#are sick as hell this morning and send off the email to the wrong address nonetheless and find out half an hour later

[miloutic]

most embarrassed this morning. no talk me

[builder051]

Marvel Disabilities Celebration Week: Day 2

Creedless Assassins; takes place post-Infinity War, pre-Endgame (Diverges from Endgame quite a bit, but pulls from the canon of the comics, so maybe that's ok?)

______________________________

It starts off as a cold. At least that's what Clint says when he talks to various medical professionals about the genesis of what came next.

Steve had called it a headcold. Apparently he'd spent most of his childhood with the stuffy ears and sinuses gone to shit, exacerbated by a perpetual low grade fever and sore throat.

Nat had called it a hell cold. Maybe because it made Clint feel like hell. But probably because it made him give her a lot of hell.

Steve had tried to get them all together in a sort of bucket brigade, stopping by with soup and Kleenex whenever they happened to be at the tower. It didn't take long for Thor to start making himself scarce. Then Tony, even though the tower is technically his permanent address. Bruce turned up every other day for almost two weeks before he snapped and sent Clint an 'anonymous' email in all caps and green text, accusing him, in more efficient language, of being a poser. After that, everything fell on Nat.

"It's been almost a month," Nat says, annoyed. She lays upside down on the foot of Clint's bed, head hanging off the edge and a comic book held up an inch from her nose.

Clint coughs wetly. "Not my fault."

"I didn't say it was."

"Huh?" Clint looks up and wrinkles his nose, then puts his hand behind his ear.

"You still all congested?" Nat asks. "Because you really should be over that by now."

Clint shrugs. "It's not my face, really." He gestures to the prominent bones beneath his eyes. He's thinned out lately, so everything on him is prominent now. "It's more like my..." He claps his hands against the sides of his head.

"Ears?" Nat guesses.

Clint nods.

"You probably have an infection." There's a hint of 'duh' in Nat's voice. "With that hell cold, I wouldn't be surprised if you had some... stuff. Bronchitis. Ear infection."

"Doesn't hurt, though," Clint protests, determined to be fine, despite evidence to the contrary.

"You need to go get it checked out," Nat says. She gives Clint a hard look.

"But--"

"Humor me." Nat's expression turns to a gentle smile, even though she's on the losing end of the argument. She's giving Clint a gift, not fighting back. She must realize how awful he feels, and Clint immediately feels guilty for hiding it.

"Yeah," Clint sighs. Nat could probably tell him anything and he'd agree right now, in the vulnerable position he currently holds.

Her words make sense, though. His ears don't seem to work. Haven't all week. Maybe longer. Clint isn't sure.He doesn't need his sense of hearing much whilst he's lying in bed, all his energy absorbed in raising his body temperature enough to host the antibodies and force them to work against the intruders. Or maybe it's the other way around. Yada Yada. Clint doesn't care.

"If I make you an appointment, will you go?" Nat asks, a little desperation in her tone.

"Maybe?" Clint imbues the word with as much honesty as he can

To be completely candid, his mission days are over. SHIELD can't trust him to stick to the script in the field anymore, so he's basically defunct. They use him as a paperwork pusher, signing and stamping, because he can read and write and he's a level six.

Mission reports from [Name redacted] SHIELD Agent/Enhanced Person, passed, damages, casualty count don't phase him. Shit happened. Yeah, it sucks. The families of the dead are due recompense, lest their asses be sued (again). The success to casualty ration will be added to a long list of MS Excel data with automatic unfolding equations that define the company metrics.

Then Clint will snap up his briefcase, for god knows he has one now, a gift from Nat last Christmas. After that, he'll go home and... heat up canned soup. Maybe send a text or two. Go to bed. And wake up the next morning to do it all again.

Clint doesn't have Laura to fix his breakfast and dinner anymore. Nor does he have his children to run around in the yard with during his evenings and weekends.

His ears have been stuffy for so long now that he barely recalls Laura's voice. He thinks he holds onto her laugh, but then when he gets Nat started on a giggle fest, Clint thinks they sound eerily similar.

He's lost Lila completely. Nothing young and girlish remains in Clint's dwindling sound library, and he keeps mistaking the boys for each other, pushing Cooper back into babyhood as he tries to remember something Nathaniel said the other day before school.

Except it wasn't the other day. They vanished better than 90 days ago., and lint's been sick for at least the last month. Sometimes Clint wonders if Laura had been sick when she'd died, or been dusted or vaporized or whatever had happened. Had she been putting on a brave face to fight a fever? Had she passed on mono to her only bewedded husband? Did Laura have a secret boyfriend that no one knew about?

But no. No. Clint doesn't want to know. He thinks one more time about asking Nat, but changes his mind again, sticking to the high road.

"I need a better answer," Nat says. "If I make you an appointment, " she flips her phone between her fingers. "Will you go?"

Clint draws in his breath. "Will you take me?" he finally asks.

Nat grits her teeth. "Yeah. I guess."

"Do you think something's really wrong?" Clint furrows his brow.

Nat's molars continue to grind together, and her incisors push forward into the flesh of her lip. Clint expects to hear the awful sound, but instead there's nothing until she clears her throat and finally says, " Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Clint lets a beat of silence pass. "Ok.... Make it, and I guess I just..."

"Just tell them how it started, then what you're feeling right now," Nat says, as if it's that easy.

"You mean, the cold?"

"Yeah." Nat nods. "I don't mean to jump to conclusions on you, but that's a possible side effect of mono. If that's what you wind up having."

"Huh?"

"Don't know or didn't hear?" Nat looks concerned.

"Neither." Clint shakes his head.

"Going deaf."

"...Ok." Clint sighs. "I guess I knew that, but..."

"Hard to let it sink in when it's happening to you?"

"Yeah. Like jumping without a chute, or something."

"Nothing like that feeling, electrifying your veins." Nat shudders. "But similar, probably. I don't know."

"I don't know either. A fucking cold." Clint shake his head. "'S what I deserve, I guess."

"Hey, I never said that." Nat stares harshly into his eyes. "We'll come out the other side."

Clint reluctantly nods. "You know I haven't forgotten you yet? Like, the sound of you?" His eyes begin to fill with tears.

Nat presses her lips together again. "That's--" She shakes her head. "That's not fair. You deserve to keep her. To keep them. I don't matter." Nat waves her hand in front of er boy, as if to accentuate her worthlessness.

"It is what it is," Clint says, "And right now, I'll take what I can get."

"That makes me--" Now it's Nat's turn to wipe away tears. "I'll come see you tomorrow, ok?" She lifts herself up from Clint's bed in a push up position. She scrubs her face into the forearm of her hoodie, then shoots Clint a wan smile.

He returns the gaze, then pulls his blankets up to his chest. "I'll miss you."

"No, you won't," Nat scoffs. She squeezes lint's foot through the quilt before she turns to go.

"Hey, thanks!" The words are out of his mouth before Clint realizes he's shouting. He's hyperaware of his problem, now. His cheeks go pink, and he offers Nat an awkward wave.

Nat turns, then waves back, over her shoulder as she exits the room, leaving Clint alone in the silence.

[unorthodoxsavvy]

Trying To Catch And Rescue A WILD Pigeon (fic)

This fic is for the wonderful @ttlmt who I know you all are already following wile they’re away as a coming-back present (and for a thank you for using their bad luck with timing of Phil uploading videos to give us not one but 2 new Phil videos while they have no service and cannot watch them).

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.6k

Characters: Dan Howell, Phil Lester, Steve the Pigeon, Scraggy the Pigeon

Ships: Dan x Phil, Steve x Scraggy

Find me on Wattpad

Phil was sitting on the couch, legs on top of Dan’s, scrolling through his twitter notifications, when one caught his eye.

“please help steve. his foot is injured and he might get really sick !!”

Phil went back to the photos and videos he’d shared of Steve for a closer look. They were right- Phil could see what looked like a piece of rope that had become tangled around the poor pale pigeon’s foot and it looked as if it was cutting off circulation. 

Phil showed the photo to Dan.

“Why don’t you put some more seed out and try and get a better look? You know he’ll show up if you do.”

So that’s what Phil did.

Phil sat right up against the sliding glass door, nose almost pressed to the glass and fogging it up slightly. When Steve swooped down to start eating, Phil could really see his foot. It was swollen and whatever had gotten wrapped around it was frayed, almost as if he’d had to free himself from being stuck on something but hadn’t gotten it all off, just managed to cut himself loose. It was bent inward slightly.

Phil sighed sadly. Of course he was going to help Steve, he loved Steve, but how?

Well, he knew the best thing to do would be to call an expert, so he moved outside to get comfortable and looked up the number for the RSPCA on his laptop.

The automated system picked up, stating that unless it was an emergency, than to please wait.

Was this an emergency? It wasn’t a pet, but it was in danger, Phil thought. He didn’t know how long it’d been tied around his foot, and he didn’t know how much longer Steve could hold out on his own- but this was a wild pigeon… it didn’t matter to him, of course- an animal in trouble was an animal in trouble. But he didn’t know the policies here, so he decided to send an email.

He expected them to confirm that it was not a big deal, and was surprised when the answer he received implored him to take care of Steve as soon as possible, as this was an emergency, and to call them right away.

Phil dialed again and waited for someone to pick up.

“Name?”

“Steve.”

“Steve what?”

“Oh my name! I thought you meant the pigeon’s name,” Phil laughed awkwardly, remembering that some places called pets in by their names instead of their owner’s. It wasn’t so far-fetched, right?

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dan filming him on his phone.

Phil listened to the professional on the other end of the line, using his computer to look up things like addresses for offices to help and phone number for local vets, but they stressed that it would be best if Phil could catch Steve himself. Of course Phil agreed to, and hung up.

“What did they say?” Dan asked from behind the camera.

“They want us to catch Steve and bring him to a vet.”

“How the hell are you supposed to catch a bloody pigeon?”

“I don’t know!”

Phil started looking up methods to catch a pigeon.

“This one says to throw a towel over it, but that seems traumatizing.”

“As if you could ever manage to do that,” Dan scoffed.

“This one says to trap it under a box! How are you supposed to get it out from under the box! It’ll just fly away!”

Dan stopped filming and put his phone down to sit across from Phil at their patio table.

“Why can’t you just convince him to come inside or something? He’s already half way there.”

“How are we going to catch him inside?” Phil asked, but just then his eye caught a phrase on page 2 of his google search. 

“What if we train him to climb into a pet carrier,” Phil asked, focused on the page the link had brought him to.

“I mean that sounds more manageable than anything else you’ve found.”

So they went and bought a pet carrier.

Phil had Dan film him talking about his plan of putting seed in the carrier to lure Steve in gently as well as him explaining how he’d packed a towel in the bottom for maximum comfort.

Dan and Phil, though mostly Phil, over the next few weeks, made sure to try their best to only feed Steve and place heaping amounts of encouraging seed in the pet carrier. A new pigeon had shown up as well that Phil had named “Scraggy” because of her disheveled appearance, but she’d taken a liking to Steve. Phil knew he needed to help Steve get better so he could be reunited with his lovely Scraggy.

While this training was going on, Phil had taken to emailing various vets around the area looking for help. One responded kindly that they’d be willing to make an appointment for Steve. Eventually, though, they had stopped replying and Phil decided to pluck up te courage to make a phone call. It was for Steve, after all.

Phil had Dan film him again as he made an appointment for Wednesday.

Everything was set, and the only thing left to do was to catch Steve on that fateful Wednesday morning.

What could go wrong?

Wednesday morning arrive.

There was no sign of Steve.

Finally, after waiting around for hours, Dan spotted him in the tree.

“Get the carrier out,” Phil instructed.

“If he flies away when you come near it, how are you going to close the door?”

Phil’s eyes drifted in thought.

“Oh! What if we tie a string around it and close it by pulling the strong from inside?”

Dan rolled his eyes.

“Our lives are already a cartoon plot, might as well.”

And so that’s what they did.

Except, they didn’t have any string. Or yarn. Or anything, really. All they had were cords. 

Dan offered up his spare phone charging cord and started filming Phil tying it around the cage door.

“Alright, why don’t you pull it closed while filming and then I’ll run over and lock it shut.”

Dan looked up at him.

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes?” Phil smiled sheepishly.

Dan made a big deal of huffing and puffing about the plan but Phil knew that Dan would do it for him.

Phil sat the pet carrier full of seed laid upon the towel on their porch.

Dan crouched behind their ottomon watching as Steve slowly made his way into the pet carrier.

“Now,” Phil said when Steve was inside.

Dan pulled the phone charger.

Steve’s tail got stuck in the door but Phil was there in a second to push the door closed, and by that time Steve had already taken another step in. Scraggy was right behind the pet carrier, confused.

“Sorry Steve.” Dan zoomed in on the pet carrier. “We’re trying to rescue you.”

Scraggy waited patiently on the porch.

“Alright let’s head out.”

Phil walked down the street holding the pet carrier with Steve inside while Dan walked next to him and filmed.

The foot and car traffic were insane that afternoon, of course.

They made it to the vet without much incident, and the vet assistant met them at the door. They reassured Phil that Steve would “probably be fine” (which Phil didn’t like the sound of), and promised to call him with an update when they were done.

It was then Steve was handed over from the care of two bumbling idiots to animal medical professionals.

The two of them walked back home to wait.

It was only two hours, which, when you thought about it, didn’t seem too long, but for Phil it felt like ages.

Finally Phil noticed he had a voicemail, and had Dan record him while he played it out loud.

“I’m just calling you to let you know that the pigeon that you brought in to us is all done! He’s alright, we got the string off his foot, he did have to loose a toe unfortunately, but they adapt to that very quickly.”

“Do you want to pick him up now?” Dan asked after the recording was finished playing and Phil had finished talking to the camera.

“Yes, please.”

They walked back to the vet and picked up their bird.

They ended up needing to go in their lift to get back to their flat, which they had already ridden down to get to the street on their way out, and Phil wondered what it was like for Steve to ascend vertically without actually flying, and if he could tell they even were from inside the pet carrier.

Finally, it was Phil and Steve on the porch once more while Dan filmed.

Phil made a moment of opening the door to the pet carrier while the cacophony of London sirens clashed in the background. Phil had just put some more bird seed up on their feeder a moment before as an apology for Steve. To Phil’s surprise and delight, Steve flew up onto their railing area and then hopped down onto the feeder.

Dan and Phil laughed.

“I thought he’d be scared of me, but he’s just like ‘food?’” Phil bent down smiling to the camera.

Quickly he was joined by Scraggy, and the two of them sat in the feeder eating away as if nothing had happened.

Phil shuffled back inside.

Over the next few weeks Steve kept returning with Scraggy, and to Phil it looked like they were even building a nest. Phil knew that he couldn’t have Steve dependent on the birdseed alone forever and pledged to started weening him off the food.

Maybe some day in the future they’d have baby Scraggy and Steves.

And hopefully, if they did, none of them needed to be brought to the vet.

However, Dan and Phil had already proven to themselves that if that were the case, they were ready.

[numinex919]

What Doesn’t Kill Me - Chapter 3

Oops, I did it again! 

(See here for new After Crait on A03) 

And here to read What Doesn’t Kill Me on A03 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171611/chapters/36996174. @nancylovesreylo [I got your message, hope you like! :) ]

The pain is a searing burn along his ribs. He’s bleeding heavily, can tell by the way his vision wavers in and out, and the sick-queasy feeling in his stomach.

He needs to get somewhere safe before he passes out.

The plan to get his interfering mother and her fucking brother out of the way had been a bad one from the start, too many variables, and chances for things to go wrong.

And things have gone seriously wrong.

He should have waited.

His partner is dead and he has a knife wound that requires some form of medical attention very soon.

Staggering along, coat pulled tight, he struggles to orient himself.

The intersection ahead provides a street name and he wonders why it is familiar. This middle-class area isn’t his normal hunting ground.

Then his mind snaps to a name.

Rey.

This is her street, her home just up from the corner.

The world goes dark for a moment and his injury throbs and only the sheer determination not to die in the gutter like a dog drives him forward. Ahead is a brownstone with a bright yellow door. A riot of flowers grow in planters either side.

He’s drawn to the entrance, stumbling up the steps he raises a shaking hand to slap the bright wood in as close an approximation to a knock as he can manage while his body tries to make him lie down.

He musters the strength to slap the door again and it opens suddenly, throwing him off-balance so he almost falls on top of the small, lithe figure who blocks the entrance.

“Oh!” Rey’s hazel stare sends a shot of adrenaline to his brain, enough so he can speak.

“Please, can I come in? I’m not feeling too well.” Relief is a cold wash through him as she steps back after a moment’s scrutiny, her gaze concerned as it flicks over him.

Sweat has soaked his hair despite the chill evening air and he’s pretty sure he’s even paler than usual. He tucks his long, black coat tighter.

Wordlessly she closes the door and leads the way into a cozy living room, glancing back at him repeatedly with mystified amazement writ large on her expressive face.

He isn’t up to explaining why he’s at her door or even how he knows her address. What he needs is to patch the wound, the cut has started to bleed again with the rush of seeing her.

“Can I use your bathroom?” His tongue is thick in his mouth and he’s not certain how lucid he appears. Hopefully she thinks he is simply ill or drunk.

“Ah, sure.” She leads the way to a small bathroom, hesitates. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes. Please.” Anything to get her out of the tiny space, though he’s normally a coffee drinker and certainly doesn’t feel like doing anything but sinking into blessed unconsciousness right now.

She nods and shuts the door. His coat is easy enough to remove, the silk lining aiding the heavy wool to slide to the floor. His shirt is another matter, the buttons a complexity his cloudy mind struggles with, until he gives up. He wrenches the clothing open, buttons ping against the fixtures and grey slate floor, getting lost in the colourful, woven mat. His light blue dress shirt is soaked bright crimson down one side.

He peers into the mirror, the darkness teasing the edges of his vision makes focusing difficult. The wound is shallow but lengthy, raking over his ribs on a downward slash. Blood coats his side and stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his dress pants.

Pawing through the pretty wooden cabinet over the basin, then the matching drawers underneath, he finally locates some iodine and swabs but no bandage. “Fuck!” He clenches his teeth on the urge to scream as the disinfectant bites into the wound. Hands shaking badly he does his best to clean around the cut so he can decide if it needs stitches. He’s making a mess of her spotless vanity. Crimson soaked swabs litter the surface and blood coats the basin.

The lights flicker, making nausea roil like an angry snake in his belly. Roaring fills his ears and he glances round, feeling like a bobble-head as he struggles to stay upright. Then the darkness takes him, a beast leaping from the shadows, dragging him down with velvet-soft paws.

* * *

Rey stares at the teapot and cups, the plate of biscuits and then her trembling fingers.

He is in her flat. In her bathroom. Big dick energy, head of security, Kylo Ren—because of course she scrolled through the staff email list to find out his name—is in her home at eleven o’clock at night.

She’s pretty sure she hasn’t hallucinated his heavy shoulders filling her doorway, heat, spicy cologne and chill autumn evening hitting her nose. His deep voice asking to come in.

And she can tell on closer inspection he’s clearly not feeling the best. His pale skin is bleached bone with grey tinting the edges. Black hair soaked and sticking to his forehead though it’s a clear night.

No, she’s not imagining it this time, though she has plenty over the last week. Coming up with highly improbable scenarios that would somehow find him at her door.

Even as she let her imagination run wild, she knew Kylo seeking her out is about as likely as her biological parents turning up and announcing that dumping her into foster care as a five year old was a mistake they’d regretted for the last fifteen years.

So the object of her secret and rather dirty fantasies actually, against all logic, being in her home is pretty bloody overwhelming.

She takes in a few deep breaths.

Calm down.

There’ll be some mundane reason for this, because life does not deposit sex gods on one’s doorstep without offering a healthy slap of reality in exchange.

He’s not here because he was overcome with the desire to get to know her, or even insatiable lust.

Bloody hell, has she unknowingly created some security breach?

Anxiety gnaws at her as she readjusts the cups on their matching saucers. Then it occurs to her, he’s been in her loo for rather a long time.

Another few minutes of dithering and she decides it’s her home.

She can ask why a virtual stranger has commandeered her bathroom for almost ten minutes.

When her knocks don’t elicit a response her brain goes into overdrive—from him wanking off to passing out from whatever ails him to using her toilet to shoot up, passes through her mind.

Gritting her teeth she opens the door, though it only moves enough for her to slip through because Kylo’s body is blocking it.

He’d passed out, his massive frame filling most of the available floor space in the tiny bathroom. Each thought collides with the next, why is he here? How is she going to get him up and into bed? And what is she going to do about all the blood?

Because it is all over the sink, along with swabs, iodine and . . . buttons?

She gingerly straddles his broad back, crouching and checking for a pulse, but she can feel the movement of him breathing between her thighs, so he’s still alive.

A snort escapes her. Her fantasies of having Kylo between her legs—because she’s human damn-it and he’s hot—haven’t included him in her bathroom, facedown and out cold.

She supposes she should be freaking out. But it’s not in her nature to panic unnecessarily.

Heaving him over onto his back gives her a fresh appreciation for core and upper body strength.

His shirt is torn open, revealing a knife wound on his left side that is still sluggishly bleeding.

Fecking hell.

It takes a lot of un-sexy grunting and fifteen minutes to get her guest cleaned up, patched up and . . . well she’d leave the getting him up until he was conscious. There was no way she’d be able to lug him to her bed and besides . . .

Heat scorches her cheeks at the double entendre of her thoughts, and the idea of him waking up in her bed and jumping to the conclusion she put him there for . . . anything but medicinal purposes.

Not that she wouldn’t say no to him in her bed, but not—

“Oh, bollocks to this. Shut up, Rey.” The sound of her own voice is loud in the silence, but cuts off her runaway thoughts.

More grunting, heaving and swearing and she has a duvet between him and the floor, though it doesn’t quite wrap over his broad shoulders.

Also, he looks ridiculous in the tea rose print. Spare pillow and shoes off and she’s made him as comfortable as she can.

There is no way she’s calling the police. Growing up in London’s East End has taught her to keep her head down. He’s not dying and he’ll wake up soon enough.

Rey sips her tea and watches his chest rise and fall.

He snores when he’s asleep. It’s sort of cute.

Exhaustion suddenly overwhelms her. It’s getting on for past midnight. Luckily tomorrow is Saturday. If he’s still here in the morning—she has her doubts—she’ll find out why her door was the one he landed on.

Just for starters.

* * *

Summer flowers tease Ben’s nose, warmth and comfort surround him. He hasn’t felt this secure and at ease in . . . ever . . . since he was a child? Shoving the thought away, unwilling to let it intrude on this experience, he rolls over.  The unexpected feeling of another body startles him for a moment, but he’s immediately certain it’s Rey, without even opening his eyes. Her unique fragrance teases him again.

He nuzzles into her, throwing a leg over hers to ensure she doesn’t go anywhere. The scent of frangipani and jasmine intensifies as he finds the hollow on the side of her throat with his mouth. He places kisses on the tender skin, a tentative swipe of his tongue to see if she tastes as delicious as she smells.

A groan rumbles out of his throat and his erection thrusts at the front of his boxer briefs.

She does.

One hand guiding her face to his so he can sample her mouth.

Fuck.

Her lips are soft and as sweet as the rest of her. Spun sugar and fresh strawberries.

I need more.

As he goes to tug her firmly against him, agonising pain rips through his side.

His eyelids snap open and reality and memory crashes in like a freight train.

He’s not alone in his own bed, having another erotic dream about Hosnian Solutions newest secretary.

Oh, she’s here all right, but as he stares into her rich autumnal eyes he’s aware that while she might, for a moment, have kissed him back, the rest of her is stiff as a board. Much like the cock he’s been rubbing against her thigh for the last five minutes like some kind of pervert.

He rolls away with a groan, forced out by a combination of pain from his wound and a deep-seated embarrassment he immediately suppresses. But he can feel the heat in his cheeks.

“How are you feeling? Would you like some tea?”

A mix of amused annoyance lances through him as he slides a hand down to his wound, then tosses back the bedding to inspect what he’s encountered.

“You used a sanitary napkin?”

Her gaze is steady. “It was the only thing I had which would absorb the blood and protect the wound.”

She holds him with her stare, a mix of cool speculation and a hint of compassion. “Kylo, who stabbed you?”’

A small thrill of shock catches his breath.

She’s found out my name?

The emotion subsides and something else, he won’t name or even acknowledge, fills the chill void inside him with warmth.

He finds words he never intended uttering spill from his mouth.

“My uncle. It was my uncle who stabbed me.”

[shadowqueenrules-blog]

Love, Keith

Me: Hello everyone in Tumblr! So a little while ago I wrote that I was thinking about writing a Klance ‘Love Simon’ parody. Well, for those who thought I wasn’t going to do it, you were wrong. I’ve written a little bit of it (I still have a long way to go if I’m being completely honest with you) but I was thinking that it might be good for me to give you guys a preview and see how you react to it. Give me some notes and all that jazz. Now here is some VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION regarding this story.

This is a Klance fic

Shiro is 18 and lives with Keith (they are brothers in this story, I don’t know what I’m going to do with the parent situation quite yet)

Red is Keith’s cat

Pidge is still 14 but because she’s so smart she is graduating with Keith

Matt is in this story at the age of 18 and in the same college as Shiro

Coran is the homeroom/science teacher

Lance, Hunk, Keith, and Allura are all are or going to become 18 throughout this story

THIS STORY ISN’T GOING TO BE QUOTE BY QUOTE FROM THE MOVIE! As much as I love the movie I am only basing my story off of it. There are going to be things that are very similar but that’s as far as I want to go with it

The scene you are about to read is when ‘Blue’ first appears. This is going to be VERY similar to the movie because I couldn’t think of anything else. But the dialogue is all mine. If you have a problem with that then you can just leave. Other than that please enjoy the sneak preview of ‘Love, Keith’!!!

Ring! Ring!

Ring! Ring!

Ring-

“Allura?” I asked picking up my phone looking at the time. 9:23pm. “If this about doing another late night Taco Bell run, you can count me out. I still haven’t recovered from last month-”

“No!” She interrupted-loudly I might add. “Though I am craving one of their taco bowls right now-anyway! I was calling to see if you heard about the new post yet?” I rolled my eyes going back to figuring out my english homework. I honestly should’ve known she was calling me because of some post. I thought back to this morning when she told us the real reason three of the science classrooms were closed down this week.

“I swear, Zethrid needs to work on her anger issues. I don’t care if Coran gave her a C-, it doesn’t give her the right to blow up the science department.”

“Not that post!” She screamed louder.

“Allura!” Another voice called out from the line.

“Sorry Father!” I chuckled under my breath deciding to push my english homework aside and open up my laptop.

“Then what post are you talking about?” I slowly type up the website waiting for my slow-ass internet to open it up.

“I’m talking about the closeted bi-guy at school.” My eyebrows shot up right as the website finally loaded. My breath got caught in my throat as I saw the post she was talking about. It was at the very top of the page with a picture of what seems to be looking up towards the sky from deep within the ocean. The closeted bi-guy at school. The closeted bi-guy at school. The closeted bi-guy at school. The words spoken only moments ago repeated in my head on a constant loop blocking out almost everything around me. “Who do you think it is? I think it may be Rax, I get a weird vibe off of that guy. I mean, he can’t seriously be that mad over Hunk having a crush on his sister.” Almost. I knew I had to hang up on her. Even though we haven’t known each other long, she usually can read me like a freaking book. I took a look around my room trying to find anything I could use as an excuse. My head swerved towards my door just in time to see a orangish-red furball walk in and her golden eyes connected with mine.

“Can I call you back? Red just threw up on the carpet big time.” I lied hoping she would buy it. Hearing this, Red narrowed her eyes and meowed at me.

“Oh no! Actually I have to head off to bed soon. We can talk more about this tomorrow, okay?” I silently sighed in relief grabbing the small bag of treats I had stuffed in my desk drawer and tossed one over to Red. She glared at it before hesitantly taking the peace offering.

“Yeah, talk tomorrow.” I hung up on her without another word and looked back to the screen. I knew she would has questions tomorrow about it but at that point I couldn’t care less.

The-Blue-Prince

Drowning in the Sea of my Emotions

There are days where I know exactly what I want to say and would scream them to the world. And there are days, like today, where I feel like the whole world is crashing down upon me and I feel like I’m drowning in all of my emotions. I can see the sun glistening off of the water as I fall in deeper and I hold my breath, hoping someone jumps in to come save me. I had a realization….or an acceptance with something about a year ago. I mean it’s not like I haven’t thought that I was bisexual before but I always denied it till now and I don’t know how to deal with it. No one in my life knows and I don’t want to tell them yet. How can I? When I finally accepted it I was curled up in my bed crying my eyes out, not because I am ashamed with it but because I was so sure that I knew myself, that I have worked on myself so much that I knew exactly who I was. And I was wrong. I don’t know how my family will react to the news whenever I have a chance to tell them, no matter how supportive they are I know that there’s a fine line with what they will and will not go with. And even if they say they support me being bisexual I know that someone will still be weird about it. How do I even tell them? It’s not like its easy to put into conversation. Like, “hey Mom, remember how I kept saying I was straight? Nope! I like both guys and girls”? I know my friends will support me no matter what, just like I support them, right now I just wish that they were with me. I wish that they would hug me and let me release all the emotion within myself. All of the doubt and denial I have been having, all my fears of my family’s reaction, I want to let it all out. But I’m too much of a coward to tell them. So, here I am, instead of getting ready to run some errands I’m writing this on Voltron for my classmates and random strangers alike to see and am very close to crying once again. Like I said I’m not ashamed, in fact I love that I finally admitted this to myself. It marks another point in my path to self discovery. I just wish I had found out sooner. Maybe then I wouldn’t be drowning. Maybe I can finally break the surface of the sea of my emotions and swim back to shore… And maybe on that sandy shore there is somebody extraordinary just waiting for me to show up.

-Blue

I sucked in a breath rereading the post over and over again. There’s someone else! What should I do? Just leave it or… I looked at the signature again seeing an email address I’m sure “Blue” hadn’t meant to post. I opened up another tab and quickly made a gmail account.

To: blueprince96@gmail.com

From: redpaladin@gmail.com

Subject: Hello

Hello Blue,

I am just like you. I have an older brother in college who is both popular and the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, though he gets super awkward around this girl who he has had a crush on for as long as I can remember. Everyone admires him, and frankly I can’t blame them since I admire him more than anything. He teases and embarrasses me endless but I love him to death. Plus I have a secret blackmail stash of him lip syncing to ‘Risky Business’ when he forgot that I had gotten sick and couldn’t go to the zoo with my class that I’m saving for when the moment arises. One thing most people don’t know about him is that he can’t sing for his life. It’s so bad that I bought noise cancelling headphones for whenever he decides he’s in a good enough mood to sing in the shower.

I have friends that I cherish. Two of them I’ve known since first grade which practically makes them my siblings and one that I’ve met a few years ago when my brother was in high school and challenged her to a weight lifting contest. I swear he was about ready to ask her to marry him after she kicked his ass. We do what every group of kids do: play video games all night long, drink way too much coffee from Starbucks, pass inappropriate notes during class to see who would be the person to get caught first, and pretend that we are extroverts when we are actually watching some weird ass anime about a bunch of alien robotic cats on Netflix on most weekends.

Whenever I don’t have my friends in my class or it’s too risky to play our game (it’s becoming harder now as I suspect that our teachers are figuring us out), I usually like to doodle and write. Overall I am a decent student who is only getting by because of my genius friends helping me out.

Like I said, I’m just like you.

And I have one huge ass secret that nobody, not even my brother knows.

I’m gay.

-Red

P.S: You might want to take your email off your post if you don’t want jackasses hate spamming you.

I took a deep breath and hit send before my confidence left. It took a little more than a second for me to realize what I just did and another second to start freaking out. What the hell did I just do?

...........................

22 hours. 22 hours of Shiro asking me if I was okay, my friends thinking I was in one of my ‘moods’, and my inner panic monitor overflowing before I hear my laptop’s notification sound over me taking out all my feelings on my punching bag. I would say that I did not completely wipe out after tripping over my clothes as I rushed over to get to it.

“You okay there Keith?” I heard Shiro call from downstairs as I pulled myself up on my desk chair.

Unfortunately if I said that I would be completely lying.

“Yeah!” I called back trying to calm down the burn in my cheeks. I clicked open my email trying my best not to get my hopes up. 22 hours and 37 minutes after I sent the email a true smile appeared on my face.

From: blueprince96@gmail.com

To: redpaladin@gmail.com

Subject: re:Hello

Hello Red,

You don’t realize how honored I feel to hear that you chose me to come out to first. Though I totally get why you did. Sometimes It’s easier to come out to a complete stranger than your friends, no matter how close they are. When did you first realize?

It sounds like you love your brother a lot. BTW, how dare you have that beautiful creation as blackmail! You cannot tell me you’ve never done that dance before. For one, I wouldn’t believe you. And two, if you really haven’t then you are not human. I have a ton of siblings but I’m closest to my older sister. She wants to be a fashion designer and makes me model for her sometimes. I don’t mind though. I keep telling her that her stuff is ready to be out in the world, because they are amazing, but she’s not confident enough yet.

What kind of stuff do you write and draw?

-Blue

P.S: Thanks for the heads up on my email. I took that part down

Back then, as I typed my reply, nothing in the world would have prepared me for what would happen.

.........................

There it is folks! I’m debating about writing Keith’s response to Blue’s last email but let me know what you guys think! And if you guys followed me early last month you may recognize Blue’s post, it’s because it’s mine (with some minor changes) that I posted when I accepted my sexuality.

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

A Supernatural x Reader Story Chapter Thirty: Pac-Man Fever, Part Two

Word count: 1874

ASxRS Masterlist

You draw another red dot on the U.S. map you sketched out on notebook paper, frowning at the computer screen. Your eyes skate over news articles, advertisements, even police reports of people who appear to be drugged but whose blood tests came back clean.

On the map, red dots pepper the northern belt of the country from the Dakotas to Maine. You tap your pen against the living room table as you glance back up at the screen, pondering what these leviathans could be planning.

Another tab displays emails from hunters you reconnected with – though not the only two hunters you desparately want to talk to – with bits of information about the new creatures terrorizing the continent.

You don't hear Charlie behind you until she is only steps behind the couch where you sit. You slam the laptop shut.

"Hey," you greet, too enthusiastically, craning your neck up to meet her eyes.

She squints at you, suspicious. "Porn?"

You chuckle through your relief. "Um... maybe?"

"Mm, well," she hums, and leans down to meet your lips, her red hair brushing against your face. "Carry on."

Once you have watched her walk out of the room, you shake your head at yourself. In the back of your mind remains the thought that this is not your life anymore. That Sam and Dean and the rest of the hunting world are safer without you in it. You have a new life now, a happy one.

Absently, you reflect on the way she sneaked up on you from behind, how the reflexes you developed during the time you spent hunting have weakened. The thought raises the corners of your mouth.

You lift the screen again to close the articles and emails, revealing her Lord of the Rings desktop picture, and crumple the map into your fist.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You find yourself unable to sit still during the drive. You grit your teeth, bounce your foot up and down, run your fingers through your hair. The road becomes a blur, and you feel like you might be sick.

You should have fought harder to keep her off the case. You should have kept tabs on her after you left. You should have known you would never be able to stay away from hunting, and should have never brought her into your life to begin with.

Your phone vibrates once, barely pulling you away from your thoughts. The screen displays Dean's name and an address.

With a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, you glance at the time, willing the hours to slow and your car to surge.

The gas pedal doesn't lift from the ground until nightfall, when you turn with the Topeka exit.

Outside an old shipping warehouse, you pull up behind the Impala with a jolt, barely coming to a stop before flinging the door open, gun in hand.

As you run toward the building, the rushing of wind past your ears overshadows the anxious pounding of your heartbeat.

A fleeting thought says you should have thought to dip a knife in lamb's blood for a weapon that would kill a djinn, but you can't spend another minute without knowing she's okay. Sliding through the open door of the warehouse, you raise your gun into the darkened entryway and advance.

Dead leaves and debris scatter the ground, damp and uneven from years of neglect. A light breeze follows you inside, carrying the dirt around your feet and blowing up the corners of yellowed, crinkled papers tacked onto a bulletin board along the wall.

Your eyes catch on a lighted area in the distance. Tiptoeing between stacks of abandoned wicker furniture and storage racks laden with rope and metal rods, you advance to the corner of the building.

Muffled voices followed by a scuffle send you dashing toward the sounds until you round a corner to see Sam circling an adolescent boy whose eyes glow blue. A djinn.

You turn back behind a shelf and spot a blade at your feet, covered in blood.

"So, it wasn't your mom who messed up," Sam pants. "It was you."

"Shut up!" the boy shouts.

You hear a dull impact and Sam's grunting, and your feet spring toward the djinn before you can think.

"I just came of age – I had to feed. I screwed up. Mom knew how to cover her tra–"

A choke cuts him off as you send the bloody knife through the back of his heart.

Not waiting long enough to watch his blue eyes dim and his body fall to the ground, you rush toward where Sam leans against a storage rack, sliding on your knees.

"Sam," you murmur, running your hands along his arms, checking for blood or bruises.

You follow his eyes when they dart from yours to somewhere behind you.

The sight of a red-haired figure sprawled out on the ground, unmoving, takes the breath from your lungs. In chairs above the woman, though, sit Charlie and Dean, unconscious.

You take Sam's arm and help him off the ground, but his eyes never leave the figures in the chairs.

When you turn back to them, Dean stirs in his seat. Sam rouses him, but you fixate on Charlie, whose eyes flutter open, releasing tears as they meet Dean's.

"I'm sorry. I had to," he whispers, pulling her into his arms.

You look to Sam for an explanation, but he turns back to you with confusion in his eyes as well.

Setting aside the question for the moment, you breathe a sigh of relief, letting yourself find a lull amidst the hours of dreadful worry.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

You watch your tired eyes in the reflection of the darkened surveillance footage, grimacing at the pounding in your temples, the rushing of a thousand thoughts clouding your mind, no matter how many times you push them away.

Footsteps echo through the dark hallway and to the library.

"God, you're still up?" Dean groans, sliding into the seat next to yours.

You don't look up at him. "We've got a prophet to find."

"You don't want to get some sleep first?"

"Weren't we just here?" you sigh. "Dean, I need to concentrate."

Your laptop shuts before your eyes, his hand lingering on the corner where he closed it. You shoot him an exasperated glare, but he smirks, content with getting your attention.

"It can wait until morning. You're not gonna find him tonight," he says.

"Well, I need to do something," you remark.

"Why?"

"Because I can't think about anything else!"

You glance up when your snapping words resonate throughout the bunker, biting your tongue as if you can prevent the outburst from waking everyone else.

Dean raises his eyebrows at you, prompting you to continue.

"I can't think about Sam barely being able to stand," you whisper, and take in a shaky breath. "And I can't think about the woman I love almost being killed tonight, or that I haven't had a civil conversation with her in over a year."

Tears prick your eyes. You shove them back, staring straight ahead, and clear away the tightness in your throat. "So, I'm finding Kevin."

He doesn't give you time to open the computer again before tugging your shoulder backward, making you face him.

The softness of his eyes strikes you, meeting yours in an understanding way.

"We are finding Kevin," he says. "But not tonight."

You see your own worry reflected in his eyes. For Sam and Charlie, even for you. You would give anything to take it all off his shoulders, to lift the weight for him. Some of it is permanently attached to him, but you can do your part.

"Yeah," you nod, pulling yourself to your feet and gesturing for him to take your hand.

When he does, you both stroll down the hall, taking comfort in a newfound sense of alliance, a feeling that neither of you are alone in this.

Song insert: Journey – Open Arms (YouTube) (Spotify)

Sitting at the desk in the corner of your room, you slide the papers away, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting of weariness. Dean was right – you should sleep.

Movement catches your eye from the crack below your door. Shadows, footsteps, pace from right to left, too light to be Sam's or Dean's.

You open the door to reveal Charlie, mid-step, eyes wide in surprise, maybe even panic, when they dart up to yours. She opens her mouth but can't seem to find her voice.

"You're up late," you start.

"I couldn't sleep. I saw your light on, and I..." she trails off. "I mean, I hope it's cool if..."

"Of course," you say, leading her inside and closing the door.

She follows you to the foot of the bed, crossing her arms over her night shirt. You recognize it as one of her favorites, one you remember packing for her the last night in Chicago.

"You've had a hell of a day. How you holding up?" you ask.

She takes a deep breath and her green eyes find yours. "You were right," she says, shaking her head. "I couldn't handle it – I totally froze out there. I have no idea what I'm doing."

You run a hand across the back of your neck. "No, listen to me. I was wrong. If it weren't for you, those two djinn would still be out there killing people," you say.

She glances down at her lap, bangs hiding her eyes. You tilt her chin up, feeling her soft skin against the part of your fingers made rough from hunting, so she looks at you again.

"You did good," you say.

She studies your eyes, searching for doubt, but finding you mean every word.

"I can do this, right?" she asks.

"No," you say. "Not alone. Which is why, when you find a case, you call me, and we'll work it together."

A smile creeps onto her lips, and she nods in agreement. "Deal."

With nothing left to say, you become aware of her closeness to you, separated only by inches. That you can reach up to run your fingers along a soft lock of her hair.

She leans into the touch, letting her eyes flutter closed. You bend forward to press your lips against hers – a light touch, only a brief pause in breath – before you pull back.

When you open your eyes again, she looks into them, hopeful. You sit, breathing the same air, your fingers brushing against her cheek and sliding into her hair. As if your minds have meshed together, you lean in with her so that your lips meet again, this time with an almost crushing force.

You run your fingers along her scalp, your other hand finding her hip to pull her closer while she snakes an arm around your waist. You trail kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, feeling her hands running up your arms, down your back.

Soon, your bare skin grazes hers as you relearn each other, taking in every familiar curve, the past year forgiven.

Read more of this story here!

Read more of my stuff! (MAIN MASTERLIST)

Request oneshots & imagines here!

[shinichirosbabymama]

Happy Birthday Daddymenrah!

A/N: So today is the birthday of real bad bitch and GOAT @daddymenrah I decided to write her a little something following a hilarious conversation we had over whatsapp. Plus I’ve always been kinda equally horrified and fascinated by the thought of your fave finding your fanfic blog. But here we go, enjoy!!

‘Come on you guys, it’s bed time.’ Jeffrey cooed in a low voice to his chickens as they clucked and squawked as they made their way into their pen. It was dusk on the farm and time for his evening ritual.

Jeffrey made his way inside, stopping first to grab a beer from the fridge before firing up his laptop. It was once again his favourite time of day.

Jeffrey squinted at the keyboard over the top of his glasses as he slowly tapped in tumblr.com into the search engine (after searching for google directly through google chrome).

Once he had accessed the site he went immediately to the Neagan x reader tag - his personal favourite. Hell people really fucking loved this character and how could he blame them? He gave a low chuckle to himself at his own narcissism as the page loaded, his eyes searching anxiously for any new posts.

His heart skipped a beat when he spotted a new one - Professor Neagan. The title alone made the blood rush to his cock as he began to read. The story got hot really fast to the point where Jeffrey almost needed to palm himself out of frustration. This girl knew how to fuck. He could have spent himself on the first read right there but he decided to indulge.

He clicked on the URL - he had no idea what a 'menrah’ was but the daddy element was certainly attractive. He kept the imagine open in a separate tab as he began to scroll through the blog, the site of his own face across numerous gifsets pleasing him greatly. Maybe there’d even be pics of her.

His need continued to increase as his eyes flitted between the blog and the writing until he came across something that made his blood run cold. A man, who looked younger than him, was sprawled across the screen in front of him writhing around in some bed sheets.

'The fuck…’ Jeffrey hissed as he examined the tags daddymenrah had adorned this post with.

'Fuck’

'Daddy’

Each one was like a stab in the chest. Jeffrey cursed himself for allowing to think that just for a moment, he was her daddy and not this skinny little kid – Rami Malek.

What was so fucking special about him anyway? Against his better judgement he continued scrolling only to be met with more pictures, writing and declarations that she wanted to screw him. That was it. Jeffrey opened up her ask box (after taking 2 minutes just to find the damn thing) and typed out a quick message, the sound of his fingertips clattering on the keyboard filling the room.

Are you a Neagan blog or not? I don’t know who this other guy is but I like your Neagan writing the best.

Jeffrey rubbed the facial hair above his lip after he’d hit send. He hoped he hadn’t upset her with his impulsiveness. The thought stayed on this mind until he noticed a reply on the blog an hour later.

Well this is my blog after all if I want to write other characters then I will. Neagan will always be my priority but I’m open to other stuff. If you don’t like it don’t follow.

Jeffrey felt a stab of guilt in his chest – he’d been completely foolish to just message her so suddenly like that. He knew he had to make amends.  Agitated, he began to think.  After a few moments Jeffrey shoved his glasses higher up his nose as he focused on the screen. He knew what he had to do.

Jeffrey’s knowledge of tumblr had been limited to start with. But making his own blog took on a whole new level of technophobia. His paranoia led him to create a whole new email address which took nearly half an hour in itself. For the next six hours he carefully crafted his blog – titling himself Neagan’s bitch as he slowly filled the page with gifs and pictures. His follower count grew but barely.

Late that evening, exhausted by staring at the screen for hours on end, Jeffrey hovered his cursor over daddymenrah’s ask box once again. This time there was anonymity, no hiding. It was time to be Neagan’s Bitch.

Hey so I only just joined this site but can I just say your writing is fucking amazing. You write Neagan so well and so dirty! I think that’s my favourite part haha. Sorry if this is weird.

Jeffrey steepled his fingers until his chin, hoping that his little note was enough to make amends. He relaxed back into the couch, hoping to get out of his mind with some TV and the beer he’d long forgotten about earlier.

Jeffrey jumped awake a few hours later. The glow of the TV filled the dark room and he could feel dampness on his thigh where the last of the beer had spilled from his hand. He shot upright to grab a towel to dry himself with when he noticed tumblr still pulled up on his laptop.

As he approached the screen to shut it down he noticed something had changed. A box had appeared in the corner of the screen and Jeffrey’s heart palpitated with horror when he realised it was daddymenrah.

Thank you for your message. Your cute as hell. More people need to recognise Neagan as the god of fuck that he is. JDM can get it too tbh.

Jeffrey let out a choked sound at the sight of his own name. His hands shook as his fingers danced across the keyboard in swift reply – barely processing what was even happening.

I agree I don’t think enough people recognise Neagan’s sex appeal, I think most just think he’s some old dude lol.

Jeffrey perched on the edge of his seat as he waited for the reply. It came quickly once again.

Old dude? That’s exactly what I find so attractive about him though. He gets better the more he ages.

Well that certainly piqued his interest. Jeffrey ended up staying up most of the night talking to this girl. He felt like a bit of a creep but it was (mostly) innocent and in all honestly she fascinated him. He learnt that she was from the UK (which would explain why she was wide awake and he was dropping off), she was younger than he was (but totally legal! He reminded himself over and over) and totally infatuated with, well, him.

After that night Jeffrey didn’t let his phone out of sight. He constantly waited for her to text him. As soon as his phone screen lit up he snatched it up, searching for any information she was giving him. It was strange honestly – he couldn’t place what had led him obsessing over this girl online but that didn’t seem to stop him. She, on the other hand, was far more aloof. They communicated often and she made him burst out laughing with a deep chuckle often but he knew she probably wasn’t waiting for her phone to ping like he did.

Jeffrey had to constantly balance between revealing too much about himself and going too far in the descriptions of his on-screen characters. Even his vibrant strand narcissism could only go so far. But daddymenrah continued to indulge him without even knowing it.

This went on for a long time. Longer than he thought actually. He knew his girlfriend suspected him but he only grew to resent her. She didn’t talk about him the way daddymenrah did. She didn’t appreciate him. As he and daddymenrah got closer and closer he began to understand that she didn’t just want his body – she really understood him. She’d studied him a lot. And she liked what he saw. He knew her real name but he tried not to call her it for risk of her materialising too much for him.

Eventually he could tell that she was growing suspicious of him. She never got upset about anything but Jeffrey could tell she was kind of pissed that he didn’t share much.

I wish you would tell me more about yourself looool I hate emotional shit but I wish I just knew some stuff.

You do know stuff we talk all the time.

Yeah. About me.

Jeffrey sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But what could he do? If the truth came out she would never speak to him again. And his career would be in ruins. But at the same time he couldn’t bear to throw this away. What a ridiculous thought – a grown ass man getting caught up with a  girl who writes stories about him online. Jeffrey continued to scold himself as he fell asleep that night but he knew that a decision was inevitable.

The day started like any other. Jeffrey and daddymenrah texted first thing in the morning and then sporadically throughout the rest of the day. Jeffrey smiled and swore loudly when he drooled toothpaste all over himself when he was distracted staring at one of the many selfies she sent him reacting to some stupid joke he’d made. Sometimes she pulled the most horrendous faces but they always made him laugh. He loved to see a woman so uninhibited.

That night Jeffrey settled down on the couch of his empty house. He felt sick but he knew it was now or never. He had to make her understand. Hands shaking, he typed out a message.

Do you want to Facetime? I thought it would only be fair.

YES OF COURSE I DOOOO

Okay but first let me just say something.

Aight shoot.

This isn’t a prank or one of those fake videos or whatever. I’m sorry that I’ve been lying to you I just didn’t know what else to do…

Daddymenrah didn’t reply to that and instead the sound of the incoming Facetime call blared out loudly from his phone. Jeffrey swallowed down the bile that had been rising in his throat and answered the call, holding the phone as thought it were a grenade.

The girl he’d been talking to for all these months gazed back inquisitively from the screen and then froze completely still, a frown overtaking her features.

'Surprise doll.’ Was all Jeffrey could muster in a low voice laced with embarrassment.

'This isn’t fucking funny.’ Daddymenrah began to laugh, a high-pitched wild laugh.

'It’s not a joke…’ And then Jeffrey said her name and she stopped, going very quiet.

'WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK-’

Jeffrey had to hold the phone a good few feet away from him to cope with the noise as it bounced around his whole damn house.

'Please try to calm down. I said I was sorry – I couldn’t just tell you from the start darlin’’

'Shut the fuck up just book me a plane ticket. I’m coming over there right now motherfucker.’

Jeffrey let out a loud laugh. So this is a thing now – he thought.

[thomaspredestined-blog]

Untitled (The Table at Cana Event I).

(This was written in two hours and completely unedited.  I apologize for how poorly written it is and that I didn’t come up with a witty, clever title.)

Welcome out to Event I for The Table at Cana.  Please give a huge round of applause to your bar staff!  We didn’t know what to expect tonight, so please bear with them as they pour your beers, grab your Coke and popcorn, and so on.  Personally, I want to thank each of you for coming out tonight.  It means way more than I can express.  

So, starting out, I guess we should address the first elephant in the room.  The print out in front of you says “Grant Butler.”  I’m not Grant.  Due to some issues that I’ll let him speak on, he had to cancel.  Today.  I wrote this at 2:30pm at a bar while drinking a beer, anxiously sweating, and listening to a metal band called Necrot.  I would have written it at home, but it was way too easy to watch the new episode of SNL and nap there.

And the second elephant… What is this?  Why is this?  

This, this thing, The Table at Cana, was born about a dozen years ago.  Sundance Channel aired a documentary series about a dude named Jay Bakker.  From those Bakker’s, yes.  Jim and Tammy Faye were his parents.  When their empire fell apart, he fell with them.  Ended up with a pretty gnarly drug addiction.  The documentary picks up shortly after he gets clean and comes back into the faith he grew up in.  Only he’d changed.  He started his ministry, Revolution Church, in a bar in Phoenix, AZ, moved it to Atlanta, and then New York, before finally ending up in Minnesota, of all places.  

Revolution Church focused on meeting people where they were, using real conversations about real life with honest, real, frank language.  Some dirty.  And since people are always in bars, that’s where they began.  His church has always been focused on LGTBQ+ inclusion and rights.  

I stole his idea during college.  The only difference was we added a cover band that would play Tom Petty followed by Hillsong tracks.  Someone would get up and speak.  We had an anonymous text line, like we do now, for people to send in any questions they had about any topic, struggle, issue, etc.  

I took my favorite parts of that and decided to build this.  Which is a really polite way of saying I completely stole his idea this time around.  Currently, it’s set up to happen once a month.  If we build a following that wants something more, bigger, whatever, then we will revisit that.  Given that this is a 21+ venue, I assumed once a month would allow for people to get sitters for their kids and whatnot.

For someone who grew up in the church, and left it over a number of important issues, this feels more tangible to me.  There’s no worship band playing incredibly boring, uninspired ballads that could either be about God or a girl.  And that’s not knocking the worship team where I currently go to church.  They’re solid players and even better people.  However, the music itself is just…blah.  

And then there’s the announcements and the greeting and the teaching and the altar calls and all of that.  There’s no discussion.  It’s one opinion, and unfortunately, sometimes there’s no application or take-away.  Plus, the person speaking, typically, has to answer to a board of elders or a council or other words that American capitalistic Christianity has co-opted.  It’s a business and Sunday mornings feel like a product launch or press release.  

This is not that.  I don’t want it to be that.  If it gets to that point, I will shut it down.  I have scheduled a number of different folks with different backgrounds, theological points of view, and teaching styles to come here and hang out with us for an hour and a half once a month.  I’m not asking them to do specific topics or speak to specific issues.  They have free reign to say what they want, knowing that the only requirement is they have to be open to discuss and, possibly, defend their point of view after the teaching portion is complete.  

They’re also invited to stick around for the Q&A after the discussion.  Which is entirely open to whatever you wanna talk about, by the way.  It would be super easy for me (well, not today) to get up here with a prepared lesson, a fully defensible stance, backed up with scripture and quotes and so on, and feel good about what I’d taught and what I’d done.  But, when we leave the lesson and venture into real lives, that’s where it becomes solely about the relationships that we’re building.  Which is ultimately the goal.  I want us to grow into a community.

As this evolves, I see us doing events in town.  I’d like for us to partner with Guardian when they go out and paint houses.  I’d like for us to have some sort of space at something like Brewfest or Muncie Gras or somewhere where we can meet specific, in the moment, tangible needs.  I want this to grow into a force in town.  

And the first way that we show love, be a force, do good as a community is by tipping well.  Very, very well.

So, all of this was born out of distaste for how the church operates in today’s world.  It was born out of how the church, seemingly, fails to meet people where they are.  I work in a bar and meet people every day that don’t expect me to be religious or a professed Christian because of how I make my money.  They catch flak from their specific faith communities for having a beer or getting some dinner in a place that sells beer.  I meet people all the time that have horror stories about the nonsense they’ve put up with from the church.  Grant, the dude who was originally scheduled to speak tonight, caught hell from one of the elders in his church for having a beer in public on the night Grant’s wife died.  

Even with this thinly veiled contempt for the American Church, I am actively pursuing a career in ministry.  And, almost as a precursor to me having to speak today, yesterday afternoon, I received an email from a church who’d seen my resume and heard my teachings and wanted me to fill our their application.  Question #6 under the “Christian Involvement” section on their application was, “After reading the following documents linked below, is there anything in those statements that you would object to?”  They then provided links to The Nashville Statement, which is a hate crime dressed in cherry picked scripture, The Chicago Statement on Biblical Inerrancy and The Cambridge Declaration, which are both laughable ideas of the Bible, not literally, but you know, literally, being God.  

I was almost offended that someone could have heard me teach, read my resume, and statement of faith, and think that I would be cool with those statements.  

I wrote back the following:

Unfortunately, given the amount of hardcore pornography I view on a semi-regular basis (none of that gay stuff, though), I am unable to open the links you provided me.  With how progressive Nashville, Chicago, and Massachusetts are, or at least how I perceive them to be, I bet all those links are full of that gay loving, snowflake praising, participation trophy giving kinda Christianity.  And to that, I say no thank you.  I want my God to be angry and my Bible to be better than Him.

And after I sent them the application back, welling with pride at my capacity for artful snark, I realized how wrong I was.  My response was beyond uncalled for.  I was fighting a violent, misogynistic, homophobic, douchey church with sarcasm, snark, and my own blend of douchery and hate.  

I immediately thought of Matthew 9, when Jesus calls Matthew.  

Matthew, a tax collector, is sitting at his tax collection booth.  You know, just collecting taxes and being generally hated, when Jesus walks by.  In my mind, this is a weird version of the farmer’s market here in town.  Except more people and less deodorant.  People with booths selling things and others milling about, thumbing though the booths.  But, you know, no sausage sandwiches with pepper jelly, or delicious vegan baked goods, or free-range, organic, non-murdered meat options.

So, Jesus sees Matthew sitting there, tells Matthew to follow him, and Matthew gets up and follows.  Boom.  Done.  

This is also the book of Matthew, so I highly doubt he’s gonna point out how many stupid questions he asked Jesus or how they argued or how long he took to close up the booth before following Jesus.  

And that night, Matthew invites his new pal Jesus over for dinner.  So, they’re breaking bread, sharing a beer (maybe they ordered some pizza from Cousin Vinny’s who has online ordering and delivers here) and the leaders of the church see this and then ask Jesus’s disciples, “Why’s your boy eating with sinners and tax collectors?”  

Essentially, they’re saying, “Why’s he associating with the kind of people WE have decided are unclean?  Unworthy?  Not us?  Why does your teacher not adhere to the binary thinking that we deem to be holy?”

Jesus flexes his superhuman ability here and hears them ask the question.  His response is hilarious, biting, and perfect.

He says, “It’s not the sick who need a doctor.  Go and learn what Hosea 6:6 means.”  I’m paraphrasing, by the way.  I had a few hours to knock this out.  Get off my back, Josh.

So, because we’re not biblical scholars like the Pharisees were, and we don’t have the whole of the Jewish scriptures memorized, especially the first book of the minor prophets, we go to Hosea.  

And, because I firmly believe in a contextual understanding and reading of the text, we start in Hosea 6:4 -

What can I do with you, Ephraim?    What can I do with you, Judah?

This is God speaking through Hosea here.  It’s got the ring of a disappointed parent, right?  I imagine Hosea delivering this line with his fists on his hips…

Your love is like the morning mist,    like the early dew that disappears. Therefore I cut you in pieces with my prophets,    I killed you with the words of my mouth—    then my judgments go forth like the sun.

And now, Hosea 6:6, the killing blow, the Pharisees emasculation by the Christ, the Christ’s sickest burn is delivered when he says to learn what this means…

For I desire mercy, not sacrifice,    and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.

Boom.  Take that, ya’ dummies!  

Jesus just told you that God wanted mercy over legalism.  God wants your heart more than your actions.  You bunch of idiots.  

Hahaha.  

You suck.  Jesus just told you how you missed the whole point.  How it’s mercy, not your stupid way of understanding the rules.  

Mercy trumps intelligence, you dumb shi…

Yeah.  That’s when the irony hit me.  Here I was completely justifying being a jerk to people I’d never met because I’m 99.99% positive that they’re wrong.  I was using how right I was, how well I was interpreting the text, how good I was for showing mercy to everyone (except the dicks who didn’t show mercy to those I did) as my own form of legalism.

Lately, I’ve been dealing quite a bit with just how much I hate the church.  How badly I want to see the institution of American Christianity burn to the ground.  How I’d love to be the one who nails the doors shut, pours out the gasoline, and lights the match.  We’ve turned the temple into the savior.  We’ve turned the institution into what it’s supposed to point toward.  And in doing so, we’ve failed our communities and each other.

My desire to see it destroyed, my anger, has become my god.  I’ve found myself sacrificing on the altar of hating the church.  I’ve gone out of my way to destroy the grotesque, antiquated, conservative, outdated, banal Christianity that is so prevalent in America today.  I got into an argument with a missionary on a Facebook comment thread because I just knew I was in the right.  Yeah.  I’m not proud of it, either.  I literally ended the argument with, “This conversation is pointless.  I’ll go ahead and remove the speck from my eye and will pray you can remove the log.  With love, brother.”

Here’s to burnt offerings without acknowledgment.

12 years ago, I started this thing in hopes to subvert the campus church I was being forced to attend twice a week.  I wanted nothing to do with this corporate, business model church that operated with a budget and bottom line and board and so on.  I wanted a punk rock revolution in the church.  I wanted that DIY spirit to find itself manifested within a group of people that lived within a community and did more for the community, in the name of that community, in the spirit of that community than the church did.  

But, if we keep shopping at Walmart because of the savings, Walmart keeps winning.  And, in my previous experience with this, the monopoly beat out the mom and pop.  The school threatened to expel those of us involved in our bar community.  They used their law to subvert our mercy.  And we shrank away, hoarding kindling for the fire.

I firmly believe that Hosea 6:4-6 stands as clearly for us today as it did for the kingdoms of Israel.  The love of the church evaporates as quickly as morning fog or dew.  It’s painfully fickle.  When you’re following what your particular church’s doctrine allows, all is well.  But, the minute that you find yourself questioning penal substitutionary atonement, five point calvinism, or why listening to GWAR is of the devil, you suddenly find yourself on the outside of a community you used to enjoy.  

We are a people of rule and law.  We take comfort in the simple black and white, dualistic nature of rules.  You do this, you’re good.  You do that, you’re bad.  But, the Bible, the teachings of Jesus, life, they all have grey areas.  They have multiple dimensions.  They have variables that are unaccounted for in a black and white understanding of things.  

We are called to show mercy over sacrifice.  We are called to move always towards love over law.  And, given the current social and political climate, what could be more powerful?  When the church leaders of the Christ’s day were too cowardly to come to him and ask what he was doing, when they asked why he was eating with those they deemed unclean, when they questioned why he wasn’t following the LAW, he responded by telling them to get bent.  Well, you know, nicer.  He tells them to understand what Hosea 6:6 means.  He told a group of people who prided themselves on understanding scripture to go learn the meaning of scripture.  Absolutely hilarious.  And brutal.  The kids today would say it was “hashtag savage.”

I hate Joel Osteen and his particular brand of get-rich biblical nonsense.  I hate Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell (Jr. and Sr.) because they seem to think that Christianity should be legislated.  It should become the fourth branch of the government.  They fail to realize that Christ stood in direct opposition to Empire.  I hate Franklin Graham and the fact he’s riding daddy’s coattails into the conservative, xenophobic, Christian faith hall of fame.  Get your own schtick, man.

Denny Burk. John Piper. James Dobson. JP Moreland. JI Packer. Tony Perkins.

And every other coward who signed the Nashville Statement is offering sacrifice over mercy.  And every moment I spend hating them, hating what they stand for, hating the church and Christ that they represent to the world at large is a moment of me not understanding Hosea 6:6.  It’s a moment of me aligning myself, at least in action, with their brand of anti-inclusive douchery.

If you’re a church leader in here and you’ve got an open position, know that I’ll never agree with that pile of steaming dog crap, nor will I agree with the cowards who are so untrusting of God’s plan that they have to document their bigotry.  With that being said, though, I have been convicted to show them mercy.  Which is why I stopped at dog crap and didn’t go on to call them any of the other “C” words I know.

I’m not afraid of atheists or skeptics turning the world away from God.  I’m worried about those focused more on the law, the legalistic, exclusive, fundamentalist, conservative talking points.  I’m worried about those who do not bestow mercy.  I’m worried about those who do not acknowledge how big, loving, inclusive, strong God can be.  I’m worried about those that would compartmentalize the creator of all into a gay bashing, gender conforming, bearded white dude.  

The minute that we use our freedom, whether it be one we’re allegedly born into, or one we are born again into, to marginalize, subjugate, or enslave those outside that freedom, we have gone astray.   The Table at Cana has meaning.  It has purpose.  It has a design.  

The Table is an inclusive place where all are welcome to sit.  All.  Whether it be the asexual, the agender, the transgender, the gay, the straight, the white, the black, the oppressor, or the oppressed.  All are welcome to come and sit.  All are welcome to pull up a chair and buy me a pint of Frank the Tank.

Cana was where the Christ performed his first recorded miracle.  It’s where he turned water into wine.  It’s where he kicked the party into a higher gear.  

So, we are an inclusive community, welcoming all, to party with us.  I would ask, if you choose to continue growing with this community, hold me to the Hosea 6:6 standard.  Do not let me get too caught up in my own form of legalism.  Hold yourself to that same standard.  Do not let your tendencies, thoughts, or actions dissuade you from welcoming all who would show up.  Unless they’re a Pearl Jam fan.  Pearl Jam fans are every bit as awful of those who signed the Nashville Statement and twice as pretentious.  

Jesus was brutal with the Pharisees.  That’s because they knew the scriptures.  He held them to a higher standard.  They made their living, a good, comfortable living, off the backs and minds and hearts of those in their community.  And he called them out when they weren’t doing right by that community.  They knew how God had, time and again, shown the Israelites mercy and grace, and they were unwilling to show that same kindness to their communities.  And because of that, he made fools of them over and over.  

He didn’t burn down the temple.  He didn’t smite them.  He didn’t even remove them from power.  He simply pointed out how wrong they were and gave them the chance to correct their behavior.  

And, that’s where I wanna be.  That’s where I want this and us to be.  Given what happened with Grant today, it’s incredibly easy to continue the cycle of hatred and anger towards the church.  Especially in this place, outside of the church.  But, we’re called to live above and beyond that.  We’re called to mercy, not law.  We’re called to acknowledge and follow the one above it all, as opposed to merely go through the motions of holiness.

I’m sorry for how unprepared this has been.  I’m sorry that it’s jumped all over the place and seems like I wrote it this afternoon.  I finished it two hours ago and haven’t had time to edit it or really organize it like I normally would.  

We’re gonna open things up for a discussion now.  The discussion is to be aimed more at what I spoke about, at least initially.  The anonymous text line number is on the paper in front of you.  That’s a Google Voice number tied to a dummy Google account that has no contacts in.  So, unless I have your number memorized, which is my mom and my wife, I won’t know who’s texting me.  If you don’t want to ask your question out loud, if you’re nervous or afraid or whatever, use the number.  Join in on the conversation how you can.  As you go through your week, you can also use that number if you need to vent, talk, send pictures of your pet, or whatever.

If the discussion wanes, or if no one is interested in that, we’ll move into a question and answer time.  This is solely directed by y’all.  Whatever you have questions about, as it pertains to faith, God, the church, the Christ, etc., feel free to ask.  I’m not gonna explain where babies come from and I’m sure as hell not going to tell you what beer you should get next.  They’re all delicious.  

I’m gonna pray a prayer of benediction over us before we end this time of “teaching” and move on.  You don’t have to bow your head, close your eyes, or take off your hat if you don’t want to.  

As much as I hate Paul, I’m pulling this benediction from Romans 15.  Let us be benedicted:

May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.