit. So perhaps that's a reason he likes this song. The human race is pretty miserable. I’ll just gesture at the news recently and you all can find your own reasons to agree. Perhaps in Crowley’s lowest moments, when an angel refuses to fraternize with him, when he has to do a particularly nasty job, when he’s alone on earth and shouting into the void, he agrees with some of what Todd says here. Humans are awful, and the world might be a better place without them.

BUT another reason Crowley might like this song could also be it's a perfect demonstration of humans being the key to their own fallibility in temptation. "I'm going to murder everyone" could just be a thing Sweeney says and does not do, if not for Lovett coming up with a way to one up her neighbor (who, it is implied earlier, is using stray cats to fill her meat pies). And even then—Todd could say “yeah, okay, calm down crazy. We’re not…eating people. I want revenge on this man who ruined my family, cannibalism is a whole other level. Where did you even get that idea? Who are you hanging out with? Why did you get my house? Wtf?” But he doesn’t. He goes with it. He easily falls into this temptation because he is blinded by rage and the need for revenge.

I like both of those reasons. They’re pretty good reasons. I could write fanfics for days with those two reasons.

But my favorite reason that Crowley likes Epiphany is that he probably finds some kind of ironic humor in Todd saying he'll have salvation by murdering people, because that's not how salvation works, buddy--and Crowley would know.

But what is salvation then? Living in miserable suffering, for a crime you didn't commit so that maybe, just maybe, if you bear it well enough, you'll get some kind of eternal reward, singing celestial harmonies? How do celestial harmonies solve the grief of a dead wife, a daughter he'll never be able to hold, the knowledge that a man ruined his entire life and got away with it?

Because here’s the thing, for Todd at least. What if, instead of relying on some omnipresent being who never answers Her telephone to give you salvation, you make your own salvation?

In Epiphany, Todd takes the concept of salvation in his hands and says, "I recognize that Heavenly Salvation is not achieved by murder, but given that celestial harmonies are stupid, I have elected to redefine salvation with my own terms."

Now, admittedly in the end, this goes south for Todd. HOWEVER, you can argue that part of the reason it does is because he is being actively lied to. He accidentally murders his Lucy, thinking her some obnoxious beggar woman. Some of this is because she is an obnoxious beggar woman. Lovett is constantly shoo'ing her off, seeming to be nervous any time the woman is around. When Lovett goes down below their building and finds Lucy's body and realizes what Todd has done, she panics, "Quickly now, into the oven with you" she says, dragging the body to the giant oven, dispensing with the usual process of meat grinding. Todd comes down and catches her, tells her to knock it off, still not realizing who Lucy is, Lovett tries to distract him, Todd goes to move Lucy's body, and then recognizes her. He loses it. Barker comes back, you might say, sobbing. Then we get the most brutal murder--Todd pretends to forgive Lovett who is insisting she loves him, always has, even before, and she'd make a better wife than Lucy ever was. He agrees, spinning her around and dancing before throwing her into the oven. Todd then dies by the hand of a young boy, Toby--formerly Pirelli's assistant, taken in by Lovett--who figured out the secret and went (rightfully) insane at the knowledge that he'd been helping turn humans into pies (and also had been eating those pies). Young Toby slits Todd's throat as the man grieves his wife. Many productions have Todd recognize Toby's presence and intentionally let it happen.

Because how can there ever be salvation for a man who ruined the very thing he proclaimed to love? By killing Lucy, he has become as wicked as Turpin.

SO.

When Neil makes references to the original Sweeney Todd, we're talking about a story that was made for shock value. How awful that those people ate pies made of human, how fantastically delightful that we have the ability to consume mass media for one of the first times, how good that the young couple lives happily ever after. What creative little bastards humans are for coming up with this story. Crowley’s got a lot to be excited about. Something entertaining for one. But also, mass media! Mass media talking about cannibalism. Some rich dude somewhere is going to wonder what human flesh tastes like thanks to this. Not Crowley’s scene, but if it gets a soul in on the books with his name attached, hey, gotta pay rent somehow, amirite? And that's all well and good.

But when Neil says Crowley likes Sondheim's Sweeney, and specifically Epiphany, we're talking about a moment where we see the ease at which humans fall into temptation, the horrors humans think of on their own, and the taking of Heavenly concepts and turning them entirely human.

And the beauty of redefining salvation in human terms (after you take out the murder) is that it gives Crowley permission to redefine salvation in his own terms too. Why can’t a demon have salvation, when the demon is the one who gets to define what salvation is? Crowley doesn’t need Her to make him an angel again, he doesn’t want Heaven, it’s boring and full of celestial harmonies. He’s been there.

But if Crowley gets to decide that salvation is the freedom to blast Queen while going 90mph in the middle of London with his favorite book hoarding angel by his side…

He doesn’t need someone else to give that to him.

And I think that that’s rather lovely.

#long post #good omens #sondheim #sweeney todd #good omens meta #oh crowley baby you have so many feelings #its gonna be okay

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