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sleepyfan-blog · 1 year ago

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Church

Author’s Note: This is the next part of Cedric’s Adventures in the Astartes Husbandry AU! First. Previous. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34

Warnings: panic attack, references to religious suppression, ask me to tag if I missed anything,

Summary: Cedric hears Church Bells while wandering the city and goes to investigate.

As he’s managed to prove that he won’t randomly attack people if not constantly monitored by firstborn Brothers or Cousins, Cedric has finally been allowed to wander the mortal city that the base is part of without needing an escort. While he does prefer to be in the company of at least one of his fellow Primaris Marines, the others are all busy today. Jophiel has been claimed by the Firstborn Blood Angels and is being trained in his psyker powers. Claude has been talked into interacting with some non-crazy firstborn Night Lords - who apparently existed at one point in time.

Catius is interacting with several older Ultramarines with Ramiel accompanying him as both emotional support and back up. Cedric has been allowed to wander wherever he likes, so long as he stays within city limits, or informs an older Brother or Cousin if he wants to wander through the nearby woods that surround the city before doing so. It’s early in the morning with Terra’s Star just barely peeking over the eastern horizon, and Cedric desperately wishes that he knew of a place where he could perform morning prayers and hymns without making his older brothers and cousins uncomfortable while doing so. Religion, worship and prayer made many of them deeply uncomfortable, after all. Those who weren’t Black Templars, nor were from M42.

He’d briefly talked to Brother Arnault and Brother Roland about it, but neither of them had found a place where one could gather with other worshippers to sing and pray together, either. Both had been delighted if a bit cautious when he brought news of Ramiel, a Chaplain in training of their shared Chapter. But the crux of the issue remained the same; there was nowhere where the group of them could gather and go through the morning services that had been so routine on both the planet-bound monasteries and the cathedral-rooms of the chapter ships that he had served on. The private homes that both Roland and Arnault lived in were too small to host multiple Astartes - besides, the singing and prayer would wake either of theirs human bonded, which was unfair.

Cedric still felt the loss, despite having been brought to Ancient and Holy Terra months ago now. A forlorn sigh left the young Black Templar as he continued to wander through the streets of the city, making a mental map of the place.

He froze when the sound of something he hadn’t expected to in this time.

Bong

The ringing sound of metal on metal, the clear, resonant sounds of a church bell ringing in the early morning. It took the young Templar several moments to process what he was hearing, and several more to figure out in which direction the sound was coming from. There wer some baseline humans wandering about the city at this time of day, but Cedric barely registered their presence as he started to sprint at his full (and considerable) speed towards the source of the ringing church bells, his hearts having flown up to take residence in the back of his throat.

He skidded to a halt in front of the beautiful stone building. He could see stunning mosaics made out of stained glass set in the windows, catching the light of the morning light. He could see the tower where the bells were still ringing, hearing the bells swing back and forth as they were rung over and over again.

The front doors of the church were open, and a steady stream of baseline mortals were entering in an orderly line. Excitement and nervousness battled for dominance in Cedric’s hearts as he made his way to the back of one of these lines, glad that he was wearing fairly nice civilian clothes, as most of the mortals around him were wearing nice clothing as well.

He had to duck a little to enter the church, the top of the door a good foot or so shorter than he was tall but that was a paltry price to pay as he silently took in the entry-way before him. The floor was made out of polished stone that shone in the artificial light and the rainbow of colors that the stained-glass filtered in. He followed the line of mortals to the main worship chamber. Dozens of padded pews made of wood were in neat orderly rows facing the pulpit, where the chaplain or whoever was to speak.

There was a massive musical instrument built into one side of the walls of this worship room, and Cedric silently wondered what it sounded like. He silently eyed the pews, deciding that it was unlikely that they would be able to support his weight, along with the mortals, and he really didn’t want to damage any part of this sacred and holy place.

Each pew quickly filled up with mortals, and Cedric found himself at the very back of the worship-chamber. One of the robed clergy-members were handing out pillows to those who did not have a proper spot to sit, guiding the mortals to sit in neat, organized rows, while another helped keep the line in order.

Both paused for several seconds when Cedric stepped forwards, looking up at him with inscrutable expressions on their faces. Cedric looked down at them, head tilting a little to one side as he worked up the courage to talk to them. Talking to a member of the Ecclesiarchy was always a nerve wracking experience back in M42, and the young Black Templar really wanted to make a good first impression. He didn’t want to be kicked out of the church because he offended them by accident. “Is… Is something the matter?” Cedric managed to ask.

The member of the clergy who was handing out pillow-seats spoke up first “Forgive me for the assumption, but are you an Astartes?” Though their voice was quiet, it carried far in the room. Deep silence followed their question and Cedric could feel the eyes of dozens, if not hundreds of mortals staring holes into the button-down shirt he was wearing.

The scrutiny made Cedric tense up, though he did his best to keep his voice quiet and respectful, making sure to avert his gaze from their faces as he answered “I am… Is that a problem?” He hadn’t been told that there was anywhere within the city that Astartes were forbidden to go… But perhaps his older cousins hadn’t thought that he would wander into a random church, so they hadn’t thought to tell them?

“No… But many Astartes are quite… Vocal about their distaste for religion - organized or otherwise and have caused trouble in the past. If you plan on trying to stop the service, we ask you to please simply leave.” One of the clergy-people explains, gesturing to one of the others who leave the room “If you refuse to leave, there are Astartes who are willing to remove you from this place - by force if necessary.”

Oh. Oh no. Cedric could easily imagine that happening “... And if I wish to observe the religious practice quietly and without interruption, would I be allowed to stay? While I do agree that many of the older Cousins and Brothers who have been brought to Terra are… Strongly against religion of all kinds, this does not hold true for myself nor the handful of Brothers who were taken from… Places similar to where I was taken from.” He hesitated for a couple of moments, as he could tell that the baseline clergy weren’t entirely convinced that he meant no harm and did not intend to cause trouble. He continued to try and explain himself “I have religious beliefs that I hold quite deeply, and as long as your beliefs are not violent towards innocents, or use vital sacrifice during any part of it, I do not think I would interfere with the proceedings.”

“Would you seek to convert others to your own beliefs, through word or physical force, were you allowed to stay?” The clergy person asked, a wry tone in their voice.

Cedric blinked twice. The amount of trouble he would get into for attempting that would be catastrophic. It had been made explicitly clear to him that though the God Emperor was alive somewhere in this time period, he had not yet revealed himself to be the Master of Mankind, and to try and draw attention to him at such a time could be devastating. “No… If I were asked about my beliefs, I would be honored to explain what I’m allowed to, but much of it is..” Not exactly a closed practice, from where and when he came from, but much of it would require explaining about the Great and Terrible future that Humanity was facing tens of thousands of years in the future, which was forbidden to speak of in detail without explicit permission “I would not be allowed to explain without prior permission, which I do not have.”

“Is there a particular reason why you sought out our church in the first place?” The baseline asks, stepping a little closer to where Cedric was standing. Some of the wariness and suspicion had left their voice and their body posture was a bit more open “... You seem… Young, for an Astartes. Am I wrong?”

Cedric shook his head “You are not wrong, ecclesiarch. I am young for an Astartes, and still am in training for parts of my duty to my chapter.” He had yet to tell any Brother or Cousin his precise age, mostly because he was pretty sure that Captain Ash’val would explode spectacularly. Or Apothecary Hura would kidnap him and keep him by his side at all times because Little Baby Brothers need constant supervision. Honestly! He’s been on deadly and difficult missions without his Mentor before! He also survived the longest in M42 of the Primaris Marines who he knows about anyways. It’s not his fault that most of the Firstborn Astartes he’s run into are at minimum upwards of three hundred years old if not much, much older. The cantankerous bastards. He heard the sounds of ceramite on stone, and the heavier step of an Astartes walking towards them. “... May I please stay? I promise not to cause trouble. The sound of the church bells were familiar to me, and I… I’ve missed morning prayers and psalms in the months I’ve been on Terra, terribly.”

“Are there not places to worship in one of the Astartes bases in town? And Ecclesiarch is the incorrect term, please refer to me as Sister Superior.” The be-robed mortal asked and gently corrected Cedric.

Cedric fidgeted a little “Not that I am aware of. The reclusiums are to be used by the Chaplains alone along with whoever they have trusted to keep those inner sanctums clean and well-tended to. Chaplains are meant to tend to the mental and emotional health of their Brothers and Cousins, among other duties, however…” Cedric also kept quiet about the other duties that Chaplains were to tend to - at least among the Black Templars as he didn’t want to potentially concern or distress the Sister Superior he was speaking with. Perhaps she was part of an order that was a precursor to the Sister of Battle? “Among the chaplains who I have interacted with on Terra, the only one who might be comfortable leading the morning prayers and psalms I dearly miss is around the same age and training level as myself. We don’t… We don’t have a space to worship where we would potentially draw the ire... Erm. Discomfort of our older brothers and cousins who do not hold the beliefs we do.”

He could hear the approach of the other Astartes, he was getting closer. Cedric deliberately did not look away from the Sister Superior to try and figure out who this Astartes was, nor from which direction he was approaching Cedric in, as the young Black Templar really meant no harm. He also had truly been just drawn to the sound of the ringing church bells, and a soul-deep longing ache still resonated inside of him.

“Were you hoping to see if this church would be serviceable to your needs? Or merely drawn by the sound of the ringing bells? They do sound beautiful when they do ring, and this church is one of the loveliest in the region, in my humble opinion.” Sister Superior answered, a small smile on her face. She gestured wordlessly for him to come closer, which the young Astartes obeyed.

Cedric knelt so that he was closer to her eye level, keeping his gaze focused downwards, penitent and trying hard not to seem threatening. “I was drawn by the sound of the bells, and this church really is beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve seen stained glass like that. It reminds me of the worship halls on m-... In the fortress-monastery I enjoyed training in the most.”

“I will say that you aren’t the first Astartes who has been drawn to our church, with the earnest desire to find a space in which to worship without being judged by other Space Marines who are vocal about their dislike of open displays of worship. Ah, there you are, Lykos. You needn’t worry, this young Cousin of yours wandered in out of curiosity and an open heart, rather than to try and cause trouble.” The Sister Superior murmured, her gaze focusing on someone behind and slightly to the left of Cedric.

A deep, rich voice with an accent that Cedric did not recognize rumbled Astartes-deep behind the young Black Templar “I see… I was hopeful that was the case, as you arrived at this church without arms or armor, but that is not always the case. What is your name, Cousin? I am Brother-Chaplain Lykos of the Word Bearers Legion. I am from mid-M31 originally.”

The older Astartes was wearing black armor with red, silver and gold accents. There were runes inscribed on much of his armor, written in neat rows that Cedric did not immediately recognize, and the symbol of an open book with white pages set aflame on one of the other Astartes’ pauldron the other having a red arrow on it. Upon the other’s chest-plate was the the symbol of the two-headed Aquila. He had a black cape that draped regally behind him, and almost but not quite touched the floor. His skull-helmet was clipped to his belt, and his head was shaved bald, with dozens of golden tattoos on his face and neck shone in the light of the early morning sun.

Cedric froze for several seconds, the breath in his lungs freezing over solid at the approach of a strange first-born Chaplain. Brother-Chaplain Lykos had no mutations, no extra appendages and no spikes. He did not smell like a Chaos-tainted Astartes, either, but Cedric still felt very small and threatened as the chaplain loomed over him.

The quiet murmurings of serfs in prayer echoing in the stone chamber, the slight waft of incense as the Firstborn Chaplain approached him, one hand on his chainsword, a neutral and disapproving expression on his face. The other’s voice rings in his ears but Cedric is having difficulties processing what he’s saying.

A ceramite-gloved hand reaches out to where Cedric is still kneeling and, to his eternal shame, he flinches and cowers away from the attempt at contact. Why is it so difficult to breathe, all of a sudden? Cedric is breathing fast and shallow, as a heavy, oppressive weight is pressing against his chest.

One of the Sisters steps between Cedric and the Chaplain, and the noise in Cedric’s ears roars louder. Her fingers tremble a little with the age of a mortal, and the expression she gives him is of gentle concern. She reaches out to cup his face, and he leans into her touch, a tiny sound leaving him. Most of his focus is on the knees of the Chaplain, however, knowing better than to keep his focus from wavering from One of Them.

“I asked you a question.” The Chaplain rumbles, voice sharp with irritation and disapproval “What is your name? To which Legion or chapter do you belong to?”

#oc: cedric #oc: Lykus #word bearer #black templar #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #my writing #adeptus astartes

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seaside-writings · 2 years ago

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Hello, again all you wonderfully, wicked people!

As we know black cats are an essential part of the spooky season as well as an essential part of everyday life! So in honor of that, I made a prompt list dedicated to one of my favorite black cats Salem Saberhagen, who in my opinion had some of the most iconic dialogue in TV history!

I hope you all like this prompt list, and I hope it helps you create! And if you do use it, please credit/tag me so I can check out what you've made!

I hope you all stay blessed and safe throughout your day.

Lots of Love & Wishes: Celia 🖤🎃🕸🔮

P.s. I did change some of the dialogue so it would flow easier when it came to writing for different types of characters.

“You’re the only one who understands me,” “Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I care,” - “What are you doing?” “Nothing!” “You’re in a chatroom again pretending to be a woman, aren’t you?” “I like the attention.” - “I have lighted the fuse. Now I just have to wait for the kapowie! Muahahaha!” - “I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you; I just wanted to rule you,” - “You’ll be able to look back on all of this and get revenge,” - “Show me the tuna!” - "I never cared for the name Mildred," - “And let’s give a big warm welcome to sadness,” - “Someone’s gonna end up crying. Probably me,” - “Finally, someone whose life is more pathetic than mine!” - “You don't have to order me a pizza, but make it half sausage, half clam,” - “I need a little fresh air and a latte,”

“As long as you drop everything and stay focused on me, I should be fine,” - “Dogs guard. Cats watch and judge,” - “When I’m happy, I eat! When I’m upset, I eat!” - “Hooray, the toast is stuck! Danger, here I come!” - “They left behind. Be strong. Don’t cry,” - “Still want to take over the world?" - "Cheetos should be served at room temperature, you know,” - “Curse my sarcastic nature!” - “If you misbehave for just one instant, I’ll cut you, man,” - “Dear lord, you picked up a guy at the bus station,” - “It's the 90s, no one eats mortals anymore,” - “I’m rich! Rich, I tell you!” It’s only a few hundred dollars,” “I’m well-off! Well-off, I tell you!” - “Let's destroy everything that's dear to him. Let's indoctrinate him into the cathedral of agony,” “I'm going to write him a very stern letter,” “You're a regular Mad Max, aren't you?” - “A tassel! Don’t you toy with me, you saucy minx!” - “Wow, you must feel like a huge loser,” - “Would you be terribly upset if I threw up in one of your shoes?” - “You laugh, you die,” - “I will not be ignored!” - “All I’ve done all day is eat, sleep, and stare off into space. What an awful existence,” “Hey! I don’t dump on your lifestyle," - “Could you either remove the bandages or kill me?” - “Sorry, thirty waffles is my limit,” - “You think a mirrored ceiling would be too much?” - “Why didn’t you stop them!?” “I was busy,” “Doing what!?” “Playing with my scrunchie,” - “We need a plan,” “How about we weep uncontrollably,” - “I urge you to accept me as your ruler!” - “I’ll be having a quiet weekend, curled up with Memoirs Of A Geisha,” - “Delivery. I want a pizza as fast as possible! And don’t forget the crazy bread!” - “And your face is a bit of a trainwreck too,” - “Tell Elton John he can’t start singing now,” - “I wasn’t always the stud muffin I am today,”

“You owe her an apology. Now! “I’m thinking of how to word it,” “Try 'I’m sorry,'” “Somehow, that just doesn’t feel right…” - “I’d rather be locked in the dishwasher again,” - “Does she know who you are?” “Why does everyone think that’s a necessary part of love,” - “I’m the ultimate bad example,” - “Don’t ask me, I was an English major,” - “Hey, leave the sarcasm to the professionals,” - “Get a real job. And some pants,” - “I’m a cat, I’m curious, so kill me,” - “Still want to take over the world?” “Yes! Wait, no! I meant no!” - “I’d be more nervous if I weren’t so good-looking,” - “Hey chicks, what’s the haps?” - “I’m trying to set the world record for grooving,” - “Sometimes I just like to hear myself talk,” - “You know me any excuse to wear taffeta,” - “Oh, right, I forgot. I’m an animal, I have no self-control,” - “Why am I finding it hard to summon sympathy?” - “Wow, I love a woman who can take charge!” - “I’ll be downstairs creating a distraction,” - “I’m trying to concentrate on expanding my intellectual horizons,” - “Wake up, woman! You’re not a princess, you’re a dragon!” - “Her new obsession is doing wonders for my wardrobe!” - “Please hurry! I’ve been in here for over an hour!” “Why didn’t you call us sooner?” “It wasn’t a problem until I ran out of peanut brittle!” - “So it's true. Taste does skip a generation,” - “I want to say something wise and wonderful right now, but I can't think of anything. Except I love you, and I hope the band knows some Ohio Player,” - “BOO!” “You look ridiculous,” “You were terrified, and you know it,” - “Halloween. Is it just another date on the calendar, or is a state of mind, or is a state of… being?”

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aroseyetbloomedwrites · 5 years ago

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The Fourth, Plus Sixth [ A Grinnaux/Francel/Paulecrain Fanfiction]

Rating: [M] Lemon on the citrus scale.

Category: M/M/M

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Pairing: Grinnaux de Dzemael/Francel de Haillenarte/Paulecrain de Fanouilley

Summary: Even being a part of the Heavensward, used for war in a wave of lies-they still feel. There just happens to be two heads and hearts to feel with...

Tagged for: blood, injury, hurt/comfort, healing with magic.

AO3 LINK: HERE

Sneak Peek:

It had been a whisper heard passing through the doors of Saint Raymanauds Cathedral, a quiet gossip between the lord and lady couple passing Francel by upon their entering the holy grounds.

The whisper being, “The Dzemael brute of a son has been at the Proving Grounds since dawn brawling like a beast…”

It trails off as they pass, but it was enough to make Francel pause. Their wounds were not particularly fresh anymore, not that he was worried - mind you, but he did not believe any of the Heavensward were fit to be fighting after the battle with the Warrior of Light and Archbishop Thordan’s downfall. Francel took a leisurely walk there, thinking it would be over soon as he arrived, if not before. He was not typically interested in these things, so it did not surprise him news of any scheduled event or spectacle did not reach him.

The Proving Grounds guide was understandably surprised to see him. Alinaure bowed deeply upon recovery, and he acknowledged her for about as long as it took for him to notice the ring was indeed still occupied. His nod to her was barely respectful of Ishgardian custom before he was drawn to the Bull in the ring. He waved off her guidance and sidled around the edge of the rink to an unoccupied set of steps and reclined on a bench Alinaure saw fit to fetch him.

The Knight in the ring still wore the white armor with its telling blue trim, but by now it was smeared with blood and sand. Ser Grinnaux fought against Temple Knights off duty testing their mettle, perhaps wanting a chance to beat a disgraced Heavensward Knight; a hollow victory for their injuries suffered of their grave mistakes. This Temple Knight he faced was not the first Ser Grinnaux had fought, likely it would not be the last, and each one strived to leave their mark. A broken nose which streamed crimson rivulets, dripped into the sand and spattered against the white of his armor. A black eye turning darker as he fought on angrily, piteously.

Francel crosses one leg over the other, folds his gloved hands in his lap and watches as dispassionately as he was capable. Despite the armor, despite the chainmail, he could still make out the exhausted tremble of muscle as Ser Grinnaux expends one cleave after the other when he honestly should not even be holding an axe. And, when one Temple Knight goes down, there is another to replace them, each hoping theirs will be the final blow. The fighting is dirty, between singing weapons, butting heads and low blow kicks meant to stun out of sheer force.

[[Please don’t read below the readmore if you are not okay with spicy, or lemons. Appropriate tags can be found on the AO3 link for the fic ... HERE ]]

Nearest companion to Ser Grinnaux, Ser Paulecrain had noticed Francel’s entrance--after their return to Ishgard, had resolved that they would likely never see the young Lord again. He was indeed surprised to spot him and wondered about his presence here today, and the carefully neutral and unnatural facade. What was Lord Francel thinking as he watched Grinnaux struggle in the Proving Grounds?

As before when presented with the soft-spoken Lord, he could resist no more and approached him so that at Francel’s resting side he drew himself up rigidly to his full height and stood near to him. Francel did not betray even a glance, he saw the armor from his peripheral and knew it could be no other.

“His ferocity is amazing, is it not?” Ser Paulecraine drawled low, and Francel merely tilted an ear his way.

“I supposed in the same way a criminal repents by way of self mutilation when lacking the ability to express their guilt, or admit their folly.”

Ser Paulecraine stares hard at the profile of Francel’s side now, good eye narrowed in on him.

“Do not try to convince yourself otherwise that this is anything except a vainglory display of self reassuring punishment.”

They can hear the beastial bellows of the Bull as he over exerts himself, exceeds limits he had passed many fights prior.

“You are all lost,’ Francel murmurs, ‘the Heavensward left intact by the good Lord Commander, and untouched such that you wallow in your new found uselessness until the guilt of your crimes bury you, unable to run from them by serving as true Knights, driven mad as you wait for a punishment to be met out -- one that will never come, so you each punish yourselves in your own way. Ser Grinnaux in his inherent violence, and you as you watch your master try to smear himself across the floor, all until Lord Commander Aymeric repurposses you, or until you have met a punishment sufficient for your own sins.”

Ser Paulecrain is stunned to silence, the boiling rage in his blood cools under the weight of bitterness and desolation in Francel’s voice.

“Stop this madness, fetch your master, for neither may come and he needs a chirugeon.”

“Only if you come to the infirmary as well.” Paulecraine rushes out, the force in his low tone was undermined when he trails off under the sudden stare turned on him. Francel’s midnight eyes shimmer wetly in the dim light, and the sleepless nights weigh at the soft lines of his face.

“Ah,’ Ser Paulecraine thinks, having to turn his back on that expression, ‘this is why Ser Zephirin has locked himself away.” Paulecraine volts the ring barrier and stalks to the middle of the it to break up the fighting, Ser Grinnaux had turned to head butting when their brawl had devolved into a wrestle. “I have not known consequence such as this, this creature we had the audacity to grow attached to and had assumed we had become his world.’ The fight was hard to break up, Grinnaux seemed delirious but clearly could no longer hold up his axe, it lay in the sand, and Paulecrain was able to keep him at bay with just one arm looped around his shoulders. His other hand shoving at the Temple Knight’s chest to keep him back until they both snap out of their bloodust. "Only to learn that we had simply become a part of his, and by forcefully inserting ourselves into his life had hoped to replace the nigh irreplaceable.” The Temple Knight was hardly in better condition and seemed to know that picking a fight with a fresher Heavensward Knight was unwise, and wavered on his feet in exhaustion as the high of battle finally crashed. By the time he was able to pull Ser Grinnaux to another extension of the Grounds with the aid of a chirugeon; Grinnaux was dragging but still trying to fight them off, the two of them had to push him down on a cot with all their strength for him to realize he truly could go on no longer and the effort to lift himself became too great this time… “An outlet convenient only for ourselves so we do not descend into this… this madness…”

Francel was met with two quivering nurses at the infirmary entranceway, the ones which held the Heavensward Knights, and the two of them were frantic in their whispers before noticing his approach, they welled up with simultaneous relief and concern.

“The big one, he keeps asking for you, Lord Francel. He won't stay still, and his companion is vicious and cold.”

Francel could feel the onset of a headache forming, “Yes, I know though I do not know why, I am merely adequate at first-aid, not a chirugeon--but they are idiots.” He could feel their palpable relief at his humoring them dryly, “I will attend them, and you need not worry about me doing so. I have worked with they and their brethren before which may be why they seek familiarity.”

He turns to the door and lets himself in, Ser Paulecrain had turned to cruelly eject whoever had entered before seeing it was Lord Francel and wheeling back. From this short distance he could tell Francel hardly wanted to be here, casting a halfhearted glance at the shelving and their contents before eyeing first Paulecrain up, and then Grinnaux on the cot. At some point, having sat up and removed his chestmail and gauntlets and currently was soaking a rag through with blood from his nose, Francel remained unimpressed. Paulecrain seems to circle around as Francel strides forward, ignoring him as he goes to look out the door and growls at the two that remained behind while Francel stares down at Grinnaux; his smirk less shit-eating than usual, all bravado.

"Please." Francel rolls his eyes, the click of his gaiters on stone indicative of his toe-tapping impatience. "What did you even hope to accomplish by attempting to smear your brains across the sand, and dragging half a dozen Temple Knights with you?"

"To feel."

Francel's breath catches then. The smirk doesn't fade. There is still blood on his lips and teeth.

"The familiarity of the one damn thing I've ever been good for. The rush of blood and high of battle. Something other than the rage, the--the… the knowledge."

All of him seemed so out of place, then. The smirk. The blood. The weariness and desolation of untold lies in those eyes. Because deep down, Ser Grinnaux, in all his arrogance, had been so falsely trusting. Placing that unquestioning trust, and his unreasonable strength in higher, knowledgeable powers, and just as guilty for the destruction wrought because of it.

"And so, having never been made to bear the weight of your own sins, sought to numb them the only way you know how."

Francel takes a deep breath, and knows Paulecrain to be hovering at his back, now. Shakes his head instead, and curbs the ache of his heart.

"Let me see your damnable face."

He doesn't ask as he moves into Grinnaux's personal space, and as he pulls the cloth away. Standing between his knees and leaning in to look at the blood congealing above his lip. Hands reach immediately for his legs, sliding from the back of his thighs, to his knees. Francel let's him have that intimate familiarity, and comfort.

"I ought to mess it up more." Francel bites out, but his voice has lost its edge. And, besides, having already been broken, there was hardly anything else left to do. "I am not a medic, you know." He seeks to fill the quiet, two sets of eyes unwavering on him near to unbearable. "I could make it worse on behalf of your elementary insistence."

Ser Grinnaux has started smiling again, and, Francel thinks he just may enjoy being bitten at in this way. It makes him fume a little more before he sets the nose back without warning (and some help with aether), gets a testy howl and snarl for his efforts, and… a rush of more blood onto his hands. The gloves were beyond saving, but that hardly seemed to matter. Paulecrain was more to his side now, scowling and bouncing from one foot to the next.

"Go get some water so we can clean him up."

And he does, which just may be the strangest thing Francel could imagine. There are hands still at the back of his knees, fingers pressed into the seams on the sides, his hands were so large as to encompass the width. Francel does not move out of reach, nor shift beneath the hold-and doubted he had the strength anyways to do so. Paulecrain brings back the water, and other supplies Francel had neglected to request, but, Paulecrain was not stupid-and this he knew.

Grinnaux is rinsing his mouth while Francel dabs his neck and chest with hot water, unmoving of his hold and making it all the more difficult. And after he's spit, the warrior lets Francel tilt back his head to finish his job. Yet all the while, those large hands and long fingers retrace familiarity, creep up the back of his thighs and wrap around their middle. They sink into soft and tender flesh through the cloth of his gaskins and undergarments. Make circles and circuits that draw Francel's breath testingly tight from his pounding chest. Yet… and yet… he speaks not, knits only his brow and let's a weak tremble of his lips be the only tell.

Even still he gently cleans around Grinnaux's tender nose; the congealed blood and sand gives way to the image of the regal arch left intact. Mops up every smear, from temple to cheek, and even the split lip. Until he is clean, and maybe rubbed a little red, and raw. Paulecrain may as well have been reverent when he takes one of Grinnaux's arms and cleans the blood and grime from them. He resisted very little, but snapped back his grip to Francel's thighs as soon as his closest companion was finished.

“What are you, twelve?”

Francel did not expect an answer back, did not receive one--has begun to turn away as he pulls his bloodied gloves free but for the pull of Ser Grinnaux’s strength resistant at his thighs, and his inevitable stumble forward. The gloves drop and Ser Paulecrain having abandoned his rag to the floor so that he may draw himself against Francel’s back, arms around his waist, a hand sliding from stomach to chest to press him close while Grinnaux buries his face against Francel’s stomach.

“Children, the both of you.” Francel tries so hard to seethe, but his protest falls short and finds the arms around his legs, and waist to be too firm against his half-hearted attempts at turning away. He is left breathless for their desperate nearness, always they take, and take, and take from him. Why is he so weak? Why are they so strong? No, that is not to blame... If he truly protested, they would release him-he knows this.

“I always used to think that if I just got stronger-it would make everything better. So, I fought, and I fought--as if strength would make me invincible; to everything said, and what everyone wanted.” Ser Grinnaux’s deep voice was muffled in the green of his bliaud, the side of his face nestled against his belly, mouth and chin turned inwards so that his nose was not completely pressed into him.

“There will always be someone, or something out there stronger than you. In the same way that Lord Haurchefant is much stronger than I, yet you all were stronger than he. In the way Archbishop Thordan enthralled you all, but was no match for the savior of Ishgard. What matters is how you use that growing strength. For, there is strength also in compassion, for we who cannot hope to accomplish what you are able to and maybe…"

There seemed to be a growing frustration in the way Francel spoke, a muted urgency in his lowered tones.

"Just maybe that is what Lord Commander Aymeric is waiting for you to all realize. The measure of your strength is not just marked in the growth of your martial prowess, neither does your worth lie just in that. Our city is full of those who cannot protect themselves, who are weak-and you have grown to believe the world is meant only for the strong to live in. Now we are faced with paving a road for the future that was so uncertain before, and he has given you a chance to find your place in it. As desolate, and as lost as you were, sending you to battle would have been a death sentence until you found it.”

“To protect… and to serve.”

"Yes, to protect' Francel whispers back, lost between who had spoken when pitted against two sets of unabashedly explorative hands, his voice made tremulous and weak between them. Paulecrain takes the hat nearly by the feather in a fistful as he drags it from Francel's head, leans in and begins to kiss a soft trail up the length of his neck, fingers to his jaw turn that soft face towards him and allows him to press kiss after kiss against peach lips parted in a move to mute a breathless exclamation, "and to serve…" Francel manages barely an utterance as he is twisted as they please, to reach what parts of him they desired. Paulecrain, his mouth, Grinnaux, newly exposed flesh of his hips where Paulecrain has helped push down his gaskins, and Grinnaux has slipped his hands beneath the hem at the rear. Maddening, shiver inducing touches lighter than he would have expected from they; and the upwards stroke of Paulecrain's hand as it slides from where his arm had curled around to his belly, cool palm warming on his heating flesh as he passes over his sternum and chest and presses to his collar. Presses him back into a sturdy chest while Grinnaux's fingers ease between the tight cleft of his buttocks, his gaskins coiled at his thighs and finds his knees nearly buckling as Grinnaux teases him there. But a stroke of fingers past his part. A careful nudge. A press. But it was dry, and so he went no further against the silken bud.

"Like as not to be oil, or th'like somewhere..."

Paulecrain murmurs against Francel's collarbone, where his wandering lips led and where teeth could properly indulge. Blessed for the quavering sigh he got when leaving a hot blooded welt, kiss shaped and in contrast to the pale, freckle marked juncture 'twixt red blushed shoulder and slender neck.

"Then go get it."

He hears Grinnaux say, gruff as ever. And he could have kicked him then, right in the gut where it would hurt with his injuries, and then what would he do? Lay there and watch as he took Francel all to himself to ravish? Paulecrain can only give a frustrated snarl, because he realizes belatedly Grinnaux has no intention of actually taking Francel, the oil was for his own benefit-he sees it when their gazes cross; Grinnaux looking up from where Francel's belly is becoming kiss stained, and himself looking down from his marked shoulders. Grinnaux licks his lips, and Paulecrain just knows. He shoves away, and Grinnaux holds the subtle swell of hips firmer, teeth pulling skin and earning a sweetened little whimper, a breathless chastise, all met his back as he tore cabinets apart for plain oil, anything at all…

Glycerin for the hands? Good enough.

It was thick and gelatinous and with too liberal use became a slippery mess on his fingers. Hopes only vaguely he isn't too rough when pushing Francel forward, makes him put a hand on Grinnaux's shoulder as a brace, who doesn't wince, so he keeps Francel held there with a hand. Grinnaux works down his gaskins, leaning in to kiss his hips while Francel's ankles become a pool of fabric and his rear is lain bare. He shivers at the hands, large and calloused running up the length of his thighs and over his buttocks, gripping each in a handful and spreading him. Paulecrain drizzles the cream between his part, and Francel begins to shudder in repressed desire for he knows what comes next; Grinnaux's probing fingers. His own clench into the darkers shoulder as one fingers makes its way in, he takes in breath after deep breath, remaining as quiet as he can when Grinnaux rocks in to the knuckle within, presses deep, back and forth, in and out. Adds a second and spreads so that he is gasping now for air despite trying so hard to breath even and remain relaxed and open.

His bliaud is nestled around Grinnaux's head where he is leaning into his hips, open mouthed kisses at his hip line and groin. Eventually getting a deep, "hold this up, boy." And he listens, Francel fisting the end and pulling it up to his chest while Grinnaux kisses around everywhere but the aching arch of his prick. The length diminutive compared to the one Paulecrain saw fit to rub suggestively at his tailbone. Compared to the painful bulge in the front of Grinnaux's trousers…

Begins to feel the give in his own aching hole, the way he eases up on the fingers clenched upon, within. Finds that the resistance and drag drops off as Grinnaux’s insistent little thrusts increase in pace. Until Francel is rocking on the tips of his toes, and his hand grips the back of Grinnaux’s neck with crescent nail marks at the nape. Paulecrain grows impatient, it can be heard in the way he growls, and the press of his cock against his lower back. Hands tightened on his waist, slide down to his hips to grip him tightly, pulling him back so that his thighs meet Paulecrain’s, and Grinnaux’s fingers are dragged out of him. Whisper quiet whimper elicited at their going, but drawing out a moan at the insistence of Paulecrain’s cock pressed lengthily against his spread cheeks. While watching Grinnaux finger Francel open, he had been stroking lotion from tip to base, a glaze which let him slide against Francel’s already silky skin. Paulecrain was eager, and pressed upon Francel’s newly preparedness. The bud, soft and sweet, opened to him, enveloped-could only groan at the tightness he began to slide within. A pleasure long in the making, not since one fateful day saw Francel to them in the whole. And he was ecstatic for it, in ecstasy for him. Holding him, bearing upon the soft swell of his hips to sink deeper, deeper.

“Yes…” Is Paulecrain’s drawn out growl. Oh how he had missed this.

The tight heat which enveloped him, slowly embedded to the root until at last his hips could nestle against a plump rear. His thumbs pressed into either dimple atop Francel’s buttocks, and he knew joy again, then. The kind that made him quiver as he reared back his strength, kept it locked down as he leans over close. Drags his teeth across roving shoulder blades-wonders what has Francel’s shaking so if not just his cock seated fully. Ah, but over that shoulder he sees, or rather-barely able to, the way Grinnaux’s head moves, a gentle bob at the head over Francel’s twitching prick. The swirl of a devilish red tongue, and slide of lips over the rosy hued head. And then, Grinnaux pulls back to wink at him, and he knows Francel is ready for him, Grinnaux sets out his tongue along the base of it, holds open his mouth, and Paulecrain bucks into him then. The thrust into Francel has him crying out, the duality of being pleasured as his hips snap forward and fucks into Grinnaux’s mouth a momentous sensation. The pressure put upon him with every draw of Grinnaux’s clever use of mouth makes him keen, faintly and tremulously out for him. Francel can feel the tickle of a nose against his belly, and hardly can pass a thought for the ache of it’s press for the pleasure every swipe of that tongue renders the thought negligible.

His prick is such a comfortable fit too, never reaching the back of Grinnaux’s throat. Never more than a sweetened weight upon his tongue as Paulecrain buries himself over, and over again in a heat he’s only dreamed of since returning. Faintly wonders why Grinnaux would limit himself so-knows that when he is done, Francel’s ass would be malleable, and ready for the girth of him. But even through his haze, can see the dishevelment of Grinnaux’s hair, the sweat at this temple lingers, the flushed, rubbed red rawness in his cheeks-and knows then too, Grinnaux finds himself dealing with more than just his inner filthiness.

For now, it is good enough. Good enough to have the drag of his cock in and out of that near terribly tight hole. Grinnaux chasing those hips on every draw back. Paulecrain snapping back into him until their flesh meets audibly. Francel, having no where else to go, but back into Grinnaux’s eagerly waiting mouth, can only quiver, call out, and hold on to those still strong shoulders as it happens. The roll of his hips against lips, against Paulecrain’s front. Ah, but it is too much for him. Open palmed, he touches Grinnaux’s cheek, a warning breathless, “A-ah, aah…I--” And then, drapes his arms around him fully, leaning into Grinnaux and coming with such heat, such feeling in his wavering voice, drawn out, and higher pitched than normal; his climax, and, right over Grinnaux’s tongue and lips. Right to his throat in rivulets of warm seed. The man pulls back to lick his lips, and pull himself out of his trousers to touch and stroke. Paulecrain having gripped those hips so that with a slap of flesh against the roundness of Francel’s rear, can take his piece fully, bites into his flesh more cruelly until Francel sobs with the pain of it, and the mixture of pleasure of it. Over sensitive and tightened from release, until Paulecrain makes his mess of him, seed; sticky and viscous now a new found trail after a sharp groan makes his only warning. A dripping mess from the cock pulled out, the remnants of orgasm marks the space between dimples, and drips from betwixt soft thighs.

And, that his thighs too cannot be spared the same fate. Gratuitous and warm, a smattering of semen, the guttural groan eased from Grinnaux as it happens. Such that Francel can only shudder as it happens, it slides down the front of his thighs lazily...

“Really, you two…? Now how am I supposed to leave here…” is said after he’s caught his breath. Exasperation. But, dare they continue to hope, a lingering fondness come to surface again. Breathless, none the less.

Francel would make them attend him now in return as repentance.

#rated M #my writing #I am PhoenixUnknown #Grinnaux/Francel/Paulecrain #Francel in the middle #Fanfiction #lemon #no beta we die like men #please follow linked to appropriately tagged fic on ao3 if you need a list of contents

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itsomgitsgreenblogging · 6 years ago

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It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You): A Critical Role Fanfic

Guess who’s back? Honestly, I have to thank the Essek Fanclub Server for this. You guys are awesome, and an amazing inspiration. 2019 was a pretty bad year in terms of my writing, but, it ended amazingly because of the Critical Role Fandom. Here’s to 2020! Have some hot wizard yearning and sexy dream sequences inspired by my favorite song by the 1975.

Enjoy!

Warning: Explicit Sexual Content

Read it on AO3

Preview:

This was all because he hadn’t seen the Mighty Nein in a month. He was...getting all confused and acting like some sort of lovelorn maiden from one of the trashy Empire smut novels that he definitely didn’t read after he confiscated them.

“By the Luxon, let them come back soon, or else I might really go mad,” Essek muttered to himself.

“Where are they?” asked a courtier. The question was hissed at Essek as he paused in the Lucid Bastion, the green-lantern glow washing his face out to a pallid hue.

“I do not know,” Essek said simply, with a smile, finding it better than lying.

____

“Where are they?” Professor Waccoh grumbled at Essek, over the tops of the papers she had stacked on her desk. Reports, ideas, and death machines all found their place there, scattered like snowflakes or ashes amongst the heap.

“I do not know,” Essek responded, still smiling.

____

“Where are they?” the Bright Queen demanded, hand dripping with jewels glinting like knives in the light as she slammed it upon the table.

Essek smiled, and shook his head.

____

“Where are you?” Essek asked the empty house, but the windows remained darkened. It stared back into him, searching, and he didn’t have a response.

____

“Will you be long, Shadowhand?”

“Not too long, but I do wish for some privacy,” Essek told his shadow with a sidelong look. In the next moment, the shadow disappeared. For a moment he remained outside the temple, just relishing the stolen moments of being alone, before slipping inside the building without any further delay. Really, it was better to get this over with.

The Temple of the Lord of Light that was closest to the Bright Queen’s abode was a lavish affair. The ceilings were crowded with rows of geometrically patterned lanterns that cast a glow that could be hard for Essek’s eyes to handle. Carved into the walls were the sculptures depicting the mythology of the Lord of Light, His Glorious creation, the Vanquishing of the Spider Queen, and the Ascension of the Bright Queen. Along that were prayer altars that various drow and other citizens of the Dynasty huddled by, to light their own candle and pray. Often when one saw Essek float by, they bowed their heads out of respect for him.

He approached the private praying rooms, and as he did so he apparently caught the eye of one of the clerics. Essek recognized her as Derise, one of the head clerics of the Lord of Light. Though he loathed to do so, he dispelled his levitation magic. His heels clicked as they touched the floor. Clerics could be touchy about the appearance of power in their sacred spaces, and many of those with power among the clergy did not like him for a litany of reasons. He was young, not of one of the storied bloodlines, rather recently adopted in comparison to others, and yet he had gained remarkable power within his first life. They didn’t like him because he wasn’t one of their little puppets and he knew all their secrets in a way that perhaps only the Luxon might, and that made them afraid of him.

(Though he didn’t wish to think of them, it was part of the reason he had found certain members of the Mighty Nein so refreshing. Religion without certain pretenses had its own charms.)

“Lord Shadowhand,” Derise said, pointedly not bowing her head. She held her head up high instead, as if issuing him a challenge. Essek, instead, smiled as he usually did. He curled his fingers behind his back in a display of complete openness.

“Lady Derise, I pray the Light finds you well on this day,” Essek said, not bowing because he was certainly still wearing his back brace. Instead he inclined his head an inch. A vein jumped at her jaw. Amatuer, Essek thought derisively.

“And may it find you well, too. It is a lovely surprise to see you haunt these halls,” Derise said, with a tight smile. “I am sure the Bright Queen will be pleased to hear you are working on your religious studies today.”

“Matters of security tend to keep me from my spiritual needs. A bad habit of mine, unfortunately. The Bright Queen understands, of course, being the leader she is.”

“The Bright Queen is certainly accommodating with her favorites,” Lady Derise said, looking down at him from her nose.

“I am afraid that I am far too stubborn to be accomodated,” Essek laughed lightly as he walked forward only pausing to look back at her. “Your daughter, however, is a very accommodating creature. I know she was so pleased about her cousin’s engagement to General Dozall, that is how she ended up at his house at the witching hour.”

“That--it was---” Derise sucked on the air like it had been punched out of her chest. she coughed hastily, like being caught on her own deceit was physically painful. Really it was pitiful when those older than him were so easily tangled in the web. He almost felt bad for her. Almost. But it wasn’t in his nature to pardon stupidity.

“Hm? Well, all’s well that ends well,” Essek said evenly. “You really ought to go to a healer. I can always have one of my shadows escort you, just like they did for your daughter. It wouldn’t do to have you in trouble, my lady.”

“I am too busy to entertain bad jokes, Lord Shadowhand,” Derise said, her tone clipped and icy. “May the Light keep you.”

“And may it keep you as well.”

Derise stormed off. Essek found the royal prayer chamber, which he was allowed to use due to his position as Shadowhand, off of the main cathedral. It was a beautiful chamber with lofted roof painted with images of the constellations and the sun and the moon. In the center was a large fountain, portraying one of the first lives of the Bright Queen holding her arms aloft with the dodecahedron, about her were creatures of the forest and behind her was the fountain styled as a waterfall. It was popular among artist renderings of the queen to have her placed like that, though the fountain of youth iconography was a bit on the nose for him. Essek enjoyed the arts, but hadn’t had time to properly commission something since he had his portrait painted.

He cleaned his fingers within the blessed waters, before kneeling before the altar. He cleared his mind, closed his eyes, and prayed in Undercommon,

“Oh Glorious Lord of Light, You who were first in the Universe and Master of All Creation. Keep me and bless me, in this life and my future lives. Let Your glow illuminate the darkness inside, so that I may reach new heights. Show me the way as you did Our Most Righteous Queen, so that I may never be led astray. Let me pray for ascension, for consecution…”

There was the sound of delicate footsteps upon the marble and rustling fabric. Essek opened his eyes and looked to see the Bright Queen. As always she was arresting to look at, today fashioned more like a river-bathed-in-moonlight. She was without the armor she tended to wear at court, but adorned with a necklace made of platinum and blue topaz that clasped high at her throat and spilled across her skin like the tide. He began to stand, but she lifted her hand and he remained where he was.

“Your recitation of the Book of Madark is quite beautiful,” the Bright Queen remarked, looking towards the altar with the deeply fervent expression she always did. “I always did prefer Madark. He made me sound quite grand.”

“He never overstated your glory, your majesty,” Essek said honestly, bowing his head slowly.

“Madark was quite in love with me, I’m afraid,” the Bright Queen sighed, smoothing out her dress that shimmered like the scales of a fish. “Quite boorish about it too. I do not like men who overstay their welcome.”

“Or women who flirt and swoon,” Essek added before clearing his throat, “And the glorious star herself, may She guide us forever. Our Eternal Blessed Queen, who Heralded the Truth. Beauty Incarnate, who sets the heart ablaze with a single look-- ”

“Oh, the Book of Terawane. Ghastly stuff. I always told her that she was much better suited to singing than to writing. So melodramatic,” the Bright Queen said with a long-suffering hum. “I can bear it when you recite it, Essek. But do not make me listen to the High Priest give his lecture of how my breasts are twin fawns and my lips are a violet ribbon one more time.”

“Are you asking me to sanction his disposal?” Essek asked, taking a seat beside her.

“Nothing so dire,” the Bright Queen laughed, her voice silvered bells upon the marble and high ceiling. She looked into the fire of the candlelight thoughtfully. “No…”

Looking upon her, he often wondered what she felt. She had achieved perfection, she was the umavi. And yet as the firelight danced across her cheek, Essek wondered if she ever tired. She broke his revelry with a tap of her fingers against the stone bench.

“I’m sure you need no news,” the Bright Queen said. “The Mighty Nein have met with King Dwendal after being missing for so many weeks.”

“I was aware.”

“What do your shadows tell you that the human arcanist did not? Was it right to pull back the assault do you think?”

“Yes, it was. It was the cultists who were utilizing our assault to better their aims, we have confirmed reports of a Priestess of the Dawnfather being in cahoots with the conspiracy, and the Mighty Nein dispatched her. Now they work to broker peace. They are being asked to coordinate a parlay between Empire and Dynasty, by giving us back one of the beacons. In their private talks, they are anxious about finding a neutral location, but have not seemed to betray us. Though, Beauregard did state she infiltrated us to get closer to the enemy.”

This was all really just a formality. She knew what he knew, and he knew what She knew. Just another part of the game, Essek thought. The game in which they would all be winners or they would all be losers. It would be up to the Mighty Nein, and the prospect was somewhat terrifying.

“Just that claim is enough for me to have them killed on sight,” the Bright Queen warned him.

“Considering the slipshod job they did of infiltrating us, I find it very likely and compelling that they are just saying what they need to say to retrieve the beacon. That was the assignment given, and that seems to be what they are doing. Besides, they did not hinder our operatives while in the Empire.”

“One of the reasons you amuse me so is you are such a delightful pacifist,” the Bright Queen said.

“So long as it amuses you, your majesty.”

“You would be all I wish you to be, then? Have you no thoughts of your own?” the Bright Queen dared.

“All I have ever done, and will ever do, I do to serve at your leisure. I am just one of the voices you allow to fill up your ear. However, considering you chose and continue to choose to fill it with mine, it gives me some hope about where your opinion lies.”

“And where is that?”

“The long game, your majesty. It would do the Dynasty no good to rip the Empire out by the throat, utterly decimating their population and society. It would only serve to prove the Empire’s propaganda right, and move the masses against us. Instead, we take the high road. We show the Empire citizens we are not the monsters they claim us to be. And then, slowly, we can...improve upon their society,” Essek said simply.

“You care for the masses.”

“I must admit my bias for the common people, no matter their country of origin. At my core, I am still very much the street rat Skysybil yanked off the street.”

“And does it not concern you that they haven’t messaged?”

“I’m sure they are just busy, saving the world and all that,” Essek stated.

"Are you sure you are not just lonely for your wizard pet?" The Bright Queen's asked.

"This is far more amusing," Essek promised with a smile.

The Bright Queen's considered him. She reached out to cup his face and turn it up towards the candlelight. Essek blinked rapidly, but was docile and allowed her to do what she wished.

"Tell me something that no one else knows, Essek," she commanded him.

"I have no secrets from you, your majesty," Essek said, unable to help the way his head tipped to the side in curiosity. "What would you have me tell you?"

"I would have you look at me, unhindered by the mask you wear," she bid him, her fingers running in his hair. "And tell me your feelings, uninhibited. Do you believe that I am in the right?"

"With all of my heart," Essek said without hesitation, "I believe in you, for you are my sovereign."

"And you live to serve me, of course. But do you trust in my judgement?"

"I do, but I do not trust those who may seek to influence your decisions. You are divine, my queen, but not infallible. Though I am devoted to you with all of my heart, I will do my best to change your mind should I think you wrong.”

"With most of your heart," the Bright Queen's corrected, releasing him. "I hope you don’t take me for a sentimental idiot. You are a mortal, and your desires are that of a wild young foolish creature."

“I’m sure it seems that way.”

“They cannot be changed, my dear Shadowhand,” the Bright Queen said mournfully. “My nation will only ever be safe when the Empire has been decimated. It is within their nature to expand and conquer, and even if we broker a peace now it will not last.”

“If you believed that, I would be out of the job,” Essek informed her.

“Perhaps,” the Bright Queen stated. “But for now, what can we do besides pray?”

Between that breath and the next she was gone, leaving him in the prayer chamber alone.

_____

"Will you require anything else, my Lord?"

Essek looked up from his reading to see one of his servants. Essek smiled at him, and watched as the servant relaxed minutely and settled the tray with tea by the bedside table. This one was a newer hire, an assistant to the cook when he wasn’t completing general housekeeping tasks though Essek had the sneaking suspicion he would prove to be a better cook with time. It was important, to know and cultivate your assets.

“No, Amald, you are dismissed for the night,” Essek said. “Tell your wife I send my regards and well wishes to her health. She is with her third, yes?”

“And ready for the end of it, I’m afraid,” Amald said, tusks showing with his smile. “This pregnancy has not been easy on her. Our Denmother believes the birth will be difficult too.”

“Well, I shall send for my personal healer then,” Essek said, closing his book. He held up his hand at Amald’s immediate attempt at response. “Do not worry about the cost, I shall take care of it. Consider it my gift to you and your wife, and a favor I may ask repaid.”

“Of course,” Amald said his voice rich with feeling and gratefulness, bowing so deeply that Essek was worried he would topple over. “You are most kind, my lord.”

Essek blinked at the sight, fighting off his frown easily. Essek often enjoyed compliments. He was handsome, talented, shrewd, powerful, generous any number of things. Kind though? Not one of the usual ones.

“Until tomorrow,” Essek said, and Amald took off.

Essek enjoyed the remainder of his tea, a wonderful blend of ginger, licorice root, peppermint, and chamomile. He always found going into a trance so much more pleasant on the tail-end of nice tea and a good book. He could almost hear his Denmother lecturing him about the importance of trance, after collapsing with exhaustion during his first year of his education.

Essek slipped into bed, laying down among the sheets and pillows. It was always easier to trance when he wasn’t sitting, or his back would protest. He listened to his heart beat, to the breath in his lungs, felt the way his ribs moved beneath his skin, fell deeper...deeper…

He was in his Denmother’s salon. Not his Denmother yet...at least not on paper. Mathulsda Theylss was frowning at him severely, looking him up and down as if all his faults were written upon his features and could be categorized accordingly.

“Smile in a way that doesn’t make you look like you swallowed a frog,” his Denmother scolded. Essek’s reflection looked back at him. A sixteen year old Essek looked annoyed at best, contemptuous at worst. “Smile.”

“I don’t want to smile,” Essek snapped at her.

“You are lucky you were born in this era, boy,” his Denmother scoffed, leaving his side for a moment to take a sip at some wine. “Or you wouldn’t have a choice about what was done with your pretty face. You were the one complaining about the way they treat you, listen to my advice or don’t bother to complain.”

“How is smiling better going to help me? They hate me because they think me common,” Essek demanded, and was given a pinched cheek for his question. She released him and he held his cheek, glaring at her.

“No, they hate you because they know you are anything but common,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She looked at herself in the mirror, and Essek looked at her reflection and saw the transformation. She was truly arresting, in the way she smiled and turned her head just so. “It is easy then, to change hatred to love. You suss out those who hate you, and then you go to their friends. You find their weaknesses and can exploit them easily, because there is nothing for them to hate about you. Your professors will adore you, and will teach you all you wish to know. The noble dens will look at you and say, what a wonderful boy. The Bright Queen will favor you. Forget how to frown, Essek. That horrid little street urchin you were doesn’t exist. You are pretty, pleasant, considerate, and you smile. It is no longer a mask you can slip on and slip off when you play your childish little games with Skysybil. It is who you are now, forever.”

“I’m not like that, that’s not who I am,” Essek said, staring at himself. “I’m…”

“Essek Theylss is,” she said softly, as if it were a mercy. Her hands were upon his shoulders. “If you wish to be Essek Theylss, it’s who you will become. If you cannot get along with them, if you cannot make allies and cannot play the game, we have no use for you. There are other children with talent, though maybe not as talented as you, but they can become far more useful to us if you will not. So? Are you willing?”

Essek watched his own reflection as he schooled his face into a soft smile. It fit onto his face cleanly, naturally, as if this were the way he was always meant to look. Maybe it was the way he was meant to look. Maybe she was right. If this was what everyone wanted then this was for the best. The Denmother patted his shoulder, in a mockery of fondness that tore that thought out by the root.

“Very good, Essek,” she praised, standing in front of him to fix the collar of his uniform. She was taller than him, looking down at him with cruel delight. “Isn’t that so much better? We must always look our best, don’t we--?”

Wake up!

Essek tore himself out of that trance, jerking up so fast that his back twinged. He pressed his hands to his face, taking a few moments to just breathe. He knew better than this, Essek thought, thoroughly annoyed at himself as he lay back down with a huff. A trance was a fluid state, a visitation of memories or dreams affected by waking emotions and thoughts. Bad thoughts led to bad memories or dreams which led to bad trances.

“All I have are bad thoughts,” Essek said as he breathed out to the ceiling, resigned to his fate. There was just too much jumbled together in his mind, too much worry.

Something you don’t know? Essek thought crossly. I miss the Mighty Nein, their shenanigans and their quirks that make me feel like I am not altogether that odd and that I have my life in a workable order. I don’t believe that I have a mask anymore, there is only this. I don’t know how to be without a smile. I don’t even know what it’s like to be that person anymore, but I feel as close to it as I ever have when I am with Caleb Widogast of all people. I want them to like me. I want him to want me, whoever that is.

Essek continued to breathe, though he felt that it was a struggle. He needed to rest. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be as sharp as he needed to be.

Rest, Essek told himself, forcing his eyes closed. Rest.

Entering into a trance again, he was greeted with a dark space. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was a comforting absence. It was a night sky without stars, the inside of your eyelids, the feeling of being underwater, in the warmth, in the bath--

"Essek," Caleb murmured.

Essek was in bed, somewhere comfortable and soft. A weight on the bed next to him, a body pressed deliciously to his as if searching for warmth. This wasn’t what he wanted, Essek thought dizzily. He wouldn’t be able to rest like this, not when his body suddenly felt so alive.

“Essek,” Caleb called again. There was a dip in the bed, the sensation of being straddled, a press of a kiss to his neck. Essek shuddered at the soft touch, the way he was being kissed like he was precious. Like he would shatter at a harsher touch. He gasped as his eyes fluttered open.

“Oh,” he sighed, reaching up to touch Caleb’s face, brushing across his cheek with the back of his hand. Caleb leaned into the touch as if he chased it. His eyes were the powdery blue flowers painted in the mural on their barbarian's wall, regarding him with a tender, searching expression. The emotional whiplash almost took Essek right out of this, but he was anchored by the feeling of Caleb’s body against his.

“Will you stay with me?” Caleb asked him, catching his hand. He nuzzled it sweetly, causing goosebumps to ripple across Essek’s skin, before cradling Essek's face in his hands. Caleb didn’t smile as much as he should, in fact, Essek had gotten the distinct impression that Caleb had long since gotten out of the practice of smiling. But he would look so lovely, if given the opportunity. Essek’s traitorous heart told him that perhaps he would be the one to offer those opportunities, if Caleb would let him.

"Yes," Essek said, managing to get the word out from his heavy tongue. Caleb managed to remedy that problem by dipping his head down and catching Essek in a kiss. Essek tipped his head, to deepen the kiss, to let it linger as long as he could. To feel the imprint of teeth and the stroke of the tongue that left him tingling all over. Essek trailed his fingers over Caleb's bare arms, feeling the hair there, the rough criss-cross of scars against sun-worn freckled skin.

They kissed and explored each other without worry or haste, until Essek lay breathless beneath Caleb, allowing Caleb to pamper his skin with attention, to lavish him with his desire in a way that had him shivering. Essek couldn’t untangle himself from Caleb, from his legs or his arms, and he didn’t want to. Essek was caught there and he never wanted to escape from Caleb’s arms.

"You are so beautiful," Caleb whispered, nipping his collarbone. Essek's breath caught in his throat.

Essek regarded Caleb through a half-lidded gaze, memorizing the exact way Caleb’s hair escaped his tie, and the constellation of freckles dusted across his nose. The adorable little human curve of his ear, the human thickness of his body. Essek had seen the way that others looked at Caleb, with a desire that soaked in one’s skin like a warm summer rain. It made Essek covetous and proud, because Caleb had eyes for him. They were a well-matched pair, in Essek’s opinion.

"Please, do tell me what you find so beautiful about me," Essek bid him.

“Smug,” Caleb chuckled.

“I am merely asking for the facts of the matter,” Essek told him, sitting up. He climbed into Caleb’s lap, something very bold and daring for him, but it was nice to be somewhat taller than Caleb in that moment. Essek found the shell of Caleb’s ear he had previously admired, tracing it with his lips and the barest brush of his canine, letting Caleb shudder under his touch. He curled his arms around Caleb’s neck, looking deep into Caleb’s eyes as he pulled his head back with the softest tug. Caleb bared his neck to him easily, so easily submitting to the touch, and it set upon Essek the fire of desire “Tell me, be a clever boy and tell me what I want to hear.”

“You are the most powerful and beautiful man I’ve ever laid my eyes upon,” Caleb groaned, moving their hips together in a way that made Essek shudder. “I need you. No one else could ever compare to you, Essek.”

“Yes,” Essek gasped, feeling Caleb hot and hard and longing against him. It was driving him crazy. He had spent so long without a lover, without sampling the pleasures of flesh. He hadn’t needed it, and he hadn’t missed the few and sparse flings of his youth. They had been bare-boned things that couldn’t even be called romance, a simple almost instinctual satisfying of urges, a useful distraction, a way to utilize his pretty face to get what he needed. Knowledge, power, the game of politics had been so much more entertaining, and intellectual curiosity being quenched was so much more satisfying. People were easy to manipulate when they were kept at an arm’s length, it was so much easier to smile when there was nothing at stake.

But this? This was something else entirely. He couldn’t even control his body, couldn’t think through the haze of desire. He resurfaced and had to have pushed Caleb underneath him, because suddenly his hands were digging into his shoulders and his hips were moving desperately to the staccato rhythm of his heart as Caleb dragged him harder and more deliciously against him. Pleasure tore him open, it filled him up, it was so good--!

“Look at you,” Caleb moaned, pressing his flame-hot hands against Essek’s belly. “So lovely, so beautiful wrung out like this, just for me. What a treasure you are…”

“More,” Essek demanded, not sure how much longer he could last but wanting to wring out this moment as long as he could. Everything was on fire, on a pin-needle edge, but he wanted to be greedy. He wanted all the things he couldn’t allow himself, all the things that Caleb could give him and that he could give to Caleb in equal measure.

Oh by the Light, they were making love. The realization made Essek lightheaded, it made his back arch with the intensity of the sensation, it sent his teeth on edge. He would be ruined for everything else, Caleb would ruin him, but he had to give in.

“You are exquisite,” Caleb gasped, reverently, desperately--lovingly and then he gave in to the pleasure, forcing Essek over the edge with the intensity. Essek wilted upon him, no more strength in his limbs to hold him. Caleb stroked him through it, with him. For a few blissful moments, there was nothing else in his mind.

Slowly though, he emerged. Essek peppered Caleb’s face with kisses, curling his leg around him, burying his face into Caleb’s shoulder and his soft, fragrant hair. Caleb’s fingers scratched the back of his head, in a way that made him sigh with sated pleasure.

“It is time to wake, Essek,” Caleb chuckled, voice amused and hazy with warm gentle lovemaking.

“No,” Essek grumbled, more firmly pressing himself to Caleb. It was a stubborn childish thing that well in his chest, but he didn’t care. In that moment, completely divulged of his mask, he just wanted to be selfish.

“Yes, it is,” Caleb said wistfully, and as Caleb gently stroked Essek’s back in soft comforting waves that drew him deeper, further...softer…

Essek resurfaced having drooled into his pillow. He sat up and looked at himself in the mirror, at his mussed bed-head and very inelegant splotches across his cheek and--his dream!

His face burst into heat, he grabbed the closest pillow, buried his face into it, and bit into it hard to stifle his scream. Oh by the Light! Had he reverted back into his second decade? He thanked the Luxon and all the Gods above and below for the gift of living alone. He didn’t think he had ever been so mortified in his entire life.

“I’ll never be able to look at him again,” Essek said mournfully, spitting out feathers he had managed to rip out with his fangs. He brought his blessedly cool fingers up to press to his hot cheeks.

“By the Luxon, let them come back soon, or else I might really go mad,” Essek muttered to himself.

His reflection in the mirror seemed to agree.

#Critical Role #Critical Role Fanfic #shadowgast #essek theylss #caleb widogast

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wasalwaysagreatpickle · 5 years ago

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Sunday 4 October 1829

8 1/4

1 25/..

Went out with Lady Stuart to the well at 9 1/2 – breakfast at 10 – all at the cathedral at 10 40/.. (service begins at 10) for about 1/2 hour to hear the music – home before 12 – Lady Stuart and Miss Hobart read the morning prayers in 1/2 hour –

Came to my room at 1 – wrote 3pp. and the ends to Miss Maclean still uncertain how long we should be here – but beg her to write to me aux soins de Messers [Daniel] Danoot fils and [cse] as before à Bruxelles – want to know how she is and what chance there is of her coming to us – if any chance, it might surely be contrived for me to meet her at Ostende, and bring her back – the waters here have done Lady Stuart good, because they have renovated her spirits – time will shew how far the effect will be lasting – merely said of Miss Hobart she would be satisfied with her looks – mentioned my journey along the Rhine, etc. with Lady Gordon then wrote 3pp. to Mariana our plans uncertain but to write to me at Paris the moment of receiving this letter – the not hearing from her the great drawback on my travelling – mention my little tour with Lady Duff Gordon, and her younger son Mr Gordon as very agreeable – no journey could be taken under happier auspices – delighted with Francfort – enjoyed ourselves much at Ems – even talked of travelling together next year if nothing particular occurred to either of us to prevent it – she a very agreeable person and very musical and she and Miss Hobart sing together – sorry she goes tomorrow –

Then as if indirectly mention the going of Lady Isabella Blatchford our two Lords Graves and Forbes and our charming polonaise the countess Zamoyska

Concluded my letter to Mariana in a hurry, saying that we and the Gordons and a son of sir George Wombwells were going to dine out – at 3 1/4 sent off my letter to ‘Miss Maclean of Coll 21 Southampton Street Camden Town London’ (Miss Hobart wrote the 2 latter parts of the direction) and I added only ‘Angleterre’, and sent off also at the same time my letter to Mariana ‘Lawton hall, Lawton cheshire Angleterre’ –

Lady Gordon here – Lady Stuart and Miss Hobart went to call on Mrs Meason at the hotel de l’Empereur (where Napoleon [was]) – not come – and Lady Gordon and I walked to Louisberg where Cosmo and young Wombwell followed – Lady Stuart and Miss Hobart had arrived before us – found the former sitting out in the balcony sketching –

Dinner at 4 20/.. – a bottle of Moselle, ditto claret saint julien and ditto Marcobrunner – all good – and very fair dinner – at least all seemed satisfied –

Lady Gordon and I very good friends I rather flatter her in the score of her being agreeable she arguing against it saying she had never an offer but the one she accepted and no offer of marriage since her widowhood I said as to this that really her circumstances had been fearful all her debts to which anyone who married her would be subject etc. yes she owned I was right in that asked if I should ever behold her again yes she hopes so in Paris and London agreed she is not to go to Spain or anywhere abroad without letting me know in time to go with her

Cosmo in wild boyish spirits – Lady Stuart returned alone in the carriage and we all walked (Lady Gordon and Mr Wombwell – Miss Hobart and Cosmo and I

She had hold of his arm and mine and we galloped)

along the boulevart to Lady Gordon’s to leave her at home, and then Miss Hobart and Mr Wombwell and I got home at 7 1/4 - Lady Stuart was gone to the Comtesse Zamoyska’s – dressed – Lady Gordon came and she and Miss Hobart and Cosmo went to the Comtesse – Miss Hobart came back in 1/4 hour for me, and I got there at 8 –

Lady Stuart sat working her worsted border on muslin – Cosmo and I played several games at écarté having found the cards on the table – Lady Gordon and Miss Hobart sang – home at 9 3/4 – the little girl very handsome – beautiful hair – had it taken down – reached almost to her ankles – Miss Hobart tired went to bed at 10 – I sat talking to Lady Stuart till 10 40/.. – then stood talking to Miss Hobart till 11 1/4 –

Talking of the Gordons I at last said perhaps it might have been as well not to have made the appointment with him at eight and a half this morning but he was not ready so she rejoiced she had not gone to borcette but only walked about at the well she said it was very foolish was not like her in general cried over the folly of it and got nervous but thanked me for telling her of it had he been a year or two older she would not have done it envied everyone who had a brother who cared for them she had almost now got over her care about hers consoled her wished I had done as few foolish things as she had done fewer than most but told her she was not generally conciliatory in her manner and sometimes seemed cross to Lady Stuart and all men would observe it said I myself had only made up my mind whether she had much heart or not oh that said she is because I was cross to you individually I mentioned Valenciennes kissed her two or three times and came away said I would just wish her good night when she was in bed but she begged me not

Came to my room at 11 1/4 –

oh oh thought I I see my person when there was talk of her having no German lesson at eight tomorrow morning she said why not if Cosmo asked me to walk I should get up but to be sure that would be more interesting than German when I joked her this morning and said I would roast Cosmo oh no said she do not if he liked his bed better as if annoyed that he should have done so what pleasure can she have in the society of much a nouseless boy of seventeen? how prefer his senseless conversation to German his company to mine? the breeches how true that a womans prudery saves her she at twenty six thus pleased with seventeen! twouldo her good to marry I wonder whether I have really ever caused her the least excitement is she ever conscious feeling till she can better understand it with Cosmo? she came into my room while I was writing took up some of my Francfort paper saying she should take a couple of sheets which she did adding how nice it is to have anyone whom one can treat like a dog I merely laughed and joked about it how little she knows me I would gladly make a good connection for blood and money but she would not suit me I should be shockingly puzzled how to be off if she was more inclined for me poor [Pi – Mariana] if she had not these whites so that I am always afraid of her I should be satisfied enough -

Writing the whole of the above of today which took me till 12 50/.. threatening clouds all the day, and no sun, and coldish, but yet the rain held off. save a few drops – and finish, or, at least fair day –

#anne lister #1829 #vere hobart #anne lister code breaker

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manabingu · 7 years ago

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Haruka Nanami = soft girl

This has been sitting in my inbox since yesterday MY BAD! I wanted to answer this earlier but got distracted by deadlines of some stuff ANYWAY. Thanks for sending me an ask about Nanami CUZ I BEEN WANTIN TO TALK ABOUT MY HOME GIRL FOR AWHILE BUT NEVER GET THE CHANCE TO! So thanks~*~*~*

THIS GIRL RIGHT HERE. NANAMI HARUKA ^^^^ I WOULD DIE FOR HER.

Honestly, I’m that one person in every fandom that tends to fall in love with characters who I feel get undeserved hate or are either a minor character who gets glossed over. And be like….YALL??? Why you so mean to such adorable, innocent,sweet, hardworking, wouldn’t hurt a fly characters and then say that characters who are LITERAL murderers and criminals are the “precious cinnamon rolls who can do no wrong” only cuz you attracted to them??? yall thas sad. Listen…I’m honestly tired of people who bash on the anime and only play the games cuz they think it’s boring. Yes, you can have your opinion & I respect that, but I’ve seen some people whom have a pretty steadily growing following just bash on Nanami or some of their “not best boys” for reasons that make no sense to me & I been bottling this for awhile but Imma just SPEAK today cuz I’m on fire. ANYWAY BACK TO MY QUEEN.

LET ME HAVE MY NANAMI HARUKA TED TALK. Debunking complaints

Complaint I’ve heard: She’s boring

IN MY PERSONAL OPINION. NANAMI HARUKA IS ONE OF THE BEST LEADS IN ANY IDOL/ REVERSE HAREM ANIME I HAVE SEEN TO DATE.

She’s FAR from boring. She kind of reminds me of one of my other favorite lead heroines of all time. Tohru Honda from Fruits Basket. Both are humble & haven’t really had much in their life. Let’s talk about her story, she is a girl who was born with with bad health so much so that her parents sent her to grow up and live with her grandma in the countryside where the air was cleaner & less polluted than the city where they live. While she stayed with grandma, she learned to play piano by ear & she really didn’t grow up with much technology. She states in episode one that she didn’t even have a TV so anytime anyone in her class makes a reference to a famous celebrity she doesn’t know who they are. If I had to guess she only probably had books, toys, & a record player at grandma’s house AND I think she was home-schooled? Which means that that her only other friend besides her grandma & possibly the local neighborhood kids was grandma’s piano.

I think she’s highly relateable too. I sure have had similar experience (trust me, my immune system is TerRibLe XD so I feel home girl) But I knew the moment I saw that part in episode 1 where she describes how music LITERALLY saved her life, THAT is when I knew I would protect this girl for the rest of my life cuz I just yelled at my screen SAME GURL! SAAAAAAME TTuTT/ In Nanami’s case, she went by herself to the city to visit her parents, she thought since she no longer was a kid, her health wouldn’t be too endangered but she she got there she got REALLY lost & the noise pollution was so overwhelming that her anxiety gave her a panic attack. AND THIS IS WHY I REALLY LIKE UTAPRI. BECAUSE THEY GET HELLA REAL HELLA FAST. THIS KIND OF THING IS NOT SOME KINDA MADE UP THING. LET ME SIT YALL DOWN AND TELL YOU A STORY.

Listen- I remember when I was like 16ish I went to New York with a cousin & as a person who comes from a small town- being in the city BY YOURSELF for the first time, it’s SO SCARY to someone who has anxiety. I was dropped off in Manhattan while she ran a work errand she gave me money for food & encouraged me to explore. As soon as they left, I looked around thinking OH GOD WHAT NOW?? I saw a cathedral close by and I RAN for it. I was so scared being alone I went to a small corner of the cathedral and started crying & tweeting, which got some comforting responses from native NY people that followed me & I texted the friend that was closest to me (if you count Virginia close lol) But he called me & just talked to me & helped me feel better. He encouraged me to not stay in one place & to go find a place I like & perhaps if I was too anxious, to go stay there till I was picked up. IT TOOK ME 30 MINUTES to get courage enough to walk to the Barnes & Noble/Starbucks that was close & I stayed there texting him the rest of the time. So ANYTIME people talk crap about Nanami’s panic attack in the city I’m gonna politely tell them to get out of my face cuz that’s a VERY real emotion. The thing that saved Nanami was hearing a singer in a giant screen singing a soothing song. THE MUSIC HELPED CALM DOWN HER ANXIETY. EXCUSE ME. YALL CAN’T SAY THAT YOU’VE NEVER BEEN SOOTHED BY A SONG IN YOUR LIFE. WE ALL BEEN THERE. WHEN WE WERE SO DOWN THAT LISTENING TO A SONG MADE US FEEL BETTER. I know that happened with me. Just like Nanami, I had a time in my life where I was just ready for death, I had lost hope to live but hearing ONE. SONG by my favorite singer, literally stopped me. So I can relate how she felt about HAYATO in the city. And how afterwards she was so inspired by it that she wanted to try to have a career dealing with music. HER REASON FOR WANTING TO BECOME A COMPOSER IS BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT IT’S LIKE TO FEEL SAD AND SCARED. SO SHE WANTS TO MAKE MUSIC THAT CAN TOUCH PEOPLE’S HEARTS & IF THEY’RE HAVING A BAD DAY, SHE CAN CHEER THEM UP WITH A SONG. IF THAT ISN’T THE GREATEST REASONING TO GO FIGHT FOR A DREAM, I DUNNO WHAT IS.

AND SHE KNOWS THAT THE ODDS ARE AGAINST HER. BUT SHE DOESN’T THROW IN THE TOWEL EASILY. I FREAKING LOVE HER FOR THAT. NANAMI. HARUKA. IS. NOT. WEAK.

Once she was of age, she applied for THE most prestigious music academy in her area. She was nearly late to the entrance exam cuz she helped a lost child find their mom while she was running in a snowstorm to the school. And because she was noticed to have that high moral compass by the principal, she was allowed to take the exam and made it in. And even when she DID get in, she was bullied by all the rich kids for not being able to read sheet music & not being taught by a private piano teacher when she was asked to play in front of everyone. She KNEW that she can play piano but she was self taught & played by ear. ((THIS STRUCK ME HARD TOO. Because I am self taught too- as a singer, I thought that if I didn’t have access to all these things & I didn’t know how to sight read I’d never be taken seriously or that I was less worthy to be called a musician than my peers)) But did she give up??? NO. HOME GIRL RAN TO THE LIBRARY and she studied her ass off to not let her first assignment project partner down. I COULD GO ON FOR HOURS ABOUT THE FIRST SEASON ALONE. SHE WAS THROWN SO MANY CURVE BALLS TO CRUSH HER SPIRIT AND DESPITE HER ANXIETY KEPT FIGHTING FOR HER DREAM.

But you know what? She also showed me THAT IT’S OK TO FALL DOWN TO ROCK BOTTOM. It’s OK to feel like giving up especially when your confidence has been crushed to a pulp by everyone. YALL, I FREAKING BAWLED MY EYES OUT WHEN SHE FOUND OUT THAT STARISH - THE BAND SHE SINGLE-HANDEDLY (and with some magical fate strings pulled by Cecil)) CREATED WAS GONNA DEBUT WITHOUT HER. She was asked by the principal if she thought HER music could compete with pros already established and household names already in the business. She didn’t want her friends to give up their dreams of debuting so she agreed to step down as STARISH’s composer AGAINST their demands for her to not give up. She went home and cried to her grandmother that she felt SO outclassed. And you know what? I’m GLAD Utapri shared this kind of story because I’m sure it has happened to a lot of people.

Nanami is a really kind, compassionate, selfless human being. She does anything and everything so that all her family & friends can be happy at the expense of her own happiness. She takes it to the extreme that she is PUSHED and forced to FOR ONCE think selfishly and do something for herself. Her purity & kindness won the respect of her classmates & teachers so much so that they always want to support her dream of becoming a songwriter. When STARISH came to her house cuz they heard she ran away- she openly admitted IN TEARS that SHE wanted to be STARISH’s composer, she didn’t want anyone else to write for them because she had fun with her friends and she didn’t want that to stop. ((The principal overheard her and said FINALLY! SOMETIMES ITS OK TO BE SELFISH WHEN IT COMES TO YOUR DREAM! Its ok to be kind but also think of your own feelings sometimes too. I think young, budding artists need to hear this. )) SHE GIVES ME HOPE CUZ I BE THE SAME WAY SOMETIMES WITH MY STUFF SO YEAH ;~~~~~;/

SOMETIMES When I watch a show that has harem elements to it, I really judge the protag that everyone is falling for and I think about if the harem people’s feelings are justified enough for them to actually fall in love with the protag. And you know what? In Nanami’s case?? ITS A BIG OL HELL YEAH IT’S JUSTIFIED.

FrICK- I fell in love with Nanami too??? How could I not??? I AM A BIGASS SAP FOR INNOCENT, SHY, CHARACTERS WHO TRY THEIR BEST EVEN THOUGH THEY SCARED AF CUZ OF CONFIDENCE ISSUES.

She’s a wonderful, compassionate, gifted person who just needs love and support and you know she’ll be there for you too and it’s mutual. She works SUPER hard at her job, she’s endearing, she makes you wanna just protect her cuz if she is sad lord I will probably go on a rampage. This girl doesn’t deserve to go through more than she already has. I love and respect Nanami. A female protagonist doesn’t need to be bitchy, slutty, or badass to be considered “interesting”.

HECK, one time I heard someone say “This show would be 10x if Nanami was a guy. UMMMM???? WTF??? Ok, listen, I’m in the lgbt spectrum, & I’m sick of people saying that Utapri would be better if Nanami was a boy. Why is it so bad that she’s a girl?? Like- I would like ONE reasonable explanation that doesn’t involve fetishizing your personal fantasies. When people fetishize an lgbt relationship- you’re causing that type of relationship to not be taken seriously irl. If we wanna make this the norm, we gotta treat it like it’s a natural occurrence. Not force something for the sake of fanservice. There are barely any well written female protags like Nanami out there in the world and if we change her, we are taking out one of the best from the list. I want more shows to write good, memorable female protags like Nanami. I wouldn’t be against her being a boy. But only if the reason was for good reasons and to explore character development dynamics. Cuz I enjoy content that has actual substance. SERIOUSLY- If Utapri was ONLY fanservice, I would despise it. BUT IT’S NOT. It tackles real issues & speaks about people in the industry and they don’t sugarcoat ANYTHING. They show you the harsh realities but they also give you hope to keep doing what you love even if you gotta work extra harder than your peers who might be more experienced than you.

And THAT is what I learned from Nanami Haruka. And I will defend my songwriting princess till I die. Thank you.

#Nanami Haruka #Uta no Prince sama #Utapri #I WILL DEFEND MY PRINCESS WITH MY LIFE #ALSO TOMO CUZ TOMO IS ALSO A QUEEN AND SHE IS SUCH A BOP #Mana Answerz #ivmysterynumbers #Utapri Fandom

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pope-francis-quotes · 6 years ago

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17th April >> (@ZenitEnglish By Virginia Forrester) #PopeFrancis #Pope Francis’ General Audience Full Text: Jesus’ Words to the Father ‘Easter: Prayer to the Father in Trial’.

This morning’s General Audience was held at 9:20 in St. Peter’s Square, where the Holy Father Francis met with groups of pilgrims and faithful from Italy and from all over the world.

On the eve of the Easter Triduum, in his address in Italian the Pope focused his meditation on the theme: “Easter: Prayer to the Father in Trial” (From the Gospel according to Mark 14:32-36a).

After summarizing his catechesis in several languages, the Holy Father expressed special greetings to groups of faithful present. At the end of his greeting to the French-speaking pilgrims, the Holy Father expressed his closeness to the city of Paris and to all the French people for the fire that devastated a great part of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

The General Audience ended with the singing of the Pater Noster and the Apostolic Blessing.

* * *

The Holy Father’s Catechesis

Dear Brothers and Sisters, good morning!

In these weeks we are reflecting on the prayer of the “Our Father.” Now, on the eve of the Easter Triduum, we pause on some words with which Jesus, during his Passion, prayed to the Father.

The first invocation happened after the Last Supper, when the Lord “lifted up His eyes to Heaven and said: ‘Father, the hour has come; glorify thy Son’ — and then — ‘glorify Thou Me in thy own presence with the glory which I had with Thee before the world was made’” (John 17:1.5). Jesus asks for glory, a request that seems paradoxical while the Passion is imminent. What kind of glory is it? In the Bible, glory indicates God’s revealing Himself; it’s the distinct sign of His saving presence among men. Now Jesus is He who manifests definitively the presence and salvation of God. And He does so at Easter: raised on the cross, He is glorified (Cf. John 12:23-33). There, God finally reveals His glory: He takes away the last veil and astonishes us as never before. We discover, in fact, that God’s glory is all love: pure love, mad and unthinkable, beyond every limit and measure.

Brothers and sisters, let’s make Jesus’ prayer our own: let us ask the Father to take away the veils from our eyes so that in these days, looking at the Crucified, we can understand that God is love. How often we imagine Him Master and not Father; how often we think of Him as a severe Judge rather than as a merciful Saviour! However, at Easter God reduces the distances, showing Himself in the humility of a love that asks for our love. Therefore, we give Him glory when we live all that we do with love, when we do each thing from our heart, as for Him (Cf. Colossians 3:17). True glory is the glory of love because it’s the only one that gives life to the world. This glory is certainly the opposite of worldly glory, which comes when one is admired, praised, acclaimed: when I am at the center of attention. Instead, God’s glory is paradoxical: no applause, no audience. The ‘I’ isn’t at the center but the other: at Easter we see in fact that the Father glorifies the Son while the Son glorifies the Father. Neither glorifies Himself. We can ask ourselves today: “What is the glory for which I live, mine or God’s? Do I only want to receive from others or also give to others?”

After the Last Supper, Jesus enters the Garden of Gethsemane and here too, He prays to the Father. While the disciples are unable to stay awake and Judas is arriving with the soldiers, Jesus begins to feel “fear and anguish.” He experiences all the anguish of what awaits Him: betrayal, contempt, suffering <and> failure. He is “sad” and there, in the abyss of that desolation, He addressed the most tender and sweet word to the Father: “Abba,” namely, Daddy (Cf. Mark 14:33-36) In trial Jesus teaches us to embrace the Father, because in prayer to Him there is the strength to go forward in sorrow. In toil, prayer is relief, entrustment <and> comfort. In the abandonment of all, in His interior desolation, Jesus isn’t alone; He is with the Father. We, instead, in our Gethsemane’s often choose to stay alone rather than say “Father” and entrust ourselves, like Jesus, to His Will, which is our true good. However, when we remain closed in on ourselves in trial we dig a tunnel inside, a painful, introverted course, which has only one direction: always deeper into ourselves. The greatest problem isn’t pain but how it’s faced. Solitude doesn’t offer ways out; prayer does, because it is relationship, it is entrustment. Jesus entrusts everything and everything is entrusted to the Father, taking to Him what he feels, leaning on Him in the struggle. When we enter our Gethsemane’s — each one of us has his/her own Gethsemane or has had them or will have them — let us remember this: when we enter in our Gethsemane, let us remind ourselves to pray thus: “Father.” We must remember to pray thus: “Father.”

Finally, Jesus addresses a third prayer to the Father for us: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Jesus prays for those that were wicked to Him, for His killers. The Gospel specifies that this prayer happened at the moment of the crucifixion. It was probably the moment of the most acute pain when the nails were hammered into His wrists and His feet. Here, at the summit of pain, He reaches the apex of love: forgiveness comes, namely, the gift of the umpteenth power, which breaks the circle of evil.

Praying the “Our Father” in these days, we can ask for one of these graces: to live our days for the glory of God, namely, to live with love; to be able to entrust ourselves to the Father in trials and say “Daddy” to the Father and find in the encounter with the Father the forgiveness and courage to forgive. Both things go together. The Father forgives us, but He gives us the courage to be able to forgive.

[Original text: Italian] [ZENIT’s translation by Virginia M. Forrester]

In Italian

A warm welcome goes to the Italian-speaking faithful. I’m happy to receive the participants in the UNIV 2019 Meeting. Dear young people who live these days of formation, on the example of Saint Josemaria, base your life ever more on the values of the faith so that, changing yourselves on the model of Christ, you will be able to transform the world around you.

I greet the Parishes; the school Institutes, in particular, those of Aversa and Teramo; the group of the Legion of the Piedmont Police and Valle d’Aosta and the Christian Family Association.

A particular thought goes to young people, the elderly, the sick and newlyweds. The Easter Triduum begins tomorrow, fulcrum of the whole Liturgical Year. May Christ Jesus’ Easter make you reflect on the love that God has shown for all. May the Lord grant you to take part fully in the mystery of His Death and Resurrection, and help you to make His sentiments your own and to share them with your neighbor.

[Original text: Italian] [ZENIT’s translation by Virginia M. Forrester]

17thvAPRIL 2019 15:28GENERAL AUDIENCE

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sunchasingstar · 2 years ago

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I’m feeling even more angst ab this after watching Hamilton again today. Specifically, more sunseeker angst, and we’ll see how deep we can go😈

Burn is the one that’s been playing with me the most. Regulus always told James he burned like the sun, that he gave light to the darkest parts of Regulus. (“You and your words flooded my senses..”) He’d pour devotion into every line his quill scratched and it seeped into the very bones that built James. (“Your sentences left me defenseless, you built me palaces out of paragraphs..”) James had always loved how Regulus wrote because a piece of himself was hidden into every syllable until it became a masterpiece of emotion- (“you built cathedrals…”) a cathedral that was made to sing psalms of sunshine and starlight intertwined, and oh how it burned. (“I’m searching and scanning for answers in every line for some kind of sign..”) Every letter, every poem, every little note that lead to his star, James kept it all as evidence that the he was the lover of a star.(“I saved every letter you wrote me, from the moment I read them I knew you were mine.”) Of course, that all came to an end in the winter of James seventh year during the holidays. (“The world seemed to burn..”)

BLACK HEIR PLEDGES LOYALTY TO THE DARK LORD

James felt numb. He felt cold, as if the sun had no purpose to burn if his star wasn’t there to burn for. Who was he if not a lover of his star? Who was he if not Regulus’ sun? (“You published the letters he wrote you, you told the whole world how you pledged to this man..”) He couldn’t breathe- this, this was the end of them, this was their supernova. (“In clearing your name, you have ruined our lives.”) Why had he done this? They were happy, James thought Regulus was happy. Maybe he wasn’t enough? (“You said you were mine, I thought you were mine.”) James felt disconnected, he no longer existed in the a world where he could be with Regulus and he felt like he was burning out. (“You have torn it all apart, I am watching it burn.”) Before he even knew what he was doing, James had gathered every note, letter, and poem that sang of stars and suns and threw them into the fireplace. (“I’m burning the memories, burning the letters that might have redeemed you.”) Regulus didn’t deserve to know what James had to say, clearly Regulus didn’t think James deserved to know about this. (“I’m erasing myself from the narrative..”) Clearly, Regulus never cared at all. Perhaps it was a cruel joke to hurt him, Regulus always could be cruel, (“You have forfeited all rights to my heart.”) but James always ignored it because he was so sweet to him. Yet, now he sits staring into a roaring fire fueled with shattered love and it feels as if his heart may never beat again. (“Let future historians wonder how James reacted when you broke his heart.”) James sat and watch it all burn.

BLACK HEIR PRESUMED DEAD AT EIGHTEEN

The world went quiet the day his star collapsed. (“It’s quiet uptown.”) A light died inside of James the night Regulus died in his and Sirius’ arms. (“There is suffering too terrible to name,”) It wasn’t until Remus came and pulled them both away from his cold body did James break, his sobs ripping out of his throat like solar flares, just burning, burning (“I hope that you burn…”) Oh, Merlin, it was his fault. Arms wrapped around him from both sides, (“You hold your brother as tight as you can..”) Sirius was crying into him as Remus tried to hold them both together. James felt like he was sinking into his grief, what was he with his star? (“The moments when you’re in so deep it feels easier to just swim down.”)

It had been weeks and yet it felt like the blood never left the floor of James’ flat. (“There are moments that words don’t reach.”) He spent 3 months in his childhood room before James finally found the strength to find somewhere new. (“James Potter moves uptown and learns to live with the unimaginable.”) It was above a quiet bookshop on a quiet street, (“I walk alone to the store, it’s quiet uptown.”) one that James could imagine Regulus would visit every afternoon. (“I never liked the quiet before.”) Sirius still wasn’t talking to him, Remus said to give him time, so James has stayed to himself for a while. (“If you see him in the street, walking by himself, talking to himself, have pity..”) He couldn’t help but find Regulus in everything he passes, (“They say he walks the length of the city..”) he finds him in the quiet. (“Lionheart, you’d like it uptown, it’s quiet uptown.”) On the sixth month mark, James went to Sirius’ side. He had given him time, (“I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost and you need time.”) and maybe he didn’t deserve to ask anything of Sirius, but he’d lost a star too. (“I know I don’t deserve you, Padfoot…”) He’d do anything to see him smile again, (“If I could spare his life, if I could trade his life for mine..”) James would trade his life for Regulus’ if it meant the stars would shine together again. (“You would smile and that would be enough.”) They’d spent the night walking the city, (“See them walking in the park, long after dark, taking in the sights of the city.”) Sirius can’t help but let out a watery laugh, Regulus would’ve liked it here. (“Petit étoile, you’d like it uptown, it’s quiet uptown.”) They walked until the sun began to shine again and the frost began to melt, Sirius takes James’ hand, (“Forgiveness, can you imagine?”)

“It’s quiet uptown.”

The marauders give the same vibes as Hamilton, Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan.

Ergo, imagine the marauders during seventh year singing The Story of Tonight. Sirius starting the toast, (“I may not live to see our glory, but I will gladly join the fight.”) James would stand with him, (“Raise a glass to freedom, something they can never take away, no matter what they tell you.”) Remus would look at these two with hope only his best friends could inspire, (“Raise a glass to the four of us,) and Peter would close the night with the hope and excitement they all feel for a better future,(“Tomorrow, there’ll be more of us telling the story of tonight.”)

Burn would be a twisted version of James finding out about Regulus joining the DE… (“do you know what Remus said when we saw your first letter arrive? Be careful of that one, Prongs, he will do what it takes to survive.”)(do you know what Remus said when he read what you had done? He said, “you’ve fallen for an Icarus, he has flown too close to the sun.”)(“you and your words obsessed with your legacy, your sentences border on senseless and you are paranoid in every paragraph, how they perceive you, you, you, you.”)

Stay Alive would be if James and Sirius were there for Regulus’ last moments. (“Stay alive, stay alive”) Kreacher would send for James and Sirius after Regulus called for them in a daze from the potion, (“Where is my star?”)(“Lord Potter, come in, we apparited here half an hour ago, he lost a lot of blood on the way over-“)(“Is he alive?!”) and James would rush to his side, (“Regulus,”)(“Mon Soleil..”) James would reach for his star, hands over of the gashes from the inferni,(“I did as you said, Mon Soleil, I was going to leave..”)(“I know, I know, shh, you did everything just right.”) Sirius would show up after James, (“Sirius”) (“Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this? What happened, James, did you know?”) he cradle his brother’s hand to his chest, (“Siri, I’m so sorry for forgetting what you taught me..)(“Petit étoile…”)(“We played piano..”)(“I taught you piano.”)(“You would put your hands on mine.”)(“You changed the melody everytime.”)(“I would always change the line-“)(“Shh, I know, I know”) They’d all have tears falling, hearts breaking for wasted time and time they’d never get to have. (“Un, deux, trois, quatre…”)(“Un, deux, trois, quatre… ”)(“Cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf.”)(“Cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf…“) Sirius would give a water smile while clutching Regulus’ hand tighter, (“Good, Un, deux, trois, quatre…”)(“Huit, neut…..”) Suddenly, James could hear nothing but the sound of raw pain that escaped from Sirius’ lips, James could only hold his star’s hand as it burned out, wondering when the sun would follow in its wake.

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delicatelythoughtfulpatrol · 5 years ago

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How Pop Music’s Teenage Dream Ended

A decade ago, Katy Perry’s sound was ubiquitous. Today, it’s niche. How did a genre defined by popularity become unpopular?

Story by Spencer Kornhaber

“I am a walking cartoon most days,” Katy Perry told Billboard in 2010, and anyone who lived through the reign of Teenage Dream—Perry’s smash album that turned 10 years old on August 24—knows what she meant. Everywhere you looked or clicked back then, there was Perry, wrapped in candy-cane stripes, firing whipped cream from her breasts, wearing a toothpaste-blue wig, and grinning like an emoji. She titled one world tour “Hello Katy,” a nod to the Japanese cat character on gel pens worldwide. She made her voice-acting debut, in 2011, by playing Smurfette.

Perry’s music was cartoonish too: simple, silly, with lyrics stringing together caricature-like images of high-school parties, seductive aliens, and girls in Daisy Dukes with bikinis on top. Kids loved the stuff, and adults, bopping along at karaoke or Starbucks, enjoyed it too. (Maybe that’s because, like with so much classic Disney and Looney Tunes animation, the cuteness barely disguised a ton of raunch.) Teenage Dream generated five No. 1 singles in the United States—a feat previously accomplished only by Michael Jackson’s Bad—and it went platinum eight times.

Perry wasn’t alone in achieving domination through colorful looks and stomping songs. Teenage Dream arrived amid a wave of female pop singers selling their own costumed fictions: Lady Gaga, a walking Gaudí cathedral, roared EDM operas. Beyoncé shimmied in the guise of her alter ego, Sasha Fierce. Nicki Minaj flipped through personalities while wearing anime silhouettes and fuchsia patterns. Kesha, glitter-strewn and studded, babbled her battle cries. Taylor Swift trundled around in horse-drawn carriages. Each singer achieved impressive things, though arguably none of their albums so purely epitomized pop—in commercial, aesthetic, or sociological terms—like Perry’s Teenage Dream did.

A decade later, that early-2010s fantasy has ended, and Perry and her peers have seemed to switch gears. Rihanna has put her music career on pause while building a fashion and makeup empire. Beyoncé has turned her focus to richly textured visual albums that don’t necessarily spawn monster singles. Gaga, after a long detour away from dance floors, has returned to sounds and looks comparable to those of her early days, but she cannot bank on mass listenership for doing so. Swift keeps reinventing herself with greater seriousness, and little about her latest best seller, Folklore, scans as pop. Perry’s latest album, Smile, came out Friday. Regarding her new music’s likelihood of world domination, Perry told Apple Music’s Zane Lowe, “My expectations are very managed right now.”

For the younger class of today’s stars, Teenage Dream seems like a faint influence. The Billboard Hot 100 is largely the terrain of raunchy rap, political rap, and emo rap, with a smattering of country drinking songs thrown in. Ultra-hummable singers such as Halsey and Billie Eilish are still on the radio, but they cut their catchiness with a sad, sleepy edge. A light disco resurgence may be brewing—BTS just strutted to No. 1 on the American charts while capitalizing on it—but that doesn’t change the overall mood of the moment. Almost nothing creates the sucrose high of Teenage Dream; almost nothing sounds as if Smurfette might sing it.

The recent state of commercial music has led to much commentary arguing that pop is dying, dead, or dormant. That’s a funny concept to consider—isn’t popular music, definitionally, whatever’s popular? In one sense, yes. But pop also refers to a compositional tradition, one with go-to chords, structures, and tropes. This type of pop prizes easily enjoyed melodies and sentiments; it moves but does not challenge the hips and the feet. It is omnivorous, and will spangle itself with elements of rock, rap, country, or whatever else it wants without losing its essential pop-ness.

The early-2010s strain of it seemed like the height of irresistibility, and yet it’s mostly faded away. There are many reasons for that, but they can all be reduced to what Perry’s journey over the past decade has shown: Life and listening have become too complex for 2-D.

Pop has seemed to die and be reborn many times. When the 21st century arrived, the music industry was near the historical peak of its profitability—in part because of slick sing-alongs catering to teenagers and written by grown-up Swedes.

But over the first few years of the 2000s, CD sales crashed thanks to the internet, boy bands such as ’NSync began to splinter, and Britney Spears’s long-running confrontation with the paparazzi reached an ugly culmination.

Around the same time, women such as Pink, Kelly Clarkson, Ashlee Simpson, and Avril Lavigne began scoring hits inspired by mosh pits but more appropriate for malls. Gwen Stefani moved from rock-band frontwoman to dance-floor diva during this period as well. Such performers, though often assisted by the same producers and songwriters who helped mold Spears, flaunted unruly personalities to a reality-TV-guzzling public hungry for a kind of curated grit.

Katy Perry capped off this rock-pop boomlet. The California-born Katheryn Hudson had kicked around the music industry for years, first as a Christian singer—her parents were traveling evangelists—and then as an Alanis Morissette–worshipping songwriter.

She finally hit on a winning combo of sounds for One of the Boys, her delicious 2008 major-label debut, whose spiky rhythms, crunching guitars, sneering vocals, and juvenile gender politics earned her a spot on the Warped Tour, a punk institution. But the gooey, sassy hooks of “I Kissed a Girl,” “Waking Up in Vegas,” and “Hot n Cold” really made her a household name.

Some of those songs benefited from the touch of Max Martin and Dr. Luke, songwriters-slash-producers of 2000s pop legend. (In 2014, Kesha filed a lawsuit accusing Dr. Luke, her producer and manager, of rape and abuse; he denied her claims and eventually prevailed in a years-long, very-public court battle over Kesha’s record contract.)

By late 2009, when Perry set out to record her follow-up to One of the Boys, the musical landscape had shifted again thanks to the arrival of Lady Gaga, a former cabaret singer with mystique-infused visuals and an electro-dance sound. What made Gaga different was not only her thundering Euro-club beats, but also her persona, or lack thereof.

Gaga’s work overflowed with camp fun while keeping the singer’s true nature hidden under outrageous headpieces. By forgoing any attempts at banal relatability, Gaga seemed deep. In this way, she updated the glam antics of Prince, Madonna, and David Bowie for the YouTube era. Many of her peers took note, including Perry.

Teenage Dream was lighter and happier than anything Gaga did, but it was electronic and fanciful in a manner that Perry’s previous work had not been. The cartoon Perry was born.

The conceit of Teenage Dream’s title track—“you make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream”—really boils down pop’s appeal to its essence: indulging a preposterous rush while also reveling in its preposterousness. “It is Perry’s self-consciousness—her awareness of herself as a complete package—that makes her interesting,” went one line in an NPR rave about the album. Even skeptical reviewers gave credit to standout singles such as “California Gurls” and “Firework” for being effective earworms. Perry had laid out her intended sound by sending a mixtape of the Cardigans and ABBA to Dr. Luke, who was part of a production team that pushed for perfection.

“People on the management side and label side were pretty much telling me that we were done, before we had ‘Teenage Dream’ or ‘California Gurls,’” Luke told Billboard in 2010. “And I said, ‘No, we’re not done.��”

Such efforts ensured Teenage Dream’s incredible staying power on the charts through early 2012. The album’s deluxe reissue that year then generated a sixth No. 1 single, “Part of Me,” which also provided the title of a self-produced documentary that Perry released around the same time. Much of the footage showcases the stagecraft behind her 2011–12 world tour, a pageant of dancing gingerbread men and poofy pink clouds that would presage her hallucinatory 2015 Super Bowl halftime show. Perry comes off as charming and willful, and the film currently sits as the 11th-highest-grossing documentary in U.S. box-office history.

Yet the movie is best remembered today not for the way it shored up Perry’s shiny image, but for the way it complicated it. Over the course of the tour, Perry’s marriage to the comedian Russell Brand dissolved, and the cameras captured her sobbing just before getting on stage in São Paulo. It’s a wrenching, now-legendary scene. But elsewhere in the film, the viewer can’t help but experience cognitive dissonance as the singer’s personal dramas are synced up to concert footage of grin-inducing costumes and schoolyard sing-alongs. By hitching Teenage Dream’s whimsy to real-life struggle, the movie seemed to subvert exactly what had made the album successful: the feeling that Perry’s music was made to escape, not amplify, one’s problems.

Perry released her next album in 2013, a year that now seems pivotal in mainstream music’s trajectory. That’s the year Gaga pushed her meta-superficial shtick until it broke on the bombastic Artpop, which earned mixed reviews and soft sales.

It’s also the year Lorde, a New Zealand teenager whose confessional lyrics and glum sonic sensibility would be copied for the rest of the decade, released her debut. Then in December, Beyoncé surprise-dropped a self-titled album whose opening track, “Pretty Hurts,” convincingly critiqued the way society asks women to construct beauty-pageant versions of themselves.

Later on the album, Beyoncé sang in shockingly explicit detail about her marriage to Jay-Z. Tropes of drunken hookups, simmering jealousy, and near-breakups were reinvigorated as specific and biographical, thanks in part to Beyoncé’s fluency with rap’s and R&B’s storytelling methods. She ended up seeming more glamorous than ever for the appearance of honesty.

The title of Perry’s album, Prism, not-so-subtly advertised her trying, too, to show more dimension. But the songs’ greeting-card empowerment messages, hokey spirituality, and awkward genre hopping made it seem as if Perry had simply changed costumes rather than had a true breakthrough.

Still, both the cliché-parade of “Roar” and the trap-appropriating “Dark Horse” hit No. 1., and Prism’s track list includes a few examples of expert, big-budget songcraft.

The album would turn out to be Perry’s last outing with a key collaborator, Dr. Luke. While she has maintained that she’s had only positive experiences with the producer, Perry hasn’t recorded a song with him since Kesha filed her 2014 lawsuit.

The Kesha-versus-Luke chapter added to a brewing sense that the carefree pop of the early 2010s was built on dark realities: Perry and Gaga have both described their most profitable years as personally torturous. Broader social and political developments—Black Lives Matter, the #MeToo movement, and the election of Donald Trump—also proved impossible to ignore for even the most frivolous-seeming entertainers.

“When I first came out, we were living in a different mindset in the world,” Perry said in a recent Rolling Stone interview. “We were flying high off of, like, life. We weren’t struggling like we are.

There wasn’t so much of a divide. All of the inequality was kind of underneath the mat. It was unspoken. It wasn’t facing us. And now it’s really facing us. I just feel like I can’t just put an escapist record out: Like, let’s go to Disneyland in our mind for 45 minutes.”

If that point of view sounds blinkered by privilege—who wasn’t struggling before, Katy?—Perry probably wouldn’t disagree. Her 2017 album, Witness, arrived with a blitz of publicity about how the star had become politically awakened and had decided to strip back her Katy Perry character to show more of the real Katheryn Hudson. A multiday live-stream in which fans watched her sleep, wake up, have fun, and go to therapy certainly conveyed that she didn’t want to seem like a posterized picture anymore.

Yet neither Witness’s attempts at light sloganeering (the anti-apathy “Chained to the Rhythm”) nor its sillier side (the charmingly odd “Swish Swish”)

connected with the public. It’s hard to say whether the problem was more temperamental or technological: By 2017, streaming had fully upended the radio-centric monoculture that stars like Perry once thrived in.

Her new album, Smile, is an explicit reaction to the commercial and critical disappointment of the Witness phase. Over jaunty arrangements, song after song talks about perking up after, per Smile’s title track, an “ego check.” There are also clear nods to her personal life. “Never Really Over” ruminates on a dead-then-revived relationship much like the one she has had with Orlando Bloom. “What Makes a Woman,” Perry has said, is a letter to her daughter, who was born on Wednesday. But she’s still mostly communicating in generic terms—lyrics depict flowers growing through pavement and frowns turned around—and with interchangeable songs. The explosive optimism of Teenage Dream has been replaced by ambivalence and resolve, yet the musical mode hasn’t really changed to match.

This leaves Perry tending to longtime fans but unlikely to mint many new ones. That’s because pure pop, the kind that thrives on doing simplicity really well, is largely a niche art form now. The delightful Carly Rae Jepsen will still sell out venues despite not having had a true hit in years. Today’s most acclaimed indie acts include the likes of 100 Gecs and Sophie, who create parodic, deadpan pastiches of pop clichés. Fixtures such as Lady Gaga do still have enough heft to ripple the charts (and thank God—her sense of spectacle saved the VMAs on Sunday). But her recent No. 1 single, “Rain on Me,” benefited from Ariana Grande, whose ongoing success comes from smartly channeling R&B.

The current status of Dr. Luke, who has retreated from the public eye but still works with lesser-known talents and while using pseudonyms, seems telling too. He can’t land a hit with Kim Petras, a dance diva in the Katy Perry lineage. But he can land a hit with a rapper: He’s behind Doja Cat’s recent smash “Say So.”

Streaming, now the dominant form of music consumption, does not reward bright and insistent sing-alongs that demand attention but offer little depth. It instead works well for vibey background music, like the kind made by Post Malone, who’s maybe the most cartoonish figure of the present zeitgeist. It also works well for hip-hop with an obsession-worthy interplay of slangy lyrics, syncopated rhythms, and complex personas, all of which are presented in a context that feels like it has something to do with real life.

Last week’s No. 1 song in the country, “WAP,” by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion, radiates some of the fantastical thrill of the 2010 charts. But it delivers that thrill as part of a lewd verbal onslaught by women whom the public has come to know on an alarmingly personal level. The video for “WAP” is bright and pink, yes, but also immersive.

It’s not a cartoon—it’s virtual reality.

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lookatthesetreasures · 8 years ago

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Tenebrae

Chapter One: Maundy Thursday, Visita Iglesia

John 13:6-10

Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!”

Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.”

Cathedrals are named for the cathedra, and Yuuri, sitting before the congregation on Maundy Thursday, feels the weight of ancient power vested in the chair behind him. He knows what they all see: two rows of pillars, carved out of stone and drawing the eye into the nave and up to the vaulted ceiling. The tower at the crossing, the apse of the eastern end with its famous stained glass windows. The altar and its cathedra, richly carved and made in proportion to the size of this cathedral, built at the zenith of the Church’s medieval excesses.

Churches were made to be grand, created to inspire awe with their beauty. Yuuri knows himself unworthy, feels the sharp sting of guilt as keenly as a sharpened dagger in his side.

The cathedral is packed for today’s service; even so, silence reigns over the congregation. The only sounds are distant footsteps and the hushed wail of a child. For a second Yuuri wishes himself younger, wishes himself returned to innocence, but he knows it’s too late. His sin is too deeply embedded into his soul.

The bishop must be removing his magnificent purple cope and donning the gremiale around his waist, mitre forgone in this act of humility. There will be the deacons; in dalmatics and waiting to assist, basins and pitchers of water on hand. Yuuri knows this service, knows every psalm, every reading, every gesture loaded with meaning. The knowledge brings him no comfort. It only makes his sin all the more corrupt; that he was so educated in theology and philosophy, and managed to throw all that knowledge aside in a moment of weakness? God gives mercy to the foolish; but what of the wilful?

A gasp from the choir loft; Yuuri very nearly weeps when he hears Sara sing: “Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.” Where love and charity are, God is. But what of the wrong kinds of love, disordered and lustful?

Yuuri fixes his gaze on the graceful vaults of the cathedral’s crossing; he wills the tears back and fails.

He hears the rustle of clothing, and when he drops his gaze back to the ground it is to the sight of the worn face of Father Yakov, unreadable and sphinx-like. Kneeling beside him, his silvery hair a perfect match for the dalmatic he is wearing, is Viktor. He is pale and his hands are shaking, his shoulders hunched over in defeat as he pours water over Yuuri’s feet.

Yuuri cries. He buries his face in his hands and refuses to look, but he can still feel it: the cool rush of water over his feet, the soft brush of the towel wiping them clean, Bishop Feltsman’s warm breath as he kisses Yuuri’s feet in benediction.

He’s not worthy, he never could be. Not as long as he still remembers the sight of Viktor on his knees, the feeling of his embrace, his lips on Yuuri’s skin.

The light from the windows casts shades of gold and amber across the chapel, and despite the summer heat Yuuri is glad for the color. Without the windows, Xavier Chapel had an austere look, with its white marble floors and black pews and furnishings. Even the exteriors suffered the same austerity, the façade built in black granite, the clean lines of the modern architecture accented only by polished brass fittings on the windows and doors. But the stained glass above the main entrance seemed alight with fire at all times of day; the red and amber glass depicting the martyrdom of St. Francis Xavier.

Yuuri loves this chapel; he loves the simplicity of it, the minimalist design, the way faith intertwined with rigid rationality in the steep angles of the pyramid-like structure, built with scientific precision and yet drawing the eye to the heavens. He loves the intersections of science and art, theology and design, but most of all, Yuuri loves the choir-loft.

Suspended right above the chapel’s main entrance and right below the stained glass, it looks an impossible sight; a cantilever seemingly unsupported, with clear glass panes creating the illusion that the choir-loft had no railing. But the best aspect of it is the sound; the acoustics of churches were always incredible, but here in Xavier Chapel, music sounds better than it did even in the university’s many music rooms.

It isn’t open to students, not outside of mass, but Yuuri’s spiritual director is Father Celestino, head of the music department and also the musical director for the campus ministry. The chapel caretakers already know Yuuri quite well, both from choir practice and from daily mass; they let Yuuri in without question if the chapel happens to be free.

Yuuri is grateful for it; nothing soothes him more than making music in beautiful churches. It reminds Yuuri of that lost time years ago, when he was uprooted and hurting, with no direction and nothing to ground his life. And then he met Father Celestino, found his faith, and something inside him settled when Father Celestino told him to play music and pray.

He chases that feeling of surety now, tightens his bow and begins to play. The chapel is empty and no one is here to hear, no one except God and the Holy Spirit.

Father Celestino had pulled him aside this morning, brought Yuuri into his office and said: “A nearby parish wants to form a children’s choir for their orphanage as part of a summer music program. They were looking for a conductor and I recommended you.”

“Me?” Yuuri had spluttered. “But – Father, I’m just a student, I couldn’t possibly –”

“You’re more than ready to take on this kind of responsibility, Yuuri!” Father Celestino had laughed, patting Yuuri’s back encouragingly.

The man was an endless well of optimism and good cheer, but sometimes Yuuri couldn’t follow. Hope and happiness came so easily for people like Father Celestino, and Yuuri couldn’t understand how they didn’t seem to hear it, the endless thrum of anxiety and self-doubt that colored all of Yuuri’s days.

Still, Father Celestino spoke of it as a done deal; the Parish of Our Lady of Sorrows had asked for a recommended conductor for a parish short on funds and not many options, and Father Celestino had a music student doing post-graduate work in choral conducting but had no choir. It seemed a perfect match, and objectively, Yuuri knew that it was. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of disaster, the impression that something horrible was going to happen, and so Yuuri had packed up his violin and went to Xavier Chapel hours earlier than intended.

He was supposed to meet the assistant director of the orphanage today, and Yuuri really needs to get his head on straight, both for that meeting and for choir rehearsals with Father Celestino that afternoon. He has a solo to perform, a colleague to impress, and Yuuri needs to pull himself together.

The music from his violin begins to fill the chapel, and Yuuri loses himself in the music, gives himself up to God.

Rehearsals are going well; Yuuri had drilled his fellow tenors well enough during sectionals that the Poulenc mass was no problem. They had gotten an approving nod from Father Celestino after that run-through, even as the altos were scolded for their lack of control over their volume and Father Celestino fretted about the vocal color of the sopranos.

Ešenvalds’ Northern Lights is up last; a difficult piece and one where Yuuri is the designated soloist. Father Celestino gestures for everyone to get ready; Phichit distributes wine glasses filled with water and Michele hands out the chimes.

Unlike most of their repertoire, Northern Lights is a secular piece, the text lifted from the journals of Arctic explorers seeing the auroras for the first time. Everything about the piece suggests the magnificence of auroral lights: the tuned wine glasses, the chimes, the way the melody mirrored the rippling lights in the sky with glissandos and the triplet motif passed between the sections. And interspersed in all this, the solo: a Latvian folk song. Whenever at night, far in the north, I saw the kāvi soldiers (Northern Lights) having their battle, I was afraid; perhaps they might bring a war to my land too. The awe and fear of both texts feeds into each other and into the music, and of all their pieces, this is the one Yuuri loved the most.

Everyone shuffles into place, and silence descends at Father Celestino’s gesture. The air is charged with expectation, as it always is before a performance, and all at once everyone takes a breath. The music begins.

“Cik naksnīnas pret ziemeli, redzēj kavus karojam,” Yuuri sings, focused on Father Celestino’s direction, being mindful of the other sections in the background. “Ē redzēj kavus karojam.”

The wine glasses come into play, their cold resonance adding to the thick illusion of the auroras; Yuuri feels himself slip further and further away from the reality of the chapel, the summer heat, and deeper into the music with its great soldiers in the Arctic sky.

“Karo kāvi pie debesu, vedīs karus mūs’ zemē; Ē vedīs karus mūs zemē.” He sings with feeling, pleading with the kāvi to be spared. Suddenly, the feeling of imminent disaster returns, heavy in the air and tension creeping in between the hushed voices of the choir. Yuuri feels it in the very core of himself; something was to happen, something to change everything –

And it happens all at once, in the space of a few breaths –

Come above, Yuuri sings – come above, Hall – a man comes up the stairs to the choir loft, as if Yuuri beckoned him closer – come above at once, Hall! – Yuuri glances in his direction, only barely registers the stranger’s presence – the world, the world is on fire! – His hair, his face is on fire, set alight in the golds and reds of the stained glass, the crown of light a halo for this stranger’s ethereal beauty, silver hair and blue eyes and pale skin.

In the space of a few breaths, Yuuri is lost.

“Do you ever think about love, Yuuri?”

Viktor’s tone is nonchalant, but in the harsh light of the streetlamps, his face is pensive and his eyes sad. The summer heat hangs heavy over street, and Viktor’s melancholy is palpable in the air. The change in mood is unsettling: one moment, Yuuri and Viktor were talking, excited for the possibilities and potential for the kids recruited into the youth choir; the next, Viktor had pulled away, enthusiasm extinguished and inexplicably sad.

There’s one boy in particular that caught Yuuri’s attention that afternoon: a nine year-old boy, also named Yuri, who had an enchanting treble voice and did all of Yuuri’s vocal exercises with ease. “He’s got talent,” Yuuri had acknowledged, “but his attitude is terrible and I’m worried it might cause friction within the choir. Do you know why he’s acting so sullen?”

It had disturbed Yuuri to see a child so closed off, so determined to turn everyone away. Guang-hong, a little Chinese boy also in the choir, had tried to talk to Yuri; in the end he burst into tears and needed to be comforted by one of the older boys, Leo. If that kind of behavior kept up, the internal dynamics of the choir would be damaged. As much as Yuuri also cared about the kids, as their conductor his greatest concern was the music.

Viktor had replied: “He’s new to the orphanage. His grandfather died last month, and it’s been rough. Mr. Plisetsky was his last relative capable of looking after him. He’s had… a difficult time adjusting, you could say.” Viktor paused. “His mother – she could have taken him but didn’t. That must have hurt.”

Yuuri had badly wanted to ask, but the light of mischief in Viktor’s eyes had long disappeared. The single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling of the bus stop washed out all color; Viktor’s eyes were colorless and he seemed as closed off as a marble statue. Then he turned to Yuuri and asked; do you ever think about love?

Yuuri gives the question some consideration now, eyes drawn up to the lights: the streetlamps with their cold brightness and the stars beautiful and distant. Even here, out in the suburbs of this diocese, artificial lights overshadow the pure light from the heavens. In the sharp fluorescent lighting, the prefabricated concrete of Our Lady of Sorrows seems all the more utilitarian. It felt... pragmatic; artless and loveless.

It bothers Yuuri. It makes him think of things he’s forced down, forced out of his mind for very good reasons.

“I’ve thought about it before, but I’ve always accepted that right now, I’m not going to understand love.” He shrugs. “It takes time, I think – time and experience to really know love, and you need to know it from both ends to understand it truly.”

Here it is, the doubts he’d always had but felt too ashamed to articulate: “I know that I’m loved; my parents love me, and my sister Mari too. My parents put up with me and they’ve worked so hard to provide for me and support me, both with my music and with my formation. Mari-neesan…” Yuuri hesitates.

Viktor turns to him, puzzled at his sudden silence. However, Yuuri is struggling. How does he put into words everything that Mari-neesan did for him? She did so much to make him the man he was today. She put the first violin into Yuuri’s hands when he was a little boy, and when he a bit older but no wiser, seventeen and believing that the end had come after he messed up a handful of auditions, it was Mari-neesan who threw clothes into his suitcase and brought him to St. Nikolai’s – to St. Nikolai’s, and to Father Celestino.

“She knows me,” Yuuri realizes. “She knows me to the very core of me, and without her I’d never have gotten to where I am today or become the person that I am. And I’m grateful!” He interjects, hoping to reassure Viktor that he loved his family too. “I love my family, a lot. I’m not very good at showing it, but…

He looks up again, looks for the comforting and familiar permanence of the stars in the sky. “Sometimes, I think… that it’s a little like giri-choco. It’s still chocolate, and it’s still sweet, and if you get the right kind then it’s just as delicious as hommei-choco.” Yuuri swallows, the next words bubbling up his throat despite his shame in the sentiment. “But it’s hard, sometimes. To shake off the feeling that it’s all just an obligation.”

Yuuri falls silent, and he’s glad when Viktor chooses not to press the issue. He takes a moment to collect himself, to smooth his expression back to the placid indifference required of the Jesuit Yuuri hoped to someday be. When he felt sufficiently recovered, Yuuri glances back at Viktor, a question on his lips, but Viktor beats him to the punch.

“I never had parents,” Viktor confesses. “I never had a family. All I ever knew was Father Yakov’s rectory, and after that, I was in boarding schools on scholarship, all the way to university and post-graduate work. I’ve never had anyone – just a string of past lovers, and look!” He smiles sardonically. “I’m here and they’re not; it’s perfectly obvious that wasn’t what I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Yuuri asks curiously. He can’t imagine what it would be like, to be so uprooted, and his heart ached for this lonely man he’d just met.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Viktor laughs. It sounds weak and uncertain, and Viktor, who seems uncomfortable with vulnerability, pastes on a smile. “In any case, I wouldn’t know. You just said it yourself: you need to experience love from both sides to understand it.”

“Is this it?” Viktor stands by the gate of the inn, marveling at the old building. It was a converted Jesuit seminary that his parents bought when they left Japan; the University of Francis Xavier’s seminary had just been completed and the Jesuits moved all their novices to the campus. Sometimes Yuuri thinks about this and is overwhelmed by the series of coincidences that led him here, another novice of the Society of Jesus returning to this lost seminary. It makes the inn feel like home, twice over.

The inn has a clean, bright look to it, even after all these years. Somehow, just by looking at the building, Yuuri can feel his parents’ affection beginning to surround him, in the way that their presence seemed to hover over the gardens. His father tended to the gardens himself, careful to maintain the plants’ health throughout the year. His mother kept an eagle-eyed watch over the cleaning and the building’s maintenance, and it showed. The whole building looked just as good as it did when Yuuri was little.

“Yeah. We moved here from Japan when I was little, and my parents have been running this inn ever since. Come on! I want to get out of the cold.”

The inn is warm, and as he and Viktor enter, Yuuri calls out: “Tadaima!”

It’s exactly the way it has always been: the foyer with its raised step up to the main house, shoes arranged neatly in racks and slippers already waiting for guests. It smells like good food, as it always did; his father’s coat hangs on a peg in the hallway, like it always did. Yuuri feels the security of home settle around his bones, and he glances at Viktor, over his shoulder. Viktor looks shy and unsure, but Yuuri’s spirits lift to see that he also looks fascinated.

“Is that Yuuri-kun?” Yuuri hears his mother bustling in the kitchen, and that was when the scent of Christmas dinner really hit home. Michele and Father Celestino bonded over panettone and seafood pasta; Yuuri expected Christmas cake and fried chicken.

His mother comes out of the kitchen, still wiping her hands on her apron. “Okaeri, Yuuri-kun.” Her smile is warm and loving; when she gives Yuuri a brief hug, her hair smells like gingerbread. “And Vicchan! You’re still so tall!”

Viktor is nearly an entire foot taller than her, but Yuuri’s mom still manages to browbeat him into giving her a hug. “Now take off your coats! They’re all damp from the snow, and you’re going to catch a cold if you stay in them too long. Come into the kitchen when you’re done; you can help me with the food.”

Viktor looks abashed and even Yuuri feels vaguely embarrassed. His coat is dripping into the hallway, and he turns to hang it up on the coat rack. Yuuri hears Viktor’s clothes rustle as well, and when Viktor hands him his coat –

Viktor is wearing a deep, wine-red sweater, in wool that looks almost sinfully soft, and suddenly, Yuuri can’t breathe. He remembers: the red-gold of autumn leaves, the ruby red of Viktor’s lips in the cold, the pretty, pink flush of Viktor’s cock, the deep burgundy of communion wine –

“Um, Yuuri? Where should I hang my coat?”

Yuuri blinks. “You’re wearing red.”

Viktor frowns, looks down at his shirt. “It’s Christmas?”

Yuuri blinks again, tries to shake his head clear of the confusion. “Right. Um. I’ll take your coat.”

On the second day of the retreat, Yuuri digs out his violin and a folio of staff paper, and he treks out to a quiet, secluded corner of the forest.

Technically speaking, this was a silent retreat. But Father Celestino’s words had always rung true throughout Yuuri’s spiritual core: “It’s easy to recognize God’s grace in nature, Yuuri, because it’s also easy to accept nature as God’s creations. It’s much harder to acknowledge that even we were created by the Lord.

“In some cases, it’s human arrogance that can keep us from a closer relationship with God. For others, it’s hard to feel worthy of God’s grace. But remember, Yuuri, that for all our flaws and failures, man can still be an instrument of God. We serve His will, and we bear His message. God speaks through men as well He does through nature, and you can hear Him in your own music if you listen hard enough.”

Father Celestino had then handed Yuuri his violin, and Yuuri, seventeen and hurting, convinced that music was closed to him forever, had almost refused to take it.

Now, though, Yuuri can barely imagine prayer that didn’t include music. It’s embedded into his soul, the only way Yuuri can really express all that churned up within himself. Ever since that first retreat, the monks at St. Nikolai’s had been indulgent; all they requested was that Yuuri find a secluded place to pray and play.

Yuuri was happy enough to oblige, and he had found a good spot by a bend in the stream not too far from the monastery. There were large boulders by the rocky shore he could sit on, and from that vantage point, Yuuri could see the monastery. The solitary belfry rose through the forest skyline, its solemn gray stone and sober windows fitted with iron contrasting sharply with the vividness of color – the red-gold of autumn and the bright blue sky.

He goes there often when on retreat, usually with a violin, sometimes with a guitar. He is content to idly run through his music, sometimes playing pieces for class or practicing pieces for accompaniment to church services.

This time, however, he is going to do more than just play. Yuuri is determined to produce something, to create something he could offer to God.

By the fourth day of their retreat the manuscript is finished; Yuuri had avoided all other brothers in favor of finishing the piece. Privately, Yuuri thinks it’s beautiful, the lines of the song centered on a main melody sung by soprano and layered with organ music and woodwinds. It’s hardly revolutionary in terms of instrumentation for religious music, but it is also as sincere as Yuuri could write it.

The pines around him smell spicy and bright; the red-leaves of autumn float around him in lazy arcs. It’s a beautiful day for music. Yuuri’s running through the last bars of the piece when he hears leaves crunching underfoot nearby. He looks up.

It’s Viktor, half-hidden behind a tree and clutching a large notebook under his arm. He looks vaguely guilty to have been caught watching. Yuuri huffs out a tiny laugh, and without thinking twice, gestures toward a large rock nearby in invitation.

He smiles warmly at Viktor when he was finally seated, just to show him that he isn’t intruding. Yuuri makes a little bow as well, and gestures to the open folio on the music stand. Viktor raises an eyebrow.

An original composition? He seems to ask.

Yuuri only smiles. It is only right that the first person to hear On Love: Agape is Viktor; who else would Yuuri perform this piece for?

Yuuri raises the violin to his chin and begins to play.

For someone like Yuuri, who has often found it difficult to pray, each note is a prayer on its own. Somehow he could never put what he felt into words, and instead he would resort to the familiar cadences of traditional Latin prayer. But with a violin in his hands, it’s easy to pour himself into the music and know that God is listening.

Viktor sits on the rock, enraptured, as Yuuri plays on. This song is adoration, supplication, and thanksgiving all in one, and in that tiny pocket of stolen time, Viktor’s warmth nearby and God’s presence pressing into Yuuri all around, Yuuri finally feels at peace. He feels whole, he feels perfect, and to beg forgiveness for this moment feels ungrateful.

Contrition can wait for another day.

The next day, after breakfast at the refectory, Viktor follows Yuuri into the forest

“Viktor!” Yuuri hurries to catch up to him, the box burning a hole through his pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

Viktor, already by the cathedral gates, pauses. He is unfairly beautiful in the winter, blending into the snow and shadow of the cathedral’s grounds with his dark coat and light hair. He looks like an ink painting, his bright blue eyes vivid in the colorless landscape. It drives the breath from Yuuri’s lungs.

“Is there a problem?” Viktor asks, concerned. “We were about to leave for the youth center, but if there’s an issue with the kids I can catch up to them later.”

Yuuri swallows. “No! It’s just – Happy birthday.”

Viktor’s eyes widen slightly. “Thank you. I didn’t think you’d know.”

“Of course I do. And, it’s Christmas anyway, and I’d have…” Yuuri fumbles in his pockets, and produces the box wrapped in beautiful green paper and tied with a festive red ribbon. “This is for you.”

Viktor’s face breaks out into a wide smile. “You didn’t have to! But thank you, I’m sure it’s lovely.”

He moves to stow the box into his pocket, and Yuuri panics. “No! You should open it now, here.”

Here? In the shadow of the cathedral, its towers and spires casting long shadows over the landscape?

Yuuri feels exposed here, as if the cathedral itself were a living creature, every window an eye watching, spying. What he and Viktor had – it was private, it was theirs. Yuuri had sworn vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity; in the face of those vows Yuuri feels small. In the shadow of this cathedral, Yuuri feels miniscule. To give Viktor even this small token of his love felt illicit against the backdrop of the church, and Yuuri fights the urge to snatch the box away from Viktor’s fingers and retreat.

But one glance at Viktor is enough: Viktor, with his blue eyes and red cheeks, cold in the snow but warm to Yuuri’s touch. Viktor smiles at him, amused at his vehemence, and at the sight emotion surges in Yuuri’s heart, hope, courage and something Yuuri only recently named ‘love’.

Yuuri drags Viktor away from the gates, takes him to a quiet corner of the cathedral garden. It was the Calvary garden, fourteen stations clustered together and desolate in Christmastide. The gardens were empty and barren, and it came as no surprise. It was today that the Lord was born; it was no time to remember how He died.

Viktor makes quick work of the ribbon, and after carefully putting it away, he rips off the paper with glee. Yuuri can see nervousness flit across his face when he sees the jewelry box within, but before Yuuri can make any reassurances, Viktor lifts the lid.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a golden medal, the image of St. John the Beloved carved onto the surface.

“I wanted to get you something,” Yuuri explains awkwardly. “I know things have been… strange… between us, after last September.”

How could he explain everything? The insistent beat of his heart, pleading with him to grab hold of Viktor and never let go? The warmth that fills his soul whenever Viktor was close? The desperate longing that filled his bed when the nights got colder and colder? Yuuri can hardly understand it himself. Yuuri doesn’t even have a clear explanation for the medal; he only barely remembers passing by the shop window two weeks ago, and catching a glimpse of it. He somehow knew, knew that this would be a sign he needed to show Viktor. Yuuri runs out of words easily; music, his second language, falters just as quickly. But this medal, solid and real, with the face of Jesus’ most beloved apostle upon its face?

Yuuri struggles with the words. “You – you must know. It’s not right, for us to… But still. You need to know that –”

“That I’m your beloved?”

Viktor’s tone is deceptively light, but there’s a look in his eyes that Yuuri knows. Every muscle in Yuuri’s body tenses, because he knows what will happen next, but they’re still right next to the cathedral –

Viktor kisses him. Yuuri expected something dirty, something fiery and passionate. But today Viktor kisses him with the same tenderness with which he had washed Yuuri’s feet that awful day. The kiss is soft and loving, and the whole of Yuuri’s body relaxes, sighing into Viktor’s embrace.

It always feels right. Why did he have to say goodbye?

They break apart, and Viktor’s warm breath breathes life into Yuuri once again. A numbness had settled into Yuuri’s heart when the leaves started to fall, a numbness that encroached when Yuuri refused to admit he’d fallen too. But –

Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. A love like this can only have been a gift from God, and to reject it now, the day the world was blessed with the Son of God? Christmas Day, to Yuuri, can only be a day of blessing, for this was the day the Lord had come, and this was the day Viktor came into the world.

Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s coat. “Stay,” he whispers.

A beat, and Viktor replies, voice wracked with emotion. “Always.”

“Yuuri.”

This pulpit was made to project sound. Even the softest pianissimo can be heard throughout the cathedral, music travelling across the nave and curling around every pillar like a caress. Yuuri knows this, and knows it well; he knows how to manipulate voice and instrument and make music that could affect every one of the faithful who came to this cathedral to pray. His music brought congregations to their knees.

But this? One word, spoken softly, spoken tenderly – the sound of his name reverberates across that ancient hall of worship. It hangs in the silence until the very air was thick with longing, thick with heartbreak.

Yuuri can’t breathe. He didn’t dare.

His papers are still scattered across the organ’s console; his hands are shaking too badly to pick up the pieces. The half-light of dusk filters through the spring rain and the stained glass windows of the cathedral. The passion of Christ is writ in glass and iron, but the images offer no assistance, no comfort as Yuuri fights the urge to look upon Christ’s face and weep. The Paschal Mystery was the greatest act of love that man would ever know, but: the glass is cold and lifeless in the midst of this storm.

The Lord’s love is mysterious and distant, and Yuuri knows no truer simplicity than Viktor’s lips on his skin.

Raindrops look like tears on His holy face, shattered in agony as He prays in the garden of Gethsemane mere moments away from disaster. Is this what the Lord felt that night? Like his heart was beating out of his chest, hands and feet numb, anxiety a rabid demon in his stomach?

Yuuri thinks that this is what it feels like to be damned. The prescience of unavoidable disaster, with no choice but to keep breathing and breathing, knowing that the hour has come and it was time to die? What Viktor wants, what Yuuri wants – it’s impossible. And yet –

Even impossible dreams have their own champion.

Yuuri turns around.

There is never a moment when Viktor isn’t beautiful. But these tears falling down his cheeks – they make Yuuri want to be a rich man. He wants to gather those tears and turn them into gems. They make Yuuri a lustful man, as the tears bring back memories in quick succession: happy years, tears of laughter, the tears that leak out of Viktor’s eyes when he swallows Yuuri’s cock whole. Those tears make Yuuri want to break his vows.

But – “We can’t,” he gasps. “You know this.”

Viktor says nothing, just steps closer and closer until he crowds Yuuri into the organ console.

“Viktor – it’s not right.”

“Why not?” The words are sharp as a whip, staccato pronouncements echo despite themselves. Viktor’s eyes are just as fierce, a predatory gleam surfacing behind the betrayal. “I love you, and you love me. It’s that simple; what’s wrong with love?”

“Everything! This – you and I aren’t meant for love, Viktor.” Yuuri’s voice cracks. “We can’t – not like this.”

Viktor steps closer; Yuuri steps back, and suddenly, he stumbles and only just catches himself against the organ keyboard. The organ comes to life, thunderous in its fury, discordant notes thrumming through Yuuri’s body. When Viktor finally touches him, cups his hand around Yuuri’s neck to draw him into a kiss –Yuuri moans, so lost to Viktor that he barely registers the keys digging into his back.

It is Maundy Thursday; Jesus has finished his last supper with his apostles and is making his way to Gethsemane to be betrayed. Church bells must be silent and the altar has been stripped bare, and yet: Yuuri and Viktor, Yuuri’s thighs bracketing Viktor’s and Viktor’s fingers in Yuuri’s hair. Viktor, moaning into Yuuri’s ear, Viktor, pushing Yuuri further and further into console’s keys and making the organ scream in protest.

“Tell me you want this,” Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s ear, somehow still loud and clear in the cacophony of noise. “Tell me you want me.”

“Always,” Yuuri sobs, and Viktor grinds his thigh against Yuuri’s cock. As Viktor’s fingers dip below the waist of his pants, Yuuri cries out to the heavens. The heavens roar back, thunder crashing and the rain pouring, almost drowning out the organ’s voice.

The silence had been broken.

In that overwhelming noise, Viktor drops to his knees. “Do you think God will condemn us for this?” Viktor asked, reaching for Yuuri’s cock. “Do you think God hates his children for loving and living?”

He peers up at Yuuri through silvery-white eyelashes, eyes as blue as the stained glass of the Virgin’s robes. “Because I don’t. I’ve never felt more alive than I did while loving you, and I want to love you in every way I can.”

Before Yuuri can so much as breathe, Viktor licks a stripe up the underside of Yuuri’s cock and takes it all in, in one deft move that had Yuuri’s cock brushing against the back of Viktor’s throat.

Miserere mei, he prays, his back arching in pleasure and head thrown back in abandon. Peccatum meum contra me est semper. And one was before him, kneeling between his legs in worship. Yuuri stuffs his fist into his mouth, hoping against hope to muffle the lewd moans he was making, the wanton display he was making of himself. But Viktor pulls off his cock with a pop.

As if he could here the song of contrition in Yuuri’s heart, Viktor looks him in the eye and replies. “Auditui meo dabis gaudium -- I want to hear you scream.”

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st-m-n-m-music-notes · 8 years ago

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Bach’s Family Tree

♫ Music Notes

Much of today’s music revolves around Bach, in one way or another. The 8:00 offertory is a setting of the German chorale Warum betrübst du dich, mein Herz (“Why pity yourself, my heart”) by J. C. Bach—not J. S. The Bach family tree is filled with many great musicians, and not only his sons. Johann Christoph Bach (1642-1703) was the uncle of JSB, and also an organist and composer. Another JC is Johann Christian Bach, the eleventh surviving child and youngest son of JSB. In his own day he was more famous as a composer than his own father. And then there is his older brother, Johann Christoph Friedrich Bach, a famous harpsichordist, composer, and fifth son of JSB.

It’s hard to keep track of them all. You need a chart, and this one is only a small part of this family of musical giants. The word that comes to mind with this family is prolific.

At 10:30 we will hear a well-known song by J. S. himself, Bist du bei mir (“You are with me.”) Ester Brewda will be giving an entire concert of mostly Spanish songs accompanied by classical guitar. Today you will get just an introduction to her singing—and will want to come back for more! Today’s song is a popular choice for weddings. It was included by Bach in the musical notebook he prepared for his second wife, Anna Magdalena.

Today’s prelude is a setting of a German chorale melody, Erbarm’ dich mein, O Herre Gott (“Be merciful, my God”), by Johann Ludwig Krebs (1713-1780). This chorale was set by many Baroque composers, including Sweelinck and J. S. Bach. This setting by Krebs is very chromatic, slow, and sad, reflecting the text. You can almost hear the teardrops falling from the cheeks of the penitent at prayer. The text is very penitential and introspective, reflecting language from many of the Psalms used in the Lenten season. Have mercy on me, O Lord God, according to your great kindness. Wash me, make clean my wrongdoing. I confess my sin and repent; I sinned against you only, I am constantly aware of it; even the best may not stand in your sight, you are just, though you condemn me.

Krebs was the son of a well-known organist. As a child he was sent to Leipzig to study with J. S. Bach himself. From a technical point on the organ he was unrivaled next to Bach. Unfortunately, he was writing and playing music in a style (Baroque) that was by then out of fashion, too complex and ornate. Musical taste was moving into what we now call “Classical” (the style of Mozart, Haydn, and eventually Beethoven) that emphasized clarity and simplicity. Krebs was never able to obtain a patron, or a post at a cathedral. He became so desperate he didn’t work for money, but for food to feed his family of seven children. Most of his music wasn’t even published until the 20th century.

The Rev. Dr. David Kerr Park, Director of Music

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ascbh13 · 7 years ago

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READY FOR HIS COMING 9th December 2018, 9.30 and 11 a.m Mt. 24. 36-44 & Malachi 3. 1-4 Kay Morison

INTRO: Before we retired to Poole, we lived for many years in secluded vicarages, often with a graveyard right next door, yet not a single attempt to burgle us had taken place. We may have mentioned this before, but when we moved into a block of flats here in Poole, we thought we were really safe.

Actually we never gave it much thought. We had residents just the other side of the wall to protect us, to see and hear what was happening, and of course, houses all round us. How wrong we were! We were away for only 24 hours and yet someone broke in by smashing the double glazed living room window. All my inherited jewellery from my Mother and Mother in law, plus our passports all stolen!

When we got back we installed a burglar alarm, but by then it was too late! The fact is, we hadn’t been ready for a burglar. We weren’t organised. We were not prepared. We never gave even the possibility of a thief a thought. We were simply Not Ready.

Not Ready….That’s exactly what Jesus said in today’s Gospel about his second coming: “Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come. But understand this, If the owner of the house had known at what time of night the thief was coming, he would have kept watch, and would not have let his house be broken into. So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.”vv 42-44

Jesus said He is coming again “at an hour when you do not expect him” so there’s a need to be ready for Him!

This need to “Get ready” is exactly why the Christian church has the season of Advent. It is a special four week season. It used to be marked in a similar way to Lent, with fasting, prayers and spiritual discipline. But it’s Very different today! Secular Christmas preparations seem to start even before October is upon us! I was asked five weeks ago “Are you ready for Christmas?” No one asks “Are you ready for Jesus’ second coming?”!

The traditional word for the special season we have arrived at, is “ADVENT”. A word basically meaning “COMING”,

In Advent we actually prepare for two “comings”. The first is of course the coming of Jesus as a baby. Sadly, for much of the world outside the Christian community, Advent is quite simply a secular and commercial festival. Preparing for Father Christmas and family feasting. Nothing to do with the birth of Jesus unless you happen to notice a Christmas Crib in a shop window. In fact, most people don’t even think about the real meaning of Christmas. However, it is good to know that Cathedrals see more worshippers at this time of year, as do many parish churches. Perhaps more people than we realise do remember the meaning of Christmas Day.

But the lack of knowledge about the real meaning of Christmas should be for us a wake-up call as regards the majority of youngsters. For example: The Scripture Union, which was one of All SS Mission charities for years, wrote recently telling us two or three worrying statistics. Sources were given for these statistics. One such comment was “Thousands of children think that Rudolf the red-nose reindeer was in the stable at Jesus’ birth!”

And the second statistic given by Scripture Union: “30% of 1000 children surveyed, believe that the wise men heard about the birthday of Jesus….. through Facebook!”

Scripture Union has produced a small booklet for children, called “The First Christmas”. It tells the real story of Christmas. No Rudolf, No Facebook. Scripture Union are giving it out for free in places like Food Banks & Hospitals. In faith S.U. has printed 120,000. They cost a pound to produce. A great resource. Ask me if you want to know more.

Perhaps if you think back to the sort of Advent Calendar you first had, maybe it was just a matter of opening a door each day and seeing a picture to do with the Christmas story. But now many Advent calendars are just yet another commercial item. You can, I actually saw, have an Advent Calendar with a little bottle of gin behind each door. Wow!!

So Advent has lost much of its meaning. The meaning of being ready for the arrival of Jesus as the special Baby of Bethlehem. But that’s only half of the story. As I said there is a second meaning of Advent. There’s more to come!

Advent speaks also of the return of Christ to this earth as King of All. Christ’s second coming. Are we really prepared for that? So…

ADVENT IS A CALL TO BE READY: That’s my One Basic Point…. but Why should that be so??

Jesus tells us: “because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him! (Mt. 24. 44b)

And my first question is – and I address it as much to myself as anyone else - if the Lord returned today, am I confident I would be ready and waiting to welcome him? Is my life such a transparent book that there is nothing I would want to hide from the King of Kings?

And of course, that includes my thoughts, not just my actions…. Not just what people see outwardly, but what you and I are really like inwardly. A huge challenge isn’t it?

So what am I going to do about the things that are less than the best in my life? Christmas lights in the porch are not sufficient! Tinsel is not enough! Advent is about having a very early spiritual Spring Clean –

The Matthew passage we heard read, emphasises this need to be ready, and that, several times. We are told to keep watch. This doesn’t mean trying to work out exactly when Jesus will return.

Remember also that Jesus himself said he did not know the time of his return. So why try and work it out? In Mark 13. V. 32 Jesus says “No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.”

But the King of Kings is certainly coming! So we need to be ready for Him, have a spiritual spring clean, get rid of some of the rubbish which clutters our lives. Rubbish which detracts from our living our Christian lives better.

After our burglary the Crime Prevention Officer came to see us. She suggested three ways to improve our flat’s security - to help us be ready if another burglar did try to gain access. We followed her advice and did all those three things.

So today I’d like to suggest three positive ways we can make sure we are ready for Jesus�� return. The Church describes it as His “Second Coming”.

1. ADVENT IS A TIME TO FIND FAITH To really make faith our own. The challenge of Advent is to be ready for the coming of our King – Jesus! And that means willing to welcome Him personally.

It’s much more than having a merely academic belief in fact of Jesus’ Death and Rising Again. In picture language, it means having the door to our hearts, our innermost personality, wide open to receive Him. And a sign saying “Welcome Lord Jesus” clearly displayed.

For Jesus will come in to share His life with you – no doubt at all! He promises to - And to any who doubt this, The very same risen Christ clearly says: “here I am, standing at the door and knocking! If anyone hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me…” You can read that yourself in Revelation chapter 3 verse 14.

Let’s look at this truth in another way:

There is a very apt saying that, “God has no grandchildren” . God has Children, YES!.......But Grandchildren, NO! You cannot inherit your faith from someone else. There’s no such thing as second-hand Faith.

Each person’s faith – trust and openness to Jesus - must be their very own. We each need to make our own commitment to Jesus, asking him into our lives.

So we can’t rely on the faith of our parents, or our Godparents, or the Bishop who maybe confirmed us.

For the Christian, faith is individual, personal. When faced with Jesus’ promised return we need our own faith. A trust in Him which is part of our very being, not just an external creed we recite Sunday by Sunday…… Advent is a time to Find Faith.

2. ADVENT IS A TIME TO SAY SORRY – A time to say sorry – AND MEAN IT! There’s another very vivid saying which goes like this: “Keep short accounts with God” This means quite simply, when we do something wrong, tell a lie, blow our tops, display the wrong sort of anger, etc. etc, - the list is endless - Don’t wait to ask forgiveness – do it at once! Clear the decks – say SORRY!

For unforgiven sin sadly acts as a barrier between us and the Lord. Cuts us off from God. So don’t just shrug your mistakes off! Don’t even wait until the next time you are here at All SS to ask God for His forgiveness. Ask God immediately you realise you have let Him down, and at the same time realise that you have let your “best” self down too.

It’s not that God doesn’t want to forgive you, but if you are hiding yourself and your sin away in a cupboard, you’re not allowing Him to lift you up out of the darkness of your sorrow and forgive you.

Keep short accounts with God. Very short ones. Advent is a Time to Say Sorry!

3. ADVENT IS A TIME TO ACT We need to get up out of our comfortable arm chairs and start working for the Lord who loves us so much and delights when we use the talents He has given us.

John and I listened to the advice given after our burglary and did the three simple things as advised. We did what we were told to do. Similarly, if you are truly a child of God, He will be asking and expecting you to do something special for Him. Only you and He know precisely what that is.

Maybe something very simple starting with the Christmas Season….

Could you deliver some of the Christmas cards? Look on the porch table for any left-overs.

Could you join in the carol singing in various care homes? There is a list in the porch. And a leaflet here. It gives you a chance to wear something bright and cheerful and brings cheer into the lives of the people in those nursing homes. Their faces often light up when they see us coming.

It used to be a great thing each New Year to make a Good Year Resolution – usually about giving something up! I wonder how long such resolutions actually last? Much better to find out something practical TO DO! Something positive to do for our Lord in the coming year.

How about joining the Alpha course starting on January 16th. Details are on the back of the Christmas leaflet. I really can recommend this course: I’ve participated in it, in Cornwall, Derby and here. Advent is a time to Act. Why not Act by deciding to come to Alpha in the New Year?

Another Idea: Recent Statistical Research has discovered that in our parish/ward we have one of the very highest proportions of single or bereaved and elderly people in the whole area. Many of whom are lonely, who long for a chat, even a smile could light up their day! You almost certainly know someone like that…. How about resolving to visit them, say once a fortnight? Taking a little bit of light into a lonely person’s life? Isn’t that precisely one of the things our Friend and Saviour did while he was with us here on earth? So take time to talk with Jesus in prayer about what He is wanting you to do for Him…..and then DO IT!

CONCLUSION:

The fact is that JESUS IS COMING! What are you and I going to do about it?

Four straightforward things to put into action:

Advent is a time to be ready Advent is a time to find faith Advent is a time to say sorry Advent is a time to act.

Let’s pray:

Lord Jesus, You’ve promised to come back to your followers, we don’t know when it’s going to be, but we want to be ready for you:

Help each one of us to truly open our lives to your love and your guidance. Help us to keep short accounts with you and promptly ask your forgiveness, immediately we go wrong. Help us not to be just passive pew sitters, but rather, active disciples, seeking practical ways in which we can show your love to others. For your name’s sake, AMEN

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