#Lonely Magdalen

[veryslowreader]

Lonely Magdalen by Henry Wade

La Vérité

[gingernutsenthusiast]

right person, wrong time (variations on heartbreak)

@leemartenspoetry on tumblr

vita sackville-west & fegan’s 1924 café in dublin

everything everywhere all at once (2022)

@heavensghost on tumblr

i had to get out by indigo de souza

‘calling a wolf a wolf' by kaveh akbar

river by joni mitchell

‘english song’ in a little larger than the entire universe: selected poems by fernando pessoa

slumber by ron hicks

fish in exile by vi khi nao

penitent magdalene by antonio ciseri

@ojibwa on tumblr

this is what the drugs are for by gracie abrams & the awakening by angelo morbelli

as good as it gets by fizz

lonely this christmas by mud & picture of the christmas tree at trinity college dublin, taken by me in december of 2022

this is what the drugs are for by gracie abrams & picture by andrew collins via globalnews.ca

@inanotherunivrs on tumblr & a polaroid of me taken by my ex-boyfriend

‘in a dream you saw a way to survive’ by clementine von radics & a picture of my ex-boyfriend's window, taken by me

bluets by maggie nelson & the poolbeg generating station, dublin

‘unrequited’ by sasha m george & inheritance by matthew w. cornell

[unknown]

@ faraway on instagram & lavender sprigs farm cut by linda jacobus

the museum of heartbreak by meg leder

[unknown]

‘seaside improvisation’ by richard siken

@ dracarysgang on twitter

@-love-letters-i-never-sent

@fromdarzaitoleeza on tumblr

explosions by ellie goulding

‘i had a dream about you’ by richard siken

the beatrice letters by lemony snicket

la la land (2016)

‘catalog of unabashed gratitude’ by ross gay

@stuckinapril on tumblr

@deathlywounded on tumblr

some are always hungry by jihyun yun

‘speaking practice’ by franny choi

 a self-portrait in letters by anna sexton & a picture of my ex-boyfriend in a lake in Orfű, Hungary

@sunsbleeding on tumblr

‘there is no absolution for the fallen, only the dying’ by p.d

[writers-hes]

Toy Horses Outside the Brothel

You always knew Tommy as the cheerful boy who took care of you. He always knew you as the smart girl that he visited by the docks. The daughter of a prostitute, the son of a deadbeat father; a soldier who protected his country; a whore who protected him; a gangster who controlled Brimingham; and now, a wife. War changes people, you just didn't realize that war could change you both. (angst, depictions of abuse, poverty, prostitution, canon-typical themes, death, war, time jumps)

A/N: This is dedicated to @runnning-outof-time ! Thank you for giving me guidelines and for reading my work before anybody else did. You’re amazing and I wish I could write Tommy as good as you do. 

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BIRMINGHAM, 1900:

Tommy first met her when his father took him to the docks. Arthur Shelby Sr. told impressionable young Tommy that there were kids he could play with by the docks. Tommy agreed, wanting to impress his father. On the way there, right outside of what looked like a house with many rooms, was her.

You were lonely and something in Tommy told him to play with you instead. Besides, the boys were too big around the docks. Arthur Shelby left him right outside the establishment and threw a shilling to you. You picked it up, stuffed it in your pocket, and looked at him.

He smiled at you widely, a tooth missing from his mouth and extended his hand towards you.

“I’m Tommy,” he said. You reciprocate the gesture, telling him your name and shaking his hand. You were more reserved, Tommy noticed. He was so used to the ruckus in their house that he expected every child to be as energetic as them. “Why did my father give you money?”

“He wants me to play with you while he’s inside,” you said. “I don’t have many toys but���I do have this,” you said, showing him your wooden horse toy. They were your prized possession, one of the few gifts that your father sent when he promised the world to your mother.

“Oh! I love horses,” he said. “Do you? I like watching horses,”

“Yes,” you replied. “My mother said that my father owned many. I’ve never met him though. Where do you watch horses?”

“That’s alright. Fathers hit kids. See?” he said, showing you a bruise on his side quickly. “My mother puts ice on it and it tickles. We watch it in the races. My mum takes me for my birthdays. She usednto ride a white horse before. She told me. Do you go to school?”

“No,” you shook your head. “But my mum taught me how to read and how to write. Sometimes, Big Johnny teaches me arithmetic. One plus one equals two,”

“You’re smart. Who’s Big Johnny?”

You hummed, making the wooden horse gallop on the murky ground. People in the house all told you that you were. If only poor Mary Magdalene had the means to send you to school. If only. You stop your movements and move your toy towards Tommy.

“Here,” you said. “Big Johnny is the man who runs this place. He’s kind,”

“You won’t have a toy,” he replied.

“It’s okay. I have more but they’re in my mama’s room. My father sent them. Sorry if it’s dirty,”

“Thanks,” he said. It’s the first time anyone has ever given him something without asking for it. He keeps it with him; keeps the memory of a girl who watched him intently while he played with a toy horse. That’s why when his father exited the house, with less money in his pocket, Tommy asked if he could come again next time.

-

When the house closed, you ran to your mother’s room. You usually had to stay out until five in the morning, sleeping on the sacks right in front of the brothel until your mother woke you up. She’s been seeing less men these days…always cooped up in her room, asking for you. She didn’t mind if you stained her bed with sweat and grease. She’d ask how your day was and you told him about Tommy, the boy you met earlier.

“I’m glad you have a friend,” she coughed into her white handkerchief. The blood stain was normal now. You were worried at first, but your mother told you to never tell anyone. You just never knew how serious it all was when you slipped once. You were talking to Big Johnny; he was teaching you how to subtract.

“If I help you, are you going to pay me?” you asked, perched on his lap. He had been the only father figure in your life. He’d help your mum surprise you for your birthdays and give you some money every now and then.

“Pay you? You’re robbing me,” he kids. “What do you need the money for?”

“I’m planning to buy mum a present. A nice handkerchief,” you said. “The one she has has blood—“

“What is it, bug?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, smiling sickly sweet.

“You have to tell me,” he replied. “It’s your—your safety,”

It was your turn to look confused.

“But mum told me to never tell anyone,” you whispered, heart racing. What did he mean by it? “Why would I not be safe? I’m safe. I have mum with me,”

Big Johnny ran his hand through his hair, then his chin. You knew that it was a sign of his agitation, so you relented.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you whispered. “But mum has been coughing up blood for a while. She said it’s fine. You won’t take her from me right, Johnny?”

“Fuck, kid,” he sighed, stressed at the sudden turn out of events. “No more arithmetic today, okay? I’ll go talk to your mum. Just go outside or play or whatever,”

“Is everything okay?” you asked, panic rising in your throat. It constricts while you keep yourself from crying.  “Mum will be so mad at me! Please don’t tell on me,”

“Do you know why she’s coughing up blood?” he asked, his voice serious. He knew that you had to be talked to in his “adult voice” for you to listen. You knew that he needed to be stern for you to listen.

“N-no…” your hair falls messily as you shake your head, picking on your nail beds.

“She’s sick, bug,” he said. “If we don’t do anything about it, you could get sick too. The two of you might die,” he explained. “Look, kid…you have a bright future ahead of you, alright?”

“What will you do?” you asked. “You can’t take her from me! Please, Johnny. My mum is all I have,” you cried, tears started flowing once the first one dropped.

Johnny couldn’t do anything else. He relented but locked your mother in her room. Whenever you went in, he made sure you had some face mask on to protect yourself. You only saw her for a few minutes every day. Parting her was painful and Johnny had to console you while you cried. He gave up his bunk and slept in his workspace so you won’t have to sleep with your mum.

A week later, your mum died of lung cancer.

It was too late, the doctor explained. Johnny let you stay in his bunk, never mind the fact that he had no space for himself now. He didn’t mind. You were his top priority. How is he going to raise a child in a brothel?

-

Your mother always told you that as long as you were with her, you would never be lonely. There was no burial, just her body being thrown and burned with the rest of Birmingham’s garbage. It made you wonder what your body would be like dead. You decided to never end up like her, one way or another you were getting out.

Tommy continued to visit you, but he knew that you were different now. It has only been a week and you’ve grown up so fast. When he arrived, a box of your toy horses was prepared for him.

“What’s this for?” he asked, eyes brightening up at the sight of the box. His father threw a shilling your way again.

“It’s for you. I don’t want to play anymore,” you said. “I kept one white horse for me but you can have them.”

“Why not?” he asked, galloping the toy you gave him last week. “Thank you. I don’t have my own. I always have to share with Arthur, John and Ada.”

“My mom died…you were my first friend and you never met her,” you said, tears falling on the ground. “I’ve been living in Big Johnny’s room,”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “My Aunt Pol says that friends are there for each other. I’m…I’m your friend,”

You smiled a teary smile, appreciating the underlying message behind his words. He’ll be there for you. But until when?

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1905

Fifteen, you were fifteen. You haven’t even turned fifteen for a week and you were working. The owner of the house told Big Johnny that if you wanted to keep living there, you would have to work too. Johnny had no place for himself, no house—his money all went to you. Your clothes, the books you’ve read, the food you ate. He'll get you a cake with a candle along with a pound for special occasions. If you were lucky, some of the girls would give you something. Tommy’s dad stopped coming and so was the shilling you got.

He stayed, though. He’d talk to you about school and how he wanted to leave.

“You’re lucky you’re in school,” you said, watching Tommy smoke a cigarette. You were never a fan if them, seeing as your mother died of fucking lung cancer. “You have to stay,”

“I’m not built for it though. They’re all so boring,” he said, blowing the smoke away. “If only I could work like you. Why are you dressed so nicely anyway?”

“The owner told me to work,” you shrugged, pulling the strap of your dress back on your shoulder. “Johnny asked the boss if I could help him with the girls and management, but he said no. Wanted me to work because it will bring more money in,” you bitterly replied. “I want to go to school but the fucking boss wanted me to present myself as a Cherry Girl. You wanna know what that is?”

“What?”

“A fucking virgin.” you shrugged. “Said many men will pay for someone like me. Today’s my first night and Johnny cried a little bit when he saw me. I’d kill and die to go to school, Tom.”

“Shit, love, I’m sorry. I was being insensitive,” he offered. “Hm, maybe you’ll bag one rich man you know? Some rich bloke from London and he’ll take you. Besides, at least you smell nice,”

“This shit is awful,” you countered, sighing. You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. “Fuck, I said I wasn’t going to cry tonight.”

“Hey,” he said, sitting closer to you. He wraps your arm around you and lets you stay there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll stay in school and do well, okay? I’ll study so hard; I’ll take you out of here. Let you live in a mansion with lots of space to run in. Fuck, I’m sorry, love,”

“It’s not your fault, Tommy,” was your weak reply. “I’m just…I told myself that I would never be like my mother and now, I am,”

“You’re not her,” he whispered, tightening his arms around you.m, never mind if the grease and sweat of his clothes mixed with your perfume. “You’re not her.”

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1906

“Fuck, Tom. You can’t stay here while I’m working,” you scolded. You were lying, you appreciated the fact that Tommy was here. He’ll wait until you finish your shift, until you meet your quota. It was always quick, though. You had a rich patron that covered your every living expense.

“My patron’s coming,” you told him, and he tenses. He remembered the way you cried to him after your first ever shift last year. How some old fuck didn’t even bother. He finished and threw you some coins. He remembered his rage when you told him about this new guy. He’s quite scary but he pays the most, you said. “He doesn’t like seeing me with other men,”

“I’m a man now?” he quips, a smirk on his lips. “It’s not like I can afford it. I’m broke. Besides, I’ll act like a bodyguard, yeah? All I ask for payment is a day out with you. Aunt Poll is cooking something on Sunday. Want you to eat something that’s not whatever is being cooked here. We can go on a picnic. I met a girl who worked at this mansion, and they have lots of flowers in the garden. Shit you’ll like,”

You offered him a slight smile, nodding.

“Will your aunt be okay with…me eating your food?” you asked. Tommy took notice of how insecurity laced your voice. His suggestions of meeting his family have always been met with resistance. He understood. Although Polly has been insisting on meeting the girl he’s been spending his time with, he couldn’t risk his father recognising you and then, treating you like trash.

“Of course. She’s been more annoying. Told my mum about the girl I’m seeing,” he said. “I’ll be the first boy to take you out, hm?”

“Shut up,” was your only reply.

Sunday comes and you asked your boss for a day off.

That day, Tommy took you to the garden with Polly’s chicken stew and his mum’s fig cake. Tommy didn’t let you work, he set down the food and opened the containers.

“The best meal you’ll ever have,” he said while you sat. “I should’ve done this earlier. What have you been eating?”

“I’m lucky enough to be fed. Johnny gets me some food out of the brothel sometimes.” you said. “Thanks for taking me here. I love it.”

“I knew it,” he said, spooning out your portion and giving it to you.

“I want to have a house with lots of flowers. Different coloured blooms all year round.” you said.

“The caretaker of the garden says that we can pick some flowers. Do you want to take some home?” he asked. You nodded, a flush on your face. How could someone not love him?

BIRMINGHAM, 1908

“How have you been my angel?” he asked, twirling your hair in between your fingers. “Can’t believe I missed you last week,” he mumbles, kissing your shoulder. You giggled. “I was in London and all I could think of was you,”

“I’ve never been to London,” you told him. “Are you going to take me there?” you asked, wide-eyed. He’s been your patron since you reached 18. He was quite younger than your usual customers. He always came to visit when you were seventeen but never looked at you. As if that made it better.

“You haven’t?” he asked. “I’ll take you there, Angel. I’ll show you the whole world. Hm?”

“You will?” you asked, faux excitement in your voice. He loved this; you knew. He loved that you were a fragile little bird in need of saving. He loved that you’d listen to him talk about his father. He’s the sappy kind. He liked to hold hands, talk, and make love. He’s paid you more than anyone else and gave you a hefty allowance. Big Johnny didn’t have to think about your safety anymore. “I want to go to the city! Buy everything that I see and just…breathe a different air,” you said.

“Fuck, baby, I’ll take you there and buy you everything you ever lay your eyes on. I’m not fucking around. I’ll take you there,”

“You will?” you asked. “I don’t like the idea of you leaving me. Did you know that? Sometimes, when you leave, I have to lock myself in my room and refuse everyone,” you lied. You locked yourself in because your quota was already met. You were just saying these things to keep him coming back. A little bit of pretending never hurt you. It meant a bigger tip, more money.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Of course,” you said. “You’re my hero…”

Somehow, you didn’t find yourself lying when you told him. You felt dirty, you felt like your mother when she thought your father would give her the world. But Simon paid big money to have you alone for multiple nights a week.  No other customers were to ask for services.

“I’m your hero, alright…you’re my little bird. I’m dead set on taking you with me to London. Once I get my inheritance, I’ll show you the world and get you out of these slums.”

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1909

“You don’t have to do this anymore,” Tommy said. You were well enough to have your own place somewhere near the docks now. Johnny had given you some furniture that the house wasn’t using anymore, helping you fix the tables and the chairs that you would be using.  You didn’t have to live at the brothel anymore and it was all thanks to Simon.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tommy,” you chuckled. “Do you like my place?” Tommy looked around, flowerpots littered your house.

“I’m serious.” he asked. “I’ll have you safe in Small Heath,”

“And my job? What will pay for this place? I finally have enough space for my flowers.” you asked. “I can’t just leave. Come on, you have to see the view on my balcony.”

You dragged Tommy’s hand to the balcony to show him the view. You were a little far from the docks now but from your balcony you can see it. The blue water, the usual chaos…you were smiling so freely, so beautifully. Tommy stills, unspoken words lingering in the air. You could realise it too…you’ve been realising it slowly. The world was in your hands. You could seize it if you wanted it. It fills Tommy with determination. It pumps through his veins, and it rings in his ears. Determination, consistency, and power. Three things to play with the world…three things that he’ll have. He could get you a bigger house. If he played right, he could have it all.

“This is why I got this place,” you said. “I mean, there were others but the view of the docks…I used to think everything about it was so ugly, you know? So grey, so evil…so grotesque but from the vantage point, everything is different,” a soft smile played on your lips when you let go of Tommy’s hand. He already missed your touch. “I can’t leave my job now because I wouldn’t have this,”

“I’ll work for it,” he says proudly.

“Tom, I know you’re not happy with how I earn money. Fuck, I’m not happy too. I hate that job. I know you hate it when I turn down your offer. But I have nothing else. You have to support your siblings. Don’t you get it? We’re all whores, Tom. We just sell different parts of ourselves. Mine just so happens to be my body.”

It enrages him and you could see it. See his face fall apart, how his jaw ticked.

“I’ll do it.” he said. “I’ll fucking do it. You think I’m fucking around when I tell you that I’ll protect you? I will. I’ll make a name for myself and protect you. I’ll fucking protect you; I swear on my life.”

“I know you will, Tom,” you said, inching closer. “But can’t you just be happy for me? This once?”

“We could add a little chair right here,” he relented. How could he ever tell you how much he hated himself for not being enough right now?  “I’ll bring some of Polly’s flowers. You’d let me stay here?”

“Only if you’re being nice,”

“What if I’m too tired to make the trip back to Small Heath? Can I stay here?” he asked.

“Sure,” you shrugged. “But only if you have food for me or something,”

“Or something? You’re not letting me stay for free? I’m your best mate,” he chuckled. “I mooch off you all the time,”

“You have more than I do. It’s time for me to mooch off on you,”

“Yeah? Well, I want yours,” he said. “I’m glad though…that you don’t have to live there anymore. You’re safer here,”

“Thank you, Tom,” you smiled, sitting by the railing of your balcony. “I’m glad too.”

“I’ll make sure you’re protected,” he promises.

“How?”

“I’ll protect you.”

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1910

Tommy gave you the number of his telephone years ago. You were shaking, something bad had happened and you didn’t know who else to turn to. Big Johnny was too busy breaking up fights in the bar beside the brothel. You walked home shakily. Tommy called the brothel earlier to tell you that he couldn’t make it tonight because of some gang business. It was fine, of course. So, you went to the market to buy some supplies. You just didn’t know that he would be there.  

You were waiting for someone to pick up the phone, biting your perfectly manicured nails.

“Who’s calling?” a woman asked from the other line. Her tone was snippy, and you knew she meant business.

“Hi,” you cleared your throat. “I’m looking for Tommy Shelby?”

“Who is this?” she asked, confused as to why a woman would suddenly call Tommy in such a manner. She was used to Tommy’s girls calling, an embarrassment usually hinted when they spoke. But this new girl had no shame.

“I’m a friend of Tommy’s,”

“Tommy has many girlfriends. You’re going to have to be specific,” she said, intrigued.

“Oh, of course,” you said. You told her your name. “Is he there?”

“Tommy!” you could hear her voice call. “Some girl is on the phone for you!”

“What, Poll?” he asked, scowling.

“Pick up the phone, Tom. Your friend is asking for you,” she said, passing the phone to him. She didn’t leave the room immediately, sitting on the nearby chair instead to listen in.

“Tommy Shelby,” he says, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“Tommy,” you whispered. “He was there…he was there.”

“Who, love?” Tommy asked. Polly noticed how his voice softened, how his stance relaxed. “Do you need me there?”

“He was one of my customers before,” you forced out. “He was always…rude and rough,” you choked. “I hate this fucking job, Tommy. I fucking hate it and he treated me like an object today just because he paid for my services years ago,” you sobbed. “I’m sorry. I know you were busy but I fucking hate it,”

“Shh…it’s okay, love. It’s okay. I’m going over there, and you could tell me,” he said. “Will that be alright?”

“I—yes,” you nodded, wiping your tears hastily. “I got some of your favourite fruit from the market today. Didn’t know you have an expensive taste,”

He chuckled softly.

“I’ll see you, alright?” he asked. “Keep the doors locked. I have my copy,”

“Okay, Tommy. Stay safe for me?” you asked.

“Of course.” Tommy put down the phone until he heard you end the line. He sighed and went to go get his coat until he saw Polly with an eyebrow raised. “Fuck, I didn’t see you there,”

“Who would? You were too lovestruck to notice anything,” she teased. “That’s the girl you’ve been seeing?”

“We’re friends, Pol,” he clarified.

“She’s the girl from the docks, then?” she asked. Tommy nodded. “Fuck, that’s rough. She’s a whore,”

“Don’t,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Don’t call her that. I’m trying to build something for all of us, Pol. For her. She hates her job…she fucking hates it and I can’t do anything about it,”

“You don’t have to save her, Tom. You can’t save everyone,” she said but she knew that Tommy was stubborn. Everything that she’ll say will fall on deaf ears.

“It’s all her,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll get her out of there if it’s the last thing I do.”

The walk to your place was unnerving. Thoughts swarmed in his head. If he only had it in him to murder the man who dared to look at you. He’s never made peace with how you earned your money, but he still happily showed up after every shift. You never talk about your customers, and he didn’t like to ask.

“Tommy, you’re here,” you greeted. He could see how swollen your eyes were; how red they were.

“Of course, I am,” he replied. “Are you okay?” He hangs his coat on the coat rack and walks towards the couch where you were seated.

“I am now,” you sniffed. “I’m sorry for making you worry but this job…people reduce me to such an object. I didn’t even know his name, you know?”

“I know, love.” he said, his heart beating inside his chest. What was it? What was the beating?

“Tommy, I’m going to make a request. It’s absurd and we haven’t done it yet…”

“What?” he whispered, unsure.

“Can-can you hold me?” you asked. “You don’t have to but…I have no semblance of what it’s like to be loved anymore. I want to pretend. At least for tonight, somebody out there loves me.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “You’re my friend. Of course, I love you.”

You only smiled, snuggling closer to Tommy. You were his friend…only a friend. How else would he look at you differently? You still had to pretend because the love that he was willing to give was not the love that you were looking for.

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1911

Multiple knocks on your door woke you up. Someone was screaming your name outside and you felt yourself panic. You took the gun that Tommy gifted you last year and crept down the stairs. You opened the door slowly to reveal two men—one older and one younger. The younger one had a smirk playing on his lips while the other looked panicked.

“Who are you?” you asked, tightening the gun behind your back.

“Arthur Shelby,” the one with the beard replied. You nodded. “I’m Tommy’s older brother. This is John,”

“Where…where’s Tommy?”

“He asked us to come get you,” John replied. “We mean no harm.”

“What happened to him?” you asked. “Come in,”

The brothers entered your house and watched you lay your gun on the table. An unspoken threat.

“Tommy’s not in a good place,” Arthur replied. “Well, he’s asking for you. He’s having these…episodes. I don’t fucking know what thr fuck they’re called but sometimes, he calls for you when he shuts down,”

“It's even worse today,” John added. “Our mother died,”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” you said, offering a small smile. “Will you let me dress better? I’ll come with you,”

You met the brothers outside of your house, your gun secured on your skirt.

“Are you Tommy’s whore?” John asked as you walked.

“John!”

“I’m not his fucking whore,”

“So, why is he always at the brothel by the docks?” he pressed.

“We met when we were kids. Your dad used to visit the brothel with him,” you shrugged. “I never understood why your father took him there all the time. It’s a dangerous place,”

“Why were you there?”

“My mother worked there. I was born there. I grew up there,” you shrugged. “Tommy was my only friend growing up. Your father stopped coming but Tommy still managed to show up,”

“I see,” Arthur replied. “You’re the girl who gave him toy horses when we were kids, then. He never let us touch them. Even now, he has them lined up on his wall,”

“Yeah, I was. I gave it to him a week after my mother died,” you recalled.

“I’m sorry for calling you his whore,” John said. He realised now that your relationship with Tommy was deeper. It was more meaningful than he realised.

“It’s okay,” you let out a small smile. “It’s a fair assumption,”

Minutes of silence passed by, and your group stopped in Watery Lane. You’ve never been in his house before; you never had the time to do so. You were also quite ashamed to show yourself. How could you prove that you weren’t after Tommy’s money if that's exactly what you are after men?

The door of the house opens, and you assume it was Polly. The same woman who you talked to on the telephone before.

“He’s in his room upstairs. Last door to the left,” she said.

“Thank you,” you rushed to where Tommy was. You didn’t bother to stay and eavesdrop. You were there for Tommy. You knocked on his door slightly.

“Stay the fuck away from my door or I will kill you,” he shouted. You cracked the door open slightly.

“It’s me, Tom,” you said. He rose from his bed and rushed towards you, flinging his arms around you. He pulled you closer. “Hi,”

“She’s dead,” he murmurs against your hair. “My mum’s dead. My dad left. I didn’t even like him, you know? He always hit the three of us. I thought it would be better if he just fucking left but my mum died because he left. Now, I don’t have her.”

“I’m so sorry, Tommy,” you said. You knew he was still struggling after his father left many months ago. He was shaking in your arms, trying to grasp you tightly. Trying to be closer.  “I’m so sorry,”

“I…I don’t know what to do,” he said. “You never got to meet her. She’d love you; you know?”

“That makes us even,” you saw a small smile on his lips. “I’m here now, Tom. You could rest,”

“You’ll still be here when I wake up?” he asked meekly, like a child.

“I’ll be here,” you nod, caressing his cheek softly. He nods, yawning after he evened out his breathing.

“Shit, love. I’m so tired,” he yawned again. “Let’s both go to sleep. We deserve it. I’ll see you when I’m awake?” he asked, adjusting your position on his small bed.

“I’ll see you,” you confirmed, snuggling closer to him.

-

“Tommy’s playing a dangerous game,” Polly commented from downstairs. It has been met with no resistance.

-

BIRMINGHAM, 1914

“Good afternoon, Pol,” you smiled. You were invited for Sunday dinner, and you decided to bring cake from the bakery that Tommy liked. You’ve only met them last year, but you’ve become such an integral part of their family that people knew you were closely associated with them. Even Simon.

“Oh, you didn’t have to bring cake,” she said. “We’d rather you spend it somewhere,”

“It’s alright,” you said. “I wanted to do something nice,”

“Keeping Tommy levelheaded is nice enough. Seriously, what did you do?” Ada asked, chopping the vegetables. She was reluctant at first but now, she couldn’t go a week without ranting to you. Girls’ night is what she called them.

“I don’t know,” you chuckled. “May I help?”

“If you could kindly chop the carrots, please,” Polly said. You set yourself and rolled your sleeves, peeling the carrots first. “Tommy and the boys went out for a while. They said it was some business with the Blinders. While they’re out, how are you?”

“Oh,” you nodded. “Me?”

“Of course. Ada has been talking my ear off about some guy she’s so secretive about,” she scoffed.

“I’ve been working less,” you confessed. “I’m helping out on the counter. Helping Big Johnny with the money and the accounts. I work a few times a week now. Simon’s been frequenting the brothel and well, you know what Simon does. It helps that he doesn’t stay long. The brothel pays me for my assistance. I can buy you cake every week now,”

“Don’t do that. Finn will be spoiled rotten,” Ada says. “Besides, you deserve nice things for yourself, you know,”

“I know but I can’t help it,” you said with a soft smile. “I like doing nice things for you,”

The boys soon come through the door, spilling with laughter. Tommy makes a beeline towards you as soon as he spots you.

“How was the afternoon?” you asked, bumping your hips with him.

“It was good,” he said. “Finn got into a fight with some kids, and we had to deal with it.”

“Is Finn okay? I brought cake.”

“Just a bruised ego,” he chuckled. My favourite?”

“Of course,” you said. “But let’s pretend that it’s for Finn, alright?”

“It’s always for Finn,” he groans. “He has you wrapped around his finger,”

“He does. He’s such a charming kid,” you praised. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Taking a bath before dinner. You have me for now,” Tommy said. “Can I sleep at your house later?” he asks in a softer tone. He’s been sleeping at your place ever since last year. He said you make him sleep better.

“You know it’s never a problem,” you said. His presence made you feel safe. He made you feel secure. “Will we leave together?”

“Yes. I’d like to sleep as soon as possible,” he says, dropping his forhead on your shoulder. You only chuckled. “I’m so tired. So, so tired,”

“Who are they fooling?” Ada asked in whispers. “Are we sure they’re best mates?”

“They’ve insisted on it for years,” Arthur shrugged. “I don’t think they’re aware,”

“I don’t think so either,” John says. “But Tommy throws a fit whenever she has to meet that Simon prick. Calls him a rich bastard.”

“He is a rich bastard,” Ada nodded. “She says he just came into his inheritance. Ammunitions,”

“Shit. She hit the jackpot, then,” John commented. “Wonder how that’s gonna go?”

“There’s nothing to wonder, John,” Arthur says. John could only nod his head.

-

You stumbled inside your house around half past midnight. You were both quite tipsy, having drank Pol’s stocks of wine. The Shelby Company Ltd. has been gaining more popularity now, along with the Blinders. Hell, Tommy even posted two Blinders to guard you. “For when I’m not around,” he said.

“Pol’s going to kill me for giving Finn too much cake,” you giggled, leaning on him.

“I reckon you’re banned from Sunday dinners,” Tommy jokes, taking his shoes off. He takes note of how you’re dressed today. “You know you can remove all the fucking things on your body right? Rouge…the jewels. Where’d you get them? Is the rich bastard buttering you up?”

“I like it. Dressing up makes me happy,” you frowned. “I’m allowed to like nice things, right?”

“Right,” his jaw ticked. It should be him who's giving you these gifts…showing you a lavish life. He hated it. “Later?”

“Later,” you nodded. “When I’m banned from Sunday dinners, you wouldn’t let me be left out, right?”

“‘Course not,” he shrugged, pulling you to your bedroom like he owned the place. You didn’t mind. You were happy to see that he was comfortable in your home. “You’re my best girl.”

“That’s what you say to your horses,”

“You’ve got really good horse sense and you’re always on your high horse,” he says, peeling his coat away. He was rummaging in your chest now, looking for clothes he might have left until he settled on a simple white shirt and pyjama pants.

“Yeah, yeah. You and your horse wordplay.” You entered the bathroom to dress down. Just like Tommy, you settled in his shirt and pants. They were more comfortable than singlets and you certainly didn’t want to make Tommy uncomfortable.

He was already waiting for you on the bed when you came back. He pats the space beside him. You obliged. You were looking into each other’s eyes with small smiles, Tommy’s finger trailing down your arm absentmindedly.

“I…” words died in his throat before he could get them out. “I…”

“What is it, Tom? Are you okay?”

“I’ll get you out of here,” he rasps. “I’ll get you out of there and I won’t let you work a day in your life anymore.”

“Tommy,” you sighed. “I can’t—can’t leave this job. It’s all I have,” He tightens his arms around you, afraid that you’ll ask him to let go.

“I know but once I come back from the war—“

“The war?” you asked, removing his arms around you. “War?”

“We enlisted,” he clarifies, trying to gauge your reaction. “Once I come back, I’ll be so fucking rich. I’ll have you. I’ll keep you and you won’t have to lift a finger. We’ll live in a mansion and have servants. Just like what we used to talk about,”

“Tommy, you’re going to war?” you asked, standing from the bed. His eyes watched you settle down shakily on the single chair by the bed. “Fuck. You’re going to war. You’re going to leave me,”

“No, love. Come on, I—“ he grunts, sitting up from his relaxed position.

“It’s war, Tommy! They change people…I don’t want to lose you; do you not get that? Are you not happy here? Is that why you're throwing your life away?”

“I’m not throwing my life away,” he says, a frown. “We’ll be drafted one way or another because we’re poor. Might as well do it now than be forced. Some of my men will still watch over you every now and then. They’ll still make sure that you’re safe. We’ll send letters. Alright?”

“Letters,” you scoffed. “And what if the letters stopped coming?”

“Don’t say that, please,” he begs. “I’m doing this for all of us. The business will be handled by Polly and when I’m back, I’ll make it even bigger. Alright? You have to trust me,” You didn’t even want to ask about the business. You didn’t want to ask why more men wore peaky caps. You didn’t want to ask what the Shelby Company Ltd. really was. Not now.

“I know you will, Tom,” you said. “But I’m scared. For the first time since I’ve known you, you won’t be here. I’m scared,”

Tommy lays his hand on your shoulder. Words he couldn’t say lingered in the air. I’ll marry you once I step foot in England. He didn’t know what else to say; didn’t know if there was still something to say. So, he kneels before you and makes you look at him. You were crying. So afraid, so alone.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“When will you be leaving?”

“I have two more days,” he says. “Will I still see you?”

“Yes, of course,” you said. “You’ll come back for me?”

“Of course. I have a picture of you already in my pocket. I have to make sure to come back to you,” he said. “and everyone else, of course.”

He fishes a necklace from his pocket, his mother’s locket.

“Here,” he said, showing it to you. It was one of the last pieces of jewellery she owned. “Mum gave it to me. You know I’ve always worn it. I want you to wear it now. Think of it as a loan, yeah? You’ll give it back once we see each other again,”

“Tommy, I—“

“I want you to accept it. I want you to see you wear it now. I want to see you wear it before I leave. But most of all I want for us to stay the same,” he says, holding you and kissing your hair softly. You couldn’t push him away. You’ve longed for this your whole life. To be held, to feel loved. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“I’m sorry. So, so, so fucking sorry.”

“I don’t think you’re wasting your life away,” you cleared your throat. “I’m so—I’m so proud of you and your bravery. I’m so proud of you but I can’t be fucking happy for you. I don’t want to wake up every day knowing that you’re not here. I don’t want to have to guess if you were alive or not.”

“I am,” he promises. “I’ll be alive. I’ll come back as your Tommy. Just…wait for me, alright?”

You clung onto Tommy two days later by the train. He whispered that he would come back. He said that he will make sure of it. He breathes in the smell of your hair—roses. He envelopes you in his arms once more and turns to leave, never looking back. You knew, in your hysterics, that if he comes back from the war, the same old Tommy you used to know would never be.

PART 2 PART 3

TAGLIST:  @shelbydelrey @runnning-outof-time @duckybird101 @thenattitude @swordofawriter @litteltourtius​ @trixie23​ @everythingelseisextra​

[luceirosdegolados]

"Your decisions don't really matter in Pentiment."

If you show prior Ferenc grace and mercy in act 1 he will in turn show the same grace to Ursula and Vacslav when they need him most.

You can encourage a lonely man to find love.

You can encourage a sad kid to pursue his passion and become the father his own father never was.

I hear that you can also have enough of an impact on Werner for him to actually help someone?

I don't know if I mattered but Andreas and Magdalene sure did matter. They mattered so much to so many.

I am an emotional wreck.

[wifetomegatron]

Imagine Cybertronians trying to understand the concept of motherhood when they are, as a species, sterile. I would assume Cybertron, was born with an individualist culture, even before the war. Spark brothers exist, but that doesn’t carry the same gravity as being a mother. Conjunxes, friends, companions; they make the Cybertronian vernacular less lonely, less cold. But they ring empty next to the word mother — giver, carrier. How painfully gentle must the word be, the role even more so.

One of the human liaisons is a single mother, and she had no choice but to bring her child with her, well aware that the ship was no place for her son. And yet, circumstances were difficult: no one was surprised at the lack of equal treatment for working mothers — and so she never lets the child out of sight. And this had sparked a few curious questions from the crew. 

Tailgate, specifically, found the idea weird. Why does the little human struggle with feeding themselves? Or why can't they accomplish basic, ordinary tasks? The minibot knew he could be dependent, but this was just overboard. She had to explain to him that humans were different.

If Cybertronians were forged and welded, humans were moulded. They need to be shaped as they mature.

Humans don't come with a series of pre-programmed instructions. Those are nurtured into us. And no, Tailgate, they are not transferred through the umbilical cord.  

(Pregnancy was another complicated — if not terrifying — phenomenon for Tailgate.)

He's old enough to feed himself. I just don't want him to be alone, the mother smiled, bouncing the giggling toddler in her arms. That's why he has his mommy.

After that, Tailgate found the concept rather convenient, if not unfair: why is it that the small human gets to have someone to care for them, hold them, and love them all day long, and Cybetronians don't? The liaison had laughed, noting that the bot still had a long way to go to understand if he continued to dumb down the idea of ‘motherhood’ as simply being someone’s daily caretaker. 

Until an incident rocked the ship, and the Lost Light had a close encounter with the DJD. Only then did they see it : the teeth and claws and fear behind her usual, gentle eyes — how the liaison had carelessly thrown herself in front of Tarn, defiant and loud, mustering more courage than her trembling body could hold to put herself between his blaster and her child. The DJD leader’s optics had widened with something akin to shock, melting to interest as he faltered, just for a few seconds, at the blasphemous show of courage. That was the distraction Ultra Magnus needed to land the blow to save them. And once the crew was back in hyperspace, lightyears away and safe and quiet — she wept in relief. 

She tried to soothe her cub, choking on her tears to pretend she wasn't afraid. And it did not matter to the child whether her strength was tangible or not. He was in his mother’s arms. And to him, it was enough. Always, it was enough. 

Magdalene and the sword of grief; Loss decorated the long history of this million-year war between Autobots and Decepticons. And yet they never ring heavy with the cry of a mother who had lost a child. It had been a close call. Too close. Rodimus immediately ordered tighter security, and there was a shift in the air as everyone returned to their stations.

Mommy’s here. The mother crooned, stroking the hair of her child as the baby sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. And something sad and heavy tugged itself against the strings of Tailgate’s spark.

He finally understands. 

inspired by this post <3

[katsigian]

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙄𝘾 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙏𝙔𝙋𝙀 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

This quiz was sent to me and it hurt good bad so I figured maybe the mutuals would also wany to do it, too ♡ While my OCs are CP77 and BG3 based, you can do this for any OC from any setting. I'm going to tag some people, but if you'd rather not share your results, there's no pressure to do so! There's also no pressure to interact with this post

────────── Find the quiz here

@rindemption @noirapocalypto @spicyraeman @alphanight-vp @swanfey @quickhacked @westealtoys @mercymaker @vanoefucks @hazellblogs @seluned @kharonion @nncc77 @peaches-n-screem @balverine2077 @humberg @strafethesesinners @envergothash @duskfey @mrdekarios @feykiller @aggravateddurian @dameayliins @wilxfyre @opaleyedprince @daedricshrine @ncytiri @nokstella @ruinbringer @cyberneutral @yharnams @thedeadthree @shellibisshe @hibernationsuit @aelyosos @wistereia @leota-nexus @baldurians @togepies @florbelles @ronqueesha @roarmoreau @molochka-koshka @devilbrakers @elvenbeard @zyana-wyvern @estevnys @gortash @vayneoc

𝙑𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙉 // 06. 𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙍 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

❝ Love's a knife to skin to you, a vein to woven muscle, a blood puddle before you. You listened to all the promises of a stranger's relief and feel the drain of a shower head running it all down again. You committed another murder; kissed and bruised skin with a clench to a quivering wrist and went home in the defeaning quiet of a taxi. There's mold covered rage within you. If to take a heart home with you, you'd bite your way through muscle and ribcage first. Pleasure comes, but there will be no devouring past it. There is fear in settling down and being seen. There is a glass screen between these bodies and you. Relax your tight jaw and feel the real canine fear beneath that scabbed up cavity. The sacrifice of opening up is needed if to be loved as you deeply wish is inside. Desire doesn't discriminate between hands or spoken word. Why should you? ❞

I really liked this one for Valen specifically because it talks about how lonely he once was; how he'd find the most temporary comfort within a stranger and then go home alone to have to face the quiet again. I love how it compares love-making to a murder because there's not many things Valen likes more than leaving loving bruises behind on soft skin from kissing too roughly. He also felt like for the longest time like he had a thick glass barrier between him and everyone else - you can look, but don't get too close to me. He wanted so badly to be loved for so long in spite of how he'd keep everyone at arms' length. It was a safety measure, because the past kept coming back to remind him that when he let others inside, past the walls, all they did was grab his heart and twist. Imagine wanting to be loved so badly you ached but at the same time feared it. All Valen wants is to be devoured by another who'll keep him safe within themselves.

𝙑𝙀𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙍 // 01. 𝙈𝘼𝙐𝘿𝙇𝙄𝙉 𝙈𝘼𝙂𝘿𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙉𝙀 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

❝ An embrace with the shivering figure of a ghost. You cut your hair at 3 a.m. to change it all but it is no use. Love is a war to endure to you. You comfort and hold, kiss pressed to temple and cheek while feeling the numbness filling your nights to brim. What used to feel honorable has now become chore of breathing to sustain another. What else is love, but your lap to lay another's head into? Your fingers turn blue in the announcing dawn, the cold figure of what you used to know of yourself remains asleep next to them. Another version of you has crept out of your old body, has ripped and eaten itself out of a cast that was fused into the position of nurturing comfort. Remove yourself from your lovers before they become part of you, conjoined with your arms to anothers head you have no life apart of maudlin magdalene. You have given endlessly, but this isn't all there is to you. Acknowledge the good that has been done and let yourself be free. You deserve to feel held as well, you are more than what you can give of yourself before breaking down. ❞

This one again feels pretty fitting for Vesper. He's not like his brother Valen - he gives much more easily than he does and is more open with what he truly wishes for. But it's become more of a burden for Vesper to keep opening up his heart and not getting those things he really wants. He gives very easily, tries to support the people he's let inside, but it gets tiring when he gets not enough in return. Eventually, he does find someone who will give him all he needs and more, but everything up until that point was Vesper thinking that he had to be a giver, whether it was his body or his affection or anything else.

[aljordandraws]

I see the lonely chapel ‘Tis all painted black With flowers and my love Both never to come back

Paint it Black cover by Hildegard von Blingin'

I titled this piece "A Bard In Grief" based on some ideas @yellowspiralbound and I had around Dandelion x Foltest and the grief and mourning Dandelion experiences after his death. I used Mary Magdalene in the Cave by Hugues Merle as reference for Dandelion here. I don't think we really take account the grief Dandelion continues to experience through the series and I had SO much fun painting him miserable with vaguely religious imagery.

[firstwcman]

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 . whether it be melodies that give you inspiration for your muse or songs that get you into the writing mood — pick ten songs that give you the urge, the drive or the creativity to write for your muse!

⛧ ribs ; the crane wives. || marrow made a wife of eve, but no one gave up a rib for me and mine. my heart did expose to the elements, calloused and untouched by a man's design. // brick and mortar between my bones, built a kingdom fierce and fortified. // oh my savage empire, how lucky we are, how lucky we are. never to be moved by the words of a liar. // the dark doesn't frighten me, I chose to close my eyes, it is mine, it is mine. the night doesn't frighten me, I chose to let it thrive, it is mine, it is mine.

⛧ good riddance ; cover by annapantsu. || farewell to the earthly remains, no burdens, no further debts to be paid. // goodbye to all the plans that we made, no contracts, I'm free to do as I may. // good riddance to all the thieves, to all the fools that stifled me! they've come and gone and passed me by, good riddance to all!

⛧ dance in the dark ; lady gaga. || baby loves to dance in the dark, 'cause when he's looking she falls apart.

⛧ dead boy's poem ; nightwish. || sing what you can't say, forget what you can't play, hasten to drown into beautiful eyes. // wrote for the eclipse, wrote for the virgin, died for the beauty - the one in the garden. created a kingdom, reached for the wisdom, failed in becoming a god. // a lonely soul, an ocean soul.

⛧ which witch? ; florence + the machine. || and it's my whole heart weighed and measure inside, and it's an old scar trying to bleach it out, and it's my whole heart, deemed and delivered a crime. i'm on trial, waiting 'til the beat comes out. // who's a heretic now? am I making sense? how can you make it stick? waiting 'til the beat comes out. who's a heretic, child? can you make it stick, now? and I'm on trial waiting 'til the beat comes out. // I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret. been in the dark since the day we met. fire, help me to forget.

⛧ howl ; florence + the machine. || if you could only see the beast you've made of me. I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free. screaming in dark, I howl when we're apart. drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart. // my blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out. // the fabric of your flesh pure as a wedding dress. until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest. // the saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound, I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground and howl.

⛧ lost carol ; mary elizabeth mcglynn. || 🎶

⛧ mary magdalene ; fka twigs. || a woman's work, a woman's prerogative, a woman's time to embrace she must put herself first. // a woman's touch, a sacred geometry, I know where you start, where you end, how to please, how to curse. // a woman's hands, so dark and provocative, a nurturing breath that could stroke you // divine confidence. a woman's war, unoccupied history // I'm fever for the fire, true as mary magdalene, creature of desire, come just a little bit closer to me - step just a little bit closer to me.

⛧ crystal ; stevie nicks. || do you always trust your first initial feeling? special knowledge holds truth bears believing. i turned around and the water was closing all around like a glove, like the love that had finally found me. // drove me through the mountain, through the crystal like a clear water fountain, drove me like a magnet to the sea.

⛧ don't pray for me ; within temptation. || I'm not lost in the dark, I'm not blind to what I see. I know the river is wide and the water is deep. I feel the cold, my heart skips a beat. // I don't need your absolution, so don't hold that sword over me. // for my confessions I don't need a church, I don't need salt to know where it hurts. // oh I needed a revolution, I never had war in mind. // and now the river's run dry and the fall is deep, the truth is dark and makes us bleed. // in hell is where I stand, it's where I find my inner strength. // don't pray for me.

tagged by: snatched it.

tagging: you. do it if you got the time.

[blogger360ncislarules]

Miracles are rare in the 21st century, but watch pretty much any episode of The Chosenand they are bountiful. But the biggest miracle of all is perhaps the fact that a historical drama centered around Jesus of Nazareth (a warm and welcoming Jonathan Roumie), set in 1st century Galilee as He preaches, gains followers (and enemies) and, on occasion, raises the dead and walks on water, has built a passionate legion of faithful viewers. How did a crowdfunded production become a heavenly international sensation?

The holy cards were stacked against The Chosen from the start. Faith-based television is historically hit-or-miss. The Academy Award-winning 1956 classic The Ten Commandments, which has aired on ABC nearly every Easter season since 1973, regularly reaps solid viewership (3.2 million when it last aired on April 1, 2023). But in terms of scripted TV, for every spiritual success (think Highway to Heaven and Touched by an Angel), there are just as many failures (anyone remember ABC drama Of Kings and Prophets or the Anne Heche sitcom Save Me?).

The Chosen’s accessibility—it’s been available to stream for free online at thechosen.tv since Season 1—didn’t hurt in making the show a hit, but it also drew in curious audience members with fresh takes on well-known biblical figures that never feel out of touch. Roumie effortlessly shepherds a comforting and gentle strength in his Jesus, whether He’s confidently preaching the Sermon on the Mount to thousands or graciously healing someone in private. And He’s unapologetically human. He laughs hard and pokes fun at His Apostles, shows His frustration with hardheaded religious leaders, joyously dances at a wedding in Cana and even frolics in the Sea of Galilee.

His 12 Apostles—the actual “chosen”—come with relatable baggage, broadening their flat Bible counterparts into colorful characters. Hotheaded fisherman Simon (Shahar Isaac) scrambles to provide for his wife, Eden (Lara Silva). Later, the young couple suffers a miscarriage and Simon blows up at Jesus for not protecting them. Outsider Matthew (Paras Patel)—who has been likened to being on the autism spectrum—is lonely and ostracized from his family. Nervous Andrew (Noah James) struggles with feelings of anxiety.

The show’s female cast also shines a light on women in a time period when they were often overlooked and underutilized. The iconic Mary Magdalene (Elizabeth Tabish) deals with shame from her past, thoughts of suicide and the loss of a parent. She bonds with the honest Tamar (Amber Shana Williams) over the latter. Jesus’ caring mother Mary (Vanessa Benavente) grapples with the idea that her adult Son—the Messiah—no longer needs her.

The Chosen so beautifully weaves its many perspectives together, often creating compelling duos, like awkward Matthew finding a surprising ally in gruffly sympathetic Roman centurion Gaius (Kirk B.R. Woller).

Finally, the show brings dimension to the New Testament’s most famous lines of Scripture, and the messages never come across as preachy. They’re edgy and nuanced, with fun bouts of humor and a deep sincerity and unwavering respect for the source material.

After 24 episodes (27 if you count the three Christmas specials), The Chosen has lifted the hearts of fans, who give thanks both through an overwhelming amount of online praise and the generous crowd-funding donations that continue to raise the drama’s production quality year after year (over $40 million has been collected so far). And given that the Christian megahit has been pitch-perfect since the original 2017 pilot, we have faith that the flourishing show will only continue to collect more and more loyal disciples on its righteous journey. Amen!

[lgbtqreads]

hi! i’m looking for some nonbinary/trans books. preferably middle grade, maybe younger YA. queer joy is a bonus!

You got it! There are all MG, with asterisks signifying books coming later in the year:

Trans Boys:

Obie is Man Enough by Schuyler Bailar

The Ship We Built by Lexie Bean

Dear Mothman by Robin Gow

The Other Boy by M.G. Hennessey

Too Bright to See by Kyle Lukoff

Trans Girls:

Zenobia July by Lisa Bunker

Joy, to the World by Lisa Bunker and Kai Shappley

Melissa by Alex Gino

Gracefully Grayson by Ami Polonsky

The Deep & Dark Blue by Niki Smith (Graphic Novel)

The Ojja-Wojja by Magdalene Visaggio (text) and Jenn St-Onge (illustration) (Graphic Novel)

Nonbinary MCs:

*Deephaven by Ethan M. Aldridge

Moonflower by Kacen Callender

Alice Austen Lived Here by Alex Gino

*Green by Alex Gino

*The Lonely Book by Meg Grehan

Skating on Mars by Caroline Huntoon

*Elle Campbell Saves Their Saturday by Ben Kahn

Both Can Be True by Jules Machias (Genderfluid)

The One Who Loves You Most by medina – A

Rabbit Chase by Elizabeth LaPensée and K.C. Oster (Graphic Novel)

Tiger Honor by Yoon Ha Lee

Sir Callie and the Champions of Helston by Esme Symes-Smith

The Beautiful Something Else by Ash Van Otterloo

Spin With Me by Ami Polonsky

Jude Saves the World by Ronnie Riley

Ana on the Edge by A.J. Sass

Ellen Outside the Lines by AJ Sass

Camp QUILTBAG by Nicole Melleby and AJ Sass

The Fabulous Zeb Watson! by Kevin Sylvester and Basil Sylvester

The Best Liars in Riverview by Lin Thompson

The House that Whispers by Lin Thompson (Amz)

*The Otherwoods by Justine Pucella Winans

There is also very significant nonbinary representation in Different Kinds of Fruit by Kyle Lukoff, Twelfth by Janet Key, and A Touch of Ruckus by Ash Van Otterloo.

In younger YA, there's not a ton, but I'd definitely give a shout to the genderqueer paranormal Out of Salem by Hal Schrieve, and I think the trans girl graphic novel romance Cheer Up! could work too!

(If you want all these links on one page, and/or to track ones coming up even further in the future, here's the MG page: https://lgbtqreads.com/middle-grade/)

[weirdwildwonderland]

The hargreeves as song lyrics!!! <3

Luther-ho hey by the lumineers (“so show me family/all the blood that I will bleed/I don’t know where I belong/I don’t know where I went wrong”)

Diego- one heart by Mat Kearney (“tell me I’m more than just these scars I’ve known”)

Allison-cocaine Jesus by rainbow kitten surprise (“listen in, it isn’t when you’re taking for your names sake, Jesus, mary Magdalene, you are, are you ok?”)

Klaus- cough syrup by young the giant (“one more spoon of cough syrup now, oh/I’m losing my mind, losing my mind/losing control”)

Five- wind blown eyes by Jack Johnson (“these windblown eyes, finding it hard to see /there’s no straight lines out on this open sea”) 

Ben-cocaine Jesus by rainbow kitten surprise (“ in my head/in my head/I get lonely sometimes”)

Viktor-little lion man by Mumford and sons (“your grace is wasted in your face/your boldness stands alone among the wreck”)

[thottyoptimusprime]

"I don’t know how much longer I can keep going without a friend. I used to be able to do it very easily, but that was before I knew what having a friend was like. It’s much easier not to know things sometimes."

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

One Hour Photo (2002)

By The Time You Read This I'll Be Dead by Julie Anne Peters

Lonely by Chloe x Halle (Ungodly Hour)

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness

Home to You by Fka Twigs (Magdalene)

Nobody by Mitski (Be the Cowboy)

[spooksier]

!!

name, pronouns: alana magdalene rosewood (goes by rosewood), she/her

age: 16

birthday: february 24th

tma alignment: lonely

their deal: following an incident, rosewood and her mom move back to her hometown of little raven where rosewood grapples with the fallout of the incident, her wavering faith, and the strangeness of going back to a place that changed when you weren't looking

fun fact: rosewood used to be named cypress but i though cypress rosewood was too fake sounding lmao

[saintmachina]

Something Jesus/Magdalene? ❤️

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine." Song of Solomon 1:2.

The first time she kisses him, she only has padding her coin purse and filling her belly in mind. He's just a mark, a prospective client, a wide-eyed man from Galilee with softly curling black hair and a strong nose and a full mouth that God must have crafted for kissing, and so she leans down to press her lips to his as she does her dance to the tambourine.

He stiffens and then softens beneath her touch, his lips parting, his tongue darting out to taste the tang of carmine and sweat on her lips. She is shocked by the tenderness of his touch. She is not used to being handled like she is valuable, like she is worth more than her bedding price, and she freezes when his hand comes up to thread through her hair. The band plays on, but she doesn't move as he kisses her, kisses her like this is their wedding day, like she is precious and rare.

For a moment, she glimpses eternity.

Later, when he tells her he is an itinerant teacher, she laughs at him. What sort of occupation is that for a man? She asks, offering him a plate of olives and labneh.

I am a fisher, he says, covering her hand with his own, and a carpenter, and an orator, when the mood strikes. I am about my Father's business, most days.

And the other days? She asks.

He smiles at her, his dark eyes twinkling. She can see the expanse of the night sky in those eyes.

On the other days, I am merely a man.

A lonely man? She asks, thinking of her bed in the inn upstairs, of the way she wants to show him with her body how much his kindness has meant to her. She does not even care that his feet are unwashed, that his hair is tangled. She wants him, more than she's wanted any man in recent memory, wants him in a way so ferocious that it frightens her. She wants him the way starving men want bread, the way religious men ache to be in the presence of the holy.

Perhaps, she thinks, he is the holy.

A man who surrounds himself with devotees and yet seeks true companionship, he says, as though they are the only two people in the room. A man who wishes he could be cared for the way he cares for others, sometimes.

Mary can barely breathe. She feels like she's teetering on the precipice of the rest of the her life, like this strange preacher is the key to her future.

This is what she was made for, she decides. This is the deliverance she has been seeking.

Mary kisses him on the corner of his mouth. He tastes like manual labor and sea salt and something darker, sweeter, hidden, She could spend her entire life trying to riddle out that secret, and never get bored.

Then let us begin this communion of care, she says, letting down her hair. She's always been vain about her hair, but she's happy to surrender it to his service. She kneels at his side and retrieves a bowl of water, dipping the dark tendrils before dragging them across his cracked, abused feet. Mary kneels for no man, not even when they pay her for the privledge, but this feels natural, easy. Right.

He watches her with a strange gleam in his eyes, then bends down and presses a kiss to her forehead. The place where he's kissed her tingles, as though there's power in the touch.

I think I have been waiting my entire life to meet you, he says.

Check out my other Jesus/Magdalene ficlet here!

[magdalenecrystal]

So shall you be

Looked at yourself, as we lock eyes.

How you are now, so once was I.

How i am now, so shall you be.

Young and naive I used to be.

Deep in sorrow when I found the key.

The key to accept the fact;

Im not your Bride-to-be.

I freed myself, as I lay glanze upon your eyes.

The eyes I shall never look into again every lonely day and night.

Each now and then, when I think about you, I read this poem to remind myself,

My love deserves somebody better than you.

~Magdalene

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Just moronic how you generalize all religions. Not all Christians are the way you described. Guess who saw Christianity your way also?

"Christianity is an invention of sick brains." - Adolf Hitler

I have an entire post of two dozen quotes, one after the next after the next in which Hitler affirms his Xianity. I had to abbreviate the post because I could have kept going. His religious devotion and motivation is well documented by historians.

"Christianity is an invention of sick brains." - Adolf Hitler

Said by somebody with a sick brain. 🤷‍♀️

https://religion-is-a-mental-illness.tumblr.com/post/640088403701055488

Here's a taste:

In a speech delivered in front of a Nazi audience in April 1922, Hitler made a more explicit reference to Christianity, referring to Jesus as “the true God.” He made it plain that he regarded Christ’s struggle as direct inspiration for his own. For Hitler, Jesus was not just one archetype among others, but “our greatest Aryan leader. ” While emphasizing Jesus’ human qualities, Hitler in these instances also alluded to his divinity. At a Christmas celebration given by the Munich branch of the NSDAP in December 1926, Hitler maintained that the movement’s goal was to “translate the ideals of Christ into deeds.” The movement would complete “the work which Christ had begun but could not finish.” On another occasion, this time behind closed doors and to fellow Nazis only, Hitler again proclaimed the centrality of Christ’s teachings for his movement: “We are the first to exhume these teachings! Through us alone, and not until now, do these teachings celebrate their resurrection! Mary and Magdalene stood at the empty tomb. For they were seeking the dead man. But we intend to raise the treasures of the living Christ!” In a nearly evangelical tone, Hitler declares that the “true message” of Christianity is to be found only with Nazism. He claims that, where the churches failed in their mission to instill a Christian ethic in secular society, his movement would take up the task. Hitler not only reads the New Testament, but professes - in private - to be inspired by it.

-- “The Holy Reich: Nazi Conceptions of Christianity, 1919-1945″ by Richard Steigmann-Gall, pp 27-28.

-

“We are a people of different religions, but we are one. Which faith conquers the other is not the question; rather, the question is whether Christianity stands or falls… We tolerate no one in our ranks who attacks the ideas of Christianity … in fact our movement is Christian. We are filled with a desire for Catholics and Protestants to discover one another in the deep distress of our own people.“

-- Speech in Passau 27 October 1928 Bundesarchiv Berlin-Zehlendorf; from Richard Steigmann-Gall (2003). Holy Reich: Nazi conceptions of Christianity, 1919-1945:

-

“I say: my Christian feeling tells me that my lord and savior is a warrior. It calls my attention to the man who, lonely and surrounded by only a few supporters, recognized what they [the Jews] were, and called for a battle against them, and who, by God, was not the greatest sufferer, but the greatest warrior…

As a human being it is my duty to see to it that humanity will not suffer the same catastrophic collapse as did that old civilization two thousand years ago, a civilization which was driven to its ruin by the Jews… I am convinced that I am really a devil and not a Christian if I do not feel compassion and do not wage war, as Christ did two thousand years ago, against those who are steeling and exploiting these poverty-stricken people.

Two thousand years ago a man was similarly denounced by this particular race which today denounces and blasphememes all over the place… That man was dragged before a court and they said: he is arousing the people! So he, too, was an agitator!”

-- Speech delivered on April 12, 1922; from Charles Bracelen Flood (1989). Hitler: The Path to Power

-

“Still a member in good standing of the Church of Rome despite detestation of its hierarchy, ’I am now as before a Catholic and will always remain so,’ he carried within him its teaching that the Jew was the killer of God. The extermination, therefore, could be done without a twinge of conscience since he was merely acting as the avenging hand of God– so long as it was done impersonally, without cruelty.”

-- John Toland, “Adolf Hitler” (1992)

-

“The movement’s goal was to translate the ideals of Christ into deeds.”

“The movement would complete the work which Christ had begun but could not finish.”

-- Speech in Munich December 1926; from Richard Steigmann-Gall (2003). Holy Reich: Nazi conceptions of Christianity, 1919-1945

-

“Without a doubt the chancellor lives in faith in God. He recognizes Christianity as the foundation of Western culture…”

-- Cardinal Faulhaber of Munich (quoted from Ernst Christian Helmreich. “The German Churches Under Hitler: Background, Struggle, and Epilogue.” (1979))

So, sweetie, that ain't gonna work. Hitler was a Xian. He put "Gott Mit Uns" ("God With Us") on the Nazi belt buckles and other paraphenalia, for Santa's sake.

Not all Christians are the way you described.

This is a covert No True Scotsman Fallacy.

https://yourlogicalfallacyis.com/no-true-scotsman

Do you know what all of them have in common? The bible. Xian doctrine and dogma. Belief in Jesus Christ as a resurrected savior. "Faith" as a way to decide what is true. They cite the same scripture as you. Their bible is your bible. Their savior is your savior. Their heaven is your heaven. Which is the entire problem.

You admit that nobody can be certain of what Xianity is about. All of those "not all Christians" can point to parts of the same book, the same doctine and ideas as you, and be certain they're correct. They will tell you that they have faith they are right about the views of theirs that you oppose.

My view of that is this arrangement is unreasonable, and not deserving of respect. Y'all don't even respect each other. The Catholics think the Protestants are deluded, the Protestants think the Catholics are misguided, the progressives think Westboro are going to hell for their hate, and Westboro think everyone else is going to hell because they know the Truth™.

But the problem is that I have the wrong view of all this? Are you even for real?

Xianity's diversity is proof of its falsity. There is no version of Xianity that someone can't point to something in the bible to justify. They will cite chapter and verse, and know they are right. Of course, they can't be all right, but they can be all wrong.

“No man ever believes that the Bible means what it says: He is always convinced that it says what he means.”

-- George Bernard Shaw

If Xianity was actually true, then it would be obvious. There would be a shared, unified understanding of Xianity, just as there's a shared, unified understanding of gravity, evolution, electricity, flight, and so on. Over the last 1600 years, the "understanding" of Xianity has only gotten more divided and discordant, not less.

If Xianity becomes more abstruse as human knowledge grows, rather than less, then how true could it have been in the first place?

Believers regularly inform us that it's all in interpretation, and then they demonstrate this by none of them agreeing on any interpretation.

With this in mind, there is literally, absolutely no basis whatsoever for you to sit there and insist that my view is either incorrect or unjustified. Because the pedestal you've put yourself on is a house of cards in a burning dumpster.

That is not my fault. I'm just the one pointing it out.

Guess who saw Christianity your way also?

My view of Xianity is what Xians themselves tell me. That their god is real but immaterial and undetectable in this reality, loving but will send me to hell, works in mysterious ways but good, allows evil but punishes people for the free will he gives them, perfect but in need of worship and praise. My view is that none of y'all can figure out how to make this creature coherent, or even simply non-self-contradictory, much less believable.

They tell me to just read the bible to find Jesus, and when I do, I discover a Grandiose Narcissist god who (supposedly) murdered and destroyed millions throughout the Old Testament, and a Vulnerable Narcissist savior who made it so that you couldn't escape the Grandiose Narcissist even in death, then manipulates humans into a bloody spectacle of self-immolation, which then forms the basis of an inherited blackmail debt in the New Testament. Not liking it being described that way doesn't mean it's not accurate.

The only reason I have the view of Xianity that I have is because of everything Xians bring to me. It's not my fault the god and savior they and their scripture describe to me is some of the most evil villainy I've ever heard of, secondly only, perhaps, to Islam and the quran. (If you were to read the quran, unburdened by the moral urgency to protect and defend it at all costs as you do Xianity, I would hazard you would come to the same conclusions as me.)

I ask, and this is what they give me. I would rather never hear anything about the Xian god at all, but that's not the world we live in, is it? As long as I'm hearing about it, I will draw conclusions from that information. And if I feel so inspired, I will certainly say so publicly, if I wish, with no guilt or angst.

-

In any event, this isn't the argument you think it is. Let's for one second pretend that Hitler was not a devout Xian. If you've read Mein Kampf, there is no possible way you could come to that conclusion, but we're in PretendLand now. Cue ripple dissolve and visual tonal shift to indicate we're in a parallel universe...

So what? He can be right about Xianity, and wrong about everything else. Hitler says 2+2=4? Guess what? I agree with him. Am I going to go, "well, Hitler says 2+2=4, and since he's a bad guy, I can't agree with him, so 2+2=something else, because reasons"? That'd be completely stupid.

What you're trying to pull is called the Genetic Fallacy. You should learn about it before trying this argument again.

https://yourlogicalfallacyis.com/genetic

More specifically...

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reductio_ad_Hitlerum

Reductio ad Hitlerum (/ˈhɪtlərəm/; Latin for "reduction to Hitler"), also known as playing the Nazi card, is an attempt to invalidate someone else's position on the basis that the same view was held by Adolf Hitler or the Nazi Party.

This a feeble and pathologically dishonest attempt at "guilt by contrived association." I am not one to fall for such dishonesty.

Xianity has a shared doctrine and scripture. Non-belief does not. Non-believers are not a group. We are the ones outside your group.

You're a non-believer too. You disbelieve dozens of the same gods Hitler disbelieved. You and Hitler both disbelieve in Zeus, Ra, Odin, Quetzalcoatl, Vishnu, Raijin, and a pantheon of hundreds, if not thousands, of gods. So, what does that say about you?

What are the shared beliefs, values, principles of "we don't think Atum is real"? How much genocide does "I see no evidence for Baiame" advocate? Lots? A little? None?

How prone to world war and genocide does the disbelief in Ahura Mazda and leprechauns you share with Adolf Hitler make you?

You see the problem, right? Saying what I don't believe in tells you nothing about what I do believe in. But saying you're a Xian associates yourself with specific mythology and ideas. Not liking this asymmetry doesn't mean you get to play pretend to try and make belief and non-belief equivalent.

If you're going to accuse me of something, you better bring something better than a circuitous, fabricated dotted line.

Because that "?" at the end of your question is doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Here's the thing though: I don't hold you to be comparable to Hitler just because you share the same god-beliefs. Unlike you. You're so desperate to take a swing at me, and your morality is so corrupted, that this is the kind of tactic you'd try to pull.

My point isn't that you're the same, it's that you're different. But both of you came to different conclusions with the same doctrine and scripture. If Xianity can lead people to bad ideas as justifiably as it can lead people to good ideas, why use it at all? How is Xianity better than "no Xianity" in terms of success? And why is it such a crapshoot? Why is it Xianity doesn't result in disproportionately and obviously good behavior and morality... you know, because it's True™ and stuff?

And why is it your god's word is so opaque that anyone can take it any way for any purpose? And why has this existent, loving god not come back down here to fix the problem and sort out the misconceptions?

Seriously, sweetie, how did you think this was going to achieve anything?

-

My point is that Xian doctrine itself, the bible, the dogma, the "blood of Jesus" immunity from consequences, supports both the "nice" Xianity (necessitating ignoring the violent, immoral parts), and the Hitler-kill-all-the-Jews Xianity.

Both occur by hooking into the believer's existing morality. The believer gets to decide what god really wants. You yourself admitted that up front, that not all Xians are the same way? Why? Because they don't want to be. It's not because there are clear guidelines that prevent it. It's because you make your own morality authoritative.

"You are using your own moral intuitions to authenticate the wisdom of the bible - and then, in the next moment, you assert that we human beings cannot possibly rely upon our own intuitions to rightly guide us in the world; rather, we must depend on the prescriptions of the bible. You are using your own moral intuitions to decide that the Bible is the appropiate guarantor of your moral intuitions. Your own intuitions are still primary, and your reasoning is circular."

--- Sam Harris, "Letter to a Christian Nation"

The difference between the believer and the non-believer isn't our morality, since we're both using our evolved, secular morality. The difference is the believer simultaneously projects it onto their imaginary friend and carefully curates that god's morality in order to make it personally acceptable. "iT'S A NiCeR TyPe oF OwNiNg pEoPlE As pRoPeRtY" and "iT WaS A MeTaPhOrIcAl gEnOcIdE AnD AlSo tHeY DeSeRvEd iT!"

Your god is simply the justification you use to do what you planned to do in the first place. I don't have that luxury. I don't have the ability to claim that it's "the will of god." I don't get to commit some atrocity and say that I was acting on behalf of some imaginary greater wisdom, in aid of some mythological divine plan.

"With or without religion, good people can behave well and bad people can do evil; but for good people to do evil - that takes religion."

-- Steven Weinberg

My goal is that we are going to stop pretending that your religion, your belief in a god you can't substantiate, your "faith" - belief without evidence, and in spite of evidence to the contrary - makes you a good person. It doesn't make you a bad person, either. But you are not going to receive respect simply because you profess it; rather because of how you behave, and what you do, not because you hold up your crucifix as a magical talisman.

And your religion is entitled to no respect whatsoever. It's a belief. An idea. Beliefs aren't entitled to respect, least of all the ones which we have no reason to conclude are true.

If this bothers you, then there are things you can do about it.

Be more consistent in your skepticism, for starters. Consider the religions others believe in that you don't, the evidence they offer that you reject, and how you as an outsider appear to them.

Decide to care about what's true and how you can know it, rather than what feels good.

Study the origin of the bible - very few Xians know how fraudulent it is, and this isn't even a controversial conclusion among those who've studied its origins. Scholars even invented the word "pseudepigrapha" to obfuscate bible lies. The bible isn't what you think it is.

In the meantime, you should probably stop expecting people to describe your baseless superstitions only in ways that you find personally agreeable.