#('cause people are inherently mixed bags... just like life itself)

[an-organized-confusion]

I haven’t really yet explored a version of the Creativitwin dynamic where their relationship is broken beyond all repair.

Which makes me think of the how the darker timelines for iZombie and Begotten!AUs to play out.

HKA!Roman crosses some lines he can’t walk back on... but I want to portray his trajectory as not entirely “unsympathetic“ but more simply... pitiful.

Thanks to input from co-conspirator... Hero!Remus is just terrifying and awful. (Remus is some flavor of  terror in basically any other AU - but whoo boy...)

But also hope I can write it all to be compelling. (As much as I love these two a lot, it would be a good exercise to be sure.)

[itsclydebitches]

What do you make of the criticism that floats around about Ironwood pulling his forces out of Mistral in Volume 4 and basically leaving Lionheart to fend for himself? People often say he's terrible for bringing his army to Vale and that it caused so many problems. Yet for Mistral, its the exact opposite, that he should have stayed and that he's terrible for pulling out leaving Haven and the Relic unguarded.

Regarding the actual act itself, I think it’s another example of there being no easy answer here. Just like Ironwood bringing his army to Vale had its pros (presumed protection in the event of an attack) and its cons (scaring the people given the size of his forces), it’s a mixed bag by default. I don’t think Ironwood keeping forces in Mistral is automatically “right,” bringing them back to Atlas is automatically “wrong”—or vice versa. When RWBY is good, it acknowledges and leans into the idea that sometimes there is no perfect solution. If you want to get something, you’re going to have to resign yourself to losing something else as a result. Given the “Life isn’t a fairy tale” angle, RWBY is built around conflicts that are complex enough to negate the possibility of a perfect solution. “Right” and “wrong” is no longer a binary, but a matter of which choices these (flawed, often ignorant) characters think will do the least damage, not no damage at all.

What I’m more interested in though is that, yeah, the fandom has certain characters that frankly can’t do anything right. Meaning, it literally does not matter what choice they make in the canon. Whatever it is, it’s wrong by default—even though the fandom claimed to want that choice right before it happens. Most recently, I’ve seen this in regards to holding power. One of the more common criticisms of Ironwood is that he holds two council seats out of five. Something, something, he was always a dictator in the making. Well, others pointed out, then are you equally wary of Theodore? Because Shade is the only true power there and, as Headmaster, Theodore rules his Kingdom in a far more overt way than even Ironwood did through his majority seats. But it’s different because… Vacuo is just like that? Ignoring, of course, that Atlas was ‘just like that’ too. The criticism was never actually about the power imbalance (which is a legit criticism generally speaking), but rather an excuse to hate Ironwood before the canon went full “genocidal dictator.” If fans actually cared about one individual having that amount of power, that would be negatively influencing their view of Theodore too… but Theodore is one of RWBY’s inherent Good Guys (so far), so it’s okay if he holds too much individual power. Because he would never do anything bad with it, right? It's the same logic that guides Ruby's role as the sole leader of this team and, now, speaker to the entire world. In a show where we're criticizing one individual being able to call all the shots, why is it okay for Ruby to call all the shots regarding the fate of Remanent? Well, because Ruby is a Good Guy. She's the main character. We like her. The criticism is not actually about the act, but rather who gets to engage in it.

Same with Ozpin’s presumed time as the King of Vale. I’ve seen people criticizing him for not remaining King and keeping Remnant united under his rule, ignoring that Ozpin’s power as headmaster is also criticized. If he has power he's a danger, if he rejects power he's a fool. Fans don’t actually want these characters to make different choices because, if they did, they’d have to acknowledge their improvement. The real goal was always to, not just dislike them (because fans can like and dislike whoever they want, quite obviously), but to “prove” to everyone else that they’re forever and always The Worst. Others aren't allowed to like these characters and here's the totally legit "proof" as to why. So you get this circular kind of logic. If the character chooses an apple, they’re foolish for not choosing the orange. If they suddenly choose the orange, or if we even imagine a scenario where they might have chosen the orange, they’re now a fool for ignoring the apple. It’s a lose-lose situation. We’re right back to the, “It’s fine if Ruby keeps the Salem secret, but Ozpin is the worst for doing the same” because it’s about liking Ruby and disliking Ozpin, not engaging with the question, “Is it morally right to hide this information if you don’t 100% trust your allies?” Fans are more interested in coming up with more “proof” for why Ironwood was always The Worst, definitely not a well-written character thrown off a villainy cliff—Clearly he should have kept his forces in this Kingdom …just ignore that we also criticize him for keeping his forces in this other Kingdom—than they are tackling the question, “Would it have benefited Mistral more than it would have harmed things long term to leave some troops behind?” Tackling that requires accepting that Ironwood possibly, at some point in the series, made good calls. That he's capable of having made good decisions in the past and making even better ones with some support. But the fandom is so enamored with the, “He was always a villain” reading that this usually isn’t possible. The simplicity of Ironwood's villainy has erased any discussions about his choices because few fans will entertain the idea that some choices might have been good ones (or at least very understandable, lesser evil ones). When every choice a character makes is wrong by default, that's no longer a conversation about their decisions. It's just bashing for the sake of bashing.

[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Seven

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

About a month after Talik gave me glitteryll, I almost killed someone. Maybe worse.

I can remember the whole thing very clearly, because it was going to be the worst thing I’d ever done. And I know how it all ended now, but it could’ve been much worse and that’s not saying much. I still feel an enormous amount of guilt from it.

I mentioned before that there’s a type of drug called spice. I told you a story about the time I got kriffed off of glitteryll. I told you I had ingested it through my nose right? Well, there are other ways to take the stuff. One way in particular that could destroy you and your life.

Don’t ever mix glitteryll with a drink.

When you mix this specific spice with a liquid, it dilutes itself. It still alters the brain, sometimes continues to cause hallucinations, but it makes anyone who takes it overtly sleepy and too focused on their brain turning to mush to be fully aware of what’s happening to them. I’m sure you can imagine what this concoction is mainly used for.

I don’t know why Talik wanted me to do it, but she did. It must’ve been related to our job somehow. I never got the answer to that question. But we were sitting at a Cantina on Sriluur when Kip and Mur stepped away, leaving us alone with K-19. Jarvers had opted to stay and watch the ship. It’s a good thing too, because I would’ve been ashamed to do what I did in front of him.

Talik had wanted me to take spice before, but this time she wasn’t pushing it at all. Instead, she seemed to have her heart set on someone neither of us knew taking the spice. A human woman, with dark skin and amber eyes. I remember finding her to be inherently beautiful for her full, plum colored lips and magnificently sharp jaw. In honesty, I would’ve caught myself eyeing her shyly throughout the night if things hadn’t taken a different course.

But my Twi’Lek friend had other ideas. She pushed a cup of something towards me, nudging at me to put the spice inside. “Come on,” she purred slyly, running a finger down my jaw. “What’s the harm in playing?”

‘But why?’ I wanted to ask. I just took another swig from my own glass in an attempt to ignore the situation, but Talik wouldn’t give up. Instead, she continued to promise, “she won’t mind.”

I looked at Talik a long time, trying to determine if she was being serious and convince myself otherwise. She was looking at my lips in the sultry way that she does when she wants something. Her orbs were taking in my features as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth.

After a few seconds that felt more like an eternity, Talik takes a hand and puts it over my own. Her fingers feel hot against my wrist, burning against the back of my palm. Her slim thumb rubbed soothing circles into the side.

Slowly, almost as if not to startle me, she guides my fingers to take the little bag of spice from her own. “There you go,” Talik praises, stretching my fingers until the spice is over the cup. “Good girl.”

My hand, held by her own, tilts the packet over until the dust falls into the cup. Something in my stomach was screaming at me to stop. Something inside of me was making my heart stop. But the spice had already entered the cup and begun dissolving.

Talik’s fingers leave my skin the moment it’s done. “I’m going to use the restroom,” she said, already moving on while my eyes were still glued to the liquid. “Here, use my credits to send it to her.” And then she tapped the bar counter a few times and walked away.

I looked up to the woman. She was looking around the room with her quiet eyes, sipping out of a cup while fiddling with the scarf around her slender neck. There would be a second where her eyes would meet my own, catching me off guard with how attractive she truly was from the front.

To the corner of the room was a man. His hood was up, but I could see a long, black streak across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were bright too, but blue in contrast to her golden ones. I could see how he was looking at her, and then I understood.

Not long later, the man would come up to the bar to order something. When he wasn’t paying attention, I swapped the cup with the spice in it with the drink he ordered. The man drank it. I couldn’t bring myself to send it to that woman, who ended up leaving the cantina in the clear. The man, however, ended differently.

I find Samson and Claeg’s sister with her face in the mud on the side of the mountain. It’s turned to the side, but only slightly. Only enough to identify her clearly. Her fingers are trapped with clunks of mush between them, as if she were trying to claw herself away. Her long dark hair is fanned out, dirtied from top to bottom. Flies buzz around her with low hums, letting me know that the festering, burning orange hole in her back isn’t a hallucination.

I know who did it immediately. It was the Inquisitor. The one I left alive.

I exhale slowly, looking at her and trying not to admit the sorrow I feel. In honesty, I rarely even feel guilt anymore. It’s become a constant.

And you can call me a bad person all you want, whether you believe in the concept of good and evil or not, but I don’t do anything. I walk past her after a moment, wondering if Samson or Claeg will ever find her. I’m sure they will, when Samson begins to gather on his own and he comes up the path. But he may not be able to identify her corpse by then, and walk past completely unaware of the girl’s bloodline.

          I make my way into the mountain, and through more tunnels that were dug out by the Empire. No Stormtroopers are on duty, no officers fidgeting with buttons. Most of the rooms I pass through are devoid of all light and most electricity. Like the village I stayed in, it all feels very dead, leading me to wonder if the whole system is like this now.

I find the hanger with all the Tie-fighters easy enough. It’s just past a metal archway that leads to the outside platform. As usual of the Empire, they’re lined in uniform rows tethered to the ground.

Stormtroopers really are the most useless soldiers in existence. Say what you will about the Republic- I certainly do- but the Clones were vigilant. Arguably a little too much so. These Stormtroopers are lazy and unwise to leave their valuable transports unattended.

I choose the fighter at the end of the platform, on my right side. I figure it being close to the edge will make it easier to fly away without knocking stuff over, because I honestly don’t care enough to inconvenience the Empire. I may not like them much at all, but I still don’t want any trouble more trouble than they’ve already brought me.

I undo the cable with ease, tossing it over the side with little care. I watch it disappear into the layer of mist below. I climb up and into the hatch above, dropping down with a clang. The inside of the ship is about the same as the other, though far more dusty.

I can somewhat remember how Garreth turned the thing on. It feels a little off for me to do- like he’s moving through my hands in a way. The thought of that pokes something inside of me, so I immediately stop. Unfortunately, a voice continues to nag in the back of my mind.

I flip the switch above me. Then my left hand wraps around a stick below and squeezes the back. There’s a jolt, and the Tie-fighter rises into the air smoothly and silently. I press another button to rotate the ship to the side, and then the thrusters hum to life.

I get the hang of flying easier than I was expecting. Flying a Tie-fighter is smooth and  crisp. The turns are sharp, but soft if you get it right. It’s not difficult to go fast, but you can slow yourself down if you want to. Based on what I’ve seen, the Imperial pilots don’t have much time to do that. It’s actually rather relaxing. So relaxing, in fact, that I don’t leave the systems atmosphere right away. I float around the mountains, getting used to the controls made by slaves that serve the government I hate so much, just taking in how nice the ride is.

I like thinking. I find going through all the mysteries of the universe in my own little space clarifying. It can both put, and take things out of perspective. Sometimes I think that I’m an extremely lucky person. Most times I get so angry at the Maker in a slow, dull way that burns the inside of my brain but leaves my facial expression sorrowful and bored. Back with Mur’s crew, they usually knew not to bother trying to communicate with me when I was staring off into nothingness.

I try to think about the good things that’s happened to me. It’s just that most of the time it’s difficult to find or search for. There are times when I think I might’ve been happy in the moment, but I’m not always sure when I look back on it. Sometimes, things feel good, but I’m not happy.

I think I was happy on Bracca. I may not have totally enjoyed working day in and day out, tirelessly and endlessly, but I like using my fingers to tinker with things. I like pulling things apart that people consider complicated, and deciding for myself if it really is or not. I like braiding wires and gears- weaving them together in codes only I can understand. In another life, I think I would’ve liked being an engineer of some kind. Maybe opening a side business of my little trinkets on the side?

I could go and live on a dark little planet with a good black market, spending my days learning to fish and building whatever comes to my mind. I suppose, in that reality, if I really wanted to… I could adopt a child. A boy, who doesn’t give me a hard time but shares my fondness for the question ‘why?’. Maybe the child would look up to me- but maybe that’s why people love children so much. In most cases, your child will love and idolize you, and they won’t leave. Unconditional love.

I don’t like the word ‘love’ the way I like the word ‘why’. The word love reminds me of something I’m not ready to recount yet. It reminds me of the way I was touched, the things I said and the way it feels to burn. I’d prefer the memory to be a blank slate of whiteness, dampened and brightened by nothing but neutrality.

I snap my mind out of its world with a shake, and pull up the screen of coordinates. I begin to steer the fighter out of the sky of the system, picking up the speed. It’s not difficult to filter the tech for the closest planets, which I’m glad for. However, most of the planets nearby look a bit populated, which may not be the best move.

I turn my attention towards the Kwymar sector of the Outer Rim. I can’t recall visiting before, but I can just make out a system within its bounds. It’s not the biggest, though certainly not the smallest. I tap on it to bring up more information, and rather pleased with what I’m met with.

Seelos, a desert planet with a very low population. There’s sand, mountains, not a lot of infrastructure. In Imperial history, there was an attempt to mine in it, but the project was abandoned for an undisclosed reason.

Well, it is difficult to find systems with little to no population that the Empire doesn’t bother with. I could stay in the mountains. Learn about the local fauna and hunting and surviving. If it works out enough, perhaps I could bury the lightsabers down in the sand… forget about it all…

I program the course to Seelos on a bit of a whim. After a second of staring at the flashing orange screen, I jab my finger against it admittedly too hard. My shoulders tense up as I roll them, angling the ship for a jump into hyperspace.

As soon as I push the lever forward and the blue tunnel swirls into view, I feel sick. Surging forward, it feels like everything is moving on but my stomach, which was left behind somewhere. It hurts in a way. Threatens to roar up from the back of my throat and cloud my vision with stars.

Luckily, I pull the lever back and down, and hyperspace comes to an end. It melts away into the darkness I’m more familiar with quietly. My eyes widen at the view in front of me. It’s… it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a system such a soft shade of white sand before. It’s almost like I can see all the individual shells hidden in it, blurring together and sinking in time with jewels. I wouldn’t mind calling it my new home, for deep down something inside of me is begging me to stay here.

The Tie-fighter enters the atmosphere, merging through clouds and wind. Seelos is covered in plains, with faint mountains in grey and purple sprouting in the distance. However, I detect something closer on my scanners that puts me off. It’s a large metal structure that I hadn’t noticed before, but not a facility of any kind.

It’s  an AT-TE Walker. One that the Republic used during the Clone Wars. But… what’s it doing all the way out here? This planet is nothing but salt desert after salt desert, mixed with bones and jewels and little else. However beautiful it may be, the metal of the Republic isn’t meant to be here.

I land the Tie-Fighter some yards away. Curiosity blooms within me, though it’s put off by the calm demeanor of the planet. Up close, I can see the contraption is abandoned. All four legs are still and upright- stiff from lack of oil or movement. I make sure both my lightsabers are at my hips before I investigate, however. Nobody survives anywhere whilst being stupid. Unless you’re a politician, I suppose.

I open the hatch and climb out. Deserts are usually hot and dry, but this temperature is mostly lukewarm yet cool. There’s a faint wind that reminds me of wind chimes. Some strands of my brown hair fall loose from my braid, though I don’t mind.

Something is pulling me towards the AT-TE. Something inside of it is pulsating with energy, drawing me closer like a magnet with my name. And I’m not sure why, but it feels sad and lonely, but still warm. Comforting, in a way that I wouldn’t understand.

As I draw nearer, I can see the all-terrain being has been somewhat modified. There was a time where I took one apart on Bracca. It didn’t bring me many credits, however, which upset me as it took quite a bit of effort.

I might have stayed for the night, if not for the voice that suddenly rings out.

“Stay right there!” they command.

Immediately, I draw both blue and green blades out in a reverse grip- the one that’s starting to grow on me. Green in front, blue in back, defensive and at the ready. I can only tell that the voice came from in or on the AT-TE, but I see no one.

“I said- stay. Right. There.”

And I know I’m a brat for thinking this, especially in hindsight, but I really wanted to yell back that I didn’t take a single step forward.

The voice is male. Something about it is familiar, rooted deep in my memories but I can’t quite place it. It has experience in bossing people around, at least. I know that for certain.

Before anything else can happen, a shot comes from above. A sniper nearly kills me, but my reflexes save me. Angling the blue saber with a bit of a twirl, the shot is deflected back into the sand on my right. When I squint while looking up, I can just make out the outline of a perched body.

I squint my eyes at the person above. Calculating a plan to kill them. I could use the Force to drag them down to my level, slit their throat quickly and quietly. I won’t do anything to hurt the walker they sit on. I could use this as a place to rest. I bet they have materials inside too.

Oh, but I can’t. Because another figure emerges from the shadows, just by one of the legs.

I could swear I’ve seen him before, like the voice I couldn’t place a second ago. He’s tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and a sharp jaw. His nose is a little hawkish, though not overly so. Thin lips, dark eyebrows with a bit of an arch. Nice skin the color of olives, dimpled with sun spots. His eyes are a luminous shade of gold and bronze and amber, something I’ve never seen before. Even at this distance, they’re piercing. Still, the thing I notice the most is the pale blond hair, shaved closely to the mans head. He’s certainly got a soldier look about him, from the way he puffs out his chest to the way he holds two blasters aimed on me.

“Where’d you get those lightsabers?” he questions, almost with a growl. “Are you Jedi?”

I study the golden eyes for a moment, keeping my knees bent in preparation. “If you’d like me to be,” I answer in turn.

“No games,” the man warns. His eyes flit to the Imperial jacket I wear, and narrow slightly. “Are you with the Empire?”

More studying him. Maker, where have I seen him before? And his voice… I’ve heard it. But where? And why do I feel I’ve heard it so many times?

“No,” I tell him simply.

“Then where did you get the jacket?”

My eyes flit between the two people. The man holding blasters, and the sniper above. “I stole it.”

“From who?” he interrogates. His upper lip curls into a bit of a snarl. Oh, he was bred for war.

“A pilot.”

The man softens his gaze. The blasters he holds lowers slightly, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Who are you?” I ask immediately, not letting my guard down. This man is unwise to do so in my presence, because I personally have little to no moral objection in killing him- killing the both of them.

“I’m Rex.”

And then something in my brain. I know where I’ve seen Rex before.

The eyes, the voice, the posture of a soldier. It’s because he is one. Or… was one.

Rex is a Clone.

[airquietworks]

Lost at the Summit (IzuOcha) (Part 3)

Part 1, Part 2

Chapter 3: Story One week later, Ochako found herself alone in a cold bed, groggily awakening on what was supposed to be a lazy Sunday.

Izuku was conspicuously absent, the sheets with barely a trace of warmth from his body's departure. She frowned slightly at that - she liked the rare chance for lazy cuddles in the morning - but didn't think much of it. He must have been preparing breakfast or perhaps dealing with a phone call - which he should not take on a day off, but oft did anyway.

She let herself slide into her bedsheets, struggling to resist the urge to fall back asleep again.

The days were so busy now, conspiring to keep her and her husband apart. A couple of news outlets finally asked her for interviews about retirement, and though she dutifully squeezed them in, they did not get much traction. People were still too preoccupied with Deku's retirement, what that meant for the hero charts, and other news of the day as the world shifted around the fall of the world's greatest.

Ochako had buried herself in her work, intent to live her last days as a hero best she could. She tried her best to ignore people's ignorance of her, focusing on saving lives and helping people. But the days dragged and part of her could not let go of her bitterness. All of a sudden, retirement could not come soon enough.

She decided to start her morning as he usually did - reaching out and grabbing her phone from her bedside table. She idly swiped her fingers across it, checking the news of the day, always with an eye out for anything she should be aware of as a pro.

A glance through her emails yielded something unusual. Her inbox was flooded with messages with similar titles: "thank you," "Thanks, Uravity!" "You rock." It wasn't that uncommon to get an appreciation message from someone she rescued, but the sheer number of them was peculiar.

She opened one.

"Hi! I just wanted to let you know you're my favourite hero, and I absolutely love you. You kick so much butt! I remember seeing you leap into a burning office tower one time and save 20 people. It was so awesome!

I'm so sad you're retiring! =( But I'll keep cheering you on while I still can!"

Ochako grinned at that, her mood lifted by the message of appreciation, even if it was simple. She got them from time to time, but they never failed to make her feel good.

But it was strange. These messages were rarer in her aging years and she could not recall doing anything that would garner this kind of outpouring.

She went through a few more of the emails, all with variations of people sharing their appreciation for her, whether or not she had personally rescued them. Eyebrows furrowing at the strange situation, she checked through her social feeds to see what exactly was going on.

On social media, her mentions were flooded into the thousands, far more than usual. A word caught her attention, causing her eyes to widen.

"#WeLoveUravity" was trending.

It was not a massive trend, but there were still thousands of similar, heartfelt messages - shorter, but no less impactful. Pictures and stories of her throughout the years were being shared. A few noteworthy commentators were even discussing how little coverage she was getting since she made her retirement announcement two weeks ago, and the inherent sexism at play with that.

Ochako fell back into her pillow, trying to make sense of it all. Her heart beat faster, a nervous, excited energy taking hold of her as she watched everything unfold.

The world - at least, a part of it - was finally telling her story.

And Izuku probably had something to do with it. There was no other explanation she could think of.

More than a little perturbed at the idea her husband had somehow manipulated the masses, she got up, not bothering to change, and made a beeline for the kitchen to confront him about it and-

Thank him? Scold him? She was not sure. She loved the words being shared about her, even if it was probably just a passing trend that would fade quickly. But she did not want that to come because Izuku somehow campaigned on her behalf. They supported each other, relied on one another, but only to a point. She wanted her legacy to stand by itself - even if it came up short - instead of sitting on Izuku's broad shoulders.

But as she walked through the kitchen and living area, he was nowhere to be seen. The only traces of him were a few dishes in the sink, a plate of eggs on their dining table and an envelope next to it.

Pouting, she trudged forward towards the message. She opened it up and pulled the paper out, growing frustrated by the surprising morning.

"Dear Uravity,

I wasn't too sure about writing this message. But I saw what was going on and I figured I had to.

You probably don't remember me, and I don't blame you. We met about ten years ago, with a villain raid in the city. I was a new pro hero, fresh out of school. I was overzealous and got myself into a bad situation. I saw my life flash before my eyes as a monstrous villain towered over me. I was sure I was dead, but you knocked her away with one punch and got me to safety.

I'll never forget the care and comfort you showed me, your bright smile somehow making me feel like everything was going to be okay, even in such a calamity. I was about ready to quit right then, but you encouraged me, told me to keep on pushing forward. You were the brightest spot in one of the worst days of my life.

I just wanted to let you know how much that meant to me. I wouldn't be a hero today without you. I've been following you since then, and I'm amazed at what you've been able to accomplish. I was heartbroken when I found out you were retiring, but I understand. You deserve a comfortable life and a happy retirement.

I don't know how to end this, so I guess - thank you. You are my hero.

P.S. I'm not much of an artist, but a lot of people are doing it, so I hope you like the picture.

Sincerely,

Clearway"

The memory was foggy in her mind - she had dealt with a lot of villain-led attacks, and could only vaguely recall this one. But she was touched nonetheless.

She turned over to the next page and gasped at a glorious sketch of her standing atop a roof, still young, posing heroically, looking down on the city below. She was smiling, her short hair billowing slightly in the wind, her confidence radiating in the simple lines.

In her early morning stupor, the image pierced through her heart. It struck her hard to read how much it mattered to someone that she had saved them - a hero, no less. That someone would still remember that, even a decade later.

She took a seat, anchoring herself, trying to find a steady place to keep herself from floating away.

Ochako eagerly consumed the breakfast left for her - perfectly warm, the likely product of Izuku's meticulous planning and knowledge of her sleep cycles - smiling at the simple, sweet gesture.

But as she ate, her mind spun in circles at everything that had greeted her this morning. She ran through the words over and over, a mix of pride, joy, and anxiety swirling around, uncertainty at the centre of it all. Her heart sang with gratitude for the love people were showing her, but her brain refused to stop questioning it.

There were people out there who remembered her, cared about what she had done - she could not deny that. But she always knew that to be true. That ultimately did not mean her legacy carried that much weight in a world filled with heroes who did the same. It did not mean she had helped enough people to make a mark. It did not mean her story would be told beyond the day. It did not mean she could stand on the summit.

But she had to admit their words were making accepting that a lot easier.

The familiar sounds of the front door opening perked her ears up. She got up quickly, moving towards it, eager to tell her partner what was happening and confront him if he had something to do with it.

Izuku wasted little time before marching through the room with a wide grin on his face, wearing a blue hoodie, with an oversized yellow backpack. He nodded towards her despite the confusion she was sure was showing on her face. He walked over to the table, depositing the bag.

"Good morning. Sorry I left early; I had an errand I needed to run," he said sincerely, stepping forward and inclining his head towards her. She put a finger to his lips, stopping his attempt at their usual good-morning kiss.

"Good morning," she managed, though with a sharp edge to her tone. "Do you know what's going on?"

His smile stretched wide again as he disengaged from her finger, gesturing slightly towards the bag. "I do. I went on an early mail run when I saw it. The post office only left a few in our mailbox; there were too many to carry otherwise."

"A few…?" she trailed off as he opened the bag to reveal it was overflowing with envelopes, not unlike the one left for her on the table. She went slack-jawed at the sight, quickly reaching out to get a better glimpse of just how many letters they received. There had to be over 100, all seemingly written out, stacked neatly, but clearly crammed within the bag's tight confines.

So many people had sent her a personalized message. She ran her fingers along the envelopes, confirming that they were really there in front of her.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" he said, awe in his voice as he watched her, gauging her reaction. "So many people wanted to let you know what you meant to them."

Ochako turned her head to face him, feeling her eyes getting a little misty. She narrowed her gaze, gauging him carefully. "But how? I don't get it. Did you do something?"

His eyebrows shot up, and he suddenly looked a little nervous, his green eyes looking away. "I...may have made a post on a popular forum. But I promise I didn't say much, and I kept anonymous!"

He got a little flustered, his hands moving with his explanation.

"I was just so frustrated and upset at how sad you were about everything. I wanted to do something - I wasn't sure what. But I just wanted to vent and maybe show you a thread of people who did appreciate you. I just said there wasn't a lot of coverage about you retiring and how sad that was. I guess it got some traction, and people started posting more and somebody I didn't know said they should do fanart, and before I knew what was happening, it went viral."

He took a breath after his rant, gesturing to the letters. "And I don't know how, but somewhere along the way, someone thought it would be nice to do handwritten messages, too. My post may have started it, but I promise I didn't do anything else beyond that. This was because so many people do appreciate what you've done - because you are one of the best."

He stepped forward to grasp both her hands in his, holding them softly, brushing his thumbs over top. "I know that better than anyone."

Her heart stuck in her throat, Ochako struggled to come up with a response. She could feel a smile stretch across her face as she stared up at him, and she was helpless to stop it. The knowledge that somehow, all these people had sincerely wanted to do something for her...a part of her still could not believe it.

"I just...I just don't get it," she murmured. "I haven't done anything to deserve this."

"You've been leaving an impact on people your entire life. You do deserve this - and more."

On instinct, she hugged Izuku, conveying the appreciation that words could not. He embraced her in turn, the two of them holding one another for a moment, basking in the warmth.

His lips pressed a kiss into her hair. "Want to start going through them?" he suggested.

"I think I'd like that." Maybe then, she could banish the doubts, still clawing at the edges of her thoughts.

The two of them moved over to the couch, pressing up against each other, making up for the earlier loss of morning cuddles. Together, they started to read through some of the letters, each one sincere and heartfelt. Izuku took it upon himself to read many of them aloud, giving voice to the sentiments of the people she had saved, helping them ring more powerfully in her ears. They also admired the art together - they had a wide variety of quality, but she appreciated each one, and she resolved to collect them carefully as a keepsake.

A couple of hours passed and they barely put a dent in the messages. They carefully sorted them out, removing the hundreds in the oversized bag, placing them aside for later.

The miraculous letters slowly eroded her defences. The world had left its eyes on her, and she was far more beloved than she would have imagined. Perhaps history would be kind to her, after all.

Still, that irritating, nagging part of her mind knew it might yet be a flash in the pan. Viral trends did not necessarily leave much of a lasting mark. She felt so wonderful about the love of her fans, but how far that ultimately extended was hard to know exactly. Did it really compare to what other heroes were able to do?

Just as they stood up and agreed to take a break, Izuku grabbed her hand again, beaming at her.

"So...I was wondering if you'd be up to take a trip with me."

"Oh? What for?"

He looked strangely giddy, his feet rocking back and forth, a toothy grin plastered across his face.

"Well...I didn't plan for all this. But I did plan for something else. A surprise."

Her spirits buoyed by the lovely morning, she found his giddiness infectious, and she eagerly pumped a fist up to share in his enthusiasm. "Alright, sure! Where are we going?"

Izuku trembled with his excitement. "U.A. High School."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Together, they walked to the place where it all began, Izuku keeping infuriatingly cryptic about his plans. The city streets seemed so much more wondrous now after their morning together, the cloudless day painting it in vibrant light, the busy people she had protected for 35 years going about their lives peacefully; a peace she had protected.

They moved covertly, dressed in baggy, unremarkable clothing, with hoods up to disguise their faces as they made their way to the front gates of the school. It was just as imposing as it was back then, built upon the shoulders of the country's greatest heroes. She had belonged here, but after so many years away, the hallowed grounds had regained their intimidating stature. A part of her wondered about herself in relation to this anyone care that this was the school that had produced her? Would her name be listed amongst its greats?

She tried to clear her head, shaking it thoroughly. It would do her no good to get mired in such thoughts.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" He looked just as in awe of it as she was, even though he visited far more often than she did for guest appearances. "I really miss living here."

"Those were tough times. But a lot of good memories," she said, reminiscing about those wondrous early days.

"The best," he agreed as they arrived at the front gate, closed with a mighty metallic door. Security was still just as tight as ever.

"So...will you tell me now why exactly you wanted to bring us here?" Ochako pleaded, pouting at her husband, desperate to know what surprise had made him so delighted.

"Well, if they're not late, they should be...ah, there they are!"

He gestured towards the corner opposite to where they had arrived. A middle-aged woman with long, red hair and a kind smile walked toward them, carrying a small girl in her arms. The girl was positively adorable, with short hair like the older woman's, rosy cheeks and a bright smile as she looked around at the school, squirming excitedly.

Ochako looked intently at them and then back at Izuku, posing the question with her eyes. The pair of them looked vaguely familiar, and the girl was certainly cute, but she was pretty sure she had never met either of these people.

"Mommy, mommy, who are they! Are they the surprise?!" the girl squealed, pointing at the two heroes as they approached.

"Yes, that's right," the mother replied, her own excitement ringing clearly in her voice. She turned her head to regard Ochako, looking intently at her. "It's so nice to see you both. Thank you so much for this. I didn't imagine this would ever happen."

"Thank you so much for agreeing to my request," Izuku replied with a grin. "Well, Ochako, do you recognize her?"

Ochako regarded the pair again, putting on a gentle smile, but struggling to put names to the faces. The girl stared back at her with wide eyes, tilting her head slightly, studying her.

"Mommy...is that...?"

"Yes, that's right," the woman said with a laugh, kneeling down to let the girl out of her arms, the child practically vibrating with excitement. "That's Uravity."

It was like a volcanic eruption. The young girl - who could not have been older than five based on her size - squealed with delight, jumping slightly in the air, her hair flying about as she hurried over to the named hero.

Ochako chuckled at the sheer delight before her, kneeling down to meet her apparent fan. It was always fun to interact with the little ones. It did her heart good to see somehow, she could still inspire children.

"Hello there," she greeted the girl, pulling her hood down to show more of her face. The girl glomped her knee, staring up at her with wide, chocolate-coloured eyes, beaming ever-so-sweetly. "It's nice to meet you. What's your name?"

The girl giggled suddenly, squeezing at the fabric of her jeans.

"Yours!" she cried out, laughing as if that was the greatest wonder in the world. "Ochako!"

The hero felt as if her heart might burst from the shock and joy that coursed through it. She felt her eyes go wide, her gaze flashing up towards the girl's mother, who had a smile stretching across her entire face.

The realization came through her mind. She looked back to the girl at her knees, beaming up at her. Her memories flashed backwards, 35 years ago, reaching deep into the rubble, pulling a red-haired girl out, consoling her, hoping she could put a smile back on that face.

Haruka Akemi.

The elder Ochako snapped back to the present, looking down at the girl, who suddenly looked so much like the one in her memories. She gulped, struggling to contain the welling emotion of meeting her namesake. "Well, that's a lovely name for a lovely girl."

The girl blushed, her cheeks getting rosier, but the smile never vanished from her face, little dimples popping up in it.

"Wow!" the girl exclaimed. "I love that we have the same name. You're my favourite hero."

Ochako's heart squeezed at the sheer cuteness, her breath coming out in a little gasp, garnering laughter from the other adults present.

"Thank you very much," she responded, glancing back towards Akemi. "Hey, would it be alright if I held you?"

"Yeah!" The girl cheered, suddenly trying to scramble up into her hero's lap.

Said hero looked up to Akemi for permission, who provided a quick, affirming nod.

Ochako lifted the girl up, grinning as she yelled in delight, her arms reaching up towards the sky. She hardly weighed anything, even without activating her quirk.

"Yaa!" the girl cheered, giggling as Ochako lifted her up and down a few times. Ochako laughed with her, the child's mirth infectious, her heart soaring at the sheer joy of the moment.

But suddenly, she felt a strange tugging at her neckline. Curious, she looked down to see her clothes pulling away from her body slightly toward the girl she was holding.

"Watch your Quirk now, dear," Akemi said. Ochako looked up to see the woman moving ever so slightly towards the pair, without moving her feet, pulled by some unseen force.

"Oh, sorry!" the girl cried out, slightly panicked, the smile running away from her face. She took a deep breath, calming herself down.

Ochako noticed her clothes fall back to normal, the force gone.

"Is that...her Quirk?" Izuku said slowly, putting his hand on his wrinkled chin. She noticed his eyes lighting up, as it often did when an exciting new Quirk appeared before him.

"It is. We're not entirely sure about it since she got it last month, but we suspect,, based on my Quirk, she is increasing her gravitational force to pull things in." Akemi frowned, walking up to stroke at her daughter's hair. The girl had suddenly lost all her excitement, the colour drained from her face.

"Wow, that's quite a power," Izuku chimed in, studying the girl intently.

"It is. But we're a little worried about the risks if it gets too powerful. So we're playing it safe until she's a little bit older."

"I want to be a hero like you…" the young Ochako said suddenly, looking away from everyone. She was suddenly on the verge of tears. "But I don't know if I can with this."

"Ochako…" the girl's mother replied, her eyes widening, apparently startled by the sad comment.

Without thinking, Uravity took action.

"Hey. You know, when I was a little girl, people were worried about what I could do with my Quirk, too," she said, causing her younger counterpart to pull her head up.

"Really?"

"Yeah! People were always saying I needed to be careful or I might really hurt someone." She could remember once sending her father a little too high into the air, leading to him getting a sprained ankle. "So I had to watch out for a little while. But eventually, I got a little older and had enough control to really work with it."

The girl sniffled slightly. "Could I do that?"

"I know you can do it. Just listen to your mom and keep working hard. Reach as high as you can. If you can stay positive and work at it, I'm sure you could be a hero, if that's what you want to do."

The girl's face lit up brighter than the sun, bringing a matching smile onto her namesake. "I do! I will!"

Ochako held up a fist, letting it slowly approach the girl. "Then I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do as the next hero named Ochako!"

The girl slowly mimicked her hero, bringing her tiny fist into her counterpart's one. She held it there for a moment, before bringing it back in, beaming all the while. The torch was passed.

The hero handed the girl back to her mother, spirits buoyed, heart warmed to have helped make such wonder in a child so small.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you did back then," Akemi said, her smile as beautiful as her daughter's. "What you said to me...I never really got to thank you properly, but it was what I needed to hear. I don't know if I could have gotten through everything without it. I never stopped looking up to you after that. I even run a fan site - I was just a little nervous about trying to meet you in person again."

Ochako beamed at the woman, her eyes getting wet as the words left their mark. What she did back then did matter. It was not for nothing. She had made a difference, even if it seemed so small looking back.

"Aww, you didn't have to be afraid. I would have been happy to meet you at any time." She looked towards the small girl who bore her name. "Thank you for this. For her. I'm just...I'm honoured."

"There wasn't anyone more inspiring we could think of to name her after. And neither of us would be here today without you." The girl in question gave a toothy grin and thumbs up at her idol. "And she's loved you ever since she found out about it."

Ochako took a breath, struggling to maintain some composure. Seeing the happy family that her work had helped create made her feel more pride than just about anything, besides her own family.

"Mommy, why is she crying?"

The hero touched her cheek. Oh. She was. She supposed it could not be helped.

"I'm just...very happy," the hero replied, making sure to show it in her smile.

It was difficult to describe the overwhelming, surging emotions within her. Here was solid proof of her mark on the world, something impossible to fathom before this moment. Surrounded by such love, she felt eager to give some of it back out.

"Would it be alright if I gave you two a hug?"

The blush returned to Akemi's face. She buried it in her daughter's hair, but she opened up her free right arm. Her daughter reached out eagerly, tiny arms stretching forward.

Ochako stepped forward and embraced the two of them, hugging them close, though taking care not to crush her namesake. Akemi let out a little gasp, seemingly struck by being embraced by her hero, while the younger Ochako latched around her neck.

The hero felt warmed to the very core of her being, holding a small part of a much greater legacy. She had made a difference, and she was holding it. Right now, these two people were the world to her.

"Thank you," the hero whispered her heart into Akemi's ear.

"Thank you for saving me," was all the woman could manage in reply.

After a couple of autographs and a promise to keep in touch, the couplings waved farewell to one another.

The hero promised herself, right then and there, she would watch the girl grow.

"I can't believe you found her after all these years."

"It took a little doing, but it was worth it." Izuku's answering grin was just as wonderful as it was on the day they first met.

She took the time to hug him from the side, digging her head into his chest. "You're incredible, you know that?"

"I couldn't be without you," he whispered into her hair. "You set a pretty good example."

"Oh, hush." She disentangled herself from him, face aflame, touched beyond words but getting a little embarrassed at the avalanche of compliments the day had brought. "So, shall we head back home?"

"Well...I had one more thing in mind." He walked over to the towering gate, pulling a card out from his pocket and flashing it at a scanner at the side of the door.

Ochako jumped slightly as the doors slowly opened, revealing the campus and school beyond. She stared wide-eyed at the familiar pathway, where she had begun her real journey to becoming a hero.

"How did you…?"

"Retiring comes with some perks. Called in a favour or two," Izuku said, tucking the card back in and adjusting his yellow backpack slightly. "Come on, let's go!"

With a surprising amount of exuberance, Izuku forged ahead, laughing as they returned to the grounds of their youth. Ochako followed him, joining in, eager to see just what more he had in store.

Staring at the school ahead now, it did not seem quite so imposing. The familiar path, lined with the busts of heroes, was significant, but she could walk it just as well as she did when she first came here.

This was a place bathed in legacy, but she was a part of that, just as much as the incredible heroes who had come before her. After meeting her young namesake, she did not doubt that now. Whether or not the world recognized it, she had made a difference, and there was plenty of living proof.

She realized how lost she had gotten. What was important to her was helping people - and heroes - in pain, people who needed you. She had done that thousands of times. That mattered. It was enough.

"I wanted to be here for this," Izuku suddenly called out, snapping her from her thoughts. He surged forward quickly, a few steps ahead of her. "The place where we-EEEEEEEEEE!"

Ochako reacted on instinct, sprinting ahead and tapping her hand onto the backpack of her descending husband. She did not see exactly how he had managed to trip, but even he would suffer from a faceplant into the hard ground.

Her reflexes were still quick enough, though he came pretty close to tasting brick. He stopped awkwardly in the air, body hanging horizontally without its gravity.

A rush of nostalgia hit Ochako with full force. Her mind went back more than 40 years, when she reached out to save the boy who would come to save the country - and her. She had acted on instinct back then too, not wanting to let people get hurt when she could make a difference, even if preventing a fall was trivial.

Silence hung in the air between them, the realization hitting them both at the same time.

She started snickering at him. Uproarious laughter followed quickly.

"I...can...not..believe!" Ochako paused between words, struggling to breathe, keeling over slightly. "That you would fall here again!"

After forty years of heroics, standing at the pinnacle, the world's greatest hero was still felled by his own two feet. Some things never changed.

"I swear...I swear I didn't mean to!" he responded, legs kicking in the air slightly as the laughter wracked through him. She noticed a blush starting to come to his cheeks, a little embarrassment peeking through the mirth. "Gosh, I planned to be more...together this time. I couldn't say a word to you when we..."

His face scrunched up suddenly. Just as she prepared to release him, he turned in mid-air, reaching his hand out to pause her.

"Wait! Uh, can you just hold me here for a bit?" he asked, reaching around himself to take his backpack off his shoulders.

Confused but curious, she nodded, staring intently at her partner as she tried to make out what he was up to.

With a shaky hand, he pulled out a small envelope from the bag, reaching out to hand it to her, still hanging awkwardly in midair.

"One...one last letter," he muttered, tripping over the words as he had with his feet. His nerves were evident, but she could not understand what he had to be nervous about. "From your biggest fan of all."

She had a hard time processing the image before her. Izuku, reaching up, letter in hand, hanging awkwardly, his gravity stolen by her hands. Blushing like a schoolboy, a nervous little grin on his face. She did as he asked, taking the envelope and regarding it carefully, curious as to its contents.

Izuku took a deep breath as she opened it up. "I just wanted to bring you here to remind you. About the very first time you saved me...and I guess the latest time, too."

He held up his yellow backpack, a toothy grin coming upon his face. "I even tried to look the part best I could!"

"Izuku…" she was astonished at just how far he had gone to make her feel better. She felt a surge of affection toward him, even before she read whatever was in this letter.

It was strange, thinking of this place as the first time she had saved someone. It had hardly seemed like anything at the time. Little did she know how that simple gesture would intertwine their destinies forevermore.

He finally flipped himself back upright, well accustomed to moving without gravity. She quickly tapped her fingers together, releasing him. He was suddenly right in front of her, eagerly gauging her reactions.

"Well...whenever you want to," Izuku said, inclining his head ever-so-slightly towards the message she held in her hand.

The envelope contained two pieces of paper, folded carefully together. She opened up the pages, her eyes met with his untidy scrawl. It could be difficult to read - he had developed his handwriting more for speed than legibility - but she had long since grown accustomed to it.

"To the world's greatest hero,

Hello! My name is Izuku Midoriya, and I have been a fan of yours since I was 16 - about 40 years. I might actually be your oldest fan!"

She let out a chuckle at that, Izuku joining in. I was always struck by just how determined you were - and how brightly you smiled. Even when you faced setbacks, you kept maintaining this incredible aura. It must have been hard on you. I wanted to help you, but I also knew it was something a hero had to do; reassure others even in the darkest of moments.

Being back here, Ochako could remember her first Sports Festival, and how brutal that setback had been. It was tough putting on a brave face. She put on a false smile too often back then, but it was a skill that could come in handy.

I've watched you every step of the way, and it was incredible seeing how fast you grew. How strong, how kind, how heroic you were. It drove me to want to be better. I know I would not have been the hero I am today without you.

You may not realize it, but I owe so much to you. At that entrance exam at U.A., there is no chance I would have made it without you. You saved me that day, and you've had a knack for doing that ever since.

She smiled at the memory of their exam together, even if it was fraught. From day one, they had managed to pull each other out of the fire often.

When I've fallen, you've lifted me up. When I doubted whether I could do it, you gave me a name that always meant I could. I've watched you blossom into an absolutely incredible professional. You inspire and help so many people. You are ridiculously kickass.

She snorted at that one.

My favourite moment of yours was your fight against the Renegades. The way you alternated your Quirk so smoothly and took out so many of them at once is - well, you know the rest.

"Nerd," she teased, garnering another chuckle from him.

You are the world to me. Everything we've built together, accomplished together - I'll make sure no one ever forgets it. You helped me tell my story - you helped make sure my story even exists. I will make sure they know yours.

I've left something to remind you of just how far you've come. The world may not recognize it, but I know we stand at the summit together. And I never would have made it here without you.

Thank you for always saving me!

Your number one fan, Izuku Midoriya

"Izuku...I…" her throat clogged up, rendering her speechless. Standing here, she could fully remember the incredible story she had helped create. How could she have doubted she had not left her mark, when the truth stood there before her, his eyes bright, standing at the top of the world, her right by his side?

Her story would be told. Their story. Together, in everything. She could see it now.

"Hang on. You should see the fan art first." Izuku looked sideways, blushing, adjusting himself away ever so slightly. "...Maybe even the first one?"

Startled, Ochako turned the page over, gasping at the sketch of herself. It was a little worn, clearly done with a basic pencil on an aged piece of paper. But it was surprisingly detailed around her face - far more than some of his older sketches. The descriptions highlighted her various costume features and abilities. She noticed a few crossed words like "cute" and "incredible," the page bearing the first signs of his love for her.

"It's the first sketch I ever drew of you. I usually cycle through these pretty fast, updating things. But I wanted to keep that one, even back then. When I first drew it, I realized I went too far and put it away. But I never wanted to get rid of it. Eventually, I realized it might make a nice retirement gift."

She reflected on the old sketch of herself - young, naive, courageous, simple. She drew a hand across the worn page, a gateway to the past, thinking upon how the image of her had changed, how much more she had done since then.

"Thank you, Izuku. It means so much to me." She stared up at him, his green irises shining down at her, the same passionate flame still there within them, even if they were now surrounded by more wrinkled flesh. "And thank you for saving me. Now, and always."

He grabbed onto her shoulders; she could feel the strength still so present in his arms despite how worn they had become. They beamed at one another, as best friends, partners, and everything to one another.

"This is where our journey together began," he stated simply. "Where our story began. And this is where the rest of our lives will, too."

She placed a hand over the top of his, holding it to her, staring fiercely back at him. "We got some adventures left in us after all, right?"

"The best is yet to come."

She acted then, grabbing onto the neck of his sweater and pulling him in for a deep kiss, her heart igniting at the contact, as surely as always.

They pulled away, the passion of the fleeting moment staining both their cheeks, suddenly sheepish about such a brazen public display of affection. Fortunately, nobody was around to witness it.

Ochako carefully put the letter and drawing back in the envelope and tucked it away in a pocket, turning back to the path where she had begun her journey, leading toward the gate out to the rest of the world.

She held out her hand for him, and he took it, intertwining their scarred flesh together.

They walked out towards the sunlight, the rest of their story left to tell.

----------------------------------------------------

AN:  Written for the IzuOcha Temple Discord Server Big Bang Event. Prompt: "Thank you for always saving me!" Thank you very much to Mal for editing this and for Xylveon for the incredible artwork provided for the fic. You can also find it at https://twitter.com/Xylveon700/status/1294469669361840129. Please show Xylveon some appreciation! Thank you to the organizers for putting this on, it was truly wonderful to be part of.  Please leave a like and/or reblog if you enjoyed it ! ^_^

[goodvibesatpeace]

Spirituality: The Trap of Spiritual Materialism

Spiritual materialism’ is a term first used by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist teacher who came to the United States in the early seventies. In his book Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism, Trungpa expounded on his theories of how the ego likes to use the spiritual path for its own ends, and the mistakes seekers easily fall into in their quest for enlightenment.

The problem is that ego can convert anything to its own use… even spirituality. ~ Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

In the west, we have come to think of our spiritual quest as ‘self-improvement,’ which is all well and good, except what is the self? Ego.

Especially in the west, where we are conditioned from an early age into individualism and material accruement, it is easy to impose these ingrained structures of understanding onto spirituality as well. We can collect courses and retreats and practices like medals, or childhood sports trophies, feeding our ever-hungry egos. “Look at me! Look how much I’ve given up, read, invested in my spiritual life!” As if this spiritual search somehow makes us better than the person beside us; who feels no need to meditate every day or do an hour’s asana practice or sit at the feet of a guru. But in all of us, the spiritual path unfolds.

Whether we are aware of it or not – our soul is growing and finding its way. It is only when the ego grasps hold of this search and uses it to feed itself that we are in danger of falling into the trap of spiritual materialism.

The Three Lords of Materialism

Trungpa discussed how these spiritual errors fall into three misunderstandings, stemming from the materialism inherent in Western cultures. He called these the ‘Three Lords of Materialism.’ The first of these is ‘physical materialism’, where the belief that owning and accumulating more and more will bring us happiness. Yet, even when we attain what we first desired, we always yearn for more. In this sense, dissatisfaction accompanies every purchase. It is the yearning that must be addressed.

The second Lord is ‘psychological materialism’, where we believe that a certain faith or belief system will be the cure to all our ills. We fall in love with Buddhism, for instance, and think that if we throw ourselves into the practices with enough vigor, we will be able to evade suffering. Yet, we still suffer. We may strike upon an idea or a political party or cause that momentarily seems to relieve our burdens. But this relief is only momentary. We are still living in the world and the religion or idea, or whatever it is we’ve latched onto so enthusiastically, doesn’t stop challenges from arising.

The third Lord is ‘spiritual materialism’, the belief that a certain state of mind or spiritual practice will set us free from our daily troubles. We may seek to remove ourselves from the world through overusing meditation or breathing techniques, or by living in a drugged-out haze. Escaping. However, at some point we have to stop meditating or the drugs run out and the world again intrudes and the suffering we sought so hard to evade is back in our faces, louder and harder than ever. Life keeps on happening, no matter how hard we try to block it out. Shit still happens.

The Ego – A Projection of the Mind

Trungpa taught that these three Lords are based on the idea that the ego is real, that it is something to be tamed or trained, when in fact, it is constantly changing and does not exist in itself, only as a projection of the mind. If we feed it and build our sense of self around our spiritual practices for instance, then we are only feeding what doesn’t exist. Anything that feeds into this false self of ego will ultimately cause us only more suffering.

So what are the warning signs and how do we find our joy and relieve our suffering, without falling into the trap of feeding the ravenous ego? God knows!

Navel gazing has often been derided, though of course, it is necessary to examine one’s mind and motivations, but when the focus becomes one of boosting the self, narcissistic or self-aggrandising, then we know perhaps it’s time to stop looking inwards and turn our attention out into the world and set an intention to serve the good of others. Though, that too, can feed the ego – look at me, being so good giving up Christmas with my family (which I really hate anyway) to serve food to the homeless – aren’t I a good person? Just bringing an awareness of our true motivations is enough.

If we find ourselves jumping from one fad, one teacher, one book or idea to the next, hoping for instant enlightenment, or healing, that’s another trap. Unfortunately, there isn’t an easy way out; the work of living continues as long as we live. We can find ways of being that help us to embrace all of it more completely, without judgment, but there is no cure for life except death. Even enlightened beings grieve when someone they love dies. We all feel pain.

The Trap of Competing

That leads me to another trap on the spiritual path, one that I recognize as my ego’s favorite – my suffering is worse than your suffering, my bliss is greater than your bliss — comparison and competition, inherent in capitalism but of no use whatsoever in the quest for living more peacefully. We all suffer, we all find our bliss. Be aware of the ego grasping for fuel. If you find yourself dwelling on your own sainthood, then perhaps it’s time for a reality check. Sooner or later it will come to you anyway. If you catch yourself talking only about your latest spiritual teacher, book or practice, trying to enlist others to the cause – look closely at yourself – are you ‘selling’ it? If we’re selling something, then we’ve probably tipped over into spiritual materialism.

That’s not to say you can’t write a great book about the search for happiness, or provide healing services for a fee, it’s only a caution to ensure that the heart of your practice remains centred in being of service, not of serving your own need for a big fancy house and a brand new car.

Be aware also of buying into quick fixes, super-gurus and anything that promises instant enlightenment or a cure for what is missing in our lives. Perhaps these things do happen but the reality is, we each have our own path unfolding within us for the entirety of our lives. Even when we reach some kind of peace, events will still happen that shake us to the core and strip away all we’d fought so hard to attain.

In the West, we have a bad habit of appropriating the spirituality of other cultures, borrowing the rituals or practices we enjoy, mixing and matching without really thinking about the culture or history that shaped the path. Picking a little of this and a little of that, like a pick-and-mix lolly bag, collecting without due consideration. Accumulating. Treating the practices of other cultures with respect and care is important.

Language Clues

The words we use when referring to our spiritual paths give us clues as to whether we’re falling into the trap of ego identification through spirituality – spiritual materialism. If we’re using words like buy and sell, attain and lose, and win, and more and greater than, less than – words of judgment, separation, and acquisition, then we’re probably in need of a wake-up call.

Spiritual materialism is to deceive ourselves into thinking we are developing spiritually when instead we are strengthening our egocentricity through spiritual techniques.

What Then is Spirituality?

How can we approach our spiritual paths without falling into these traps? Awareness is key, and then once we are aware, focusing not only on ourselves and our own healing but on somehow serving the greater good. True spirituality, for me, means experiencing life as it is, while at the same time experiencing that part of ourselves, and of others and the universe itself, that comes from a higher source and connecting with that source in whatever way works for us.

Trungpa’s writings about spiritual materialism serve to wake us up from the trick we all play on ourselves of feeding the ego through self-improvement. Instead, he shows us a far brighter reality, the true joy that involves letting go of the ego and just being, here in the moment, riding the waves of life as they rise and fall.

We use our spiritual search to build a sense of self as a ‘spiritual person,’ a falsehood and deception, or the seeking of enlightenment as a means of escape. We’ve all met people who are hooked on Vipassana retreats, come out from each one glowing, but then a few weeks later are stumbling and lost once more, searching for another fix of their spiritual drug.

[witchypupil]

Practicing Witchcraft: What You Should Know About Blood Magic

Blood Magic

‘Blood magic’. conjures up all kinds of gothic images, doesn’t it? The very word ‘blood’ is a real attention-grabber. Combine it with words like ‘magic’, ‘ritual’, ‘spell’ or ‘rite’, and usually thoughts fly to human sacrifices on a stone altar dripping with dark red and other images that look like something straight out of a horror movie.  

As usual, the fiction is much darker and more stirring than the reality of it. Yes, blood can be dangerous— both magically and mundanely. But fire can also be dangerous, no one would think to tell you not to use it to cook your meals. You just have to learn how to use it safely and properly.

The truth is, blood magic can be quite potent if you’re inclined to do it, and if you know what you’re doing. It should not be undertaken lightly, or carelessly; but it doesn’t deserve the ‘taboo’ stamp that many are quick to give it.

Using Blood in Magic and Spells

The Power of Blood

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that blood is a powerful thing. This is something that is so embedded in us that we all understand it. Fear and awe of blood goes way back to our earliest human ancestors. The sight of that bright red fluid -- whether it was coming from an enemy or friend, your prey or yourself – got immediate attention. Blood is associated with such powerful concepts that some people can’t stand the sight of it, and might faint away if presented with too much. Hemophobia is the fear of blood.

Blood is associated with death: the slain warriors on the field, the victim of violence, the hunter’s prey all lay bloody in their final state. Blood is also associated with life: it’s part of the cycle of fertility that perpetuates life. If you lost too much blood, you would grow weak and die. If your blood is tainted, you will wither.

Blood is associated with pain: you see it when you stumble and fall, have an accident, or fight. Blood is also associated with passion: when you love doing something, when you are good at it, it’s ‘in your blood’. Someone you love, particularly family members, are your ‘blood’. Blood connects you to things, or others. Even if you don’t know someone, you can empathize with them, your ‘heart bleeds for them’. Blood is passion, it’s connection, it’s raw emotion.

Blood is life. It courses through your body delivering oxygen and nutrients to every part of you. Blood is energy—when you push yourself, your heart pounds and your pulse races as your blood flows even faster.  A woman bleeds during her menstrual cycle, she bleeds when her hymen breaks, there’s blood at childbirth. If you donate blood you might be saving someone’s life.

Whatever little microscopic bits are floating around in there contain the very essence for all that you are. A scientists can (illegally) clone you if they had just a drop of your blood. Your blood contains your DNA—a blueprint not just for you, but your complete ancestral line.

Something that contains this much power is naturally powerful in magic. Perhaps some would say it’s too powerful.

Blood Magic is Not Blood Sacrifice

Blood Magic: No Harm Necessary

Blood magic is not magic that involves killing people or animals in ritual sacrifice. Let’s just make that clear. We’re not talking about laying some innocent creature out on an altar or in the center of a pentagram and killing it, or wounding it. This would be all kinds of wrong, not to mention illegal, and is not at all what I mean when I talk about blood magic.

Blood magic is the use of a few drops of blood during a spell or ritual—usually your own blood, but if you are casting for someone else you could use theirs (with caution and permission, of course).  Those few drops can add power to a magical working in any number of ways.

Is Blood Magic Evil?

The first thing you need to learn about blood magic is that it’s not inherently evil. Blood isn’t evil, is it? Does it make you ‘evil’ or desire to do malicious deeds just because it’s currently inside your body? If not, why do you think it would it become ‘evil’ outside of your body? Some people mistakenly think that using blood in magic is ‘dark’ or somehow only associated with malevolent intentions. This is simply not true.

The negative connotations stem back to that fear of blood I spoke about earlier: fear of our own mortality, fear of power, etc., are the kind of driving factors behind a fear of blood. Indeed, if you are hemophobic, you might want to avoid blood altogether. It’s not for everyone.

But I come from a more objective perspective. I see blood – like any object or component you would use in magic – as simply a tool. It’s a very powerful tool, but a tool nonetheless. It’s neither benevolent nor malevolent in its own right. You could use it for any number of purposes, though like any other tool it’s not advised to use it for unethical purposes.

Going back to the fire analogy—I could use fire to burn down my neighbor’s home when they piss me off. I have access to fire, which can be a very powerful destructive choice if I choose. So what stops me? The fact that I am an ethical person who has no interest in hurting others. Just because I don’t want to hurt someone with fire doesn’t mean I shouldn’t use it. By the same logic, I don’t want to hurt someone with blood magic; just because I don’t want to cause harm with it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t feel free to utilize this powerful tool.

A good implement to have for blood magic is the prickers that diabetics use to test their blood sugar.

A Little Goes a Long Way

Practicing Safe Blood Magic

Before I begin discussing ways to use blood in magic, let’s discuss ways to use it safely. First, there are a few don’ts to keep in mind:

Don’t ever take more than a few drops

Don’t ever take blood from an unwilling participant (this includes animals because they cannot give consent)

Do not smear your blood on people, let people smear blood on you, or try to exchange blood in any way; remember that many diseases can be transferred through blood

Do not ever consume blood, either directly or by putting it into a drink; aside from the fact that you can catch diseases, blood itself is toxic to human beings. More than a couple of teaspoons can cause haemochromatosis and potentially do some serious organ damage.

Don’t let others drink your blood, either directly raw or by putting it into food or drinks; this is essentially giving your power over to that person, and not in a good way.

The correct way to perform blood magic safely would be:

Sanitize the area of skin with an alcohol pad or sanitizing gel.

Sanitize a small poking implement, such as a pin.

Poke only enough to break the skin.

Squeeze out your few drops to collect for your use

Clean the wound immediately and put some antibiotic ointment on it. If it’s still bleeding, put a bandage on it.

Handle and dispose of anything that has been touched with blood with extreme caution until the end of your ritual or spell.

Disinfect surfaces (of your skin and your work space), implements and any other tools after performing blood magic.

Keep the wound clean as it heals.

If you are a woman and you prefer, you can use your menstrual blood (moon blood, blood of the moon) rather than pricking yourself. You can catch menstrual blood easily with a diva cup if you need to temporarily preserve it for ritual—just don’t hang onto it very long, and all the same sanitary practices regarding care and clean-up also applies.

When (and When Not) to Use Blood Magic

I can't tell you exactly when and where blood magic is your best option, but I can tell you my reasoning: I use it only in extreme need for the most important circumstances.

I’ll use it for protection— not minor protection, such as if my co-worker is a nuisance I’m not going to use blood magic to keep her out way; but major protection, when there is a potential for serious life-changing threats (accident, crime, etc.)

I’ll use it for health and wellness—not minor issues like sore throats or skinned knees, but big health issues like disease, injuries, surgery or breaking unhealthy addictions.

I’ll use it for desperate needs—not minor things like saving money for a Disney trip, but big things like if I were on the verge of being homeless or starving I would use it to draw what I need to survive

That’s about it. I have more rules about when to never use it:

I never use blood magic unless I’m (or the person I’m doing it on behalf of is) fully prepared to accept whatever the consequences may be (which means thinking them through very carefully).

I never use it to target other people without their permission (unless, of course, it’s deadly necessary for protection; I had no issue banishing a violent family member who refused to leave my mother’s home and threatened my life with a gun)

I never use it in love or relationship magic; bonds between people need to be naturally developed, not forced. Blood magic turns a potential bond into a chain: emotional slavery.

I never use it to gain power; if you can’t earn it naturally, you don’t deserve it and probably won’t know how to wield it.

I never use it to bring harm to anyone or anything.

I never use it for vengeance or retaliation

Spell Casting with Blood

Using Blood in Magic

Now that you know the correct way to safely use blood in magic, let’s talk about how you might put it to use. There are countless ways, actually, limited only by your imagination. But here are a few ideas to get you started.

In candle magic, mix blood drops with oil to dress and charge your candle.

Use a small drop or two to anoint and charge any talisman or amulet.

In jar or container magic, add a few drops of blood to the container.

In petition magic, smear some blood on the paper the petition is written on.

Place a drop of blood in a mojo bag before tying it up.

Alternatives to Blood

Though not entirely as powerful as blood, there are other things you can use to personalize a spell and lend it a boost: urine, saliva, semen, nail and hair clippings, for example. These are all effective options that will lend power to minor workings, or workings when blood magic wouldn't be appropriate or advised.

When you're first learning magic, it's advised that you work with these first before graduating on to blood. Take some time, experiment with these things. You'll begin to get a sense of how much putting 'part of yourself' into a spell affects your magic.

Once again, nothing is inherently good or bad—it all depends on how you choose to utilize it. So practice ‘safe magic’ and you'll be okay.

-Mackenzie Sage Wright  

https://exemplore.com/wicca-witchcraft/Witchcraft-for-Beginners-What-You-Should-Know-about-Blood-Magic

artwork: http://evil.wikia.com/wiki/File:The_Blood_Magic.jpg

[taelicacy]

Monochrome Season

Genre: Fluff, future smut, angst, mental health

Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4  (not yet available)

Synopsis: (Y/N) is a very reserved kind of girl that has lots of trouble connecting with people and has unresolved issues with herself. Being forced on a group date who will she meet? And how could he possibly change her future prospects?

Word count: 3k

In my eyes I’ve always been able to classify people in two categories: those who dared to live their life at their fullest and those who simply were too afraid to step out of their comfort zone to do so. However, even if I myself viewed life this way it didn’t prevent me from being classified in the latter group, for various reasons I don't dare to confront.

Those kind of people who simply follow the tide paved by society, those who blindly believe what they were made to believe is good for them, those who won’t ever wonder if there’s something beyond what they’re told to do... I like believing I'm not one of them.

If somebody asked me how to describe myself I wouldn’t really know where to begin.

Actually, that’s a straight out lie, I perfectly know who I consider myself to be, it's just that my opinion on myself is not socially acceptable. Or rather unhealthy , I'd say?

"You must smile, be positive and accept your flaws!" is what everyone preaches from behind a filter, a flawless make up technique and a superiority complex. Meanwhile, even if I tried and blend with the rest with a fakery mask on, the truth is still floating in the back of my mind, like a seed of discord waiting to be watered by negativity and self-doubt.

The truth is that I’m a coward. Such a big coward that I prevented myself from growing because of it. 

What is that? I don't know. I keep it caged in the back of my mind. It's not something I am willing to change. You should just ignore it, like I do. That way I can keep living.

This is how I begun my daily reflections as I let myself fall on my bed like a dead body, exhausted from yet another day of endless college classes and a flooded whatsapp group that made me wonder if it was even possible to feel more unattached to my friends, or any other human being for that matter.

Still, I had to push myself a bit further if I didn't want my existence to be forgotten. I couldn't let myself give in to my hermit tendencies.

I unlocked the phone. “Why do we always spend weeks without talking and then we suddenly have texting fits?” I reprimanded to no one in particular. After all I was living alone in an apartment by myself. Sounds fancy right? Not really, the smallest flat one could ever conceive.

Still, if it meant me being able to be alone it was more than enough for me. I was secretly thankful that my parents didn't oppose to the idea of me not having a flat mate. Not that they would like me being so antisocial.

The mobile phone's light blinded me a bit amidst the dark room. The group bombarding me with messages was the one that I shared with my closest friends.

My eyes quickly skimmed over the hundreds of messages. 

Break-up, was the key word that caused such a ruckus.

My eyes widened in surprise, and I ran to get my bag. 

Me and the girls were to meet up in the usual cafe, we would often go there to hang out from time to time when we managed to make our schedules match. I really liked that coffeplace. It was the perfect mixture of old and modern, isolated it was located in an alley next to a main street, bearing the perfect balance between noisy and quiet, modern and outdated. 

I took a glimpse of them sitting in the furthest table from the entrance, our usual spot, with their respective favorite mixes of coffee and my usual Frapuccino waiting for me on the table, rather seducing me to quicken my pace towards them.

As I was approaching something actually put me out of the food craving trance I was in. Kara’s expression was a mix of “Oh, (Y/N) you’re gonna hate us”, and “I’m so sorry, we are doing this to you, but we are”.

Reflexively, I frowned as I sat in the seat reserved for me. “...So, what’s up? Please don’t scare me...”.

They both cracked a smile as if I had just nailed something, pity in Kara’s eyes, as she tended to be a very empathetic person. That was reason enough to make my mental emergency alarms go off.

Mira's expression went stern again. What the heck was going on? “...I’m just gonna be direct (Y/N)… I’ve broken with my boyfriend already...”.

Oh, Ape, Mira’s boyfriend. That’s actually how me and Kara called that guy, derogatorily. Nickname well deserved, he was a brainless man that had cheated on Mira more than once and who we wanted to punch fervently. Still, she seemed pained.

“Why now, after so much time after the cheating happened?” I asked sincerely.

“I may hold affection for him, but there's no love anymore since that happened. I guess now I’m finally free”.

As we pulled each other in a hug, we kept on pressing the issue to get her to vent the most she could to forget the bastard.

“Actually… It may seem too soon, but if I’ve been able to call this relationship off it’s because I am interested in a guy” Mira murmured hesitantly as if she were afraid to seem too shallow.

“I was hoping you’d help me by going to a...” tension built up while Mira stopped to breathe deeply, squinting her eyes she quickly muttered “...group date”.

OH. Okay, it makes sense that they’d plan to carefully throw this bomb to me, since it’s obvious that I’d say no, because hell NO. These kind of social conventions were the epitome of my social anxiety triggering situations. I mean, imagine the pressure of being set up with a guy you don’t even know, who won’t want you to be his pair and having to interact with a dude forced to talk to you for the whole afternoon. Oh, yes it sounds like a dream come true!  I'm sure it won't be awkward at all and I won't want to flee and curl up like a worm into a safe position into the safety of my house! It sounded like a great idea, right?  And---

“Wait (Y/N), I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t necessarily a triple date, it’s just us and his friends hanging out to have fun, and me trying to get closer to him while we are at it!”

"Well, there will also be as many guys as us girls, but hey, that doesn't mean anything!" snickered Kara.

“...That actually sounds reasonable… But--” I stopped as Kara actually made a pleading look to me. I had to be more reasonable. Mira had gone through a lot because of that Ape, and we didn’t want to see her like that ever again. Going could even help us see if this new guy was a threat Mira couldn’t spy, like it usually happened to her, since she tended to be too naive. Yes, maybe it was time to be less selfish and act for the sake of my friend.

Therefore, I ended up accepting and suspiciously being told the place and the date when it was happening, as if they had been planning it all along even before I accepted.

Will they were both very excited I had a gut feeling that something was gonna go really wrong.

It’s not a date, relax, understood? Understood. There is NO pressure, I don’t need to pretend to be more talkative and friendly than I am, understood? Understood. I’m just going there to make new friends and help my own, understood? Understood. Okay, then, WHY AM I STILL FREAKING OUT.

As you can probably guess I’m not a really a... people person, to put it lightly. 

If there’s something that bothers me is the awkwardness associated to meeting new people. And not only because of my deficient social skills, but the weirdness of the situation itself. The shortest silence makes my brain freak out trying to find a topic that is smart enough to stop the excruciating silence, most of the time failing and not being able to join in the conversation. It's not nice, feeling out of place.

I’d just say I’ve learnt out of trial and error that the wisest course of action is to stay out of this situations the most I can. Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t have many friends. Or maybe the reason is because I’m plainly a strange and awkward person, who knows?

Who’d say that as a college student I’d keep having the same issues as I had when I went to elementary school?

The reflection was worthy, however, the time to leave was approaching. I had already been dressed hours ago and now I was getting urges to either change my whole outfit or just pick the phone and make a shitty excuse to not go altogether.

I looked at myself in the mirror one last time. I didn’t choose anything special, just a casual outfit that I’d wear normally but that fit me and made me feel a little bit more safer and confident. The urges kept coming harder and the uneasiness growing steadily as I encouraged myself to just ignore them and crack the door open.

When I finally were approaching my all too familiar cafe, I got angry with Mira for making all of us meet there. I would probably always remember this awkward encounter everytime I went there again.

The door's bell tingled as if it was a sign that I could no longer back down from this. I noticed the usual excited salutation from Mira on our usual table, Kara timidly smiling on her right side and a guy who I suspected was Mira's interest on her left.

He gave off a warm and approachable vibe, with a smile so broad that I could tell right away why she was became interested in him in the first place. 

His name was Namjoon and despite my inherent nervousness he was able to make me feel  a bit more at peace as he hugged me in a brotherly hug after introducing himself.

"Oh, nice to meet you, my name is (Y/N)" I managed to blurt out thanks to being a bit calmer.

"You know, we were just talking about you" Namjoon said jokingly still with a soothing smile that pinpointed why Mira had her eyes on him. The guy gave off a warm vibe, that of an understanding person.

"Oh no, what did you tell him Mira!" my cool went out the window, my impulsiveness striking yet again.

"Oh Namjoon you're such a snitch!!" Mira exclaimed."We were talking about how late you always are..." 

"... and how we - as foster mothers - will have to keep you on a leash to keep you from running away" Kara finished with a smile.

I could feel my cheeks grow redder by the second as I understood they exposed my more than obvious uneasiness in social situation. Maybe explaining why Namjoon so friendly? 

"If my mothers have to be such a snitches maybe I should change families" I said as I averted my eyes and sat on a chair between Namjoon and Kara.

"...well, if it makes you feel any better at least you dared to come here. Jungkook-ah on the other hand blatantly refused to" said Namjoon with a disappointed look while I took a mental note to pat this guy’s head if I ever met him.

"And this other was just too lazy to come and that other one was just too busy cooking... well let's say that the ones we are missing are the leftovers. Expect them to be 2 hours late." 

“...Wow, okay… I guess now we’re genuinely intrigued” we muttered in unison.

The conversation fluently went back and forth. And all throughout it I became aware of the amazing people skill the guy had. He knew perfectly how to joke around without awakening further than necessary my anxiety, nor did he try to make me ‘more outgoing’ like some people would try to do as soon as they'd realize how shy I am. Honestly, he was an interesting guy to talk to, specially how he managed to make me feel comfortable.

At some point, probably after almost an hour, just as Namjoon predicted, the bell rang muffled by the complainings of a pair of boys, which I supposed were the special cookies.

My heart raced at the thought, in a mix of expectancy and anxiety to meet them.

"I told you we should have used google maps!!"complained the shorter and blond one to his tag along.

"Aigo, shut up already, you were as lost as I was" answered with little guilt the other one, with a hint of a strikingly lower voice than the first.

The blond, despite his complaints, left me in awe with how flawless his complexion was. He had plump lips and enviable fair skin, that suddenly drove me self-aware of my own skin, rougher in comparison to his.

This one walked in front of his taller and deep-voiced friend, whom had a white cap that covered his face as he lazily approached the table.

"Hyung! It was Jimin-ah’s fault all along, you know how he's always a trillion years late when he goes to the bathroom" the white-cap guy told Namjoon with a hint of real annoyance in his joking overall tone.

Namjoon facepalmed at the situation.

"AH! What are you saying in front of them!" The blond guy apparently named Jimin whined.

Probably Namjoon’s statement reminded white-cap guy of our existence, since he let out a subtle “oh” as he turned his head in our direction, letting me finally see his face. “Oh, hello” he faintly smiled to us as he seemed to realize he had made a fool out of his friend.

His dark strands of hair messily peeked from under his cap covering his thick eyebrows, and despite his low voice I wouldn’t have been able to decide whether he had a childish face or a manly one. Somehow his smile stirred a certain uneasiness on my gut that not even I understood.

"Hey! My name is Mira, and I'm Namjoon's friend from uni" she started quickly with her trademark presentation. Always a spotless smile in her face. I was always amazed by how she and Kara managed to look so lovely and draw a flawless smile on their lips with little to no effort. 

The nagging uneasiness kept on creeping, growing stronger every passing second as I watched everyone introducing themselves to the newcomers. I had no intention of being the one going next, but at one point it would be my turn right? 

By the time Kara had already started her warm welcoming it was a countdown to me pulling myself together and acting like a normal human being.

Both Jimin and cap-guy looked as if they were from a different whole different dimension from me, even I couldn't avoid noticing how Mira and Kara measured up to those stylish guys. That realization only made me more displeased with the situation. It was a given that I would look out of place.

I could hear a faraway "Nice to meet you too" coming from the newcomers mouths. That was a signal that I was out of time and all the rushing thoughts came to a halt.

By the time they were already finished and it was my turn I had realized I had to pull myself together and stood up from my seat like the others, adrenaline rushing through my whole being. The nagging uneasiness never leaving. It was always better to ignore it in such situations since trying to address the elephant took more time than the few seconds I had left.

I was ready to mask my inner turmoil with a smile, the less crooked possible, when Namjoon grabbed me by my shoulders, and I could swear that for a millisecond his expression was trying to reassure me. He directed me towards the guys and joked again "Aaand this is my new friend (Y/N)."

At any other time I'd have had time to question why was he already calling me a friend despite just having met, but I was already mentally occupied with enough things as I got shoved in front of cap-guy.

Our eyes locked immediately. His pupils were the first thing mine could find as if Namjoon had purposely planned it that way. I was captured by the guy's eyes, fixated for a few seconds they were the only thing I could look at. As if I couldn’t fight how much his eyes pulled me in. His gaze seemed to dig a hole into my soul and back, yet for some reason I wanted to keep on looking at them regardless of my surroundings. 

"Nice to meet you, my name's Taehyung!" his bubbly words, unfitting the mysterious vibes that I had been getting from his glance, burst the bubble that surrounded us. Or maybe that surrounded only me? Was it my imagination?

Still, he greeted me happily as he pulled a grin like no other I had ever seen before, adding an even new flavor to the mix of feelings I was already experimenting.

[regrettablewritings]

Day Bi Day: A Documented Study of the Bisexual (Rafael Barba x Reader)

A/N: I’m not off hiatus, but I’ve been sitting on this idea since maybe late-April/early-May, and Pride Month seemed like the best time to actually do it. So forgive me if it’s kinda crap, I’m not entirely back into my groove just yet. Also: There’s a reason documentaries are a visual medium: It’s because writing out one like a story is hard. But it helps to imagine the narration being done by Tilda Swinton or David Attenborough. Shoutout to @xemopeachx for looking forward to this and being my hype(wo)man and @mrsrafaelbarba – both of them let me pass things by them segment by craptastic segment! (Also, tagging @ohbelieveyoume because if they have to suffer through this monstrosity, then so do you. That being said, Happy Pride Month!!

New York City: Home to over 8,550,405 people, it is a melting pot featuring persons from varying walks of life. This port city has long served as a nesting ground for new ideas, and stomping ground for old-time culture treasured by the society of the present day. But in such a vast hub of differing ideals and backgrounds, it easily becomes a hotbed for practices unchecked. For in a city so grand and driven by the ambition to progress, some ideas can slip through the cracks. Or, better yet, slip right beneath our noses.

It is here that we introduce Rafael Barba.

A man of Cuban descent, Rafael has worked his way to the position of ADA in the Sex Crimes Bureau of New York City’s 16th Precinct. A self-made man, Rafael is easily a representative of the American Dream come to fruition. There is, however, one lingering secret that he carries: Rafael identifies as bisexual. In addition, his romantic partner, (Y/N), also identifies as bisexual.

Accounting for approximately 1.8% of the American population alone, the bisexual is a pariah in modern human sexuality. Unlike the heterosexual, who finds sex appeal in members of the opposite sex, or the homosexual, who finds it in those who identify like themselves, the bisexual foregoes both suggestions and meets characteristics of either extreme in the middle by expressing a desire to have sexual encounters with those like-gendered or the opposite. However, as with most situations, meeting in the middle of a two-way street can be catastrophic.

But why do these people choose to forgo sensibility? What drives them to commit such perplexities? What characteristics do they thereby display as they continue their decent into ruin? For the first time, in full depth, we will be exploring these matters with an up-close and personal examination into the lives of a completely and fully bisexual couple. Join us as we take a peek into the interactions of Rafael and (Y/N) as we unlock the secrets of this promiscuous pair,

Day Bi Day.

Given that they prefer sampling both extremes of the genders, bisexuals are inherently greedy in nature. Where the hetero and even homosexual finds satisfaction, the bisexual remains discontent with the average human being’s basic necessities.

Rafael’s big, brass “ego” was not a workplace-only thing: It also appeared in his home life quite consistently. For example, it was in the fact that he would not only hog the covers to himself, but run the A/C unit in the event he got too warm, giving him even more reason to pull even more blanket upon his side of the bed! You weren’t having any of that, both his greed and the blanket itself. You’d put up with him long enough and you weren’t afraid to use the tactics necessary to tarnish that brass.

This moment in particular, you decided as you sleepily glared at his back, called for a cold approach. Eyes narrowed from sleep and disgruntlement, you maneuvered your chilled feet up the back of the man’s shirt before pressing them against his spine. A sound caught between a groan, a whimper, and a displeased growl was his response as he weakly attempted to arch his back away from your icy torment but to no avail. Unfortunately, the same could be said for you in your own respect: His damn grip didn’t give. In fact, in his pathetic but noticeable effort to move away from your freezing feet, Rafael only managed to pull even more blanket off of your increasingly waking and shivering form. The nerve of him!

Through your weary state, you snapped your tongue against the roof of your mouth in annoyance. This man was really going to make you work for it, wasn’t he?

“Rafiiiiiiiiii,” you whined, realizing how much energy talking required. “Blankeeeeetttt.” You lazily reached out, fingers opening and closing but to no purchase. All you got back was yet another groan stifled against his pillow. For the love of God! You swore that you would destroy the man the next chance you got as you summoned every iota of energy you could to shakily push yourself up onto your elbow. You didn’t care that Rafael couldn’t see your glare (both because his back was to you and because his eyes were closed). All you cared about was that you were cold and it was because he wouldn’t share the damn cover!

“Rafael,” you groused. “Share.” With that command, you reached out and gripped as much of the comforter as your sleep-weakened grip could muster. When he didn’t make a sound of objection, you willed yourself to pull.

No luck.

Scowling, you tried again. Your little heart gave a fatigued leap of joy when you felt his hold on the blanket coming loose. Just had to pull a little harder –

You weren’t thinking too much when you pressed your feet against Rafael’s back once more for leverage and strained yourself as hard as you could in such a state. In fact, with how little he responded, it didn’t occur to you that he would actually make the effort to move, much less in a dramatic way.

When he turned over, front facing you, you got smacked with way too many thoughts and emotions for this forsaken hour: There was glee that the blanket was no longer nearly as wedged beneath and around him as before; contentment that you would now have enough coverage from the cold elements Rafael had cast upon the bedroom; shock when you realized that your body wasn’t stopping from tipping over; and that small but nevertheless realistic fear one gets once their body realizes that it’s falling.

Frankly, it was the lack of blanket on his body that made Rafael’s eyes crack open. But as his body dragged itself somewhat into consciousness, he came to the realization that he’d just heard a small yipping sound, followed by a thud. When his eyes adjusted to the dark just enough, he found your side of the bed barren, the blanket nowhere in sight. From your place on the floor, you heard your bedmate grunt, followed by the shuffling and squeaking of him dragging his body to the edge of the bed. It was quite easy to make out his face peering over the edge now that you were wide awake.

“… J’you fall over?” Rafael yawned dully.

He wasn’t expecting you to yank him off the bed to join you in your disgruntlement at 3AM.

It is due to this ravenous nature that the bisexual cannot be trusted. Their willingness to cross boundaries creates a brazen attitude, leading to a proneness of cheating. Imagine the frequency such occurs in a relationship wherein both participants identify as bisexual …

You knew what to expect when you opened up the pantry that afternoon: Whole wheat crackers, dried pumpkin seeds, Craisins, rice cakes – all placed neatly in a row on your side of the space. Courtesy of Rafael’s meddling, of course.

What you did not expect, however, was the sticky note pasted to a small container of low-sodium trail mix:

Good luck! You can do this! ❤ Rafi 😊, inscribed in his precise yet purposeful handwriting.

Your hand gently placed itself on your heart as you released a small “aww” of complete adoration. Soon after you’d professed your goal to begin eating healthier, he had become your biggest supporter, buying all kinds of lean snacks and substitutes for your usual junk food. He’d even offered to take the health plunge with you but you insisted that just putting in the effort to provide you with the foods you would need was kind enough. The letters, though? Unwarranted but nevertheless greatly appreciated.

It felt wonderful and empowering to know that your beloved believed in you, and it only made you believe in yourself all the more. You missed Double-Stuffed Oreos like the dickens but now you knew: You could do this! Filled with a newly stoked flame of determination, you decided to nosh upon the pre-determined serving size of whole wheat crackers – and then paused. Right as you were reaching for the box, a glimmer flickered from the corner of your eye. It came from Rafael’s side of the pantry.

It wasn’t that Rafael was an enabler – far from it! – but he certainly had a different approach to snacking than you did. While he certainly had consideration for his health, this did not mean that he restricted himself as drastically as one might think. The both of you knew how stressful and bitter his job was; you therefore had no qualms about his side containing more comforting foods: pretzels, Twizzlers, chocolate-covered sunflower seeds …

At first.

Rafael’s exact and orderly placement of snacks and foods was meant to wipe away any potential trouble caused by misplacement or supposed lack of space. For the first time in your relationship, this method had failed.

There, placed at just the right angle for the light of the kitchen behind you to hit the shiny packaging, was a small bag of milk chocolate Godiva truffles Rafael’s guilty pleasure snack. From the way the top of the bag was rolled, you could see that it had been opened. However, for as much of a snacker as Rafi was, he was pretty precise when it came to his chocolates. He probably even counted them to make sure he knew how many of the dollops he had left.

Considering this as a very real possibility, you shook your head gently and returned your attention to the whole wheat crackers.

…

The dry, crunchy, drag-against-your-throat-as-you-swallow-them crackers that would require way too many gulps of water to moisten them as they drain the saliva out of your mouth crackers …

Godiva, on the other hand, made your mouth salivate instantly. You wouldn’t need nearly as much watery assistance if you ate them –

No! Those weren’t a part of the plan, they were Rafi’s! Rafael had all the confidence and pride in the world for you, Rafael believed – no . . . He knew you could stick with your goal. It was only fair that you did your part and proved to him that you could! Come hell or woman riding naked on a high horse! … Speaking of which, what did Lady Godiva have to do with chocolate?

You got why nude plus chocolate could equal sensual, but there was a horse involved. And it was all because she wanted her husband to lay off on his oppressive taxes. Where the heck did the jump from dare to delicacy happen? Better Google it.

It was when you reached for it in your pants pocket that you realized you had left your phone in the bedroom. So no Googling the answer there … But surely there was an explanation on the bag, right? Godiva had probably received thousands of questions and comments about their choice in name and logo; to place an answer to all the queries on their packaging wouldn’t be farfetched in the least.

Besides, you thought to yourself as you pulled out the bag of truffles, it might be good to read something while I eat my crackers …

After a day full of errands, tackling the bustling streets of the city, and gritting his teeth as he withstood the annoyances of shouting pedestrians and work-related texts from Liv, Rafael needed an elixir to heal his fatigued body. And there were three things he usually turned to for such a purpose: Food, scotch, and you, not necessarily in that order.

With you lounging on the couch watching some show about the devil living in Los Angeles or whatever, and his favorite bottle of scotch still full and glimmering on the counter, there was one last thing he could use to perfectly sweeten this well-deserved respite.

Rafael thought himself to be the best, most considerate man in New York as he opened the pantry in search of Godiva. He felt that one truffle wouldn’t hurt you. After all, you’d been so dedicated these last few weeks, surely you, too, deserved a little treat –

Wait, what?

His brows furrowed over his confusion-filled, green eyes. Rafael took a step back to recollect exactly what his side of the pantry had looked like this morning when he’d opened it to find cereal. That bag of blueberry Craisins wasn’t there before, they were by the Twizzlers! He pushed the bag to the side, only to confirm his suspicions.

“Uhhh … Honey?” he called, eyes still trained on the shelf before him. “Have you seen my Godiva?” Had Rafael glanced back at your form, lazily lounged upon the sofa, he would have regarded how much more tense you’d suddenly become in the last second.

By the time he looked back at you, you had become somewhat less rigid. But only by a fraction. Thank God he couldn’t see your eyes from this angle, otherwise, they would have directed him to the wicker basket of magazines in the corner: the burial ground of the evidence of your crime.

But alas, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t read your eyes. As a lawyer, Rafael could read the atmosphere alone and that would be enough.

You knew this as you heard his voice ring from behind you, “Did – Did you cheat on your diet!?”

You didn’t care that the apartment wasn’t massive by any means; you booked it for a hiding place.

With an identity that lacks the certainty or foundation assured by those with definite attractions, the lifestyle of the bisexual is a peculiar one worthy of observation as it finds itself buffeted day in and day out by the individual’s ever-changing pronouncements. The lives of Rafael and (Y/N) are no exception to this pattern or lack thereof. Their shared abode is regularly populated with sordid activities in a modern recreation of Sodom and Gomorrah with the weekends serving as a bacchanal devoted to drugs, sex, and absolute debauchery.

Friday night.

It had been a long, physically grueling and mentally taxing week. It was time to let loose and throw out as much care as possible for the next few days and glut yourselves on all of humankind’s earthly delights.

You and Rafael had had it all planned out a week in advance: You were going to put on your Friday night best, plop down on the best seats in the house, down a few drinks to make you let loose, and keep your eyes peeled for the best-looking of the night, the worst-looking, and what you’d be willing to go home with if you had the right amount of alcohol in your systems. With your love of those that beamed wildness beneath the innocent demeanor and Rafael’s keen eye for peoples’ weaknesses, the both of you were sure to come out with a pleasurable evening.

This was, of course, the parade of bad choices that is Friday Bride Day on TLC.

“That’s an awful dress,” Rafael commented, popping a pretzel into his mouth. You hummed an agreement against his chest, analyzing what the poor fool on TV had just slipped herself into. The cut was all weird, there were frills here and sheer there. You were confident that you, as you currently were, in your best college sweats, would have been a better vision of a bride than the lady currently was in that getup.

As the glittery box showcasing the price showed up, you cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. $17000 for that?

“Not to mention out of her initial price range,” you muttered. Rafael echoed your previous hum.

“This is the one she’s gonna pick. But hey, that’s okay,” he picked up sarcastically. “She can just call up ‘Daddykins’, insist how she needs this dress, and he’ll bend over backwards to assure that she can have this one dress worth more than their car, which she will only wear once.” He shrugged. “May need to put in a mortgage on the house but …”

You nodded along to his commentary as you shoved a fistful of popcorn into your mouth, eyes still trained on the screen.

“ – I’m saying yes!” the white-clad blonde proclaimed in a shrill voice, adding an excited little wiggle to her decision. Well, at least some designer was getting paid instead of the punch to the knuckles that they deserved.

“Yaaayyy,” you murmured in unison. It was a notedly droning one, complete with lazily raised hands that slapped back down to your laps and sides once the effort of being excited proved to be too much for the moment.

As the screen cut to interviewing the bride about her dress and to her mother, who was agreeing that the dress was “without a doubt ‘her daughter’”, you couldn’t help but continue to critique the end result. “She should’ve gone with the first once she tried on,” you insisted. “It was all nice and frilly … It wasn’t anything crazy new or out there, but at least it was nice.”

“They never do,” sighed Rafael as he slowly shook his head.

“No …” you admitted. There was a shared moment of silence between the two of you as the episode came to an end and the next one began. As the camera focused in on the Kleinfeld assistants being given their usual morning lecture, you lightheartedly glanced up at Rafael. “But I would’ve loved to see you in it, Rafaelito.” You emphasized your comment with a gentle pat to his cheek.

Rafael, however, wasn’t on the same level as you. “Seriously, (Y/N)?” he scoffed. “No seas ridículo, Cariño. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Vera Wang wedding dress. Those things are cursed.”

You pouted. “But maybe with your beauty, the curse would break itself out of shame.”

The small chuckle that fluttered out fizzled in his chest and tickled your ear that was still pressed against it. “ ‘Beauty,’ you say? I had no idea that I was anything more than surly and perpetually ready to punch somebody in the throat.”

“Mhmm,” you insisted. As you stretched and yawned against your beloved’s torso, you managed to grunt out, “Rafael is the prettiest guy in New York City. All the dresses want to fit him like a glove. Even the cursed ones.” By the way he exhaled, you could tell that he was smirking.

As he playfully pinched your cheek between two knuckles, Rafael confirmed: “Segúro que sí.”

Returning back to the show, he found himself visually insulted by sewn-together monstrosity passing for a dress being gleefully pulled from the selection by the bride of the episode. Immediately, his smirk fell. “Except for that one,” Rafael said quickly. “That dress is too awful for to feel sympathy for anyone, no matter how pretty.”

“Agreed.”

But perhaps this deviant behavior is actually a key to unlocking the mystery of bisexuality. This never-ending venture through the many chapters of the id has proven to be a point of interest to psychologists and sexperts alike, who collectively suggest that this constant search to fulfill an impossible high is the bisexual wandering in a constant state of confusion. With a lack of understanding in their own identity, their place in life, and an entire flurry of other complications, the bisexual is in a constant state of limbo: Lost, uncertain, and with the stability of a broken bridge.

“Lupita Nyong’o.”

“Definitely. Cute smile, pretty eyes, altogether sweet girl. A younger Richard Gere.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then just say you like Jon Bernthal. They look alike, you’d get the same cute smile and everything.”

“I’m counting that as your turn. Anyway, Sofía Vergara.”

“Eeeehhhh …”

“What’s wrong with Sofía?”

“Nothing, it’s just … Wasn’t she in The Smurfs movie?”

“We are not holding that against her,” Rafael asserted crossly. He topped it off with an especially pronounced spoonful of cereal. It was Tuesday night, and the both of you were too tired from work to cook up dinner. But you were also too hungry to withstand the half-hour wait for delivery. Cereal for dinner it was.

Somewhere along the way, it had turned to dinner and a show – or, rather, a showcase of people whom you both found attractive. Neither you nor Rafael could recall how or why it started in the first place but whatever the case, it had since evolved. Not necessarily into revelations over one another’s tastes, but more so a way to critique each other’s very tastes. And so far, no one was truly winning. At least, not for long.

“Okay, well what about . . . Chris Pine!” you enthused.

“Uh-uh-uh!” Rafael bounced his spoon in rhythm to his tutting. “We agreed: None of the Chrises. It’s too obvious.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a gushy grin worthy of any schoolgirl. “Well, yeah, but … But he’s just so cute!” The smile flew loose from its weak captivity and released a series of fawning over “how blue” his eyes were, and how he “still uses a flip phone like a nerd.” Rafael, however, was not as swayed by Chris Pine’s unchronological appeal.

“Mi alma, he looks like stock footage of a poster you’d see in the room of a teenage girl in a movie,” he attempted to tease. You shot him a glare for his very specific description.

“Chris Pine is a goddamn treasure, and his name and likeness will not be besmirched in this household! He made me feel things in Wonder Woman!” You slammed a hand to your heart for effect. You leaned in closer and whispered, “Feelings I thought I had ripped out of me to better survive in this world, only to learn that they made me stronger.”

Rafael rolled his eyes. It was after work hours and he’d exhausted the best of his attorney abilities; he didn’t feel like even trying too hard to win this argument. Best to just let you have this one. For now. He dug around in his bowl, collecting cereal.

“Oh, that reminds me: Lynda Carter,” he said between bites.

You cocked your head in consideration, chewing on the thought, before subtly nodding. “Mm. Yeah, I can see that.”

A short, incredulous chuckle escaped from him. “What was with the hesitation? It’s Wonder Woman. The original Wonder Woman!”

“I mean, yeah, definitely, she’s gorgeous but … Now whenever I think Wonder Woman, I think Gal Gadot.” To further get across your point, you added, “Talented, sweet-hearted, athletic, smart, Gal Ga-freaking-dot!” This managed to coax a chortle out of your dining mate.

“Okay, okay, both of them. Both are fine.” Rafael then flashed that smirk of his. “Glad to know you really do have tastes outside of me, Cariño.” Before you could throw acidic words back at him, Rafael hurried in with, “George Clooney.”

That stopped you. Your brow wrinkled in slight disbelief. “George Cloo – Oh, Rafi!” you exclaimed, your tone heavy with what could only be described as pity and disappointment. You even cocked your head to the side, as if changing the angle would make you comprehend what you were hearing any better. Meanwhile, confusion startled itself onto Rafael’s face.

“What? George Clooney is – is a classy man and – ” he struggled to defend.

“And he’s a total cliché, that’s what!” you interrupted.

“He’s not a cliché, he’s an attractive man and everyone but you seems to understand that,” Rafael stated, adding in a purposefully snooty upturn of his nose. Had he looked down (or even not), he would be able to see that this only riled you up further.

“Well, if you’re gonna put him out there, then I’m using another Chris!” you declared. Your threat of calling another Chris from the pack caused Rafael to lower his head in an instant.

“Honey, no, we agreed – ”

“Chrissss,” you went on, “Pratt.” You made sure to snap the ‘t’ off with especial vigor.

At the clarification by way of surnaming your choice, Rafael’s countenance once again returned to confusion. “Chris Pratt?” he inquired. “Not Hemsworth?” You shook your head, confirming that he had, indeed, heard you correctly.

“I find Christopher ‘Thor’ Hemsworth’s lack of tummy disturbing.” You placed a spoonful of cereal in your mouth to signify your dedication to the subject.

“What is it with you and men’s stomachs!?” Rafael cried. You gave him no answer. He knew you wouldn’t.

“Idris Elba,” he sighed, having been forced to give up on you.

“Yes. God, yes,” you willfully agreed. It was now your turn. You tapped the tip of your spoon against the corner of your mouth as you put yourself in thought. Eyes turned up, you searched your mental catalog, trying to recall who you already voiced, whom Rafael had already named, who would be too obvious, and then – you found them:

“Jeffrey. Dean. Morgan.” You punctuated every name with precise wave of your spoon. Tall, funny, plays a lovable bad guy so well, and a silver fox: A mighty fine choice, in your (superior) opinion.

As he began to process your most recent addition to your list, Rafael’s brows pushed downward.

“Jeffrey Dean Morgan,” he repeated slowly, as if trying to get a feel for the name himself. He then pursed his lips critically. “(Y/N), he’s old enough to be your father.”

You shrugged, albeit with an obvious lack of true consideration of Rafael’s point. “Yeah, well, you know . . . He’s not.” You seemed to leave it at that as you leaned toward your bowl of cereal. From the way your voice trailed, he took it as a sign of self-accepted defeat.

Rafael soundlessly scoffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head for good measure. You sure had weird tastes and no right to question his at this rate. It was quiet for the next moment, with Rafael trying to think of whomever else he found attractive, and with the both of you chewing your newest respectful spoonfuls.

Therefore, with the silence settling in, it was quite easy for Rafael to hear you quickly mutter into your bowl, “Sure is my Daddy™, though.”

The rest of the silence was shattered by the dramatically bombastic sound of Rafael coughing over a piece of cereal that he had carelessly allowed to fall the wrong way.

Knowing that he would be fine, you tried to hide the evil smirk growing on your face. You’d won.

With these characteristics taken into consideration, it has become common proposition that bisexuality is, in fact, a phase. One powered not necessarily by the inevitable changes of life that may drive other stages, but more so by the individual’s determination to be different by any means necessary, regardless of deviancy. It is this sort of decision, which can potentially span across a lifetime, that impacts not only people like Rafael and (Y/N), but their loved ones as well.

You decided that you liked Eddie Garcia. You had only met the man a handful of times before and never had any reason to dislike him, per se, but tonight, you knew for certain: Eddie Garcia was a sweetheart and an all-around pleasant guy to be with, so long as you were on his good side. The revelation that he had been one of the secret-keepers of Rafael’s sexuality growing up, and had even created more of a protective presence for him also did plenty for how you viewed the man.

Plus, being one of the Three Musketeers of Jerome Avenue, Eddie had access to even more embarrassing Rafael stories than even Lucia! Especially once you got a little liquor in his system. Of course, you hadn’t truly known this in full depth before. But tonight, in an effort to keep in touch better, Rafael had invited Eddie over for some drinks. And lord, were the three of you having one hell of a time filling the apartment with all kinds of laughter, spurred on with every sip taken and every story recounted.

“ – and so then, Eddie finally lets me handle his BB gun. I was feeling cool, I swore I was the hottest little shit,” Rafael carried on. You nodded, eagerly awaiting the next fragment of the story. From his position at the table, Eddie was shaking, trying to hold in his own laughter as he recalled in his own head exactly what had gone down in his old friend’s story.

“I don’t even know where the hell I was aiming or even what at, I just remember pulling that trigger, hearing glass shattering, and seeing everybody else scrambling to get away from me. Eddie left me in the middle of the street with that damn gun still in my hands and I’m going, ‘What are we gonna do!?’ and Eddie – still running, mind you, yells back, ‘Whaddya mean ‘we’!?’”

In an instant, Eddie gave way to howling out in laughter. Stuck in your own fit, you had no time to determine whether his face was red from roaring or from the alcohol intake.

Between his gasps for air, Eddie threw in, “And – and the best part was that Mr. Viteri never did find out what happened to his car window!” before getting sucked back into the mindless merriment.

You giggled in hiccups as you tried to down another gulp of this evening’s poison of choice.

“Dang, Rafi! I and thought what you did to impress Lauren Sullivan was bad,” you teased. Rafael shrugged, lop-sided smile present as he raised his glass of scotch to his lips. Eddie’s expression, however, became one of bewilderment. He sat up straight, brows creased over eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Lauren Sullivan? You thought Lauren Sullivan was the worst of it!? Naw, sweetie, she wasn’t the worst one,” Eddie insisted, his hand slapped the air as if to wave all assumptions out. It was only after this that he appeared to pause to recollect his thought. “Wait. Wait, Rafi,” Eddie’s attention flew to Rafael. “Rafi, you never told her about Antonio?” At the sound of that name, you noticed Rafael’s face become flushed, further emphasizing the wideness of his eyes. Oh, this was about to be delicious.

“No, he hasn’t,” you responded, cutting off the stammered attempt of a reply Rafael had been trying to get out. “But please: Tell me more about this ‘Antonio.’ Was he another one of Rafi’s little friends?” You propped your elbows on your knees as you leaned forward with baited breath.

“ ‘Friend’? Ha! More like his obsession!” Eddie corrected before taking a sip of his beer. Once he was satisfied, he leaned back in his seat as if to mimic a wise storyteller. “Antonio Espinosa – or Tony, as we were lucky enough to call him, in Rafi’s opinion. He was in the grade above us, and Rafael was not-so-quietly smitten by him behind his back. And at first, you could see why: he had the hair, the smile, had a cute lil freckle on his face…”

With every description Eddie provided, Rafael slouched further and further into his seat. It was as if the memory of Tony was pushing him downward as it rose up. While his features never entirely expressed such, you surmised that Eddie was relishing in Rafael’s growing embarrassment just as much as you were. Maybe even more.

“Problem was, Tony couldn’t dress for shit! Boy wore a cheap leather jacket to school on picture day, slicked back his hair with his papi’s shoe polish – while trying to grow a mullet. Walked around wearing this crappy pair of leather pants, looked like a walking garbage bag! Stunk of his papi’s cheap cologne, tried to make up slang to come off as hot shit … And Rafi ate. It. Up. Pobre estúpido, ¿qué estaba pensando?”

You couldn’t tell which was funnier: The toothy, proud grin Eddie wore as he taunted your sweetheart’s crappy tastes, or the red face that Rafael was trying to hide behind his hands, ashamed that his classy reputation was being dismantled by one flaw in the system.

“Rafael!” you squealed. “He sounds so tacky – You can’t talk about my tastes anymore!”

Rafael muttered through his fingers, “Jesus, I can still see that mullet …” The glare he slipped between his fingers failed miserably. “Look, you like what’s in proximity, okay? Tony was nearby and he wasn’t … bad.”

“Well, not in the traditional sense. But, oh, he wanted to be, (Y/N). Wanted to be the designated bad boy of our block,” Eddie snarked into the lip of his bottle.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the idea. “Rafi? Having a thing for a bad boy!?”

Eddie nodded. “A bad boy who wore crappy jeans he painted dollar bills on, no less.” That summoned a rippling chortle from you as you slapped your hand on the table in defeat. Rafael, having since released his burning face from his hands, grouchily poured himself a full glass of whiskey to temporarily distract himself.

The two of you couldn’t stop laughing soon enough in his opinion.

“Seriously, though, (Y/N), I think we both can agree that I protected Rafi from more than just bullies: I protected him from himself,” Eddie stated. He flashed a mischievous grin. “If I didn’t help keep him grounded, he would’ve started to dress like Tony just to get his attention. He seriously was considering saving up for a members only jacket – a red one, so Tony would know he was bold!”

“It was – It was fashionable at the time, I thought if he saw me in it, he’d think I was cool!” Rafael attempted to defend. Unfortunately, flustered and being full of alcohol was not the best state to be in when trying to use your lawyering skills.

“No, mi bien amigo. You honestly would’ve been cooler if you went with the leather jacket and pants – and that’s still a poor fit for you.”

“I dunno, Eddie,” you offered, biting your smiling lip. “Leather jackets are a pretty bisexual thing … I have a few myself, I’m surprised Rafi doesn’t have at least one.”

“Come on, now, (Y/N), could you see this one” (Eddie gestured to Rafael, who suddenly seemed heavily interested in the nutrition label of the scotch bottle) “wearing a leather jacket all the damn time? Or even at all!?”

Both pairs of eyes turned back to the man in question. Apparently Rafael had grown bored with all the nutrition whiskey had to offer and was now finding entertainment with the button on his sleeve.

You pursed your lips, then nodded once. “I can see that. Might even be sexy.”

This coaxed a raspberry from Eddie. “Wow, keep making up claims like that and you’ll be a better lawyer than Rafi.”

You shook your head, continuing, “But I dunno; ‘Rafael Barba’ doesn’t sound enough like a bad boy worthy of the leather.”

“What about ‘Ramirez’?” Eddie suggested. “ ‘Rafael Ramirez’: The baddest boy of Jerome Avenue.”

“Working title. But location names are good for bad boys. Like Arizona Ramirez!”

As you and Eddie were preoccupied with your various states of drunken laughter and name-giving, Rafael had begun to down his scotch with a mad fervor. Maybe if he drank enough, he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning and, perhaps, even forget the brief yet monstrous Tony Phase of his life.

He did not. And apparently, neither did you, as a few days later Rafael returned home to find a leather jacket just his size laid out on the bed.

If this is, indeed, the case, then it would be sufficient to come to the conclusion that bisexuals do not truly exist in any form beyond the theoretical.

Rafael gave his tie one last tug and considered his reflection. After taking a moment to observe how it looked on him, how it harmonized with his suit and pocket square and even socks, he gave in: He would have to thank you for convincing him to buy this. It was legions better than the color gradient one he was worried he’d have to consider settling on. It wasn’t unusual for the great Rafael Barba to don immaculate clothing both in and out of court. And anyone who knew him or had seen how he dressed would find nothing out of the ordinary with today’s tie.

But with every stripe of the pink, purple, and blue pattern, there was meaning. There was pride.

Pride in who he was, in the person he was with. There was even a bit of pride and support for the person whom he was set to defend in today’s trial. It was entirely coincidental that their trial landed on September 23rd. Rafael was sure that it had meaning to them, just as it held meaning to himself. But the truth was, with not too many people seeing it as such, today as another day with  another case.

In this, however, they could easily just assume that this was yet another one of Rafael Barba’s famously colorful ensembles. They wouldn’t likely pick up on his agenda, just assume that it was “Barba being Barba.” If today’s first part of the trial didn’t necessarily work out, he could at least have the ability to wordlessly console his client and let them know that he was going to fight like hell for them. He considered that a victory. A small one, but one nonetheless.

Making sure that his shirt was tucked in, pink-and-black suspenders in place, cologne thoughtfully applied, and his hair neatly styled, Rafael called out to you that he was preparing to commute to work.

Your reflection soon joined his from behind, entering the proximity from your previous location at the table with breakfast. A small smile eased its way onto Rafael’s lips as he regarded your own apparel: Pink blouse, purple skirt, blue flats.

As he turned around to face you and reveal the front of his own outfit, a small, syrupy gasp escaped from your ever-growing smile. Your hands flew up to your mouth as you fawned over your dapper man.

“Oh, Rafi,” you gushed, “you look so proud and handsome!”

Ever one for praise, Rafael not-so-subtly basked in your compliment with a raised head and that crooked smile of his that you loved so much. “I thought I always looked this good,” he joked lightly.

You nodded vibrantly. “Oh, you do. But today, you look even more handsome because it’s an outfit that I helped coordinate!” You expressed your pride through small but gleeful and rapid claps using the tips of your fingers.

A small puff of a chortle passed Rafael’s lips as he allowed his smile to grow. You were quite lively this morning. “Fair enough,” he allowed, collecting his briefcase by his feet and making a beeline towards the door.

“Now what do you say?” you said as you followed him.

Even from your position behind him, you could tell that proud and flattered smile of his had since converted into one of mischief. “I am afraid that I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he claimed.

“Rafiiiiii,” you pouted, playing along with his claim.

“What? I really don’t!” Rafael swore, turning around to greet your trailing figure. He didn’t even bother hiding his crooked smirk. The nerve of this man!

“Rafael!” you snapped. You tried to come off as intimidating, but your amusement was obvious. It was hard work looking upset when you were fighting back a laugh.

Thankfully, you needn’t hold it in for long: Rafael’s own chuckle fluttered out of him as he gave in to your insistence. “Si, si, gracias, mi alma,” he murmured. “You have excellent taste.” He then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

Your blush and smile bloomed beneath his lips, his kiss serving as the sun. “De nada, Rafaelito,” you whispered.

You didn’t want your sweetheart to go. And Rafael didn’t exactly want to separate himself from this warm moment, either. But a job is a job, and he was about to be late for his if he didn’t get a move on soon. Sighing quietly with acceptance, he mumbled against your hair, “I have to go now, Cariño.”

Your smile faltered, but only slightly. “Gotta represent?” you spoke. The attempt to liven up the mood gave Rafael a reason to gently beam.

“You know it.” He didn’t dare move as you stood on your toes to press a peck for good luck on his cheek.

Whilst still extending yourself, you implored, “Go get ‘em, Rafaelito. Show them what happens when you invoke the wrath of the bi-furious!”

Once again, you managed to coax a small laugh out of him.

Gently insisting that he would, Rafael pressed his lips to yours for one last kiss to hold him over for the rest of the day, telling you he loved you. He almost regretted it, as it only made it harder for him to leave. However, your work needed you, his client needed him, and he needed to prove a point to the jury and the public.

And if that point required him to give the defendant hell, then Rafael would, indeed, induce “the wrath of the bi-furious.” He would never dream of giving anything less.

From these observations, we can only conclude that the self-proclaimed “bisexual” is unlikely to lead an entirely wholesome life. Until they confront their circumstances and contradictories and make an effort to correct their circumstances of sex and hedonistic pursuit, bisexuals such as Rafael or (Y/N) will be unable to achieve a sense of completion. A lifestyle of monogamy and happiness are decidedly incompatible with a force that refuses to change for the betterment of the individual’s physical, mental, and emotional health.

You weren’t sure what hit you first: The sound of music, or the realization that Rafael wasn’t in bed next to you. Regardless, you awoke with a quiet groan and your fist gently gripping at the part of the bed he usually occupied. The more you came to, the more you began to realize how cool his half of the bed was, signifying that he’d actually been gone for a while. And the more you came to, the more you began to recognize the song: Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E.” The Spanish version. It came echoing out of the bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower.

As you gained further consciousness, you could just make out an extra voice singing along: Rafi’s voice.

“ –Sé todo lo que me dirás, Ha de darme la felicidad. Dime pronto qué es ‘amor’ Que tu palabra espero Háblame de nuestro amor – ”

At the sound of his voice, a sleepy smile grew upon your face. Rafi used to sing it all the time during your second year of dating –

At this recollection, you willed your eyes open, forcing the sleep and initial disappointment over Rafael’s absence away. You knew what today was. And now you were halfway tempted to join him in the shower. To your dismay, the creak of the spout handle sounded, leaving only the sound of Rafael and Nat King Cole’s voices bouncing against the bathroom walls and lingering into the bedroom.

You didn’t even try to not look a bit disappointed when your singer finally rejoined you in the room, already dressed.

Upon realizing your awoken state, he released a small whine. “Maldito. I was hoping you’d stay asleep just a little while longer.”

You scoffed, “Well, if that was the case, then you shouldn’t have been blasting music and singing along to it.” You made sure to include the smile you’d really wanted to give him at the end of your accusation. Rubbing the last bit of sleep from your eyes, you pushed yourself into an upright position to better greet him.

“What? I thought you liked this song; at least, you loved it when I sang it,” Rafael smirked. As he approached his nightstand to put his watch back on, he looked upward in apparent thought. “I wonder why I felt the need to play it?”

“Gee, I wonder why,” you played along, sarcasm hanging from every word.

Rafael pretended to consider the situation. “Maybe because it’s catchy?”

“Hm. Could be. But I don’t think that that’s the case today.”

“Well, I do,” Rafael shrugged. “So I guess that must be it –”

“Rafi,” you jokingly warned.

“I know, I know,” he finally gave in. With his smile becoming less impish and more sincere, he gently pulled you into a hug. “Happy anniversary, corazón.” A warm, pleasant feeling trickled down your skin as you felt him whisper into your hair.

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you looked up at those eyes you loved so much. “Happy anniversary, Rafaelito,” you returned, sealing it with a kiss. The embraces on one another only tightened with the newest sign of affection. The two of you would have potentially stayed like this a bit longer, had Rafael’s playlist not gone on to the next song.

At the sound of the rhythmic drumbeats, followed in by a bouncy flow of piano, you found Rafael’s lips had detached from your own.

“Oh, no …” you muttered as you watched the smile on Rafael’s face grow. “Ra –”

Rafael was unraveling the hug and pulling you  off of the bed and to his chest before you could even finish whatever it was you were planning on saying.

“Oh, come on, honey,” he persisted as he noticed you putting up some resistance. “Dance with me a little!”

You shook your head like a stubborn child. “It’s too early!” you tried reasoning.

“It’s never too early or late for Benny Moré! I’m feeling quite lively this fine morning.”

“You’ve been up longer! And besides …” You bit your lip. “You know I can’t keep up with ‘La Cocaleca.’”

“And you never will unless you actually try dancing to it,” Rafael pointed out.

“You sure are lively, Rafi,” you said. “Our anniversary should be every day if it means you’ll be like this more.”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “Just come here and follow my lead.”

You weren’t entirely joking when you had said earlier that every day should be your anniversary. It always seemed to bring out the brighter part of Rafael’s personality. The part that very few were privy to.

You were lucky enough to be one of those very few. You were also lucky enough to be the one who got to hold his hand now, as you walked the streets of the city. You had long since given up on trying to figure out where you were headed. Instead, you’d decided to relish in how you hand entwined with his and how he made no qualms against you laying your cheek against his shoulder as the two of you appeared to be walking aimlessly around the area. Even if you were fighting back a growling stomach, empty due to being ushered out of the apartment without breakfast.

Rafael could easily go without a genuine meal, becoming so used to having to snack throughout his days between paperwork and visits to the precinct. You, however, were not as used to it. It also puzzled you a bit that he would even choose to forgo breakfast at all considering that the man loved to actually eat when he could.

You had your suspicions, but kept them to yourself.

“Okay, we’re here,” Rafael spoke, breaking you from your reverie. As you took a moment to gather your surroundings, you found yourself in front of a very familiar café: Café Adelaida. A hint of pride became evident on Rafael’s face as he felt your grip tighten with realization.

As he began to lead you inside of the establishment, the two of you were hit with the smells of coffee and culinary masterpieces, the sounds of dishes and silverware clashing, and people chattering in English and Spanish alike.

“I remember this place: This is the first non-work place we ever went to,” you breathed. Your sparkling eyes flickered from corner to corner, reliving that day and remembering what used to be where, thankful that very little had changed since then.

Rafael chuckled by your side. “Yep: This was where we had our first date,” he confirmed.

“Is that what you want to call it?” you asked tauntingly. “I thought you took me here to prove the superiority of Cuban coffee to American coffee.”

“What, I couldn’t do both? Besides, you should be thanking me: Without this place, you never would’ve known the miracle that is café con leche.” Normally, you would have playfully swatted at his arm for boasting. However, at the prospect of getting some genuine café con leche after such a long hiatus from it, your mouth watered. You would let Rafael have this. For now.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have eaten so much,” you whimpered. The weight of the authentic Cuban food you’d eaten a little less than half an hour ago was beginning to hit you. Added in with the fact that you’d been woken up relatively early on a Saturday, and the feeling of sleep was beginning to massage your eyes.

Rafael, interestingly enough, appeared to be wide awake.

“I told you not to push yourself if you couldn’t finish it all in one go,” he reminded. There was a hint of mockery in his tone.

You scowled. “You probably ate more than I did, how are you not ready to collapse onto the pavement!?”

“Because first off, ew. But secondly, I’m a man on a mission. Sube a mi nivel, amor.” He shot you a cocky smirk at that last sentence. If you weren’t so curious as to what kind of mission he was on, you would’ve found motivation to keep up with Rafael by that look of his alone.

Thankfully, you needn’t keep the pace up for too long. A few shortcuts and you found yourself in the park. Thank God, now you could take a seat –

“Not there,” Rafael said as he gave your hand a small tug. You raised an eyebrow but followed his lead. But after looking back on the bench you had nearly sat upon, you realized it had one too many bird dropping stains on it. Good call, Rafi… . And yet, when you came upon the next bench, he did the same thing: “Sorry, sweetie. Not that one, either.”

“Come on, Rafi, I need to sit.”

“Just a little more, then I promise you can sit,” he assured. You gave in, finding no real point in putting up a fuss. For as tired as you were getting, the scenery around you was sure helping you feel better.

It was a lovely day for a stroll around the park: The sun was out, the smell of the blossoms in the trees were carried by the wind, and people were out with their children, dogs, or their own loved ones. You considered stopping for a moment to bask in the stimuli, but Rafael appeared to be focused elsewhere. Interestingly, however, that “elsewhere” was a bench. Not even one with a dedication plaque on it, but a regular, black bench positioned by a small, wiry tree and a previously-planted patch of pansies.

“Okay, (Y/N),” Rafael allowed. “Now you can sit.” He held your hand as you not-so-gracefully plopped your tired body down on the seat. Sighing with relief, you closed your eyes and took in the sounds of the wind in the trees and squeals of laughter from the playset down yonder. The warmth of Rafael’s body soon resonated from your side as he joined you.

“Do you remember this place?” you heard him ask.

“How can I forget the park?” you asked, eyes still closed.

You heard a small laugh. “No, I mean this bench. Do you remember it?”

Opening your eyes, you looked around you. The more you looked, the more you couldn’t help but feel like maybe this wasn’t a regular bench after all. But you couldn’t quite place where this was …

“It’s where we had our first kiss,” Rafael quietly reminded you, gently squeezing your hand at the thought. In an instant, the memories came flooding back. It had been at dusk when the two of you first sat here together, hence why you had trouble remembering it. Everything looks different when it’s darker. But then, everything also looks different when you’re locked in a kiss with someone you feel greatly for.

“How did you remember it was exactly here?” you asked, eyes widened.

“How could I not?” he replied. At this, you slouched in your place on the bench.

“Well, now I feel like crap. I couldn’t remember it …”

“I think I have a way of making you feel better, then,” Rafael offered as he gingerly turned your head to face him.

As much as you enjoyed the stimuli of the soft, sweet breeze and how it carried the smells of the flowers and the sounds of laughter and children at play, it was all so easily drowned out once you found yourself sharing yet another memorable kiss in the place where a new chapter in your relationship had begun.

You were thankful that Rafael decided not to make you suffer again by walking back home. A cab ride may not be entirely romantic (especially after reliving an important stage in one’s relationship), but it sure beat the trouble of arriving home sweaty and too exhausted to get ready for dinner. Not that you were even certain that you could ever be too tired to want to go out Even if you weren’t the biggest fan of fancy dining, doing so with Rafael always made it more tolerable.

However, you might’ve been too eager in your efforts to ready yourself: The cab wasn’t due for another half hour and you’d been sitting on the couch with Rafael the entire time. Not that you truly minded it. Sure, the exchange between you two or lack thereof was quiet, but it was a good kind of quiet. From the way you both took quick glances at each other and held hands in wait against the backdrop of music he’d left on, it was almost adorable. It felt a lot like how it had been when you’d first started dating, if Rafi were a more open person at the time.

It was in this shared moment of silence that the playlist went to its next selection:

So when it rains, I’ll shield your head And when you cry, I’ll wipe those tears. Because it’s you, through all these years, And I’m still in love with you …

“Huh,” Rafael hummed. “This takes me back.”

You tried not to bite your lip and disturb the makeup on it. “Don’t make yourself sound so old, Rafi,” you cooed.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Cariño,” he mumbled. “I meant, this brings back a lot of memories for me.”

“Really?” you purred, scooching closer. “Like what?”

Rafael licked his lips in thought. “Well … I once heard this at a bar I went to after a rough day at court. Reminded me how lonely and pathetic I was.”

You nodded. “And?”

“And once, I heard it at a department store when I was shopping for new cologne.”

You pressed your lips together. These weren’t quite the answers you were looking for. “And what else?”

“What else is there?” Rafael prodded. You gently nudged him, knowing that he knew darn well what you were getting at.

“Come on, Rafi, you remember which bench we were on when we first kissed but not what this song means to us?”

“I am afraid that I do not.”

Your frustrated sigh was betrayed by the fact that it came from a smirking mouth. “This is the song you first told me you loved me to.”

Rafael cocked his head as if to mimic the process of thinking. “Is it?”

“Yes!”

“Bueno, mirate,” he finally gave in. “Looks like you have quite the memory on you as well, princesa.” As his thumb grazed across the back of your hand, you couldn’t help but nuzzle at his neck as you recalled that moment: You’d been trying to get him to relax after a tense week. Perhaps your methods had worked too well, as after a couple of minutes spent massaging his shoulders, he uttered out his confession. You’d never seen him so relaxed. And you never thought you’d see him in such a state again.

A sigh of content flowed passed your lips as you enjoyed the feeling of Rafael’s caresses. The remainder of the wait was spent listening to the way he sang in whispers.

“So when the day turns into night, I know that everything’s alright. Because it’s you, through all these years, And I’m still in love with you …”

You knew you should have given Rafael his anniversary gift this morning, before he’d dragged you out of the apartment. Curse Benny Moré and his beautiful voice and its ability to bewitch even the likes of Rafael Barba to dance at nine in the morning. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy all that Rafi had done for you – far from it! Even dinner at a restaurant that required a reservation turned out to be a delightful affair. But now, as you wiped away your makeup and changed into clothes suited for comfort, you couldn’t help but feel … insecure.

Rafael was never one for half-measures: If he wanted to get a point across, then he darn well did it. You both loved this quality and felt a bit rushed by it. Sometimes, he made it so hard for you to keep up with him and gave him back exactly what he gave you. You wanted to make sure that the happiness he supplied you with was returned at the same amount. If not, tenfold!

But how is one to keep up with reliving important relationship firsts and an evening out at a hard-to-get-into facility? How could your gift compare to his?

“Cariño,” you heard Rafael call from the living room.

Drat. It was too late to toss it out of the window and pretend that you’d ordered something that had gotten lost in the mail.

With the shaky sigh, you resigned delaying the inevitable. You willed your hands to not shake the rectangular package wrapped in pastel blue paper and proceeded to where your significant other was.

As you entered the room, Rafael appeared to be messing with the stereo.

That man and his music, you thought, taking a seat on the couch. If he thought he was going to get you twirling and twisting to more Benny Moré on a full stomach, then he had another thing coming. Thankfully, the sound of brass and percussion instruments never pierced the air, even as he appeared to be finished with whatever task he had put himself up to.

Swiveling to meet your sitting form, Rafael neared you with a purpose before stopping just before you.

After clearing his throat (which caused you to roll your eyes at the theatrics), Rafael began to extent his hand. “Cariño,” he repeated. “Would you please –”

“Wait!” You had to admit, you startled yourself by blurting that out in the midst of Rafael’s sentence. Now you went and made it awkward. “Uh …” you stammered. “I … I –” With no other thoughts to fall back on, you softly directly the package in your hands to Rafael. “Before we do anything else, please open my gift …” You hadn’t meant to sound so quiet or uncertain. You wanted to take the box back and smack it into your face.

Rafael, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind, taking a seat on the cushion next to you and accepting the parcel from you.

“Careful,” you instructed. “There’s glass.” You said nothing more as you watched him gingerly peel back the wrapping to reveal your gift.

It was a shadow box. One you’d made over the course of the last few months whenever he was out. Your silhouettes, white and standing in the foreground, were further emphasized by the vivid imagery that served as the background: Stickers of Spanish phrases, pictures of the two of you, of him at work or cooking. Stickers of coffee mugs and sandwiches and of the Cuban and American flag. Images of the people both of you found attractive. There was even a textured sticker of a leather jacket pasted in one corner, with “Ramirez” scrawled on the back in gold sharpie. And, dangling from a white ribbon at the top of the box, was the first ring he’d ever bought you.

It was a Valentine’s Day gift, you wore the thing to practical death until Rafael convinced you to move on to something cleaner and less scratched up. He didn’t know that you kept the thing in your jewelry box until now.

Rafael said nothing as he began to realize the components of the box in his lap, and it made you nervous. You anxiously began to twirl a lock of hair and began muttering.

“I know it’s not expensive or crazy out-there or anything but …” You trailed. But what? There was no butt. You had no excuses; you just couldn’t keep up with the likes of Rafael Barba.

He said nothing, slowly placing the shadow box onto the coffee table. You tried not to sigh in disappointment and embarrassment. Well. So much for ending the evening with –

A small squeak slipped out of you as you found yourself being pressed flush against Rafael’s chest, his arms wasting no time to wrap themselves around you in a world of warmth. But what was even warmer was the way his words puffed into your hair as he murmured a thank you. And it sounded so genuine. You couldn’t believe it.

“Bu – ” Once again, you were cut off. This time, by the constant peppering of kisses along your face. In between every other peck were coos of “thank you” and how much the kisser himself appreciated your gift.

“But,” you attempted again, “you went and did all this other neat stuff! You even remembered all these firsts …” At this, Rafael stopped his flattery and maintained eye contact.

“Not every first. I mean, not yet …”

Your eyes would’ve popped from your head had your brows not pressed downward in disbelief.

“You mean there’s more!?” you cried. “I can’t keep up!”

“But I really loved what you gave me, Cari –”

“You did all this thoughtful stuff and all I got you was a high school art project,” you whimpered, pressing your hands to your face in shame. It therefore frustrated you to hear the man beside you actually chuckling in your moment of dramatic despair.

“Ahem,” you groused. You lowered your hands to reveal a glare. “I’m in distress, here, Rafi, let me mope.”

“Si, si, I can see that,” Rafael said. “Pero mira: I’m serious. I really do love your gift. It’s something only you could give me, and it’s something I’d only accept from you.” In sincerity, he placed a hand on your cheek to caress it. “And speaking of accepting …” Reaching at the coffee table, he retrieved the remote to the stereo and clicked the play button.

With the whirring of it spring to life, it did not take long for the air to be filled, once more, with the sound of a very familiar song. Only it wasn’t rowdy and heavy like “La Cocaleca”, or even low and slow like “Still in Love with You.” It wasn’t even in necessarily bouncy in the way that “L-O-V-E” was.

It was the only song to truly strike a chord with in you that evening, the only song to make you forget all your worries for the moment and gasp. The hand that flew to your mouth caught a sliver of tear that managed to escape your eye.

It was the first song that you and Rafael had danced to as husband and wife.

It took Rafael clearing his throat once more and offering his hand to you yet again for you to reel yourself back in.

“(Y/N) – mi alma,” he spoke, eyes still transfixed on your own. “¿Me concedes éste baile?”

In your excitement, you had forgotten words. However, you definitely didn’t forget how to take your husband’s hand and all but launch yourself at him as he chuckled, putting his unoccupied hand at your waist as he led you to more open ground.

“It only took a kiss to know this: Baby, I’m in love with you. One look is all it took To say, ‘I do.’ And baby, when you smile, I’d walk a mile Oh, just to be with you For a chance at that glance That says, ‘Me too.’”

In the midst of your simplistic swaying, you could hear him humming along to the first verse. You could poke fun at him all you wanted to about his habit of singing in the privacy of his home; you felt blessed to be able to hear him do it at all. You couldn’t help but squeeze his hand, tempted to join with him.

“So when it comes to those other guys, This may come as no surprise: I don’t get jealous; I don’t worry ‘Cause I’m with you.”

Damn the temptation.

“It only took a kiss – but what a kiss! And baby, I love you,” you joined in. “What a look – oh your look – That says, ‘I do’! And baby, I agree: I’d rather be Nowhere else but here, my dear. There’s no place – I feel so safe! – Than here with you – ”

“Then here with you,” your partner echoed. Harmonizing, you sang in unison:

“It’s like finding a penny and pickin’ it up And all day, you’ll have good luck. It only took a look – It only took a smile – It only took a kiss.”

As the song’s bridge in the form of a piano solo began, you couldn’t help but blush. No matter how often the two of you sang together, or how eager Rafael always ways to get you to sing at all, it always made you nervous. And considering the value of this song to you, the sense of unity and love that performing it so beautifully required – it all became too much.

You attempted to nuzzle your burning face into Rafael’s chest, but he apparently knew exactly what you were up to.

“A bit late in the night and marriage to still feel coy about this, isn’t it, (Y/N)?” he snickered. He laughed even more when you grumpily patted at his back with the hand that had been at his waist. “Five years and you still get flustered when I get you to sing.”

“Keep talking like that and see what happens,” you mumble-threatened, face still snug against his torso.

Rafael pursed his lips. “What’ll happen, then? I’m curious.” He pulled you away from your position against his middle to give you a twirl. By the time he allowed you back to him, your face was turned outward, your ear placed at the perfect position to hear his heart beat against your ear.

“I dunno … You know I have double the love to give, I could find somebody easy.” You immediately regretted such a joke. It just wasn’t the kind of thing anyone would want to hear whilst dancing to the first song they played as a married couple, bisexual or not.

And yet, Rafael didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, it might’ve been why a small smirk was now playing on his lips. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he said. “But me? Without you?” His hold on you tightened as you felt your body being lowered. At the end of the dip, Rafael pressed a loving kiss to your neck. “Eso es imposible.”

The goosebumps remained on your skin even as he pulled you back into an upright position.

“It only took a kiss,” Rafael sang along, daring you to follow.

“I know you say,” you followed.

“ – to know this: I’m in love with you –”

“ – you’re in love with me –”

“One look is all it took to say, ‘I do’ –”

“ – you know I love you, too –”

“And baby, when you smile –”

“Why should I question –”

“ – oh, just to be with you –”

“ – how I feel for you?”

“ – for a chance at that glance that says, ‘Me, too.’”

“You make me feel brand new,” you cuddled against your husband once more, feeling less nervous with every line you professed.

“So please believe me when I say,” the two of you chanted together, “I’ve never felt this way. And trust me with you heart – I knew right from the start –”

“It only took a look – it only took a smile – it only took a kiss.”

“It only took a look – it only took a smile – it only took a kiss,” you repeated, daring yourself to look up at the one you loved so much. The smiles you both shared were brighter than the lighting of the lamp in the corner of the room. The desire to pull him into one big kiss, expressing not nearly enough of what you could tell him, what you could thank him with – that was all you wanted in this moment. Just one more line in this song, to give him the sense of completion he always aimed for when he sang. Then you could do exactly what your heart was begging for you to do.

“It only took a look,” you whispered. “It only took a smile. It only –”

By the time you realized that Rafael had not been singing along with you anymore, it had become old news. At this moment, all you could remain aware of was the way his lips were pressed against yours and how his hands, no longer in your own or on your waist, were now cupping your cheek and holding your body even closer to his respectively. Without hesitation your own hands slipped up his back to hold him close. Any possibility of space between the two of you closed.

The sheer power and adoration that flowed into the affection were overwhelming. Beautiful. Warm. The concept of loneliness and confusion were nonexistent.

You sighed into the kiss, completely swept into a state of pure bliss. Four years dating, five years of marriage, and Rafael Barba still managed to surprise you and love you as if every day were the first day of your lives together.  

You were both lucky. You were both exceedingly blessed. For all the people you could have loved, even with double the possibilities of the average person, both you and Rafael were so happy and lucky to have found the half that was perfect for them.

[litrclairejess]

Love in the Ruins - Claire + Jess

First the light appeared, then the rain.  Then it was dark again, because the approaching dawn so stoked the cloud formations that hung dark and heavy, each and every morning.

Claire got up anyway, since it would be time for the kids’ breakfasts soon, and she wanted to get started before Gran was awake.

Still, she thought, we’re lucky.  We have fresh water, filling our pitchers and our cups.  It’s something so many don’t have...

Claire shut her mind off, again. It was best to tackle one’s work without thinking about what the possibilities were. It was best to focus on the bright side of things.

She sliced a chunk off the elk hock hanging high in the servery, large enough to feed the children, herself, and Gran too when she arose.  Then came hunting for eggs in the henhouse.  A total of 11 families consumed their daily meals prepared inside the servery.  They shared this particular elk with three other families whose combined efforts had resulted in the ensnared large animal; when it was gone, they planned to trap another, but not until then.  Eating four legged animals was rare due to an overabundance of effort it took and the unpredictability; it was fish that was the staple of their diets.

The kids weren’t her kids, and Gran wasn’t even her grandmother - she was her stepmother’s mother, and the children belonged to her stepmother and the stepmother’s former husband, who’d died of cancer at age 29, seven years earlier.  The kids were now seven, nine, and 11.

Claire was now 24.  Her father was 52, and her stepmother 37; Gran was 67.  Claire’s own mother had died of cancer ten years before, at age 42.  She tried not to think about the inevitability of cancer, hitting the population as it did.  There were no cleanups anymore.  Despite the danger of the “hot sites,” it really was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind.  Daily survival was the priority.  Food, in particular.  Water was blessedly less of a concern, and that’s why they were where they were.

In this, again, Claire was lucky.  They lived next to a river in a protected fort, and the adults spent the days fishing, cooking, and mending the fortifications.  It wasn’t that there was no gas--they in fact used automobile gasoline for cooking and heating, regularly.  It was that there wasn’t really any place to go.

The supply lines had collapsed shortly before the internet itself had collapsed.  In the end, it was not a lack of fuel that drove the breakdown of the transportation-dependent systems in place by the early 21st century, but that the electrical grid and communication networks were more delicate than most people realized. Single break points appeared, requiring expensive repairs, and then multiplied.  The constant storms causing billions in damage to roadways were too much, and need for repair dollars led to overleveraging nonexistent money, leading to one final economic crash.  And then there was no economy.  No longer was it satisfactory to push papers, whether electronic or tree-derived, which skills even in childhood Claire had been taught.  

She thought of the kids now stirring who’d be coming to eat their elk steaks, eggs, and sliced apples she was preparing soon. They would likely never know typing at a computer, but they would be expert hunters and fishers, potentially even canoe makers, before the age of 20.  

Even before it had all gone sideways, people had returned to learning to fish, field dress meat, growing their own vegetables, and building their own shelters in a big way.  Somehow everyone knew that it was the end of the technology that had been the detached living of a previous age.  

Field dressing meat wasn’t something done very often other than very small mammals caught with snares.  Even then, they were valued mostly for their warm pelts, not their meat; so-called “rabbit starvation” could result from eating meat that contained too little fat.

The fish and the fishing may have been unexciting, but it provided scads of the fat and protein they needed.  Nearly all group effort was dedicated to catching and preserving fish.  It meant they stayed ahead of food needs, and food was everything in a place where the fresh water flowed easily and tree bark and animal pelts were available to make clothing and shelter.

Now others were stirring, having too been raised by the first light that then quickly blanked out again to darkness.  The first peltings of rain began to hit the heavy cedar bark thatched roof of the enclosure; soon they would be thoroughly drenching, and the pilings would shake under the weight of the heavy, falling rain.  A mixed blessing, Claire thought, as she adjusted the containers and buckets to catch the fresh water falling.  Her fire had begun crackling just in time to take on strength before the heavy mists accompanying the rain could fizzle it out; now the food was sizzling in the pan.

A decade before, when the breakdown of the supply lines had started in earnest, people quickly packed up and moved to where they could guarantee themselves fresh water.  At first, for Claire’s family, that had entailed a quick trip up north to a mountain valley they were familiar with that had a year-round stream, far from the dry California desert.  They came prepared with 21st century camping gear.  All of it failed, tore, and disintegrated within three months.  They had started with a station wagon, now useless with torn-up roads and nowhere in particular to drive to, and had been packed to the gills with nylon plastics and cheap metal, holdovers of a civilization that no longer existed.  A civilization that had assumed cheap goods destined for a landfill after a short life of use was all that would ever be needed.  

Her dad had built up a large stock of MREs; the widespread grim acceptance back then that things were fading, and fast, didn’t escape anyone’s notice.  They were overproduced due to spectacular high expectation they’d be needed, and he bought enough in bulk to make sure they’d have food for a long time.  

They still had some of those MREs somewhere, in fact, but nobody ate them or was even interested anymore. They produced plastic garbage that had nowhere to go.  It was easier to learn to fish and trap, and use everything they caught.  Once you ate a plastic meal, it was gone forever, except for the unusable waste it left behind.

Things had faded quickly, and just... didn’t come back.  It was like an extended summer camping trip, where everyone found they quickly wanted to get out of the city, but there ended up being no compelling reason to go back.  People had long feared violence in the wake of a sudden breakdown in the grids that had kept everything afloat.  But when it came down to it, every human being whose survival instinct kicked in had to carry their own weight plus jugs of water, food, clothing, a sleeping bag, a tarp, and any other supplies that would keep them alive.  Nobody had time or inclination to go shoot up groups of other people to take their valuables.  There was no longer any such thing as valuables.  Not when lugging around your own weight in bottled water was necessary for daily survival.  

Work had simply ended, because trunk lines were ruptured and never fixed.  Electric grids sustained damage that became too expensive to repair, and the virtual money from an economy that was fast becoming a mirage couldn’t keep up.  It had no inherent value.  What was left was radio communications that were random and scattershot, roads to places no one wanted or needed to go, and where people did want to go - say, across mountains or along rivers - the roads kept washing out until there was no longer an infrastructure in place to repair them.   By that time, the floods had rolled over too many areas to come back.

Nobody was in contact with areas they didn’t primarily live in anymore.  Claire had no idea what the lives of any of her friends in California were like now.  She hoped they were surviving, as she was; It was too much backbreaking work simply to stay alive, to build and continue reinforcing structures strong enough to withstand the daily tempests.  

It wasn’t that there was no upshot to this life.  There was a pleasure and simplicity in existing in the present moment, and not worrying about the future, nor the past.  The past was an alien life form that no longer resembled anything in her present world.  It felt like she had come from a different planet, and now had a new life on a new Earth.  The future was in the hands of fate.  Meanwhile, all any of them could do was plug away.  

The kids were awake now, rubbing their bleary eyes, but eager and grateful for the breakfast on flat wooden slats she handed out.  The older children would spend the entirety of this particular day weaving with cedar bark under the tutelage of a Native elder who was visiting for the purpose of teaching them essential traditional building skills; the younger ones would be “helping” with duties in general, following the adults around the fort.  Gran was stirring now and would be up in a bit.  Gran stayed up late each night to assist in keeping the central fire going, as the elders felt it their duty to be the first line of defense against the unknown terrors of the night, beyond the dancing flames’ shadows.  She never slept more than a few hours, though, and if Claire wasn’t quick in the mornings, Gran would be there to regale her with endless tales of a world gone by, one Claire had never known as an adult, and never would know.  It’s how Gran processed her grief over the loss of an entire civilization, and everything she had once believed in, more than a decade agone.

Elizabeth, the visiting elder, was from the nearby Lutshootseed tribe.  She was a master weaver descended from master weavers, and it was an honor to host her as a guest.  Claire had been told that Elizabeth had been instrumental in originally setting up this particular fortification, before she and her family had first arrived.  She had picked the plain it sat upon as a place that would not be swept away in flood, and which would provide fishing year round; so long as the residents of the fort applied themselves, they would never hunger.  Now things had very definitely reverted to the need for the Old Ways in daily living.  Elizabeth and others travelled around in this particular area, blessing the ethnically diverse but non-Native forts along the water with knowledge and spirit.  She would show them a thing or two about what they needed to get along in the places where she and her kin had lived thousands of years prior to the blip that was the European-derived civilization, and to which ways of living they had now returned.

Claire knew that this hedged their bets, too.  Not all would be sunshine and roses once various post-industrial people acclimated and achieved a modicum of ability to survive on their own and put up a winter’s worth of food stores.  If the local forts were united under the tribal nation’s leadership, and they had been taught how to maintain, it would make for efficient defense against the next time other groups of people got the bright idea to invade territory.  This sort of thing didn’t stop for that long at any point in history, no matter the year nor the climate condition.  For now, though, it was a distantly future concern.  

Weaving wasn’t all they would be doing during this visit, either.  A coastal tribe had harpooned a whale, which was cause for celebration up and down the rivers.  Simultaneously with greeting and escorting Elizabeth and her visiting convoy, her father and stepmother and two other senior members of the fort had gone down the river to the coast with several months’ worth of small animal furs to trade for blubber.  Even though there were still gasoline and diesel left in disused sealed tanks, it was too explosive for normal use around the fort.  Whale oil was a better option for human-sized needs.  Plus, the nutrition impact could not be overstated.  Whale blubber had high nutrition, period.  They’d be learning how to render, separate, store, and generally use it today and tomorrow, during Elizabeth’s visit.

The kids were done with breakfast, their smiling dirt-streaked faces and hands giving over the wood they’d eaten off of.  Gran was now fully awake, and came and collected them from Claire, wordlessly going to scrub off.  

=to be continued=

[allwicca]

Practicing Witchcraft: What You Should Know about Blood Magic

By:��Mackenzie Sage Wright

Blood Magic

‘Blood magic’. conjures up all kinds of gothic images, doesn’t it? The very word ‘blood’ is a real attention-grabber. Combine it with words like ‘magic’, ‘ritual’, ‘spell’ or ‘rite’, and usually thoughts fly to human sacrifices on a stone altar dripping with dark red and other images that look like something straight out of a horror movie.

As usual, the fiction is much darker and more stirring than the reality of it. Yes, blood can be dangerous— both magically and mundanely. But fire can also be dangerous, no one would think to tell you not to use it to cook your meals. You just have to learn how to use it safely and properly.

The truth is, blood magic can be quite potent if you’re inclined to do it, and if you know what you’re doing. It should not be undertaken lightly, or carelessly; but it doesn’t deserve the ‘taboo’ stamp that many are quick to give it.

Using Blood in Magic and Spells

The Power of Blood

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that blood is a powerful thing. This is something that is so embedded in us that we all understand it. Fear and awe of blood goes way back to our earliest human ancestors. The sight of that bright red fluid — whether it was coming from an enemy or friend, your prey or yourself – got immediate attention. Blood is associated with such powerful concepts that some people can’t stand the sight of it, and might faint away if presented with too much. Homophobia is the fear of blood.

Blood is associated with death: the slain warriors on the field, the victim of violence, the hunter’s prey all lay bloody in their final state. Blood is also associated with life: it’s part of the cycle of fertility that perpetuates life. If you lost too much blood, you would grow weak and die. If your blood is tainted, you will wither.

Blood is associated with pain: you see it when you stumble and fall, have an accident, or fight. Blood is also associated with passion: when you love doing something, when you are good at it, it’s ‘in your blood’. Someone you love, particularly family members, are your ‘blood’. Blood connects you to things, or others. Even if you don’t know someone, you can empathize with them, your ‘heart bleeds for them’. Blood is passion, it’s connection, it’s raw emotion.

Blood is life. It courses through your body delivering oxygen and nutrients to every part of you. Blood is energy—when you push yourself, your heart pounds and your pulse races as your blood flows even faster. A woman bleeds during her menstrual cycle, she bleeds when her hymen breaks, there’s blood at childbirth. If you donate blood you might be saving someone’s life.

Whatever little microscopic bits are floating around in there contain the very essence for all that you are. A scientists can (illegally) clone you if they had just a drop of your blood. Your blood contains your DNA—a blueprint not just for you, but your complete ancestral line.

Something that contains this much power is naturally powerful in magic. Perhaps some would say it’s too powerful.

Blood Magic is Not Blood Sacrifice

Blood Magic: No Harm Necessary

Blood magic is not magic that involves killing people or animals in ritual sacrifice. Let’s just make that clear. We’re not talking about laying some innocent creature out on an altar or in the center of a pentagram and killing it, or wounding it. This would be all kinds of wrong, not to mention illegal, and is not at all what I mean when I talk about blood magic.

Blood magic is the use of a few drops of blood during a spell or ritual—usually your own blood, but if you are casting for someone else you could use theirs (with caution and permission, of course). Those few drops can add power to a magical working in any number of ways.

Is Blood Magic Evil?

The first thing you need to learn about blood magic is that it’s not inherently evil. Blood isn’t evil, is it? Does it make you ‘evil’ or desire to do malicious deeds just because it’s currently inside your body? If not, why do you think it would it become ‘evil’ outside of your body? Some people mistakenly think that using blood in magic is ‘dark’ or somehow only associated with malevolent intentions. This is simply not true.

The negative connotations stem back to that fear of blood I spoke about earlier: fear of our own mortality, fear of power, etc., are the kind of driving factors behind a fear of blood. Indeed, if you are homophobic, you might want to avoid blood altogether. It’s not for everyone.

A good implement to have for blood magic is the prickers that diabetics use to test their blood sugar.  I use these.

But I come from a more objective perspective. I see blood – like any object or component you would use in magic – as simply a tool. It’s a very powerful tool, but a tool nonetheless. It’s neither benevolent nor malevolent in its own right. You could use it for any number of purposes, though like any other tool it’s not advised to use it for unethical purposes.

Going back to the fire analogy—I could use fire to burn down my neighbor’s home when they piss me off. I have access to fire, which can be a very powerful destructive choice if I choose. So what stops me? The fact that I am an ethical person who has no interest in hurting others. Just because I don’t want to hurt someone with fire doesn’t mean I shouldn’t use it. By the same logic, I don’t want to hurt someone with blood magic; just because I don’t want to cause harm with it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t feel free to utilize this powerful tool.

Practicing Safe Blood Magic

Before I begin discussing ways to use blood in magic, let’s discuss ways to use it safely. First, there are a few don’ts to keep in mind:

Don’t ever take more than a few drops

Don’t ever take blood from an unwilling participant (this includes animals because they cannot give consent)

Do not smear your blood on people, let people smear blood on you, or try to exchange blood in any way; remember that many diseases can be transferred through blood

Do not ever consume blood, either directly or by putting it into a drink; aside from the fact that you can catch diseases, blood itself is toxic to human beings. More than a couple of teaspoons can cause haemochromatosis and potentially do some serious organ damage.

Don’t let others drink your blood, either directly raw or by putting it into food or drinks; this is essentially giving your power over to that person, and not in a good way.

The correct way to perform blood magic safely would be:

Sanitize the area of skin with an alcohol pad or sanitizing gel.

Sanitize a small poking implement, such as a pin.

Poke only enough to break the skin.

Squeeze out your few drops to collect for your use

Clean the wound immediately and put some antibiotic ointment on it. If it’s still bleeding, put a bandage on it.

Handle and dispose of anything that has been touched with blood with extreme caution until the end of your ritual or spell.

Disinfect surfaces (of your skin and your work space), implements and any other tools after performing blood magic.

Keep the wound clean as it heals.

If you are a woman and you prefer, you can use your menstrual blood rather than pricking yourself. You can catch menstrual blood easily with a diva cup if you need to temporarily preserve it for ritual—just don’t hang onto it very long, and all the same sanitary practices regarding care and clean-up also applies.

A Little Goes a Long Way

Photo by Alden Chadwick 

When (and When Not) to Use Blood Magic

I can’t tell you exactly when and where blood magic is your best option, but I can tell you my reasoning: I use it only in extreme need for the most important circumstances.

I’ll use it for protection— not minor protection, such as if my co-worker is a nuisance I’m not going to use blood magic to keep her out way; but major protection, when there is a potential for serious life-changing threats (accident, crime, etc.)

I’ll use it for health and wellness—not minor issues like sore throats or skinned knees, but big health issues like disease, injuries, surgery or breaking unhealthy addictions.

I’ll use it for desperate needs—not minor things like saving money for a Disney trip, but big things like if I were on the verge of being homeless or starving I would use it to draw what I need to survive.

That’s about it. I have more rules about when to never use it:

I never use blood magic unless I’m (or the person I’m doing it on behalf of is) fully prepared to accept whatever the consequences may be (which means thinking them through very carefully).

I never use it to target other people without their permission (unless, of course, it’s deadly necessary for protection; I had no issue banishing a violent family member who refused to leave my mother’s home and threatened my life with a gun)

I never use it in love or relationship magic; bonds between people need to be naturally developed, not forced. Blood magic turns a potential bond into a chain: emotional slavery.

I never use it to gain power; if you can’t earn it naturally, you don’t deserve it and probably won’t know how to wield it.

I never use it to bring harm to anyone or anything.

I never use it for vengeance or retaliation

Spell Casting with Blood

Using Blood in Magic

Now that you know the correct way to safely use blood in magic, let’s talk about how you might put it to use. There are countless ways, actually, limited only by your imagination. But here are a few ideas to get you started.

In candle magic, mix blood drops with oil to dress and charge your candle.

Use a small drop or two to anoint and charge any talisman or amulet.

In jar or container magic, add a few drops of blood to the container.

In petition magic, smear some blood on the paper the petition is written on.

Place a drop of blood in a mojo bag before tying it up.

Alternatives to Blood

Though not entirely as powerful as blood, there are other things you can use to personalize a spell and lend it a boost: urine, saliva, semen, nail and hair clippings, for example. These are all effective options that will lend power to minor workings, or workings when blood magic wouldn’t be appropriate or advised.

When you’re first learning magic, it’s advised that you work with these first before graduating on to blood. Take some time, experiment with these things. You’ll begin to get a sense of how much putting ‘part of yourself’ into a spell affects your magic.

Once again, nothing is inherently good or bad—it all depends on how you choose to utilize it. So practice ‘safe magic’ and you’ll be okay.

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