#hearing Mary’s Song live would heal something in me I think

[tisthedamngoldrush]

Putting this out into the ether because I’m begging:

San Jose Night 2 (Saturday):

Mary’s Song

DWOHT

Closure

Invisible (I know, I know, okay?)

[wickedscribbles]

Tempo, Chapter Thirteen

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x AFAB Reader (Second Person Perspective), she/her pronouns

Rating: Explicit

Tags: fluff, illness/caretaking, smut, sub Sherlock, PiV, cowgirl

Word Count: 5K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

New Year's Day is a quiet affair. John and Mary bring baby Rosamund to Baker Street, and Sherlock is delighted to see her with Karl Popper in tow. Your heart aches in a strange way to see him gravitate towards her, though he seems hesitant to actually hold her in any way. You and Mary are quick to assure him about the durability of children.

The night of New Year's, you'd danced with him to whatever cheesy song they'd had on the broadcast countdown, in your sock feet. You have to lean up to be able to kiss when the countdown reaches zero, and you can feel him smiling against your mouth. Fireworks echo, deafening, all over London. There is nowhere in the world that you'd rather be than in his untidy little flat, dancing to a song you don't know, letting him pitch and sway you like the sea. His lips are your guiding point, his hands the lighthouse.

And you are home.

—---------

Returning to work is the last thing you want to do. The brief respite from your regular onslaught of numbers and accounts has felt far too short, your desk even lonelier than you remember it. But you have bills to pay, a flat to return to, even if you're there as little as possible these days. You'd spent that whole week from Christmas to New Year's with Sherlock, aside from a day where he went home to visit his own parents. Your flat seems miserable in comparison, unoccupied and dull.

There's nothing lived in about it. It's just a place you come back to at the end of the day. Depressingly, it's starting to remind you of your office. With that thought in mind, you stop over at a shop after work one evening and take the time to buy some wall decorations, relieved when it makes the place feel less like a box.

Your lessons, too, are due to resume with the start of the year. Your hands needed time to heal after that moment of self-neglect. Though you'd watched Sherlock perform on your Stradivarius in wonder, he hadn't insisted that you do any of your own practice in your week together.

Unusual, you think. Perhaps that means he's going to double down on your studies after such a long break. You're not sure if you're looking forward to that or dreading it. Bit of both, maybe. You already have instructions to go over all your songs, starting with the easiest and working your way to the hardest.

At the coffee pot Wednesday morning, there's a thick murmur of conversation. At least five people are standing round, preventing you from getting to where you want to be.

That's unusual. And annoying.

"Oh, did you hear?" Michelle pipes up when she spots you lingering in the hall. "God, you're not gonna believe it – the CEO stepped down over holiday."

You feel your eyes go wide. "He – what?"

Someone else nods, eager to chip in. "Just resigned, said he wanted to 'move on to other interests'. Must be nice, eh?"

Eventually you pour your coffee, your mind buzzing. There's no way the CEO would quit. Not when he owned a company this massive. Someone would have to persuade him, threaten him, even, to do something like that.

You think of how he'd grabbed your arm, his harsh voice.

But honestly…you're glad he's gone. Maybe now you can stop holding your breath until the end of every shift. You wonder if Sherlock already knows the news – probably. He's got his finger on the pulse of so much, and –

Hold on, hold on. Did he have something to do with this? No. He couldn't have. Sherlock's a detective, he doesn't go around making threats. And even if he did, he wouldn't be able to budge someone as big as your CEO.

But his brother could.

When you return to your desk, coffee in hand, there's a blank piece of paper sticking out from under your keyboard. As you flip it over, you have to allow yourself a smile.

You're welcome, it reads. A late Christmas gift. –MH.

You decide you do like Mycroft after all. A little.

—-------

Are we still on for lessons today?

A long pause.

Can't, sorry. Case came up. Tomorrow? –SH

Alright, if you say so.

Tomorrow arrives.

Helloooooo

Mr. Brilliant Detective Man

I need you to teach me the violin or rail me senseless, whichever suits your fancy

I'm not in. Does Friday work? – SH

Your heart sinks. He's never blown you off before. And why now? Why would he wait until everything felt almost perfect between you to start this?

You tell yourself he's being honest. That there is some sort of incredible, all-consuming case he's absorbed in, because you know how he bloody well gets. Laser focused on one thing and one thing only, and at least he had the decency to tell you he wouldn't be in.

But then Friday arrives, and so do you, violin case in hand, to 221B Baker Street. There's no sign of Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson, who seems to have resumed her affair with Mr. Chatterjee. Swallowing hard, you hesitate outside the flat, stomach twisting with anxiety.

Okay, calm down, it could be a case.

Or he could be avoiding you.

…Or it could be drugs.

Shit shit shit.

When was his last screening?? You're supposed to be keeping an eye on this, supposed to be watching. In a panic, you pull up Molly Hooper's number, hoping against all hope that she answers. The line rings once, twice, three times.

"Hello?" She says at last, and you could deflate with relief.

"Hi, Molly, so sorry to bother you," you reply in a rush. "It's just, erm…do you happen to have the results of Sherlock's, you know. His screening? This week?"

"Oh, let me see…"

A brief pause. Some shuffling.

"He hasn't come in yet. He's normally in on Thursdays but he put it off. Said he'd be in by the weekend."

You thank her, saying your goodbyes.

Some tiny insatiable overpanicked part of your brain is fucking convinced he is in there right now doing a line of cocaine. It takes everything you have not to kick in the door. Instead you knock, heart in your throat, and let out a heavy breath.

Nothing. Nothing. Then, footsteps. Finally, the door opens a crack, and the face peering out at you is not what you'd expected.

He's ill. Hair untidy, face pale, eyes and nose rimmed red, ill. Looking awful and a bit grumpy to see you standing there. You’re no expert on addicts, but at a glance, he doesn’t seem like he’s been taking anything stronger than the cold medicine you can get down at Boots. Wearing pyjamas and a scruffy blue dressing gown, Sherlock looks like he’s just rolled out of bed.

"It's not Friday," Sherlock says thickly, frowning. (He even sounds awful, all raspy and hoarse.) "Told you. Now bugger off before you catch what I've got, thank you."

"Hey, wait –"

You slide your foot in to stop the door from closing.

"First off, it is Friday," you start. "Second – God, Sherlock, if you were ill why didn't you just say?"

Exasperation sinks into your tone despite your best effort. Guilt creeps over his expression, which in turn strikes the same feeling in you. Even if he’s been keeping it from you, he had a reason. You could do without him stepping around the truth, but that’s something the two of you will have to confront in your own time. There’s nothing to be done about it now that it’s happened except to acknowledge that it has and move on from there.

“I’ve told you,” he continues, though there’s no venom to his tone. “Didn’t want you coming in and catching whatever godforsaken germ’s traveling across half of London.”

“Could’ve said that.”

“Then you would’ve ended up here even sooner. The earlier in the week you came, the higher your risk of exposure.”

“You ought to have known I’d end up here regardless,” you say stubbornly. His motives are sweet but entirely unnecessary. “I’m not afraid of catching your cold, Sherlock Holmes. Now let me in the damn flat.”

With an irritated growl, he steps aside, relenting.

And – oh. The flat is clean. Not in a flux state of untidy/passable, as you’ve known it for as long as you’ve known Sherlock, but clean. Right down to the surface of the coffee table, which is missing its usual rings. All the sheet music seems to be sitting in one folder, pinned under his violin case, and there’s hardly a stray speck of dust in the place. It smells strikingly of lemon disinfectant in here, and you take in a deep lungful. I could get used to this.

“Did you hire a housekeeper?” you muse, craning your neck to peek into the kitchen. It’s sparkling. You’re fascinated.

“No,” he says shortly. “Hard to find any that wouldn’t balk at what’s being kept in the refrigerator, I’m sure.”

“So you just…cleaned. For fun.” You place a hand on your hip.

“I don’t want you to –” Sherlock clears his throat, hoarse “ – don’t want you to get ill. But the likelihood of keeping you away for longer than a week was poor. So. Tidying. It was awful. Do people really do this all the time?” He gestures, exasperated, around the place.

“They do.” You laugh a little. “And yes, I agree. It’s boring as all hell, isn’t it? Cleaning the same things over and over just so they can collect new dust. Then you die.”

“Cheerful way of putting it.”

He has his arms crossed, appraising you from across the room. From the tired, drawn expression on his face, you venture a guess that your first observation wasn’t far off the mark. Perhaps he has just rolled out of bed. Sherlock watches you with light green eyes missing some of their usual clarity.

“Are you alright?” you ask softly. Taking a few steps toward him, you’re amused but not surprised when he backs up an equal amount.

“Fine,” he responds.

“Then why are you keeping away from me? I told you I don’t care if you give me whatever disease you’ve picked up.”

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Perhaps you ought to.”

You step forward again, and it feels somewhat like cornering a wild animal. This time, he doesn’t move, though you can see he wants to. Running a hand through already tangled curls, he only watches you, weary.

“Why?” Your tone is challenging. “What terrible plague have you been struck with, oh weary man? Tell me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard you fear they’ll get stuck in the back of his skull. “It’s a cold, you antagonist. Is it so awful of me to not want you to have one?”

“Is it so awful of me not to care?” You keep going until you’re right in front of him, gazing up at his obstinate, flushed face. “I’ve been worried about you.” Resting your fingers on his cheek, you find it warm. Sherlock closes his eyes. “And I’m just – I’m glad that this is a problem I can help you with.”

“What do you mean?” he murmurs. Then, seconds later, “Oh.”

You say nothing, uncertain if it would upset him to lay out your train of thought right here. He takes your hand in his and laces your fingers through, squeezing, meeting your glance with another guilty expression.

“I see. It was one thing to delay lessons without a given cause, but with what you know about my history of drug abuse, you grew suspicious.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Please don’t feel the need to apologize,” Sherlock says, his voice sounding somewhat strange with its new rasp. “I should’ve just told you, as you said. Should’ve been honest.”

“Sweet of you to try and spare me, though.”

“Don’t believe anyone’s ever used that word in reference to me before,” he chuckles. “It’s a bit unnerving.”

“Mm,” you hum, burrowing your way into his dressing gown for a hug. Just like his skin, it’s incredibly warm in here, despite the bitter January chill. “Better get used to it, then.”

Sherlock sighs, defeated, wrapping his arms around you. Something deep in your chest aches just to be held like that. You were being honest when you told him you didn’t care if he gave you whatever he had – you’ve been through worse. All you’d wanted was to know if he was alright, and now that you have that confirmation, you’re okay with whatever happens next. And anyway – you have enough paid time off work that if you needed it, you could use it, should anything befall you.

“You look tired,” you tell him after a long moment. “Go back to bed.”

He gives one last protest about you staying here, but there’s almost no energy behind it. As if it’s all being done for appearance’s sake, rather than out of any real desire to keep you away. You watch him curl up under the blankets, get comfortable, and fall asleep almost at once.

Seeing Sherlock asleep is…bizarre. After so long together, you know he’s watched you sleep more times than you can count. Yet every time the situation arose, you’ve always been the first to nod off. Today, though, it seems he can’t keep his eyes open a moment longer. Atop the blankets, you lie next to him for a time, fascinated. He’s folded up on his side in a sprawl of limbs, curled in a loose ball.

His face looks so much calmer. Not burdened with the responsibility of always thinking, judging, observing. Just…at rest. At ease.

“Hey, you stubborn arse,” you whisper, reaching up to brush a loose curl out of his face. “Look at me if you can hear me.”

Nothing. He’s really, truly out of it, mouth open, face pressed to the pillow. His breath soft and deep. As you watch, he wriggles deeper into the blankets before settling with a sleepy sigh.

Okay…good.

“I’m in love with you,” you breathe, your heart thudding painfully against your chest. “As much as I wish I wasn’t. As much as I wish we could just do whatever it is you want. This casual…whatever this is. I can’t. I know I’m in love with you because I’ve been in love before, and I’m scared senseless.”

You blow out a harsh sigh, holding out one shaking hand before clenching it tight. Bracing yourself to keep going.

“Love hurts. Love’s fucking hard. It’s every bit as complicated as you already know it is, I won’t lie and say it’s all rainbows. The last time I loved someone, they…they ripped me apart. I’m still learning how to put myself back together.”

You feel your lip wobble, fighting tears, even as you’re smiling at how stupid you’re being. He’s not even awake to hear this. This little confession is all for you – to help you get this weight off your chest.

“But I want to try again, despite all that. You make me want to try again, even when there are days when you’re being strange or closed off. I don’t care. In the end you’re you and you’re worth it. I love you, and nothing’s going to change my mind. So there. That’s all.”

Thank God, he’s slept through it all. For a few minutes more, you watch him, letting the complicated volley of emotions steep in your heart and in your mind. If only you could work up the nerve to say all that to his face, to fight through the arguments he’d no doubt raise about all of it being too much to handle. Even after John and the issue being laid to rest, you feel like he’ll never try again.

Leaning down, you brush your lips to his forehead. You work carefully to extract yourself from the covers so you don’t disturb him, tiptoe from the bedroom, and close the door. Your plan is to put the kettle on, get comfortable on the sofa, and not think too much about everything you’ve just told your sleeping not-partner. If that’s even possible.

—--------

In the dark of the bedroom, after you’ve left for the kitchen, Sherlock lets out a deep breath. He presses his palms to his eyes, as if to keep all the complicated things he’s heard from circulating in his mind.

This is far worse than he thought.

—------------

It’s early evening by the time the bedroom door opens, and you’re well into a novel rooted from one of his bookshelves. Sitting cross legged on the sofa, you look up in delight to see him emerge, giving him a small smile. Though it’s been odd to spend time in the flat without him, the experience is far from unpleasant. 221B has been a place of comfort to you for some time, and the hours pass quickly.

“Well, look who's decided to join us,” you say, placing the book aside. “You hungry?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not really.”

You decide not to press him. Instead you unfold from your place, stretching a little, not realizing how stiff you’ve gone from hours staying in one spot.

“That’s alright. Mrs. Hudson dropped off some soup earlier – she knows you’ve been holed up in here ill too, you know.”

He huffs out an indignant sound at that. “Really don’t need her getting ill, now, do we?”

“That we don’t,” you agree. “All the same, she’s dropped off enough supplies to medicate a small army. And mulligatawny.”

“I’ve no doubt – the woman thinks I’m incapable of walking down the street and purchasing my own cold supplies.”

“Well, you know how mums are.”

Sherlock pads over to where you sit – still keeping a fair distance, you notice. The nap seems to have done him some good. At the very least, he looks less like he’s going to fall over at the first lapse in conversation. More alert, more like himself. You can’t help grinning as he hesitates, finally settling at the far end of the sofa, cupping his elbows in either palm. His glance grazes you, up and down, as if even eye contact is something he has to be careful with.

"How're you feeling?" You pick up your favorite mug, the one with the chip in the rim, and take a sip of water. "You look better."

"Bit better," he answers, absentminded. "Tired. Er, sore. Throaty. Annoying cold things."

Still he watches you, saying with everything except words that he'd very much like to slide over and be touching you right now. How stubborn can one man get? Or maybe it's a matter of not knowing if it would be the right thing to say. Either way, it melts your heart, and you can't bear the distance any longer.

“Oh, c’mere, love,” you say, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of your voice. “You’re not the only one who can tell when one of us wants something, you know.”

His face arranges itself into a rather unthreatening scowl. “If you get ill…”

“Then it won’t be anything new to me,” you finish, content as he crosses the distance and settles to recline across your lap. “Promise. I’m a big girl. Pinky swear on it, if that’s what you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

You only smile in answer, watching as he turns to get comfortable. He buries his face in the material of your jumper, closing his eyes like he missed being able to touch you so freely. One of his arms snakes its way around your waist, somewhat awkward in this position, and you lean up to help him get situated. You'd forgotten how many positions one has to contort into in the name of physical contact, when it comes to cuddling. Sometimes it's worth it, though.

He makes the smallest content sound, settled there against your stomach, and your fingers reach down to tangle in his hair. Lightly scratching at his scalp, reaching for your phone to scroll through as the minutes wear on, early evening fading into night. God, it feels so domestic it could rot your teeth. Both of you are so at ease with one another without the need to say a word, quiet and calm.

You glance down to see if he's dozed off again only to find him gazing up at you. The look on his face is one of such fierce, gentle affection that you almost forget how to breathe. How long has he been watching you like this? What is he thinking about? Sometimes you have no idea, and that's infuriating. Especially when he can read you so easily at times (yet seem clueless in others).

"Thank you," he says eventually, drawing your attention back after you break eye contact. "For checking in. For – staying. Despite the risk."

"I wouldn't let you stay here sick on your own," you reply at once. "No one deserves that."

A grin, half-hidden in your jumper. "As I keep telling you, love, I'm not dying. It's some hardy variety of London cold being passed around."

A shiver down your spine at love. Slipped so casually from his mouth, like it belongs there.

"That doesn't mean I don't want to look after you. That's what –" the word partners sticks in your throat " – friends are for. We check in on one another."

"I don't see John driving in to chuck supplies at the door of my flat," he jokes.

"No," you muse. "But then again, John doesn't shag you either, does he?"

The air changes, thickens. Sherlock swallows as he gazes up at you, and the look on his face is one of familiar, unspoken need. Even tinged pink with cold, you can tell what he wants to ask for. You've put an idea in his mind, made a suggestion, and it seems that Sherlock isn't quite sick enough to stop thinking about the last week you spent together.

You can't stop dwelling on the absence. Going back to your work, back to your regular life, had felt so much harder without having him there to touch you every day. It'd felt damn near like a honeymoon after so long spent waiting to fuck one another. Over the holiday break, you'd made up for lost time, only to spend the first week of dreary January isolated again.

"He doesn't," Sherlock says, and even in the two quiet words you can hear the change.

A pause. The two of you breathe together, your fingers still tangled in his hair, his eyes bright and begging on your own.

Then: "Please fuck me."

He says it so plainly that it takes you half a second to process the request. You would've expected some stepping around, some stammering. Though his cheeks are dark with a blush, he'd just said it. As if it's something he's been considering long before you arrived. Guess that week alone had given him plenty to think about, too.

"Sherlock…" you bite back a nervous laugh. "Are you sure? If you're ill, you should be resting, and I don't want to –"

"I'll let you do the work," he cuts in. "However you want it. Just – I've missed you, missed feeling you, and with this damned cold I haven't done a thing in ages –"

"You haven't even wanked thinking about me? Aww."

He huffs, frustrated, cheeks still pink. Your glance down tells you everything you need to know about how much he's missed you. His cock strains against the loose pyjama bottoms as much as it can, and you reach down to grab it.

"Alright," you decide, decidedly more than thrilled at the thought of being in charge. "But you have to do as I say, down to the letter. Understand?"

Sherlock is quick to nod, scrambling up into a sitting position.

"Bedroom, mister."

—---------

In what feels like seconds you find yourselves tumbling onto the blankets, the door shutting in a rush as you go. You walk him backwards, somewhat proud that he trusts you not to let him fall, confidently going where you lead. The moment he feels his legs hit the bed, he falls back, hands going to remove his shirt. You stop him with a firm tap to the wrist.

"Leave it on."

Looking somewhat surprised, he does as you say, moving back to make room as you join him on the mattress. You move to lie beside him, entwining your legs with his. He scoots back, breathing heavily, eyes focused on your mouth. This is the point where he'd have his tongue in your mouth, exploring every sensitive place, biting your lips. You can understand why he wouldn't now.

With a pang of regret, you scramble to think of what you could do instead. Eventually you settle on dipping your mouth to the hollow of his throat, delighting when you find that sensitive place behind his ear. His arms come up to wrap around you, hips arching into nothing, tracing delicate circles as you take your time to build the heat.

"Sensitive here, aren't we?" you say in his ear, and he shudders for you.

"Please keep going." His answer is small, his neck bared for you, and you can't resist.

Sliding one hand down to palm his bulge through his trousers, you comply, drinking in the ragged moan when you experiment with scraping your teeth over his neck. Your fingers sneak under his waistband, and he clings to you, trying not to make a sound, all hoarse gasps and shuddering breath.

"Sweetheart," Sherlock utters in a low whine. "Just like that."

"You're not even inside me yet, love," you tease, and his answering groan plays in your mind for the next week.

You take him out and stroke him, sucking lightly on his earlobe with every flick of your wrist. Shameless, Sherlock meets you with his hips, rising off the bed, the sound of it wet and sloppy.

Right as you hear him start to get desperate, you pull your hand away, lifting your hips to take off your trousers and pants. Sherlock stares at you like he's never wanted anything more than he's wanted this, wanted you. By the time you're astride him, you think the look of blazing desire on his face is the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

You rub the head of his cock around your glistening slit in slow circles, grinning when he chants your name, begging, pleading. And when you grant your mercy, spreading your folds and taking him to the hilt, you don't think the sound of his voice has ever been sweeter.

Adjusting to the sensation of having him inside you after a week away, you beam down at Sherlock, memorizing the wrecked look written across his features. As if you're holding everything he needs in the palm of your hand, if only you would move, let him have it.

You know the feeling.

"Please," he whispers, rutting his hips forward. "God, please, move, need to feel you, need to come, I – "

Raising an eyebrow, you place your palm flat against the smooth expanse of his hip.

"Need to? Oh, we're being presumptuous, aren't we?" You squeeze around him, knowing he feels it, watching his nostrils flare. "Remember who's in charge."

"You are," Sherlock's quick to answer. "You are, and you're doing remarkably. Once again I've failed to realize how well suited you'd be for a role, and I –" you've started rolling your hips in little, lazy circles, making it hard for him to think " – I'm s-sorry. You're gorgeous when you're being dominant and you have no idea how close I am to coming inside you."

"I think I do," you say wryly. "And you're so pretty when you're lying here, taking what I give you."

"You're going to make me come," he chokes out, the words a blur. "S-so close." His eyes never leave your body, glued to your breasts as they bounce and jolt with each thrust.

"That's the point, isn't it?" Devilishly, you ram your hips down faster, watching his eyes roll back in helpless bliss.

"Oh f-fuck you're going to make me come I'm right there please don't stop don't stop –"

In another flurry of urgent words and whispered warnings, he does exactly that, spilling deep inside you. He tilts his head back, back, collapsing against the pillows with a golden sound of rapture as you ride him through every wave.

When he's finally had enough, you pull off him, crossing your legs to avoid – well. The mess. Or the worst of it, anyway.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock says breathlessly. "Tomorrow, I am going to taste you until you forget what walking feels like. You phenomenal creature."

A quick thrill of arousal shoots its way into your core at that promise. You try not to let it show on your face as you wobble off the bed, leaving him there dazed with his cock out.

"I look forward to it."

—-------

When you’re all tucked away later in the hush of the bedroom, burrowed beneath his arm, you feel him lift your fingertips to his mouth. There’s something familiar about the gesture, and it reminds you of the first time he’d bent to kiss your budding calluses so long ago. It’d made your heart leap then, and so it does now, even when you’ve grown used to him touching you like this. Even when the affection comes easy now, despite his insistence that all this isn’t what you want it to be.

“Your hands are almost healed,” he murmurs, sleepy, gruff. “Why did – why did you overplay? There’s no benefit. You know that.”

You’re silent in the utter darkness, thinking of what answer you could provide.

You hurt me and I needed to take my mind off it. I couldn’t bear a moment alone with my thoughts because they all pointed back to you on the sofa when you couldn’t bloody look at me. I thought I was losing you and I panicked. It was stupid.

“I don’t know,” you say instead, the words bitter in your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

His huff of a sigh is warm on your skin. “Please don’t do it again. I don’t want you playing to the point of pain. Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

You feel him shuffle closer, pressing his lips to your temple, and a wave of affection ripples through you. Together, you succumb to sleep like that, your heads bent close, one of your arms thrown around his shoulder.

[sandrafiler]

How Would You Feel if This Was Your Last Day on Earth?

As I type that message so many feelings begin to bubble up to the surface.  In this moment, it is a truly beautiful day.  The temperature is moderate.  There is a slight breeze, and the humidity happens to be lower than usual.  In close proximity, several birds are making their unique sounds and songs, letting me know they are near.  The mango tree is covered in maturing fruit and two neighbors-, just stopped by to ask my husband to lend a hand.  I feel content and, on most days, really fulfilled with my life.  

Yet of course, there are some things that I would really like to accomplish.  Or is accomplish really the appropriate word? To bring that phrase into energetic alignment with my topic at hand, I’d change that to read, experience!  Therefore, if today was my last day on earth, I’d have some feelings around not hitting the highlights that I had hoped to hit.  

I’ll turn it over to you now.  

If This Was Your Last Day on Earth, How Would You be Feeling?

Would you be regretful? Or could you honestly say that you gave it your absolute best shot?

I’m inspired today by having attended The Art of Livin’ event that was orchestrated by the American actor, Matthew McConaughey.  The data he provided was that 2.4 million people signed up for the free event.  2.4 million people were interested in the topic of changing their lives.  That’s a lot of folks!!

During the event we also had the opportunity to hear Marie Forleo, author of Everything is Figureoutable and Tony Robbins share their words of inspiration.  It was an uplifting way to start the week! And I walked away really intrigued by the comments in the chat box.

Crazy, right? Here’s why …

People Were Obviously Interested.

Yet …

When the moment came for an opportunity to be presented to actually do something to change their lives, the chat box blew up.  All the stop signs began being erected.  Brakes were hit.  Excuses were flying.  And reactions were flashing across the screen in rapid succession like a flurry of snowflakes during a blizzard.  

What Was Happening Exactly? (resistance & fear, leading to inaction)

Of course, we could surmise that inaction could be due to not having “enough time” or “limited resources” or … blah blah blah.  If we decided to take a deeper more authentic look to search for the root of the inaction, we’d most likely find that the root of our lack of forward movement lies not outside of ourselves but rather within ourselves.  

Here’s a shocking truth:

8% of People Live out Their Dreams in Life.  8%!! This Translates to 92% That do not.

Yikes!

In David Nurse’s book, Do It: The Life Changing Power of Taking Action he provides a description of nine action archetypes.  One in particular fascinated me due to the work I do in the Heal Your Life® community assisting others to heal their childhood traumas and wounds.  It really struck the nerve of the old message, “What will the neighbors think?” Here it is.  

The Allodoxaphobic:

Apparently, allodoxaphobia is the fear of other’s opinions.  (Who knew?) David went on to share that studies have supported that the irrational fear of being ridiculed by others begins in childhood.  Being laughed at, teased, scoffed at, and perhaps even physically abused by the bullies all contribute to this condition.  (Which serves as future triggers affecting whether or not you’ll take action today!)

David suggested to consider how much better your world would be if you didn’t concern yourself with what others think.  Amen, right? Yet … I’d suffice it to say, that we all do it on one level or another.  

Louise Hay spoke about this in almost every single one of her books.  Reminding us that, “We are the only thinker in our mind.” Ultimately guiding us to not concern ourselves what others think or say but rather to think on our own as, “Our thoughts are creative.”

And to change our thinking to change our life, writing an affirmation is a beginning.  A beginning.  One small action.  

Yet, if we really, really, really, really, really have a dream on our heart it is high time that we discontinue with the nonsense of resistance and fear.  The only way to live our best lives (if you are not already living it) is to take action.  Make a change!! When?

Now! Your life is waiting!

Today is the day I strongly encourage you to self-reflect and uncover your reason for the inaction that keeps you exactly where you are.  Then identify what could assist you with moving beyond the hurdle.  In the process of going from awareness to action, you …

You may like this: Learning to Receive and Prosperity

Give Yourself Permission to Truly Thrive!

One of the ways I catapulted myself forward was by taking experiential immersion programs that gave me the loving container to go deep inside and get real to heal.  Two that I highly recommend are the Woman Within program and the Heal Your Life® Training.  

Reach out, reach up! I’m here to support you because in my heart I know that if my life could change and if I had the courage to go within, you can too.  

Let Life Love You.

You deserve to have your every desire, dream, goal, intention, and wish come true.  I believe in you.  Now it is your turn to believe in you, too.

[pascalpanic]

so i read this scenario on reddit and i thought it would be a cute and fluffy fic idea if you want to write it :)

one of the Pedro boys (i was thinking frankie or marcus moreno but you can put any one of them that you feel like would fit the story) lands himself in the hospital and the reader visits him often cause they’re friends. they notice that every time they visit, his heart rate monitor speeds up, like not enough to cause alarm but enough to be noticeable, and that’s how she finds out that he likes her and they decide to date (after he gets out of hospital)

Appendicitis (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Summary: ^^

W/C: 2.4K

Warnings: talk of being ill, vomit, pain, lots of talk of hospitals and that being a major setting, Frankie is a dad, language

A/N: welcome back to Josie’s quest to clean her inbox! This idea was so precious!! I hope you guys like it!!

Frankie is in fucking agony. Never has he felt something as painful as this, never has such pain radiated through his body so intensely that he has no choice but to vomit out his stomach’s contents.

He spends the day at home, occupying his daughter as best he can while he’s in such suffering. He figures that maybe it’s just really bad gas cramping or constipation. Marisol plays quietly, at her daddy’s request, watching her favorite Disney movies on the couch while nuzzled into his side. Frankie has never been so grateful to get her into bed at the end of the day.

After a full day of the pain, and realizing that it wasn’t going away no matter how many painkillers he took, Frankie gave in around midnight. Lying in his bed, skin turning gray and the pain now decisively in his right side, Frankie called you.

After a few rings, you picked up. “Hey, Fish.”

“Hi.” His voice sounds agonized. “How much do you charge for babysitting again?” He asks, the strain clear.

You’re confused, pushing the phone closer to your ear and thinking it might be the distance that makes him sound so odd. “Uh, you’re my friend, so free. You need me to take Mari?” You ask him.

He nods. “Yeah; how much for like a week though? I don’t want to impose though, and-“

His voice sounds terrible. “Frankie. Shut up. A week? What’s wrong? I can take Marisol for as long as you need, but I gotta know what’s going on.”

Frankie is quiet before he grunts softly in pain. “I think my appendix might be fucked up. It hurts like fucking hell. Mari’s asleep, I don’t wanna wake her or anything, but could you-“

You cut him off once more, sitting bolt upright. “I’m on my way over. Do you think you can hang on until I get there? I can drive you to the hospital, or we’ll get one of the boys.”

“That sounds good,” Frankie agrees. “Fuckin’ ambulances are so expensive.”

You chuckle softly. “Hang in there, Fish, okay? I’m gonna call Will, see if he can drive you and I’ll stay with Mari. How’s that?”

Marisol loves you. There’s no better solution in Frankie’s eyes: she behaves better for you than she does for him. She’ll be in good hands, happy for as long as he needs to be in the hospital healing. “Perfect. God, you’re a fucking angel. Don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve better than me,” you snort as you pull on a hoodie and slip on some shoes. “I’m gonna call Will. You got this, Fish. Distract yourself. I’ll send you updates.”

When you arrive at the Morales household, Will’s truck is already in the driveway. He lives closer, so it makes sense. Be quiet and don’t wake Mari, you remember as you slip off your shoes and head up the stairs of Frankie’s home. It’s quiet, unsurprising for this time of night, and you know Mari is a light sleeper. Frankie would never want to wake her at this hour.

Wandering into his room, you find Will standing next to the bed and an incredibly worn-looking Frankie. His skin holds barely any color, his face almost green in nausea. You rush to his side. “Frankie, holy shit,” you exclaim in a loud whisper, taking his hand. “You’re okay?”

“I will be if Miller mans up and gets me out of this bed,” he says, followed by a chuckle with no humor.

Will sighs. He’s wearing pajamas too, looking as exhausted as you are. Frankie groans as he hears Mari’s tiny voice over the baby monitor. “Fuck. You’re staying with her, Will’s bringing me?” He clarifies, looking up at you with bloodshot eyes.

Nodding, you squeeze his hand. “Give me directions quickly and I’ll go get her. You gotta sit up first, Frankie,” you reassure him.

He squeezes your hand back tight and sits up, his face contorting in pain. There’s a flush of redness to his cheeks, and it makes him look more human for a moment until it fades again. “She won’t fall back asleep unless she’s in this bed with you. She needs the attention. Uh, food is in the fridge, you know emergency shit,” he says, with surprising coherence for the pain he’s in.

You nod and ruffle Frankie’s soft bedhead. “Benny- fuck,” you wince, knowing the Miller brothers hate being mixed up. Somehow, even with their distinct personalities, you do it all the time. “Will. Send me updates,” you remind him as you stand. “And you, Francisco,” you murmur and press a kiss to his sweat-beaded forehead, “get some strong pain meds and get better for me and Mari.” You smile softly and walk out of the room.

The room next to Frankie’s is beautiful, a sage green paint and lots of woodland creatures painted on the walls by Frankie’s surprisingly artistic hands. There’s a crib covered by a creamy white canopy and the little girl pokes her head up, tilting to the side in confusion as she sees you.

It’s not fear, of course. Mari loves you, absolutely adores you in fact. She’s just… confused. Her little brain can tell it’s the middle of the night. “Where’s Daddy?” She asks, making uppy arms at you.

You walk over to her crib, picking her up and kissing her head. “Daddy’s got a tummyache, cutie,” you tell her and tickle her tummy gently, making her giggle and bury her tiny face in your chest. “He’s gonna go see the doctor and get it all fixed up, okay? You and I are gonna have so much fun,” you assure her, and she giggles again.

You can hear two sets of feet, slowly moving. “Let’s go give Daddy a kiss goodbye, okay?” Mari nods and rubs her little eyes.

Frankie’s got an arm around Will’s shoulders in the hall, looking absolutely agonized. He smiles a little as he sees you and his baby. “Hey, patita,” he chuckles. He dubbed her duckling from the soft tufts of fluff on her head as a baby. “Be good while I’m gone.”

Mari nods and puts a hand on either side of Frankie’s sweating face, making a little pout and giving him a kiss. “Love you, Daddy,” she says, a yawn overtaking her tiny face.

“Love you too,” he nods and looks up at you. “I owe you.”

“Friends don’t owe each other,” you shake your head. “Now get your a… butt to the hospital, Morales,” you tell him and pat Will on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

He nods at you and the two men shuffle along through the house until they can get Frankie into the car and on his way to (hopefully) sedation and a cure.

Yawning again, Mari’s big brown eyes look up at you from where you hold her on your hip. “Snack?” She asks you, pointing towards the kitchen.

Her little voice and tiny, pudgy fingers are too much. “I suppose. Only because we’re having special girls’ time,” you tease and boop her nose. Setting her on the counter, you grab some cubes of cheese and some berries, which you make sure are in small pieces.

Mari’s content to eat her snacks with you, and you can see her growing sleepier again as the plate empties out. “Sleepy?” You ask her, and she nods. “Alright, cutie pie,” you sigh and lift her, holding her to your chest as she wraps her arms around your neck and her legs around your torso. “Do you want me to cuddle with you?” You ask.

She nods. “Gotta snuggle for late sleepies. Daddy says that.”

The words melt your heart. Frankie’s always been so good with her, so warm and skilled and precious. It only makes your crush on the man grow every time his little girl babbles about how much she loves her daddy. “Does he?”

She nods. “Daddy sings for me.”

Frankie singing Marisol to sleep. The idea melts your heart. You need in on that. “What does he sing to you?” You ask. “What’s your favorite song that daddy sings to you?”

She thinks for a moment as you sit on the edge of the bed, allowing her to clamber off your lap and into the cozy king-sized bed. “Rocket Man.” It’s hard to decipher in her baby-talk, but you get it.

“He sings that for you?” You ask as you get under the covers, into the blankets that are still warm from Frankie’s body heat, that smell like his cologne.

Mari snuggles into your chest, and nods softly. “Can you sing Rocket Man?”

“Of course,” you nod and trace little circles into the toddler’s back, singing the Elton John song to her in a soft voice. It doesn’t take long, now that she’s in her daddy’s bed and got a snack, for her to fall asleep. She snores softly, and you follow suit not too long after.

-

It did turn out that Frankie had appendicitis. The doctors weren’t entirely sure what caused it, but you and the Miller brothers rotated your time with Marisol at home and the hospital with Frankie, as his stay was painfully long for such an active man. Santiago video chatted often, but being out of town prevented him from physically seeing Fish.

It took him about a week to recover, and that time was mostly spent napping or watching the television in his room. He’d bullshit with the guys or you when you were around, and he especially loved the time of the afternoon every day where one of you brought Marisol to see him.

Usually it was just you or one of the Millers who stayed in the room with him. The other two either stayed with Marisol or got to stay at home and rest for themselves. It was a lucky day when you and Benny got to both be with Frankie for a while, telling stories and laughing. It was your turn to be off-duty, but all you wanted from your free time was to be with the man.

Your presence has always made Frankie’s heart rate a little faster. It’s always made his palms a little clammy, and his pants a little tighter sometimes. At least now he can attribute it to the pain.

Every time his eyes catch yours, his heart monitor gets a little louder. It’s odd, but you shrug it off. It can’t mean anything. It’s just your Frankie. After an hour or so of spending time with the guys, you run to get fast food for the three of you. While you’re away, you receive a text from Benny.

Benny Boy: you’re fucking with his head, bro

You: what?

Benny Boy: the heart rate monitor is nearly silent right now. every time frankie looks at you it spikes, don’t tell me you haven’t been noticing that

You: do you want nuggets or a burger?

You: thats ridiculous, Benny.

Benny Boy: always nuggets. but seriously, his heart rate is at like 54 right now, he’s just chilling and kind of dozed off. let’s check it when you come back.

You: be prepared for the most boring science experiment ever. also, what dip do you want?

After you receive your bulging bags of food, stuffed from both Benny’s and Frankie’s massive appetites, you return to the hospital.

You: walking in. pulse status?

Benny: 60. he’s a little more awake now.

As you enter the room, Frankie turns to you and grins. “Hey. What did you get?” He asks.

You plop the bags on the small table overhanging Frankie’s bed and grin. “Just your usual order. I know what you like,” you shrug as you unpack the food.

Beep beep beep beep. HR: 77

Smiling at the rate of Frankie’s heart, more than you should really, you sit down back next to Benny and the three of you eat your food. It’s somewhat quiet, the chatter dying as you devour the fast food, savoring the grease and salt.

After everyone is finished, you stand and clean up the garbage, tossing it all away. You sit back down on Frankie’s bedside. “So, macho man. How’s the pain?” You ask, your fingers tracing his good side.

Beep beep beep beep beep. HR: 86

He shrugs. “It hurts like a bitch, and they said it’s gonna keep hurting like a bitch.”

“Poor baby,” you chuckle, cupping the side of his face and kissing his forehead softly.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep. HR: 96

Benny groans and stands. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom.” He smacks your arm as he walks past, as if rubbing in the evidence he’s found. “And then take a walk, I think.”

You’re still seated at Frankie’s side, on the inflatable hospital mattress. “Oh Benjamin,” Frankie rolls his eyes. “Why’d he leave so quick?”

You shrug, though you know the answer. “Who knows? Benny can’t even predict himself,” you chuckle. Frankie’s hand rests over his chest. You slide your hand over his torso and lace your fingers through his until you’re holding it. You can feel his heart thumping steadily against it. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

Beep beep beep beep. HR: 104

He smiles. “I’m lucky I have you.”

You sigh softly as you look up at the heart rate monitor again. “I gotta say, you have a really high resting rate,” you say nonchalantly, as if you believe it.

Frankie’s face warms. “I, uh-“

“I’m kidding, Frankie,” you mumble softly to him, smiling a little. “I really like you, and I think that monitor is helping me know you like me too. When you get out of here, can we maybe go on a date some time?”

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. HR: 112

Nodding enthusiastically, those floppy curls move with his head. “I would love that,” he tells you with a beaming smile. “God, have you been able to tell all day?” He asks as he looks up at the monitor, his ears burning with heat as he reads the pulse rate. It’s embarrassingly high.

“Yeah,” you finally admit and smile down at him. “But it’s cute. And it makes me feel all warm inside because I finally know you like me too.”

Big brown eyes stare up at you with all of the love in the world. “If I wasn’t wearing a hospital gown, I’d kiss you right now,” he promises. “But that’ll have to wait.”

“Yes it will,” you nod and kiss his forehead again, easing him back against the mattress he’d lifted up from slightly. “Now I’m going to go find Benny, and you slow down that heart rate,” you tease and ruffle his curls.

“I’m not gonna be able to slow it down with you around,” he says with a soft smile, his eyes slipping shut.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan

[karajaynetoday]

i'll be honest, it's better off this way | luke hemmings

image credit 

hello pals! long time no writing! i know it seems a bit weird to post a luke break up fic just after he got engaged but to be fair, I already had this in the works before the news broke yesterday, so soz not soz. It is kind of a happy break up story though... kind of? this one features lyrics from our song by niall and anne marie that are in italics throughout the piece (you know i love a song lyric incorporation lol) and i’m a bit rusty, so any feedback is welcome! a big shoutout to my dearest @notinthesameguey​ for beta-reading this one for me, you’re a gem blanca! enjoy xo

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings:  mentions of a break up and a car accident/hospitalisation (minor/non-graphic)

(This is a fem reader insert)

More writing here | send thoughts/feedback/suggestions here | if you’d like to be on my taglist go here

I'll be honest, I'm alright with me

Sunday mornings, in my own bedsheets

The break up with Luke had been easier than you’d first thought. It’d been months of growing apart, feeling like a stranger in your own home, before you finally worked up the nerve to utter those four words: We need to talk. He’d been spending most days and some nights in the studio, and you’d been working overtime at your job too; you were ships in the night who barely had time to say hello and goodbye, let alone have any sort of proper conversation. You’d spent an entire evening rehearsing a script in your head, and as soon as Luke walked through the door and greeted Petunia, you mustered the courage to stand up and speak your truth. 

It turned out that you weren’t alone in feeling stagnant in your relationship, and although you could feel your heart breaking as you said the words, Luke’s hand on your knee was all the gentle reassurance you needed. Just like always, even when your relationship was falling apart, Luke was there for you. And that’s what he promised, that night in the living room. It didn’t make sense for you two to become strangers overnight after 3 years together, but you also both knew that you needed space to grow and heal, and that space needed to happen sooner rather than later. 

You could tell that part of Luke wanted to fight it, wanted to raise his voice, wanted to convince you to stay. But part of Luke also knew that it was time to walk away, no matter how much his heart was feeling like it was being ripped out of his chest, because he did truly love you, and if he loved you, he’d let you go. 

Even though Luke insisted you could stay in the spare room for as long as you liked, it only took a week or so to find a new place. An apartment in KayKay’s building opened up for rent, and thanks to her help, you secured the lease and started moving in as soon as you could. Ashton accompanied you to Ikea and then helped with assembling a new bed and dining table for you, while KayKay helped unpack some of your boxes. You could tell that they were trying to be sensitive, but at the same time were desperate to know what went down in the break up, and after a few slices of pizza and half a bottle of wine, you felt the emotions rushing to the surface.

“It feels dumb to get upset, after all, I was the one who suggested we should break up.” You sniffled, smiling sadly as Ashton handed you a tissue.

“Just because it was something that needed to happen, doesn’t mean you can’t be sad about it. You two shared a lot in the time you were together, it’s only natural that it’s going to take you a while to untangle yourselves from one another and to get your head and heart back on the path that’s right for you.” KayKay spoke softly, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

You knew she was right, and the healing would come; it was all part of the rollercoaster of walking away from someone you thought was the love of your life, but had turned out not to be. Time to adjust and find some independence, and re-shape the life you found yourself in until it was the life you wanted. 

But every time I think that I can get you out my head, you never, ever let me forget

Once you’d completely moved out Luke’s house, your reasons to contact him became few and far between. A few occasional texts to advise that he’d let his family know about your split, and a link to a new cafe nearby that he thought was your kind of vibe (and it absolutely was). Everyone in your friendship group was trying their best to help you both cope, but it was hard to avoid the awkwardness that came with a break up of close friends.  

You felt like you were walking on eggshells for a while, so you started to say no to invitations out. You threw yourself into a new work project, and barely replied to any group chats. Whenever your friends called, you had the perfect script rehearsed, about how you were going to be up for promotion, and after the next month or so, you’d have plenty more time for catching up with everyone. You were fairly certain that no-one believed your story, but you were sticking to it nonetheless. You’d seen photos online of Luke out and about with various beautiful women amongst the partying crew, and even though you knew better than to torture yourself with doom-scrolling through the internet, you couldn’t help yourself. You had to keep reminding yourself that it was YOU that wanted the breakup, and that it was for the best. Or something like that.

It was coming to the end of your big project, and the entire office decided to head out for celebratory drinks. You only stayed for a couple, because after a month of overtime you were ready for bed. Your boss took you aside to assure you that the promotion was yours and the new contract would be on your desk on Monday, and as you reassured him you were excited to take on the role, a song playing over the bar’s speakers made you stop in your tracks. You’d spent many a Sunday morning dancing around the kitchen making pancakes with Luke and singing these words; something you’d completely forgotten until this moment. As you stepped outside to await your Uber, the first person you wanted to call with the news was Luke. Your fingers hovered over his name for a good few minutes before your Uber driver honked and broke you out of her trance, and you settled for texting the group chat instead to share your exciting update. Lots of confetti and heart eyes emojis started popping up alongside congratulatory messages, and you let out a giggle when you saw that Luke had sent a photo of Petunia with “congrats!” scrawled across it in purple font. It was the last thing you remembered, before the squealing of tyres and your vision going black. 

Just when I think you're gone, Hear our song on the radio

Just like that, takes me back, To the places we used to go

The rhythmic beeping of the hospital monitors was the first thing you noticed as you stirred awake. The second was a dull pain across your skull, and the third was that your arm was in a sling. Fourth was the large, warm hand that was holding your own and gently squeezing; without opening your eyes, you knew it was Luke’s. You felt too weak to say any words, so instead you tried your best to squeeze back as you slowly opened your eyes. You heard a sharp intake of breath, before Luke’s smiling face came into view.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” Luke asked, reaching up to gently brush some hair out of your eyes.

“Like I was in a car accident.” You managed to croak out, shooting him a wry smile and earning a laugh in return.

“You are correct, you can pass go, and collect $200. A pretty gnarly accident, the car’s a write-off, but thankfully everyone’s injuries are relatively minor. Some dickhead ran a red light.” You could tell Luke was trying to remain calm, but under the surface he was pissed.

“Not ideal, but at least I get a few days off work.” You joked, grimacing as you tried to sit up. Luke stood and gently maneuvered your pillows to support your back and shoulders better, and you felt a zap of electricity as his hands brushed your arms in passing.

As Luke sat back in the chair next to the bed, you suddenly realised that it was just the two of you in the hospital room. 

“No offence, Hemmo, but what are you doing here? Considering we’re no longer significant others, and all…” You said awkwardly, looking down at your arm sling with sudden great interest.

“Very observant, dear. Glad to see the concussion hasn’t affected your short term memory, I was worried you’d forget me entirely. You did, however, forget to update your emergency contact details, so I guess I was first on the list for the hospital to call. Ash, KayKay and I have been taking shifts but they’re out getting food right now - “ The rest of Luke’s explanation was cut off by a gasp and a cheer at the door, signalling Ashton and KayKay’s return and subsequent delight at you being awake.

The days that followed were uncomfortable physically, but kind of heartwarming emotionally. You got home to your apartment thanks to KayKay’s assistance, and found that your friends had stocked your fridge and freezer full of ready-made meals and your favourite snacks. They’d also made a roster so not a day went by without someone popping in to check on you, although you noticed that Luke never came by. 

Your recovery was slow but steady, and soon enough the doctors gave you the all clear. At this point, it was nearly 6 months since you’d broken up with Luke, and you could feel your mindset shifting. He was no longer the first person you wanted to call with good or bad news, or the first memories that popped into your head when you needed cheering up. It almost felt like… relief? Because for the longest time, even though you knew the break up was for the best, detaching yourself from one another seemed almost in possible after so many years of so many memories. 

I've been waking up alone, I haven't thought of him for days

I'll be honest, It's better off this way

The tipping point came at Calum’s birthday party, a month or so later. Ashton had invited you out for coffee and nonchalantly mentioned that maybe, possibly, well actually extremely likely almost definitely Luke was bringing a date to the gathering at Cal’s house; a girl he’d been seeing for a month or so. Everyone wanted you to be comfortable, and everyone, Cal especially, wanted you to be there, but they also understood if you wanted to avoid any potential awkward encounters with Luke and his new love interest. You assured Ashton that it would be fine, that you honestly weren’t bothered, and laughed off his suggestion of setting you up with a super hot blind date to help level the playing field.

The night came along, and you found yourself stumbling along Calum’s front path in the dark as you tried not to drop the gift you’d bought for him (a new cookbook and a collection of various hot sauces).  “Bloody 5sos and the “no good party starts until 11pm rule”, you muttered to yourself as you almost tripped over again, and you heard an indignant shout that sounded very Ashton-like behind you.

“Oi! Don’t be mad at us, you know that rule has never let us down!” Ashton bellowed, as he came forward with his phone flashlight switched on, KayKay not too far behind him.

“Damn girl, you like fiiiiiine!” KayKay said, letting out a low whistle. You rolled your eyes, knowing she was exaggerating. Your outfit was essentially a denim skirt and a t-shirt - maybe you’d sexed it up a little bit with some thigh high boots, tousled hair and a red lip, but all’s fair in love and war, right?

The three of you made it inside, and a very tipsy Calum greeted you with open arms and a lot of excitement at your gift of hot sauce. It felt so nice to be back with all your friends at a house party, like the old days, and you found yourself stepping out onto the back patio for a moment of quiet reflection and to share some pats with Duke.

You’d exchanged a wave with Luke when you’d entered the house, but hadn’t quite worked up the confidence to go up and speak to him, especially when he had his new girl in close proximity. She looked really friendly, though, and you could tell from the spark in both of their eyes that their relationship was blossoming in the best possible way. Part of you thought you’d be upset about it, but all you truly felt was content. Content in your life as it was, surrounded by friends that loved you just as much as you loved them, and actually quite proud of how far you’d come over the past year. You’d learned to stand on your own two feet, and you’d grown into a much more settled, independent human as a result. 

You were lost in your train of thought when you heard the song change on the speakers inside. Duke’s ears perked up and he licked your hand attentively when you stopped patting him as the song registered - it was your song. Or at least, it used to be. You felt a smile creep onto your face when you remembered the Sunday mornings of pancakes and singalongs, and the smile grew wider when you saw Luke’s girlfriend dragging him onto the dancefloor, much to his (fake) protests. You made eye contact with your kind-hearted, softly-smiling, gentle-eyed ex-boyfriend, and for a split second you saw a flash of concern cross his face. In response, you raised your glass in a cheers and shot him a wink, which earned a smile and a small laugh from Luke before he turned his attention back to the beautiful girl in his arms. You took a sip, and smiled to yourself. It truly was better off this way. 

When I hear it, I just can't stop smiling, I remember you're gone

Baby, it's just a song on the radio, That we used to know

Taglist: If there’s a line through your name, I couldn’t tag you, so please message me to let me know your new URL or what the go is!   @suchalonelysunflower @blackbutterfliescal @redrattlers @loveroflrh @spicycal @notinthesameguey @metalandboybands @cheekysos @ashton-trash  @another-lonely-heart @queenalienscherrypie  @becihadshawn  @allthestarsandthemoon  @oyesmendes​ @andrianawinchester @333-xx  @findingliam-o @hoodhoran @rbforsmileycal @myloverboyash @myhappylittleyoutubee @saywhatnow07 @secretsicanthideanymore @ar1analara  @killmywildflower​

[americangirlstar]

World By Us Quotes

I know when we make aesthetics/art pieces, we like to have little quotes from the books below it! Here’s some quotes for the WBU girls– if it’s not said by them specifically, I put who said it at the end in [brackets], and if it’s not from their main book, I made a note in italics at the beginning.

Makena Williams

As I sorted through the new items on the bed, I wondered what kind of statement I wanted to make. I was going to have fun figuring it out!

As I looked at the outfit now, I realized it still needed... something. I closed my eyes and focused on how I was feeling. I was nervous, but excited, too, like something I had been waiting for was finally about to begin.

I added three gold butterfly hair clips to my twists. Butterflies are a symbol of transformation, and I knew today would be full of big changes. When I tilted my head, the butterflies looked like they were taking off.

On my way to the gym, I passed the big mural again. We Walk Together. I smiled, knowing that I had just met two new friends to walk with.

I have four names: Makena means “happy one” in Swahili; Lilias was my dad’s mom, who died when he was a boy; Cook, for Mom’s family, and Williams. They all matter, and they make me who I am.

“Fashion can be a form of activism. And I wouldn’t be surprised if one day that was your purpose.” [said by her mother]

I want to live in a world where who you are inside matters more than what you look like outside.

I rolled over and pressed the pillow around my ears, but Mom’s question was like a song I couldn’t get out of my head. Couldn’t he see that they’re children? Couldn’t he see? No, Mom! I wanted to scream. That’s the problem. He couldn’t see that we’re real people, with real names and lives and feelings. All he could see was that we’re Black. I cried sad and mad tears, because none of it made any sense.

I’m so much more than what you see / Don’t guess- ASK about all the feels inside me / Get to know who I am for real / Then maybe this world can start to heal / See me, hear me, know me!

My name is Makena Williams. Something happened to me, and I am not okay.

I am a person. See me for who I am. Hear what I say. Get to know me before you make up something about me. Judge me by my words and actions, not my race. See me. Hear me. Know me.

Do you see us now? We’re girls. We’re your neighbors.

I ran my fingers across the letters. There was my idea, my first design, in real life. I was so proud.

My eyes went back to Auntie Bling’s word power. Maybe I could give other people the power to tell their own stories. What if kids could show and tell the world who they really are, how they really feel, in any style they chose?

I’m Makena. I’m proud that my family’s roots in Anacostia go back four generations. I came up with the words on my T-shirt because people weren’t seeing the real me. They were only seeing that I was Black– if they saw me at all. I love West African kente cloth because the colors and patterns tell stories. The green in this skirt signifies renewal. I like wearing butterflies because they remind me that though change can be difficult, it can lead to something beautiful. With my fashion, I am always making a statement.

When everyone had made their statements, we all gathered onstage for a bow. The audience was on its feet, clapping and cheering for us. All the other kids hopped off the stage and started mingling. I stood there, watching adults talking to kid and kids from different communities talking to each other. Seeing so many people come together was powerful.

I believe that when you take time to get to know people, you get to see who they truly are.

I was so proud of what we’d done that I couldn’t stop grinning. Just before I went to join my friends and family, I glimpsed my own reflection in the window. It looked as if the river was flowing right through me. Maybe it does, I thought, along with the strength of my ancestors, and the bravery of Black people before and the bravery of everyone in this room who works for change.

Evette Peeters

When we made the sign last year, I painted a monarch butterfly above the words. Monarchs fly thousands of miles. Their strength and endurance remind me of the people who were on the front lines during the pandemic.

The one good thing about not going anywhere was seeing the gardens change. I never knew it could be fun to watch plants grow, but it actually was.

The bridge was coming up. Pretty soon, we’d be crossing the Anacostia. I’d been crossing that river all my life on the way to Gran E’s house. Every time I saw it, the river looked different. Sometimes the waves were rough, but today they were calm. The sunlight made the pale green water sparkle.

Why did people think skin color defines who we are? It seemed so simple: humans come in different colors, just like flowers.

I put them on and hung my heart necklace on my jewelry tree. Next to it was a locket that had an umoja symbol on it. Umoja means “unity” in the Swahili language. Gran E had given me the locket for Kwanzaa last year, along with a card that said, “Promise always to see umoja: unity in the family, community, nation and race.”

Still, I couldn’t help wondering, Is this how a rift gets started? Something goes wrong between people, and before you know it, there’s a rift between them. Was that how it happened with my grandmothers? And the most important question of all: Could a rift between people be repaired?

The grass was trampled, but seeing the riverbank free of litter lifted my heart.

With a day of hard work, we had healed part of the river. If only it could be this easy for my grandmothers to heal the rift between them.

“A world– by us,” I announced, writing it on a piece of poster board. I looked up at my friends. Somehow when I was with them, anything seemed possible. “That’s what we’ll call it– and that’s what we’ll make it.”

What I’m trying to tell you is not to judge a whole person for one thing they said or did. People can change and learn from their mistakes.

Well, we are one family. So we should all act like it, right?

I know the world has many problems, just as there are many kinds of pollution in the river. But with the sunshine and the music and good friends beside me, I felt a wave of hope rise in my chest. As long as we can imagine a better world, we can make it happen. When people come together, we can do remarkable things. The river taught me that.

Maritza Ochoa

from Makena’s Story: Well, we don’t need to wait until we grow up to make a difference. We can start now, making the kind of world we want to live in. 

At school, the girls always play with the boys. The girls are tougher than you think.

Before she passed away, I received a beautiful journal from her in the mail. Inside, she had written inspirational quotes from famous women athletes and leaders. On a note enclosed with the journal, she had written that I should add more inspirational quotes to the journal, because keeping a positive attitude was important when life becomes hard. I had to admit, it was hard to be positive during that time.

I stared down at the salteñas, thinking of what my abuelo said. Prayers weren’t enough, but sometimes prayers are all you have. Was there something more I could do?

The title of the piece was Tu lucha es mi lucha, which means “your fight is my fight.”

Remember, we’re young. Nobody expects us to be leaders, so we must expect it from ourselves.

There was incredible history here, and yet... so much more history to be made.

“She needs me to be her friend,” I replied. And as soon as I said those words, I felt them in my heart.

In soccer, if we see something wrong, we call it out so it can be fixed. I see something wrong, and I want to help.

Tu luca es mi lucha. I will lead with my heart and find a way to help your family.

We don’t just want to talk about injustice. We want to do something about it.

It was as if Tia Mari knew that someday I’d need this quote. Maybe I’m more like her than I even imagined.

All of us are united in our love for soccer, but we are also united in another cause that we want to share with you. Soccer has taught me many things, but most important it has taught me to be a team player and to be vocal if I see something wrong. This past week, I saw something wrong and I want to bring it to everyone’s attention.

If you were here, I would tell you what an inspiration you are to me. I miss you, Tia. I know I’ll always miss you and that’s okay. It will be an extra part of me that will make me stronger and kinder.

[villainess-noble-girl]

Falling in love with the princess

"Ann"(Mary) POV (Based on Chapter 89 of the novel)

The moment I saw her, I immediately understood the thread eyed boy's motive...

Today is my first day serving my new mistress, Lady Isabella. She's currently grilling some chicken in the backyard.

I stared at the lady's golden fluffy hair as she hummed a song while she wait for the chicken to cook. I can't help but smile seeing her so happy.

I looked around and saw the gardener drinking tea on a nearby flowerbed.

This might be the first time ever in my life that I am having such a peaceful time.

Hearing my twin sister's daily hysterics added to my daily dose of stress but now that it's gone... it's quiet. For some reason I still feel uneasy.

"Is it time to put it in the oven?" the young lady broke my train of thought.

Danger. Danger. Everything is so peaceful and calming that it's making me brace myself for the worse.

I continued to watch the lady grill the  chicken.

For a second the roasted chicken looked perfectly cooked but it began to transform in to a sludge, only the burnt skewers remained intact.

"I'm sorry, Ann. I wanted to feed you some decent food."

After the lady recovered from her shock, she immediately apologized to me.

Even the energetic young lady can't hide her disappointment after producing a sludge five times in a row.

What if she's a total failure in cooking? She is a duke's daughter. Also, there's no need to apologize to a servant like me.

Fu~fu~ the lady is still cute in her disheartened state.

She looks like a doll or a fairy, but to me, she mostly looks like a golden (chick) little bird with her golden fluffy hair and quick, short movements.

Although I find it cute, I don't want to keep my cute little bird depressed so I comforted her.

"My lady doesn't have to apologize. It's delicious, so please be confident! It's the only food in the world that has the ability to surprise everyone with its appearance and taste. I love the lady's cooking!"

"R-r-really?" the lady is clearly anxious.

"When I become Ursch's wife in the future, wouldn't he hate me if my cooking is constantly a sludge of surprise?"

I would be happy, but I don't think the young lady wants to hear that.

Based on my prediction, the thread eyed boy would be happy with whatever the young lady prepared.

"I think Master Ursch spends a lot of time making magic tools so the young lady's cooking would be convenient since the food that you cook can be consumed immediately."

"True... but if he finishes eating right away, his breaks will be reduced and his working hours will be longer. Ursch-kun already works so much."

"Then why not ask Master Ursch to cook from time to time? It will be a great change of mood, the lady can set the table and prepare tea and spend time together."

The young lady nodded and considered it.

Oh, wait a minute.

"My lady, can you make some tea?"

"Tea is okay. It can be brewed without any problems. Also, yeah... the juice made by squeezing the fruits is okay."

I see, if it's liquid, you can make it without problems, but if it's a solid dish, it becomes sludge.

"Then how about a soup?"

"The soup melts while I'm mixing it and turns in to a sludge..."

The taste is good but you really can't cook.. I wonder why?

We pondered over it for a bit, but I really can't figure it out so I decided to eat the newly made sludge for the time being.

It's my first time tasting something like this. The sludge is delicious but it doesn't taste like roasted chicken with onions.

What is it? A mellow taste with a little salt. Is it seafood? I also taste butter and a little pepper.

As I contemplated, the young lady tasted her sludge and groaned.

"It tastes like butter-grilled mussels."

If you ask me, I think it's great to be able to bring out the flavor of a shellfish with chicken and onions, but the young lady looks disappointed.

Of all the food I've eaten in my past twelve years of life, the young lady's sludge is the most delicious.

Conpared to what I've eaten so far, the difference is cloud and mud.

By the way, my lady's cooking is the cloud although it looks muddy.

While I was at the Schneiver safe house, they fed me regularly. But I ultimately didn't feel like eating because I found the thread eyed boy really creepy and my lady's dish (sludge) tastes so much better.

I don't ever recall eating anything delicious up until now.

I am trained by the Dark Guild to replace a noble daughter so I was constantly drilled in to raising my level.

Sometimes I was given sweets and decent food on a whim, but my twin sister, who was better than me, kept taking it away from me and I never got to taste it.

As my twin sister continued to take things from me, I couldn't be positive about the role of robbing someone's life.

Eventually, I couldn't get into the training and fell out, and when I wasn't as good as my twin sister, the treatment and my living environment became worse.

How long have you been treated like a princess, my sister, while I'm being scorned?

I didn't want to be a changeling.

Growing up like a normal child, go to school, and get a normal job. I dreamed of such a life.

'You don't have to live a luxurious life because you'll become an aristocratic daughter someday.'

I want to live a normal life without having anything to do with the Dark Guild.

So I have to thank my sister for taking something from me one last time.

You wanted to go back to the dark guild, to be treated like a princess, rather than having an honest job and living a normal life in a protected place.

The thread eyed boy coerced us to switch bodies.

When you replaced me and returned to the Dark Guild, did you think you would be warmly welcomed?

Didn't they say it so many times?

Our ability changes to constant activation once it is activated, so once you have transferred, you will not be able to get out of the body.

You believed the lie he said, 'You two are identical twins, it's like having the same body so it doesn't really count.'

Our replacement ability is a one time use ability.

I was able to escape from the guild without doing anything by replacing my sister.

From now on, I will live the normal life I wanted with my sister's body.

While being healed by my little bird, I will work as her personal maid.

Bye sister, I wish you well.

Fandom: The Villainess Wants To Marry A Commoner!

Photo: Not mine

Credit: Click here

Note: I MTL-ed this chapter so I really can't be sure if this is accurate.

[lochtayboatsong]

The Jesus Christ Superstar essay absolutely no one asked for.

Last weekend, I watched the pro-shot of the 2012 arena tour of Jesus Christ Superstar starring Ben Forster, Tim Minchin, and Melanie C, because it was Easter and it was up on YT for the weekend.  I never managed to do my annual listen-through of Leonard Bernstein’s Mass this year, as is my usual Easter tradition, so I figured “Why not watch/listen to this instead?”  It was my first time seeing and hearing JCS in full, and Y’ALL, it has been living rent-free in my brain ever since.  I have a mighty need to get my thoughts out, so here they are, in chronological order by song.  

1) Prologue: I love the way JCS 2012 makes use of the arena video screen.  The production design and concept clearly took a lot of inspiration from the “Occupy ______” movement, which makes it feel a bit dated now.  But every single production of JCS is a product of its time period, so this is a feature and not a bug.  

2) Heaven On Their Minds: This is a straight-up rock song.  It wouldn’t be out of place on any rock and roll album released between 1970 and 2021, and it boggles my mind that Webber and Rice were both in their early twenties when they wrote it.  Also, the lyric “You’ve begun to matter more than the things you say” hits hard no matter the year.

3) What’s the Buzz: A+ use of the arena screens again, this time bringing in social media to set the tone.  Also, this song establishes right from the outset that Jesus is burnt out and T I R E D by this point in the story.  Seriously, can we just let this man have a nap?

4) Strange Thing Mystifying: Judas publicly calls out Mary and Jesus claps back.  Folx, get you a partner who will defend your honor the way Jesus defends MM in this scene.  Also Jesus loses his shoes and is mostly barefoot for the remainder of the show.

5) Everything’s Alright: Okay, this is one of the songs I have A LOT to say about.  First, it’s important to know that I was a church musician throughout all of my adolescence and into my early adulthood.  The pianist at the services I usually played at was a top-notch jazz pianist, and also my piano teacher for about six years while I as in high school and undergrad.  (Incidentally, I had a HUGE crush on his son, who was/is a jazz saxophonist and clarinetist and also played in the church band, but that’s a story for another day.)  One of the hymns we played a few times a year was called “Sing of the Lord’s Goodness,” which is notable for being in 5/4 time.  Whenever this hymn was on the schedule, it was usually the recessional, or the last song played as the clergy processed out and the congregation got ready to leave, so we were able to have some fun with it.  After a couple verses the piano player and his son would usually morph it into “Take Five,” a famous jazz standard by Dave Brubeck which is also in 5/4 time.  Anyway, the first time I listened to this song in full, it got to Judas’s line “People who are hungry, people who are starving,” and I sat bolt upright and went “HOLY SHIT THIS IS ‘SING OF THE LORD’S GOODNESS/TAKE FIVE.’”  And I was ricocheted back in time to being fourteen and trying to keep up with this father/son duo in a cavernous Catholic church while simultaneously making heart-eyes at the son.  Final note: This is the only song in the musical to feature all three leads (Jesus, Judas, and Mary Magdalene) and is mostly Jesus and MM being soft with each other in between bouts of Jesus and Judas snarling at one another.

6) This Jesus Must Die: I LOVE that all the villains in this production are in tailored suits.  LOVE IT.  Also, Caiaphas and Annas are a comedy duo akin to “the thin guy and the fat guy,” except in this case it’s “the low basso profundo and the high tenor.”  Excellent use of the arena video screen again, this time as CCTV.

7) Hosanna: My background as a church musician strikes back again.  It honestly took me two or three listens to catch it, but then I had another moment of sitting bolt upright and going “HOLY SHIT THIS IS A PSALM.”  Psalms sung in church usually take the form of call-and-response, with a cantor singing the verses and the congregation joining in for the chorus.  If I close my eyes during this song, I have no trouble imagining Jesus as a church cantor singing the verses and then bringing the congregation in for the “Ho-sanna, Hey-sanna” chorus. 

8) Simon Zealotes: This is part “Gloria In Excelsis” and part over-the-top Gospel song.  Honestly it’s not my favorite, but it marks an important mood change in the show.  The end of “Hosanna” is probably Jesus at his happiest in the entire show, and then Simon comes in and sours the mood by trying to tip the triumphant moment into a violent one.  Jesus is not truly happy again from this moment on.

9) Poor Jerusalem: Also not my fave.  It kinda reads like Webber and Rice realized that Jesus didn’t have a solo aria in Act I, so they came up with this.  But it has the distinction of containing the lyric, “To conquer death you only have to die,” which is the biggest overarching theme of the story.

10) Pilate’s Dream: Pontius Pilate might be the most underrated role in this entire show, and I love that this production has him singing this song while being dressed in judge’s robes.  

11) The Temple: The first half of this is one of the campiest numbers in Act I, at least in this production, and it’s awesome.  The second half is one of the saddest, as Jesus tries to heal the sick but finds there are too many of them.  Also the whole scene is almost entirely in 7/8 time, which I think is just cool.

12) I Don’t Know How To Love Him: Mary Magdalene’s big aria, and one of the songs I knew prior to seeing the full-length show.  This production has MM taking off her heavy lipstick and eye makeup onstage, mid-song, which is kind of cool.  Melanie C says in a BTS interview that MM’s makeup is her armor, so this is a Big Symbolic Moment.

13) Damned For All Time: The scene transition into this song is played entirely in pantomime, and I love it.  The solo guitarist gets to be onstage for a bit, A+ use of the video screen again to show Judas on CCTV, etc.  Love it.  And then this song is Judas frantically rationalizing what he’s doing, and what he’s about to do, with Caiphas and Annas just reacting with raised eyebrows and knowing looks.

14) Blood Money: This is where the tone of the show really takes a turn for the dark.  I think this might be one of Tim Minchin’s finest moments as Judas, because his facial expressions and microexpressions throughout this scene speak absolute volumes.  And the offstage chorus quietly singing “Well done Judas” as he picks up the money is a positively chilling way to end Act I.

15) The Last Supper: Act II begins with major “Drink With Me” vibes.  (Except JCS came WAY before Les Miz, so it’s probably more accurate to say that “Drink With Me” has major “The Last Supper” vibes.)  Jesus and Judas have their knock-down, drag-out fight, and it’s honestly heartbreaking, thanks again to Tim Minchin’s facial expressions.  A well-done production of JCS will really convey that Jesus and Judas were once closer than brothers, even though their relationship is at breaking point when Act I begins.

16) Gethsemane: This is Jesus’s major showpiece and one of my faves.  Jesus knows he has less than 24 hours to live, he knows he’s going to suffer, and worst of all, he doesn’t know whether it’s going to be worth it.  It’s an emotional rollercoaster to watch and to perform, and it goes on for ages: something like 6 or 7 minutes.  Fun fact: the famous G5 is not written in the score.  Ian Gillan, who played Jesus on the original concept album, just sang it that way, so most subsequent Jesuses have also done it that way.  Lindsay Ellis has a great supercut of this on YT.  John Legend notably sang the line as written during the 2018 concert.  

17) The Arrest: Judas’s Betrayer’s Kiss is played differently across different productions.  The 2012 version is pretty tame - I’ve seen clips and gifs of other productions, including the 2000 direct-to-video version, where they kiss fully on the mouth and have to be dragged apart by the guards and it is THE MOST TENDER THING.  Then the 7/8 riff from “The Temple” comes back and the 2012 version lets the video screen do its thing again as Jesus is swarmed by reporters.

18) Peter’s Denial: Not much to say about this one, as it’s basically a scene transition.  But it’s a significant moment in the Passion story, so I’m glad they included it.

19) Pilate and Christ: The 2012 production continues with the theme of Caiaphas, Annas, and Pilate all being bougie af, since Pilate intentionally looks like he just came from tennis practice during this scene.  Also he does pilates...hehehe.

20) King Herod’s Song: Tim Minchin says in a BTS interview that JCS works best when Jesus and Judas are played seriously and the rest of the production is allowed to be completely camp and wild and bizarre all around them, and he is bloody well CORRECT about that.  Case in point: King Herod.  There is not a single production of JCS that I know of where Herod is played “straight.”  He’s been played by everyone from Alice Cooper to Jack Black, and everyone puts a different zany spin on him.  In JCS 2012 he’s a chat show host in a red crushed velvet suit, who is clearly having the time of his LIFE. 

21) Could We Start Again Please: This is another of my faves.  Just a quiet moment where MM, Peter, and the disciples try to grapple with the fact that Jesus is arrested and things are going very, very badly.  This is also my favorite Melanie C moment of the 2012 show.  Her grief is very real, and the little moment she has with Peter at the end is very real.

22) Death of Judas: This is basically Tim Minchin screaming for about five minutes, and incredibly harrowing to watch on first viewing.  

23) Trial Before Pilate: Possibly my single favorite scene in the entire 2012 production.  This is another harrowing watch, but there’s so much to take in.  The “set” that the entire show takes place on is essentially just a massive staircase, and the people with power are almost always positioned above the people without power.  In this scene, the crowd shouting “Crucify Him!” is positioned above Pilate, which is a very telling clue to Pilate’s psychology during this scene.  Jesus is at the very bottom of the stairs, of course.  Excellent use of the video screen once again during the 39 Lashes, to show the lash marks building and building until the entire screen is a wash of red.  Pilate’s counting also gets more and more frantic, especially starting around “20.”  And all the while the guitar riff from “Heaven On Their Minds” is playing.  Jesus’s line “Everything is fixed and you can’t change it” is played quite differently in different productions - here it’s defiant, but elsewhere (in JCS 2000 for example) it’s almost tender, like Jesus is absolving Pilate for his part in the trial.  But it always ends the same - with Pilate almost screaming as he passes the sentence and “washes his hands” of the whole sorry business. 

24) Superstar: The most over-the-top number in the show.  Judas, who died two scenes ago, comes back to sing this.  There are soul singers.  There are girls in skimpy angel costumes.  The parkour guys from the prologue are back.  Judas pulls a tambourine out of hammerspace midway through the song.  And Jesus is silently screaming and crying as he gets hoisted onto a lighting beam while all this is going on.

25) The Crucifixion: More of a spoken-word piece than a song, it’s Jesus’s final words on the cross over eerie piano music, and another harrowing watch.

26) John 19:41: An instrumental piece in which Jesus is taken from the cross and carried, at last, to the top of the stairs, before being lowered out of sight as the video screen turns into a memorial wall and everything fades to black.

So.  I know I’m anywhere from three to fifty-one years late to this particular party, but I am on the JCS bandwagon now and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.  :)

[thistle-and-thorn]

GRAVE OF THE FIREFLIES: Top five sad songs?

FROM UP ON POPPY HILL: Tell me about an experience that changed your life or your worldview.

MARY AND THE WITCH’S FLOWER: What is the last movie you watched? What are your thoughts on it?

PRINCESS MONONOKE: What elemental sign are you? (fire, earth, air & water) - you can tell me your actual sign and what you think you are because that also counts @_@

<3

ooooh these are gooooodddd ones.

1. Oh! Just five? Ummmmm...A Bridge Over Troubled Water is the song, when i was in a toxic work situation, that i would play on loop during my 45 minute commute and cry hysterically to. The Parting Glass is legally required to be played at every Irish American's funeral. Danny Boy is...Danny Boy. My mom and I like to sit and sing together and this is always the last one. Please Take Me Home by the Bird and the Bee is very cathartic (that whole album actually). Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas straight up makes me BAWL every time I hear it. Because SOMETIMES THE FATES DON'T ALLOW. Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen--the Kate McKinnon version from Saturday Night Live was what got me through the Trump presidency. Is that five? More than five? Who cares.

2. Oh--lots of things. What springs to mind is being fifteen. And I heard the Bishop Tom Shaw preach about forgiveness. I still tear up a little when I think about him and the story he told. Especially because we didn't know it at the time but he had just been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer and died shortly afterwards. That's the only change that has every been super immediate and not a process. Like I walked into that room as Person A and left as Person B.

3. Omg--I haven't watched many movies lately. Probably Coen Brothers' Tragedy of Macbeth. I am notoriously the only person in the world who really doesn't like the 2015 Fassebender Macbeth. ANYWAY this HEALED me. I thought the performances were excellent, the Witch(es) especially--extreme clarity of language, text-based directing choices (*side eyes 2015 Lady M sleepwalking scene*), quite traditional because we don't really need to dress up Shakespeare, actually. You could tell all the thanes APART. I thought the German Expressionist set design and lighting was AMAZING. I thought the role of Ross was a little uneven...but I like that they tried to do something different with the character. The more Shakespeare I see, the more I like interpretations that lean into the inherent theatricality of the plays. And that artificiality allows for the melodrama, for the over-the-top-ness that ultimately leads to emotional truth. Tied for first film adaptation with Patrick Stewart's 2011 (?) Macbeth.

4. Okay, I googled this because i didn't know what it meant. So apparently I'm earth so google says:

On a good day: Earth signs are grounded, loyal, and good at accumulating wealth. They tend to appreciate the finer things in life, such as good food and wine. They are sensual creatures. Earth signs are patient and practical.

On a bad day: Just as Earth signs can be loyal, they can also be stubborn and inflexible. It's often their way or the highway. Their love for material things can make them overly decadent and at times they can be lazy.

How to win them over: Give them food and wine. (OKAY THIS IS TRUE)

But I think I'm really more like water:

Theirs is the element of emotions. Water signs feel everything and can make wonderful artists because they are highly imaginative. They are very loyal and compassionate.

On a bad day: The sensitivity of water signs can make Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces easily hurt and they may take things too personally. They can also be moody and highly suspicious.

How to win them over: Tell them your darkest secret. (isn't this how we became friends?)

fuck this got long. sorry. WHAT ABOUT YOU?

[whyyoudothistomecavill]

Don't - Chapter 1

Hello everyone! This is my first time writing fanfiction. Chapter one is an introduction to the kind of relationship the characters have and, in future chapters I will fill in the gaps left in this part.

But first, let's see how this one goes.

Feedback is greatly appreciated.

I took the name from a song written by Jewel. Go and listen to it. Trust me, after the first verse, THAT person will pop in your head. Never fails.

Before we jump in, there's a few people I need to thank:

@littlefreya for helping me with the editing since I don't have a beta yet, for encouraging me knowing what a big deal this is for me, and for all the things you already know. I'll always be in your debt.

@mary-ann84 for making me feel welcome since day one and putting up with me and my annoying questions at any time of day. Girl, you deserve an award for patience.

@radaofrivia for taking the time to read my ramblings and giving me the reassurance I needed. For showing up out of nowhere when I was almost defeated by my lack of tumblr comprehension and explained everything to me with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Greek god Henry sent you my way, I have no doubt.

There aren't words enough to express how big of an inspiration all of you are to me. To be able to call you my friends, fills my heart with extreme joy and gratitude. So again THANK YOU.

I took the liberty to tag some people, to some I asked for their permission, to others I didn't, so if this bothers you in any way, just message me and I'll fix it, there's absolutely no obligation and I won't be offended.

With that being said, let's get to the point.

Title: Don't

Pairing: Henry x female reader.

Word count: 1682

Warnings: Angst, fluff, and if you squint your eyes you might find a bit of smut.

Summary: Henry and reader are a couple living together for 1 year. Reader have struggled with self esteem issues and insecurities her whole life and when she met Henry, she thought she had left all that in the past, but certain events made her realize that her soul is far from being healed.

Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction written by me. Please don't post it anywhere else without my permission. Reblogs here are welcomed of course. Thank you.

"Are you ok, darling?"

"Yes, honey"

"Are you sure? You don't seem ok"

"I'm ok, Hen," you smiled, "I'm just tired. I wanna get home, have a shower and then go to bed"

He didn't seem convinced but he didn't ask again. The rest of the ride home was silent, you looked out the window and prayed for the strength to act like everything was normal, while he concentrated on the road and hummed along to the radio.

But you knew better. You knew that this man, the most gorgeous man on earth, the man you called your boyfriend, the man every woman (and a lot of men too), thirsted for, was also the smartest, the most affectionate and that he paid attention to every single thing, especially you. He could notice the smallest change in your demeanor, he could tell when something was wrong and this time was no difference. He was just giving you time to process whatever it was upsetting you before you could talk to him, but in no way was he buying the "just tired" bs. And you knew it.

You entered the house and discarded your shoes and purse. Henry was taking Kal out of the car and into the house when you said "I'm gonna take a shower," and quickly rushed upstairs without waiting for an answer, you needed to be alone so desperately.

You got into the bathroom and took your clothes off without even glancing in the mirror, you didn't want to see anybody, much less yourself.

The hot water was bliss to your sore muscles, too bad it didn't make a difference to the pain in your heart. You rested your forehead into the tiled wall and felt the water gently massaging your back and legs. You were so immersed in your thoughts that you didn't hear the bathroom door being open. Henry was already behind you, his strong hands caressing your back as light as a feather and his mouth on your ear, "may I join you?"

You turned around and looked at him, at those eyes bluer than the sky itself, at those curls that did things to you just by looking at them, and that smile, the most perfect and genuine smile you had ever seen, it was literally impossible not to smile back at him, it was contagious.

He didn't wait for an answer, he lowered himself to put his arms around your waist as you put yours around his neck and kissed you deeply and tenderly. You knew he did that so you wouldn't have to be on your tiptoes to kiss him, he was so damn considerate and perfect it infuriated you sometimes.

So you closed your eyes and kissed him like there was no tomorrow, he sensed the heat in your kiss and grabbing your behind, lifted you up still kissing you, putting your back against the wall. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him and he broke the kiss to look at you, his hair was tousled all over from the water and your hands. His lips were swollen from the kissing and his eyes were dark with lust but also full of love. Oh,so much love.

"What do you want?" He said, "Tell me. What do you need? I'm here, I'm yours".

Something inside of you broke, it was too much. "I want you, Henry. I need you. Now. Inside of me. Please".

He didn't wait for you to ask again, maneuvering you as if you weighed nothing, he made you descend on his length without breaking eye contact, until you were completely full of him. He started to move, slowly and leisurely making you moan and clung to him for dear life.

He didn't know about the battle that was going on inside you. You wanted him to crawl within you and fill the emptiness eating your soul, you wanted to hold him and never let go, you wanted to stop time. Or maybe go back in time, or just disappear. But for the time being you were just grateful for the water running over both of you, not letting Henry notice that your tears were running as well.

Even if you were shattered inside, your body would always succumb to him, there was no point in resisting, and as he kept moving in and out of you, whispering sweet nonsenses in your ear, the orgasm hit you like a thunder lightning crying out his name, his release following moments later triggered by your loud moans.

He held you still between him and the wall while you both recovered your breath, filling your neck with open mouthed kisses.

He lowered you and you held him tightly, putting your head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. It always soothed you. You both stayed that way under the shower in silence, until you started to feel the boiling inside you rising again. "I'm gonna get the towels" you said, "I got it" said he and with a swift move of his long arms, he reached for the towels and started drying you, hair first, then your body, slowly, caressing every inch of it and leaving light kisses everywhere his hands would pass.

He was kneeling in front of you, drying your legs and slowly going up, your eyes were fixated on him and his movements, not saying a word. He looked up, saw you staring, and reaching up, caressed your face so softly it made you lean your head in his hand, closing your eyes. It was like time stopped and you were there alone just savoring that moment, keeping it in your memory forever and you couldn't help the single tear rolling down your cheek into his hand...

When you opened your eyes, you saw the look of concern on his face, "What is it baby? What's wrong?"

You needed to make a choice, so you chose the truth. At least the one truth that wouldn't hurt him: "I love you so much".

"And that makes you cry?"

You chuckled a little, "No, I sometimes get overwhelmed by all these feelings, I'm sorry for being so sensitive" you said, wiping your eyes and smiling through tears.

He stood up and crashed your lips with his, taking you by surprise and lifting you up, carrying you like a bride to your bed.

He got in too, cuddling you from behind and you intended to get up to find one of his t-shirts, your go-to pajamas since day one with him, but he stopped you with his arm around your waist and pulled you against him, your back on his chest, your naked bodies molding perfectly together under the sheets.

You clutched his hand in yours, closed your eyes and tried to ease your racing heart.

His voice took you back to reality:

"Look at me, love"

You turned around in his arms just enough to look him in the eyes, and it surprised you to see, his were a little watery too.

"I love you" he whispered. "I love you like I never thought it was possible to love someone. You have brought to my life the hope that my tired heart believed was lost. I want to spend every minute of every day with you and when my work keeps us apart, I can't wait to share with you every detail of my day. You know sometimes..." he paused, smiling and looking away, "sometimes I have to tell myself *get it together Cavill! You're a grown man acting like a teenager*, but that's what you do to me" he said looking at you again and caressing your lips with his thumb, "You're my fuel, my reason, you're my last thought when I go to sleep and my first one when I wake up, and I'm so grateful to have you that sometimes I'm scared to think that I don't express it enough for you to actually get a glimpse of how happy you make me. That's why I might seem a little clingy around you... I love you and I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything, that I'm always here for you, it doesn't matter if I'm working or doing anything else, you are my priority, ok?"

You were a crying mess by now and watching his red eyes trying so hard not to cry, wasn't helping.

"Ok?" he said again, clearly demanding an answer from you.

But your words wouldn't come out. How? How could you tell him? How on earth was he supposed to imagine that he had chosen the worst possible moment to tell you this?

So again you settled for the truth, the only indisputable truth you could give him, and nodding you took his face in your hands and kissed him, pulling him on top of you.

He engulfed you in his arms and broke the kiss to breathe, you covered his face with light kisses tasting the salt of his tears which only added more sorrow to your battered soul.

"Make love to me," you said against his lips. He looked at you through hooded eyes and went for the spot on your neck he knew drove you crazy.

This was the truth. The fact that when you were together you couldn't tell where each of you ended and the other began. The absolute certainty of loving him with every fiber of your being, knowing you could never love anyone else this much, not even in a thousand lives. You never hid it. It was impossible to...

A few hours later, you were watching him peacefully asleep, his features even more beautiful in the dim morning light. You carefully kissed him and placed your head on his chest, he held you tighter against him and said something that sounded like "I love you". "I love you too" you said, granting him again the truth you couldn't deny.

The unspoken truth however, the one he was about to learn, was that in fact, the one you didn't love... was yourself.

Tag list:

@mary-ann84 @littlefreya @radaofrivia @demivampirew @dancingwendigo @seb-owns-these-tatas​ @viking-raider​ @cruelfvkingsummer​ @cherry-acid​ @achaoticaugust​ @promptandpros​ @ladyreapermc​ @honeychicanawrites​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @chamomilebottom​ @deathonyourtongue​

[excatholicatheistace]

My Cult Story Part II: A Prayer to Take Authority

If you missed part one, go look for it! I'm sharing about how I accidentally joined an obscure Catholic Charismatic cult as a college student and endured Spiritual Abuse (Trigger Warning!).

.

The alleged Visionary who started the group (The official name of the group was "the Sharers of the Word") was a woman out of Canada named Frances Phillips. She claimed to hear the voice of God like we hear our friends and neighbors speaking to us. God allegedly gave her messages about how to navigate the modern world, particularly about how to unlock the gifts of the Holy Spirit and about the dangers of Satan and Demons.

It's hard to find information about her as the group kept things very secretive. Her writings are hiding where only a select few people can find them. She claims God instructed this because, "People would only misunderstand them." And so, instead of sharing her writings with the world, she developed a model where she taught a select few people (one of them being our leader, Fr. Brad) the teachings and they would bring them out to people in the form of prayer groups. This was supposed to help retain accuracy.

It's been over a decade since I was in the group and I realized I never tried to seek out other survivors. So, I tried to find any evidence of this group existing, hoping to find an obscure forum somewhere where people talked about the abuse they went through (or even just mention of a prayer meeting). But if it ever was searchable via Google, they did a great job of scrubbing the internet. I think it's more likely that people are too intimidated or isolated to talk about it. (I have reached out to some of my peers at the time and none of them have felt comfortable talking about their experiences in any sort of public fashion).

The only things I was able to find after searching for days:

- A Public Facebook group called "Sharers of the Word on the Rez." The group doesn't seem very active. The person running it posts a YouTube video with prayers every so often imploring people to try to get to 2,000 Hail Marys.

- A few blogs where it was obvious that the priests running them had encountered the group and were utilizing some of the teachings, but never said they were affiliated with them officially.

-And (for some reason this one unsettles me and I can't explain why): one of the prayers Frances Philips wrote to help "combat evil." It exists on a few different websites. None of them attribute the prayer to her or to any author.

.

The prayer is called A Prayer to Take Authority. I don't want to take up too much room by adding it here, but if you Google it, you should be able to find it easily. The prayer is about using your authority via baptism and the Name of Jesus to to bind evil spirits in the air, water, ground, etc.

I always found the prayer odd when I was in the group. I was Catholic at the time and this was supposedly a Catholic Group, but Catholics don't really believe lay people should "take authority" over spirits without proper training. The friar who was teaching us assured us that this prayer was given to Frances Phillips directly from God and that it had a "powerful anointing attached to it." We were supposed to pray it every single day in the morning before we "prayed for the anointing*" otherwise demons could ruin our prayer time and we wouldn't receive the anointing*. They also encouraged you to pray it before entering a car, before going to Mass, before taking exams, before bed, and any time you felt like you were experiencing a "spiritual attack" (something they believed to be a common experience that most people simply aren't aware of).

*"The Anointing" is Frances Phillip's main teaching. It's supposedly a manifestation of the Holy Spirit upon you that guided you throughout the day. They claimed you could feel the anointing on your hands as a tingling or burning sensation when you open your hands in an open posture to receive it. They also claimed you might feel it on your head, like oil dripping down. You could lose the anointing if you sinned or otherwise went against God's will. You can receive the anointing in many ways, but they believed the most powerful way was to pray A Prayer to Take Authority and then do Praise and Worship (complete with tongues). There was a formula for the Praise and Worship for it to be the most affective as well, always ending with the same song (https://hymnary.org/text/spirit_of_the_living_god_fall_iverson)

.

I ended Part One by sharing how Fr. Brad told me not to go home for the summer. He warned me about the evil spirits there and that I would miss out on "blessings" because everyone else was going to Canada to meet with a peer of his (another understudy of Frances Phillips), who had a powerful gift of healing. He told me that this would be my opportunity to receive the Gift of Healing for myself (He knew I was drawn to it, because I wanted so desperately to help people).

I do genuinely feel like this was an attempt to isolate me from my biggest support system, my family. Luckily, I didn't listen, but as I left I felt a deep sadness at the possibility of missing out on something that I cared deeply about (The Gift of Healing). On top of that, all my friends were staying and were going to Canada with him. I was the only one who didn't stay behind.

That summer I didn't pray A Prayer to Take Authority every day and I didn't pray for the Anointing every day despite calls from the friars. They reminded me of the dangers I was encountering at home and implored me to keep my guard up. But, deep down I knew it was bullshit and I just lived my life.

(To be continued)

[since0202]

Chapter 33: Wedding

The day of the wedding was a blur for Grace. She had dutifully arrived by 7 a.m. to help Alice start coordinating the set up of the clearing just off of their house. Bella was to get there no later than 10 to start getting ready. Grace was in sweats and a cropped sweatshirt with her hair pulled up in a messy bun as she artfully wove fresh flowers together. 

“Emmett! Come on, I said finish clearing the boulders not smash them to pieces and scattering broken rock across the dance floor.” Grace clucked making her way over. 

“I’m trying to see if I can hit it just right so that it crumbles into a likeness of their faces! Like when you see the virgin Mary in toast,” Emmett said to Grace’s confusion. 

“Well you’re about to be put on duck duty if you don’t knock it off and clean this up!” Grace scolded. Jasper was hovering around a nearby pond eyeing the swimming ducks with a pained look on his face. Whenever a duck got too close, he’d move ever so slightly and they’d bounce away from him squawking. 

“I’m not dealing with ducks,” Emmett said under his breath. Grace turned to go back inside looking for more ribbon as a bustle of energy moved in and around the house. Alice had tasked each member of her family with some important task. 

Grace went upstairs and into Alice’s studio as she pricked at the flowers and gave out a shriek when she looked up to find Edward there stock still and staring at Bella’s wedding dress. 

“Jesus Edward!” Grace said placing a hand over her chest and taking a minute to recover. He looked over at her slightly amused and a little embarrassed before Grace continued, “What are you doing in here, isn’t that bad luck?” she pointed toward Bella’s dress. 

“Only if she’s in it, I think,” He said quietly. His eyes returned the dress and Grace moved past him to open the craft drawers spilling over with ribbons. Once she found one she liked, she moved to sit at the makeup station Alice had set up for Bella to get ready at and set to work on the flowers. 

“What are you making?” he asked after a second. 

“Boutaneers,” Grace said with a needle in between her teeth still. “You gonna tell me why you’re really in here?” 

Edward gave a knowing smirk, “So perceptive,” he said looking back to the dress before he spoke. “She’s going to want me to turn her after we get back from the honeymoon.” He heard Grace hold her breath, her fingers stalling over the flowers momentarily. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to refuse her.”

Grace let out a long exhale and looked up at him, “It’s easy. Just say no.” 

“But then Alice or Carlisle will do it,” Edward shook his head annoyed again. 

“Then stop them,” Grace said simply, grumbling now. 

“Were it so easy,” he said, his eyes trained on Grace now. “Would you help?” 

“I have tried.She won’t listen to me. She’ll throw supernatural destiny in my face and call it square.”

“So what happens then? I change her and your pack comes after us for the rest of our lives?” Edward said disappointedly. “I told her forever and I meant it.”

“I don’t know what will happen, but you definitely won’t be welcome back to Forks and neither will Bella. Not anyone. But what other way is there?” Grace looked tired suddenly. “I’m not starting the war but I will put a stop to it if it starts.” 

“You think we want a war?” Edward probed. 

“No, but the pack will see it as nothing other than a gauntlet thrown. And without the treaty in place, they won’t have any reason not to come after you. It depends on how far Sam lets them go.” 

“But you’ll help us, right?” Edward’s eyes were controlled. Grace looked up at him. 

“She’s my family, which makes you my family, which probably makes me a traitor, so yes?” Grace narrowly avoided pricking her finger to the point of blood as she hissed. “But I highly doubt they’ll kill me. Who knows though.” Grace sighed dejectedly. “Happy returns.” she toasted one of the boutaneers and frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m trying.”

Edward nodded and looked back to the wedding dress before making his way past her. He paused and put a cold hand on her shoulder causing her to look up, “It’s okay. We’ll meet it as it comes….together,” he gave her a reassuring smile and left her in the room alone. 

The ceremony was everything Grace had imagined. As she sat in the front row next to Renee and Charlie in her silvery blue satin dress, her hair spilling gorgeously down her back and pulled half up with soft wispy strands floating around her face, she couldn’t help but think that this is what forever must look like with someone you loved beyond words. 

Bella stared so intently at Edward, at every vow he uttered and he returned the look. There was everything between and yet they were close, conquered immeasurable hurtles, fought death and destruction, and promised forever. Grace’s eyes glittered with tears as they were pronounced man and wife and with a soft, endearing, and terribly intimate kiss, they turned to smile adoringly at their loved ones. 

Grace broke into loud cheers and claps, hearing Embry, Quil, and Seth crooning at the very back close to the treeline. 

The night wore on easy from there, Grace and Bella happily discarding their high heels to go barefoot to the shock and laughter of Alice. They danced until their lungs hurt on the dance floor with Angela and Jessica and Mike and Eric. A farewell to their childhood in the most spectacularly noisy way possible. 

After a few slow songs that she coerced Seth and then Embry to dance with her on, she collapsed into a chair fanning herself. The night had come upon them long ago and Grace shone like moonlight in her dress. She turned to Embry and Quil at her table and said “I’m going to get a drink do you guys want—” but she was cut off by their nervous looks. 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re chickening out now! You made it through a whole ceremony and dance party with a bunch of vampires.” she said a smile moving across her face teasing them. 

“Must be the punch,” Quil played off and took another swig. Grace shrugged and looked back to the dance floor. But her eyes saw the receding figures of Edward and Bella sneak around the back of the house. “Where are they going?”

Her question was short lived though because Seth was pulling her up onto the dance floor again, trying to spin and gleefully dip her to his heart’s content. Seth was a good head and half taller than her now, even though he was barely 15. They drew the stares and laughter of couples closest to them but Grace didn’t care. Just a week after her meeting with Ti’Hal, she was starting to feel better. 

She didn’t lose her breath every other second, she was recasting with ease around the reservation, Sam had reinstated her back onto patrols, and she had even spent the afternoon baking with Emily just for fun. She was by no means whole, and the grief would often return at night when she was alone in bed, but she was standing on her own two feet again and it didn’t hurt so much to smile. She had her pack to thank for that. They wholeheartedly threw themselves into Grace’s path to help her along in her healing. No flickering thoughts or judgements were thrown her way and even Paul was helpful on rounds. 

He had somewhat patched up with Rachel according to Quil, visiting her every weekend at UW after she went back in August. They were taking it slow, but something told Grace that it wouldn’t take long. Paul was happier by the day, a warm glow bouncing off of him as he ran through the forest and Grace breathed a sigh of relief at that. He needed to be happy so that she could be happy too. She just wasn’t sure how yet. 

Once the song ended, Angela was by her side, “Hey have you seen Bella? We should take our shots in the photobooth now!” her cheeks were rosy and she’d definitely had some of the famous punch. 

“Oh! I’ll grab her, I think I saw her and Edward heading around back to go smoooooch,” Grace said happily pulling out of Seth’s arms to his shock and protest. 

Grace bounded off the dance floor and around the back of the house, humming to the song back in the crowd without realizing a little too late that she was indeed a party crasher. 

“Hey, Bella! Ange wants to take pictures in the photobooth if you’re ready—” her mouth closed quick as she came to an abrupt halt. 

In the dark, moonlit clearing, Bella was standing in front of none other than Jacob Black. His hair was longer but he had pulled it up into a loosely fitted bun to keep it out of his face. His features were hard, like sunwarmed stone and his frame was somehow broader, more sure, but shaking. Her eyes connected with his instantly and that familiar rush, the pang in her stomach that had been dormant roared to life. Her whole body tingled with anticipation and then fizzled quietly as Jake automatically took a step back from Bella, trying to quell the violent shaking in his body. 

Grace was having a hard time reading his face, the emotions were changing so quickly: fear, desire, sadness, overwhelming joy, crushing pain, and finally, hard as stone anger. 

“I...I’m sorry I didn’t know you were..” Grace breathed unable to take her eyes off of the man that she had loved for the past year, maybe longer, maybe in lifetimes before if she would let herself remember, “Busy.” she finally breathed taking a step up the hill. “Jacob.” She had to say his name, just once. A call for a hopeful return. Jake gave an imperceptible shake of the head and held his body tight. 

“‘I came to see Bella.” His voice even laced with so much anger was music to her ears. She had to hold in a sigh of relief at finally hearing it again outside of her dreams. 

“Right,” she said, finally pulling her gaze from Jake to Bella who was looking at her tearfully. “I’ll just…” She turned and hastily made her exit, but could clearly hear a strangled groan coming from Jacob as she left. Her heart was about to burst with how quickly it was hammering in her chest. Just as she came to the crest of the hill, she bumped into Edward who grasped onto her forearms to steady her. 

“Are you alright?” he said worriedly. 

“Yeah, I just….Jacob,” she shook her head and Edward looked over her down the hill. Something was clearly escalating now in the clearing from which she had come but she needed steady ground. Edward let go of her as she pushed past him and made her way toward Embry and Quil. They looked up at her with clear worry and she put a hand on each of their shoulders. Embry raised his hand to place over hers and she took deep, gulping breaths like she had been drowning. After a couple of minutes, she calmed her breathing and opened her eyes to look at them. 

“You okay?” Quil said, clear worry in his eyes. He knew Jacob was near.

“Jacob’s back,” she breathed, a small smile pulling at the side of her mouth without her meaning to. Quil and Embry shot each other a look like she had truly lost it this time.

But it felt like coming up for air. Jacob returning didn’t hurt, it felt good, and the warmth that Ti’Hal had shot through her a week ago ratcheted up her body and nestled in her belly again. 

Jacob came back.

Her eyes went wide and Quil stood up to brace her back. She took one startled look at Quil and drifted over to the photobooth where Jessica and Angela were giggling while holding a tray between them. Grace leaned in and took one of the shots from the tray throwing it back down her throat to squeals of delight from Angela. She took another one and downed that too making a ‘Blegh’ sound after and Jessica protested:

“Hey! That one was mine!” Grace sloppily wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. 

“I’ll get you more. Don’t let Esme see,” Grace sneakily darted her eyes around the dance floor. Esme already knew but the pretense was important. It added to their glee hiding in the booth and taking shots. 

“Where’s Bella?” Angela said through giggles. 

“Couldn’t find her,” Grace said shortly squeezing in and pressing start on the photobooth to take 6 quick pictures. Just as the flashes started to pop, Bella peeked her head in with a quick ‘Hey,” her eyes still red rimmed. 

The shots were hitting Grace’s stomach now and she looked at Bella delighted. They all returned with a joyful “Hey!” and pulled her into the tight booth, sitting Bella on their collective laps and clinking yet another round of shots together. Bella hesitantly took hers but one look at Grace and she downed it quickly. 

“Boys,” Bella murmured, pulling a face as the flash went off again. Grace tightened her grip around Bella’s hand. 

The cheers were deafening around her as she stood off to the side of the crowd for Bella and Edward’s send off to their honeymoon. Quil and Embry flanked her while Seth was standing out in front throwing rice and soaking in the wonder of the moment. As they came to the end, Bella reached for Grace and pulled her into her arms tightly. 

“Have fun okay?” Grace said, the words getting choked as emotion swept through her. 

“I will..” Bella whispered. 

“And come back okay, Bells?” Grace pulled back from her and looked her in the eyes. “Come back.” 

“I will, I promise,” she nodded and they swept each other into one more hug, before Grace released her and she went to say goodbye to her parents. 

She turned to Quil and Embry just a tad wobbly still from the shots, “Ready?” They nodded and she called for Seth. As they moved into the treeline, Grace looked over her shoulder and sent a silent pleading thought out one more time to Bella, Please, please come back. 

In the distance, she heard a wolf howl. 

[scenecipriano]

Set The Spirit Free

THIS- is based on @teataearts post that they made of my post! It’s postception XD 

Tw: decapitation mentioned, depression mentioned, panic attacks, angst, and injuries, mentions of selfharm

The song that was used to help with the added lyrics can be found here it’s a cover by Alice Flare! 

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

Roman stumbles when he pops back into his room, tears blurring his green eyes as he drops down to his knees, a choked sob getting trapped in his throat. Why was he never enough? He tried to be perfect, to be the perfect hero for Thomas and his family, ‘But you’re not the hero are you?’ Roman covers his mouth as another sob tries to force its way through. 

The voice of his insecurities was right, he wasn’t the hero anymore, he hasn’t changed, he was still the jerk that Logan claimed him to be, and the annoying prince that Virgil always said he was. Now that Patton was agreeing with… with Janus, who knows what the fatherly side has thought of him all these years and just lied straight to his face. 

It wasn’t fair, he was the one that suggested Thomas talk to Lee and Mary Lee, he was the one to suggest they go to the callback, but he didn’t want Thomas to be a bad person! He wanted Thomas to be good, he wanted to make Patton proud of him! Not… Not scared or upset like when he… 

‘Roman you need to stop! You’re hurting everyone!’ 

He closes his eyes and allows tears to slip down his face.

“T-That’s all I ever do is hurt, people… T-That’s why fate’s cruel hand gave me the ability to use the hurt incantation… i-it’s not fair,” Roman cries as he grips his hair tight.

Roman tenses when a knock sounds at his door. 

“Kiddo? Can you let me in, we need to talk…” 

Panic ceases Roman’s heart as he pushes himself up from the floor, he stumbles slightly as he rushes over to the door that hid the imagination. He must have accidentally knocked something down because Patton yelped out and asked if he was okay. 

Roman throws the door to the imagination open and runs inside, he slams the door shut and runs as fast he can, ignoring the gloomy scenery that took over his usual sunny and blue skies. 

‘Oh, Roman, thank god you don’t have a mustache! Otherwise, between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is!’ 

Roman chokes back a sob as he dashes across the slowly dying field, he runs into his palace and into the throne room. 

He collapses onto his throne and buries his face into his hands, allowing his sobbing and tears to spill freely. 

‘Okay, now you’re just being a jerk.’ 

‘That lyric wasn’t… good.’ 

‘Pump the brakes Princey!’ 

‘Roman, I’m surprised at you!’ 

‘Roman’ll make you sick~!’ 

‘Thank god you don’t have a mustache, otherwise between you and Remus I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is!’ 

The voices of his friends, brother, and that snake kept repeating over and over again, causing Roman to grip his hair tighter and tighter. 

“C-Cut the strings of hope… C-Catastrophic deeds… burn all means to cope...and set the spirit free…” 

The aura in the throne room darkens, the single strip that Roman kept dyed bled into a dark shade of black, his green eyes turning into black voids as his tears continuously fall like a slow flowing stream. 

“Wither and decay… end this destiny, break these earthly chains… and set the spirit free…” 

The white of Roman’s uniform bleeds to ebony, his sash taking on a more crimson color as a crown made of obsidian forms over his head.

“The spirit free…” 

Remus was worried, ha! Him worried, what a shocker right? But he was worried, Janus filled him in on what happened after the latest episode. Everyone tried their best to get Roman to come out of his room but nothing was working. As the days past, Remus noticed how everyone was losing the normal glow. Virgil seemingly more anxious than normal, falling into panic attacks and snapping at everyone before immediately breaking down and apologizing. 

Logan was more snippy than usual, nearly biting anyone’s heads off that even dared to look in his direction for too long. The logical side chose to keep to himself in his room, which Remus was sure wasn’t any better, he saw the red marks on Logan’s forearms. 

Patton and Thomas were the ones that worried him the most, the two of them falling into a depression. Patton refuses to eat, only wanting to wear his cat hoodie and some pajama pants. While Thomas refuses to leave his bed and do work, no matter what Remus tried, Thomas wouldn’t budge, no matter how many times he’s shown up with a severed head. 

Janus was surprisingly handling things well, he may have the occasional outburst, but that wasn’t really uncommon with the snake. 

“Okay, this shit is getting ridiculous. Jan, you’re the self-care guru, can’t you just, go up there and kick Thomas in the ass and make him get up?” 

Janus sighs heavily as he turns the page in his book. 

“I could, but what’s the point? With Patton down and Virgil in high gear, nothing is going to get Thomas up and going. If Roman would just get over his temper tantrum then this wouldn’t be happening.” 

Remus frowns and snatches the snake’s book from him, he holds it up above his head when Janus tries to snatch it back. 

“You and I are going up there, I’m going to try something, well I’m going to try what I should have done a long time ago but I couldn’t resist showing Thomathy my head collection.” 

“Oh? And what’s that?” Janus asks as he tries to jump up to get his book. 

“I’m going to heal him.” 

Thomas groans when he hears two of his sides appear next to the bed, he tightens the covers around him. 

“At, nope not this time, bitch.” 

Thomas goes to snap at Remus when the intrusive side jerks the blankets away but stops when the duke places his hand on Thomas’s head. 

“Flower gleam and glow, let your powers shine, make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine.” 

Thomas’s eyes widen when he sees the glowing aura form around Remus, the white tuff of hair and his eyes glowing as well. 

“Heal what has been hurt, change the fates’ design, save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine… what once was mine~.” 

Thomas blinks when a warm feeling floods through his chest, for the first time in over a week he felt like his old self. He stares up at Remus with his jaw slacked. 

“How did you-?” 

“Doesn’t matter, Dee-Dee, go check on the others, I need to have a talk with Thomas.” 

Thomas looks over to Janus, he notices how the sides scales looked more lively than they were the last time he saw him. He waves to him as the snake-like side sinks out, earning a small smile from him in return. 

“You and I need to make a trip, I think I know what’s wrong with my brother, but I need you to get to him.” 

Thomas looks at Remus and furrows his brows. 

“Why would you want to help him? Don’t you two hate each other?” 

“No, we just… disagree on things are you going to help me or not?” 

Thomas sits up and gives Remus a determined look as he holds his hand out for the duke to take. 

“Let’s go be our prince’s hero.” 

Remus felt himself go rigid when he and Thomas appeared into the imagination, the sky was dark, all of the greenery was dried out and brown, deader than Anne Boleyn after she was decapitated. He turns to Thomas when he hears the man cough and gasps for air.   

“Wither and decay, end this destiny… break these earthly chains and set the spirit free, the spirit free~.” 

Roman’s voice echoed across the lands. 

“I-Is that from T-Tangled?” Thomas wheezes. 

“Yes, once I save Roman we’ll explain I promise but you need to go. Update the others, we’ll be back soon.” 

Remus waves his hand, sending Thomas out of the imagination. 

‘Please be okay, Ro…’ 

Roman was cold, he cold and numb, but a small part of him inside his heart begged to be free. His voice echoed as he sang the incantation, his tears felt as if they had frozen onto his cheeks as a pond would freeze in the dead of winter. 

“Ro-!” 

Someone was here, he could hear them, his singing was too loud. 

‘Evil twin.’ 

A pitched yelp and a light touch to his left arm caused Roman to come back to reality, he watches as his brother slides across the throne room floor. His right arm clutched tightly to his chest. 

“R-Remus… R-Remus!” Roman cries, the black fading from his eyes. His costume bleaching back into his normal white, the obsidian crown disappearing from the top of his head as he rushes over to his brother. 

He gasps when he sees Remus’ hand charred black and bent at an angle. Fresh tears form in Roman’s eyes as he drops down next to Remus. 

“I-I’m s-sorry, I didn’t… I-I didn’t mean t-to, I just… I-I wanted the voices to s-sto-.” 

“S-Shh, it’s okay… It’s okay I’ll heal…” 

Roman tenses up when his brother pulls him into a one-armed hug. He buries his face against the rough fabric of Remus’ shirt. 

“I-I’m s-sorry…” 

“I’m just glad you’re back…” 

[hookedonapirate]

Sneak Peek - Through the Rising Tide

A/N: Thank you to the lovely ladies in the Discord chat for sprinting with me last night and helping me get more words on the page. I have 4k words for this chapter so far.

Chapter 3

Emma throws on some clothes, making sure she’s dressed appropriately in case she runs into her other roommate as she heads to the bathroom. The wide, blissful smile on her face instantly fades though, her nose scrunching in disapproval when she steps on something and looks down, spotting the red, lacey thong on the floor outside Killian’s bedroom. A thong that is not her own. 

  What the actual fuck? 

  She grimaces and kicks the fabric aside like it’s contaminated with a deadly virus. She’s not surprised though. Disgusted, yes, but not surprised. Killian is always bringing a different woman home with him, and she and Liam always have to hear the noises coming from his bedroom. This is why they don’t feel bad when they’re going at it, and don’t even bother being quiet. 

  Sometimes she thinks the two brothers are engaging in some sort of weird contest, trying to see who can make the woman they’re with scream the loudest. She gathers it’s a pissing contest between the two brothers to see who’s the better bloke in the sack, or to see who has the bigger cock. So Emma always makes sure she’s extra loud to let Killian know just how good his brother is in the sack. And so far, none of the women Killian’s brought to his bed have outmatched her. 

  Emma grins at the thought as she continues to the bathroom to relieve her bladder. She also thinks about how much things have changed since she came here to Storybrooke. She’d never meant to start a relationship with Liam, or anyone for that matter, when she’d ran into him outside his bar the night they’d met. They had exchanged phone numbers and he’d asked her out the next day, to which she’d reluctantly accepted. She was reluctant, not because she wasn't attracted to him—because God, she was—but because she still had a strong fortress surrounding her heart from when Neal had shattered it to pieces. But when she’d learned Liam too was cheated on by an ex, they had bonded over their heartaches, and she thought they could help each other heal. But they did so much more than that. 

  Emma fell for Liam, hookline and sinker. He’s much like a teddy bear, only soft on the inside, not the outside. He’s kind and loving and makes her laugh, and when she’d discovered how good in bed he was during their first night together, she thought he was too good to be true. He seemed like the total package. He is the total package. But still, she’d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop; it never did, though. Or at least, it hasn’t dropped yet.

  Once she's under the shower stream, she’s wetting her hair and singing the first song that comes to mind. Titanium by David Guetta. 

  “You shout it out, but I can’t hear a word you say. . .”

  That’s right, after nine years, she still sings this damn song. But it’s so perfect for the shower because the lyrics are ones she can easily belt out, the words echoing beautifully off the bathroom walls.

  She’s loved singing in the shower since she was eight years old. Her brother would always pound on the bathroom door when Emma was taking a shower, and yell for her to stop. It was like that when they lived in the same house growing up and it was like that after she moved in with him and Mary Margaret. She has to admit, she misses annoying the hell out of her brother. 

  Pound, pound, pound.

  “Would you stop your bloody awful singing?!" Killian shouts through the door. “Some people are actually trying to sleep around here!”

  But now that she lives with Liam, she has his pain in the ass brother to annoy. As fun as that is, it’s not really the same.

  Emma doesn’t stop though. Instead, she grins to herself and lathers shampoo into her hair, closing her eyes as she makes sure to sing even louder and more obnoxious.

  “You criticize, but all your bullets ricochet. Shoot me down, but I get up. . .”

  Ever since she moved in with her boyfriend eight months ago, Killian has been a pesky thorn in her side. He’s been nothing but a nuisance. From leaving his dirty dishes in the sink to sleeping with a different woman almost every night to pissing her off every chance he gets. He’s always trying to bring her down, always finding new ways to push her buttons. She’s not sure exactly why it all started. Maybe because he’s held a grudge against her since she chose his brother over him. Or maybe because he thinks she’s trying to steal his brother away from him. But either way, she’s not giving him the satisfaction of letting him get to her. Or at least letting him know he gets to her.

  Emma starts shouting out the lyrics, each word louder than the previous one, purposely trying to get a rise out of him, just like he always does to her. 

  “Shoot me down, but I won’t fall! I am Tit-aaaaan-iiiiiiiuuuuuum!”

  She hears the faucet whine and suddenly she's shivering, no longer feeling the hot water spraying her skin. What the fuck? One second she's rinsing her hair and the next, the bathroom door is slamming shut and she’s just standing there in the bathtub with shampoo dripping down her face and no water to rinse it out with. 

  That bastard turned off the shower!

  “What the hell?!” she screeches, her words garbled when the shampoo drips into her mouth. She spits it out and spins around, blindly reaching for the towel on the rack, yanking it off the bar and wiping her face with it. “You asshole!”

  She steps out of the bathtub, blood bubbling under her skin as she wraps the towel around her body. Okay, pounding on the bathroom door is one thing, but shutting off the water while she’s taking a shower is a whole different level of asshole for Killian Jones! And she won’t stand for it. She’s not letting him get away with this. 

  She marches out of the bathroom and down the hall, ripping his door open and storming into his room without any sort of grace. She hurries over to his alarm clock, which he leaves on his dresser across the room so he'll have to get up to turn it off. He does it so he won’t be tempted to hit the snooze button and fall back asleep. 

  Killian’s in his bed with the covers over his head as Emma turns on the music and cranks up the volume. She immediately spins around and scurries out of his room, but when she makes it to the doorway, she can feel his hand gripping her arm as he turns her around and presses her firmly against the wall, just outside his door.  

  She loses her breath.

@itsfabianadocarmo​ @xhookswenchx​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @snowbellewells​​ @onceuponaprincessworld​ @viajandosinalas​ @teamhook​ @captainswan-shipper88​ @jamif​ @katielovesstarcrossedlovers​ @uhthreeyuh @lfh1226-linda​ @babyyouremyqueen​ @sthonour​ @julesep3026​ @fairytalewhispersinmyheart​ @andiirivera​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @wickedsw4n​ @eleveneitherway​ @eherron14 @ouatpost​ @transparentclodsludgeweasel​

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 10: Premonitions]

Several weeks and depressive episodes later...I’m BACK! 😃

And guess what: we’re officially approximately halfway done with BYCNL! (There will probably be nineteen chapters total.)  

The Queen/BoRhap fandom is feeling extra quiet lately, so if you’re still out there I’d LOVE it if you dropped me a comment/message/etc to let me know! I appreciate you all so much and hope you are finding things that bring you happiness, fulfillment, and peace. 💜

Chapter summary: Roger makes a purchase, Freddie makes a friend, Y/N makes an unsettling discovery, John makes a bewildering request.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies (but not your babies...or are they?!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 😊

“Roger, this is too much.” Your sandals click on the marble tile floor, a sandy gold like the beaches of Ostia. You peer up at the winding staircase, the Tudor-style diamond windows, the chandelier dripping with crystals. “This is way, way, way too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much,” he parries merrily. “And look!” He pulls back an armful of sheer white curtains that had obscured the backyard. “The pool has a slide!”

You smile because you have to; he’s so elated, so young. “Roger, baby, unless you’re planning to acquire a literal harem of women we will never have a use for six bedrooms.”

“Sure we will!” He counts on his rugged fingers. “There’s one for us, and one can be the guest bedroom for when my mother or your parents visit, and then there’s one for if Chrissie ever wises up and leaves that wanker Brian and requires a place to stay between husbands, and one for when John needs an escape from that mind-numbing domestic purgatory of his, and one for Freddie’s overflow cats...” Roger trails off. He’s lost track.  

“That still leaves one unnecessary bedroom.”

He grins. “One for Roger Junior.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a wonderful home for children,” the real estate agent chimes, flitting around rearranging pillows and dusting off tabletops. “Plenty of space to spread out in, lots of bedrooms, fenced-in yard, security gate, spectacular school district...and such a lovely garden to explore! Does your wife garden?” she asks Roger.

“Girlfriend,” he corrects. “And no, she’s thoroughly useless in the agricultural department.”

You laugh and shove him away. “I have other talents.”

“You certainly do.” He growls as he grips your waist, inhales you, bites playfully down your neck and collarbones. The real estate agent raises her eyebrows, but politely averts her gaze and pretends to check if an artificial fern needs watering.

It’s the downturn of August, 1976. The sun is glaring and hot and spills in through the windows, setting the metallic flecks in the marble floor alight. It makes you think of the Yellow Brick Road, of fantasies built piece by piece into truth. John and Veronica bought a house in Putney, Brian and Chrissie a far larger one in Chelsea, Freddie and Mary a posh flat in West Kensington. Roger has his heart set on nothing less than a Surrey mansion. On the rare occasion that Queen has been home since the start of the A Night At The Opera Tour, you and Roger stay in his shabby—dodgy, you remind yourself—old apartment and pack boxes late into the evening, giggling over all the random and ancient relics you stumble across, sticks of Freddie’s eyeliner and dust bunnies tangled in strands of Brian’s spiraled hair, crumpled up spheres of paper with excerpts of songs scrawled on them, fossilized crusts of grilled cheese sandwiches beneath the couch. Queen is preparing for a brief UK tour at the start of September, including a free concert in Hyde Park organized by entrepreneur Richard Branson. Then it’ll be back to the studio to record their next album, a highly anticipated album, an album that will make millions regardless of what’s on it; and what’s on it, in your humble and musically unlearned opinion, is pretty goddamn great.

“Seriously,” Roger prompts, quietly now. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. I love it. I just don’t need it.”

He grins. “I know you don’t need it. But I do.”

“That list of yours is getting awfully long.”

“You have no idea. We haven’t even started on the exotic pet collection yet.”

“There’s a marvelous koi pond out in the backyard,” the real estate agent says. “You could add turtles, and frogs, and all different types of fish. I can recommend sturgeon, they have such an alluring primeval sort of look to them, and the shimmer on shubunkins is just delightful...”

“You heard the lady.” Rog stretches his right hand like he does when his arm bothers him, when the bone that will never fully heal aches like something ancient and irredeemable, like hunger, like unrequited love: fingertips sprayed outwards, then folded into his palm, then outwards again.

“Rog...I don’t know.”

“Come on, baby! It has everything. Roman-style master bath. Bedrooms with mirrors on the ceiling. Space for my own studio. Land. Enormous refrigerators. You’ll have abundant room for John’s drawings.”

“Ohhh, now that’s true.” John is always adding to your collection, slipping you sketches as the boys scurry around getting ready before a show, during songwriting sessions that last long after midnight, when the band and its expanding circle of friends and family gather for birthdays and holidays. You don’t ask him about You’re My Best Friend, or, come to think of it, any of his other songs. You don’t ask him how he feels about his new life as a husband and father. And in return, John doesn’t ask whether you’re ever going to marry Roger, if you even want to, if you worry about what the future holds. It’s a loaded peace, but a comfortable one. A safe one.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Roger asks suddenly. “The girlfriend thing. The not-wife thing.”

“No,” you reply, smiling. “Of course not.” Roger isn’t someone who pens love letters, recites all the reasons why he cannot live without you, sings love songs. He rarely speaks of love at all. Roger is as he always is: all action, all energy, eyes forever looking forward. But he does love you; you’re sure he does. Everything he does bleeds with love.

“Good. Because there’s no one I’d rather acquire a harem and zoological park with.”

“Okay,” you relent. “But no lions or tigers or bears. I’m quite attached to your limbs, and you’ve come close enough to ruining them already.”

“Deal.” He taps the Canon that hangs from your shoulder by its strap. “We should document this momentous juncture. One day we can pull out the photo album and show Roger Junior. ‘Hey look kid, this was the day Mum and Dad bought the house you were conceived in.’”

You laugh, almost positive that Roger isn’t serious. “I can guarantee you that precisely zero percent of children would ever want to hear that.” Nevertheless, you ready the camera and hold it as far away as you can, the lens aimed towards you.

“Don’t forget to smile!” Roger trills in his high, victorious voice as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone.

You snap the photo. The flash bursts through the kitchen of the Surrey mansion, blinding you both. The artificial bluish light dissipates like smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~

His name is Laszlo, and he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen...even when he’s not especially well-mannered.

Currently, Laszlo—an Eastern European moniker from somewhere in his mother’s comically vast family tree—is whimpering and squirming against Veronica’s chest as she pats his tiny back and sighs wearily. Veronica, ever the good Polish Catholic wife, is already pregnant again. Chrissie smirks triumphantly and puffs on a cigarette, her rings glimmering on her left hand, her dress violet and new and very expensive. Brian is lost in some deep intellectual conversation with Richard Branson, gesturing with his long nimble hands and nodding empathetically, his dark curls rustling in the breeze like the lithe branches of a willow tree.

“Thank god you’re here,” John calls as you and Roger approach. “Freddie is about to get this concert cancelled.”

“I’m about to make this concert fabulous, darling,” Freddie objects. “We need pyrotechnics, we need sparklers and explosions and fireworks!”

Mr. Branson shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Fred. The embers could travel and set the trees on fire.”

Freddie groans. “Tell him, Roger!”

Roger shrugs, grinning, resting his elbow on John’s shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t burn down Hyde Park.”

“You’ll be under a huge orange canopy, right over there.” Mr. Branson motions with a sweep of his arm. “You can’t do anything aerial. Flashing lights, sure. Fog, sure. But no fire. No explosions. Oh, and there’s technically a noise ordinance, but we’re working out a deal so the city won’t enforce it on the day of the show.”

“Orange?!” Freddie squeals.

“How will the acoustics be in a tent?” Brian asks, troubled.

John smiles mischievously. “Yes, how dreadful if no one could hear the extraneous guitar solos.”

“I have a gong, Rich,” Roger says. “Everyone will be able to hear my gong, right?”

“Your gong?” Freddie whines. “What about my voice?!”

“I miss stadiums,” Roger grumbles. You exchange a knowing glance with Mary and Chris and Veronica, who is imploring Laszlo to take a bottle. Our boys are difficult, aren’t they?

“The acoustics will be fine,” Mr. Branson snaps. “The tent color will be fine. Everything will be fine. You don’t need any fucking fireworks. Please for the love of god just tell me what kind of sandwiches you want.”

“That’ll be an ordeal as well,” Chrissie quips, and you all laugh; even Laszlo perks up, stops wriggling, glimpses around the open green space with curious greyish eyes like John’s.

Some teenage employee carrying a tangle of cables trots over, sweat dripping down his flushed freckled cheeks. “Mr. Branson? There’s someone from the city here to see you.”

Richard Branson smacks his forehead. “Jesus christ. Okay, I’ll be right there. Hey, Steve, hey, have you seen Dom? Go find Dom and tell her to come over here, okay? Thanks.”

The teenage employee nods and disappears into a sea of bustling people ferrying equipment, fliers, chairs, messages.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Mr. Branson says. “These city bastards are out to crucify me. You’d think they’d be a little more grateful that Queen of all bands is willing to put on a free concert in their backyard, but alas. Hey, Dom, over here!”

He waves to a petite young woman with a glossy shock of black hair and olive Mediterranean skin. She’s wearing all yellow: shorts patterned with daffodils, a tank top the color of butter, a headband like a sunbeam. One of her trim arms is cradling a notebook; the other reaches out so she can shake hands with everyone. The gesture is courteous but somewhat unnatural.

“This,” Mr. Branson begins, “is my personal assistant Dominique. She’s wonderful, she’ll listen to all your pretentious tales of woe and do it with a smile, because she’s a true professional. Better yet, she’s going to ask you the tedious questions I was supposed to so you don’t have to wait for me to finish sparring with the city council. Okay? Okay. Have fun. I’ll be back.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Dom says placidly in a heavy French accent. So that’s why her handshake was off somehow, stilted and weak; the French usually kiss as a greeting. You choke back a snort as you imagine Veronica’s reaction to that. Mr. Branson stalks away muttering about litigious twats.

“Oh, aren’t you just darling!” Freddie circles Dom, admiring her outfit, her hair, her gold hoop earrings. He wafts his cigarette around flamboyantly, completely forgetting to smoke it. “The French are so tasteful, aren’t they? You simply must connect me with your stylist.”

“I would be happy to, Mr. Mercury. But regrettably, I am my own stylist.”

“Ahh!” Freddie exhales, enamored. Mary lifts Laszlo from Veronica’s tired arms and cradles him, tickles his nose, beams down into his fresh and inquisitive face.

Dom pulls a pen from her shirt pocket. “May I ask your sandwich preferences for the day of the show?”

She immediately receives four very different answers, and she raises an eyebrow, her pen hovering over the lined paper of her notebook.

“I’m so sorry about them,” Chrissie says, and Dom chuckles civilly.

“Ham and cheddar,” Freddie tells her, synthesizing the responses. “Bacon, fried fish, steak and onion jam...and something for Brian. Cucumber maybe. Could we get some cucumber sandwiches, dear?”

“You’re a vegetarian?” Dom asks Brian, jotting down notes.

“He’s morally superior to us in every way,” John sighs dreamily, and Rog and Freddie cackle.

“I’m not a strict vegetarian,” Bri clarifies. “But for the sake of the animals and the planet, I try to limit meat when I can.”

Roger adds: “And I order twice as much of it, just to spite him.”

Dominique leads Queen around the portion of Hyde Park where the concert will be held, runs through the itinerary, fields a litany of questions and complaints. And you decide that you like Dom; she’s professional and reserved, yes, but she’s also patient with Freddie, smiles at his jokes, compliments his black-and-yellow striped shirt (“We match, and you remind me of a...oh, what’s the word in English? That bug...it flies around buzzing...buzz buzz...a bee!”), asks him what he’s planning to wear to the show. She assuages Brian, listens to John, takes the time to chat with the women about children, makeup, homes, what it’s like to be in love with rock stars. But Dom mostly ignores Roger, dodges his grins, remains staunchly undazzled. And that would worry you—because Roger loves the chase, you know that firsthand—if he hadn’t already taught you how to trust him, how addictively flawless and exhilarating life with Roger Taylor could be.

When Laszlo begins to fuss in Mary’s grasp, you take your turn holding him; and he blinks up at you with eyes that are wide and clear and seeking, and you find yourself feeling like you always do when you’re around your godson: like maybe you have a stronger opinion about wanting children than you thought you did, like you can’t stop envisioning a baby with Roger’s eyes instead of John’s.

That evening—after leaving Hyde Park, after dinner, after drinks mixed out by the koi pond—as you doze in a sweltering bubble bath and steam curls through the air, you hear Roger’s voice floating from the kitchen downstairs. You rise out of the tub, towel yourself off, slip into a white silk robe as rivulets of bathwater slink down the back of your neck. You tread gingerly towards the kitchen, keep silent so you can hear, lurk in the shadows of the hallway with your palms pressed flat against the wallpaper.

“Hello, is Dominique Beyrand in?” Roger says into the kitchen phone. “I’ve been trying to track her down. Sure, I’ll wait. Thanks.” After a pause, he continues. “Hi, Dom! It’s Roger Taylor, from Queen. The irritating blond one. I was just wondering if you’d happened to stumble across my wallet since this afternoon, I seem to have misplaced it. Oh, you haven’t? Bloody hell. Well, thank you for taking my call. Aw, that’s so kind of you, I’m sure I’ll locate it eventually. I’ve got a terrible habit of losing things. Okay, thanks so much. Goodnight to you too. See you soon. Cheers.” He hangs the phone up as you step into the kitchen. His smile is bright and innocuous. “Hey, baby!”

“Who was that?” Your tone is similarly casual; or so you hope.

“Just Richard Branson’s assistant. That French woman Dominique. I can’t find my wallet and thought I might have left it at Hyde Park, but no dice. Oh well.”

Roger begins rummaging through the drawer full of business cards and address books, tapping his foot, humming to himself. And surely he isn’t trying to avoid my eyes. Your gaze skates over the marble countertop. There, by the refrigerator, just a few feet—a meter, you correct yourself to be properly British—from where Roger stands, is his black leather wallet.

“It’s right there, Rog,” you say, pointing. And now your voice isn’t so nonchalant.

Roger spins to check. “Oh my god, I completely missed it!” He snatches up the wallet with a celebratory chuckle. “I’m such a twit sometimes. You’re too fucking smart, you know that? You’re making me look bad.”

He rushes to you, takes your left hand, bites your knuckles lightly like he did outside Massachusetts General Hospital under dawn skies over two years ago. And then Roger whispers to you, nuzzling your neck scented with lavender soap and doubt.

“Let’s go to bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a knock at the door. John is standing on the front porch of the Surrey house with his hands in his pockets and a vague sort of smile on his face. He’s in a black suit.

“Get ready,” he says. “Do your hair, throw on some earrings. Maybe the pearls Roger got you last Christmas. We’re going shopping.”

“Why do I need to look fancy to go shopping?”

John shrugs, feigning indifference; but the puckish glint in his eyes gives him away. Yet there’s something a little sad and weighty in them too, isn’t there?

Your own eyes narrow. “I’m onto you, bassist.”

He laughs as you tug teasingly at a lock of his downy hair. “You always are.”

John takes you to a dress shop on Bond Street where the corsets trickle with gemstones and the designers all have Italian names: Armani, Prada, Abate, Cerruti, Valentino, Biagiotti. He sinks into a leather chair just outside the fitting room and lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, points to you with the lit end.

“Go ahead. Go wild. It’s a blank check.”

“Really?!” You glance around the shop, your pulse racing. “But I don’t know the occasion. I don’t want to be underdressed or overdressed or whatever. Although I don’t think I’ve ever been overdressed in my life.”

“Yes, you can’t seem to shake those pragmatic service industry roots, can you?” Another drag. “You need a dress and matching shoes. Formal, but not too formal. Think a record company party. Elegant but exciting. Lots of sparkle. Slightly slutty, if you’re so inclined.”

“This is an unconventional bonding activity,” you tell John, trying to conceal your nerves.

“Love, this isn’t something you can fail at,” he says, gently now. “You’re going to look amazing no matter what. So just have fun with it. This isn’t a test. This is one of those adventures you’re always searching for.”

I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage; that’s what Roger once told you. But maybe you don’t always want to be quite so free, so unmoored. “Okay. But you have to swear to give honest opinions. I don’t want to show up looking like a wombat because you were too nice to say anything.”

John just chuckles to himself, shakes his head, devours cigarette after cigarette.

With the assistance of one of the shop employees, you climb into a pastel pink dress with a full ruffled skirt, an emerald green dress with an empire waist and loose sheer sleeves, a shimmering metallic silvery dress with a form-fitting silhouette. John nods at all of them, wholeheartedly approves, defers to your judgment. He periodically consults his wristwatch as he taps his cigarettes on the rim of an ashtray, and deflects your questions when you ask him why. Then you step out of the fitting room—balanced on gold heels—in a white dress with a hem that hits just above your knees, a halter neckline, a slim keyhole down the center of your chest; and John’s cigarette tumbles out of his fingers.

“That’s the one,” he breathes, soaking it in. Then he asks the employee to cut off all the tags and whips out his wallet. “Toss your old clothes and shoes in a bag. We gotta catch a cab.”

“We’re going straight to the party?”

“We certainly are.”

“What the hell kind of ridiculously lame party starts at 3 p.m.?”

John smirks craftily. “The kind of party we’re going to. Let’s rock and roll, Florence Nightingale.”

John gives the taxi driver an address and you sail through the streets of London, splashing through shallow evaporating puddles, squinting when sunlight ricochets glaringly off the slick pavement. The taxi rolls to a stop outside of a grand stone building with columns and intricate carvings of leaves and flowers. The sign outside reads: Kensington and Chelsea Register Office.

You turn to John. “Who’s getting married?!”

He just smiles, a deep harbor of secrets.

“It’s Fred and Mary, right? Jesus christ, John, you can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding, Mary’s going to strangle me—”

“It’s not Mary’s wedding.”

Slowly, your jaw falls open. “No,” you whisper in disbelief.

John darts out of the taxi, jogs around to your side, and opens the door for you. You gape up at him senselessly, struggling to remember how to form sentences.

“John...this...this is some bizarre and elaborate joke, right?”

“Nope.” He offers his hand, helps you out of the taxi, leads you up the front steps of the Register Office. Inside, everyone is waiting: Freddie and Mary, Brian and Chrissie, Veronica with babbling baby Laszlo, Roger’s mother and sister...and Roger, of course, in his best black suit and bleached blond hair and trademark guaranteed-to-dazzle (unless of course you’re Dominique Beyrand) grin. He flies to you and takes your hands in his.

“You look incredible, baby.”

“Roger, what’s going on...?”

“Don’t freak out,” he commands, and instantly your panic vanishes. There’s a pink rose pinned to his lapel. “I know we don’t feel like we need to get married. I know we agree it doesn’t mean anything.” Is that still true? “So don’t think that this is about trying to trap you or control you or bullshit white picket fences or anything. And of course you can say no, I won’t be mad, no one will hold that against you, we can find some other reason to party. But the simple facts are that I’m a British national with a mansion and a plethora of perpetual royalties and you’re an American here on a work visa, and the law gets a bit thorny in this situation. And I want to make sure you’re taken care of if something happens to me. That you can carry out my wishes. That you can stay here with the band as long as you want to. So, I’ve got your passport and birth certificate and everything else we need...and some overly-enthusiastic witnesses. Are you cool with signing a piece of paper today?”

“Of course she bloody well is!” Freddie exclaims, and everyone laughs. Mary is carrying a basket full of champagne flutes, Chrissie several bottles of pink champagne, Roger’s sister a tub of ice. Brian has been entrusted to chronicle the event with your Canon. Veronica is more giddy than you’ve ever seen her, even more animated than she was at her own wedding. Well, I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about any illicit pregnancies or condemnatory great aunts this time around.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. And you wish you weren’t beaming so broadly your cheeks ache, because it feels a little pathetic to be this happy about an admittedly meaningless wedding. But it does make you happy, your general aversion towards conventionality be damned.

You sign papers and you toast glasses and you giggle uproariously in the lobby of the Register Office with the best friends you’ve ever had, guzzle pink champagne, pose for photos, take your turn holding Laszlo, kiss Roger beneath the stone arch of the centuries-old building.

It doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, suddenly very aware of the missing weight of a ring on your left hand. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But you catch a few furtive glances between Chrissie and Bri, the twist of a frown on Freddie’s face when he thinks no one is watching, the distance in John’s shadowy eyes as he inhales champagne like air.

It doesn’t mean anything.

[dustedmagazine]

Ian Mathers’ 2020: We’re stuck inside our own machines

I’ve had a song I loved in high school and haven’t thought much about since stuck in my head. The song “Apparitions” by the Matthew Good Band is a fine example of the alt rock of the late 90s; if you grew up then but somewhere down in the states (or elsewhere) instead of my southern Ontario you may well have your regional equivalents, and like this one they may not resonate terribly strongly outside of their time and place. It popped back into my head after a long time recently and of course 2020 has changed it a little. A song that as a teen I felt keenly as about loneliness (albeit also about how technology can feed into that) of course now plays on my nerves as another small piece of art about the way that most of us (those scared and/or responsible anyway) have only that relatively narrow, technologically mediated connection to the people we love. All of us, artists and listeners alike, are trying to fit our feelings and art and selves down these little connections, with some success.

On a personal level, 2020 wound up being stressful in ways we couldn’t have predicted even after the pandemic hit. In circumstances that could have seen governments on this continent support those unable to work (and those who shouldn’t have to), support those workers who are truly essential, support workers and renters and even landlords and small businesses, instead we got a near-total abeyance of those governments using the resources we provide them with to save any of us. On a personal level my wife and I were lucky enough to be able to work from home (not that it didn’t come with its own forms of stress, and now that I’m off until January I have several work/stress-related illnesses to recover from) but still saw friends and loved ones lose good, used-to-be-sustainable livings overnight, saw family businesses succumb to a near-total absence of effective government support after months of trying to keep above water, etc.

It is probably no surprise that this is not a situation conducive to listening to music, let alone writing about it; I have deliberately and happily kept busy on behind the scenes stuff at Dusted that I could still manage but looking, at the end of the year, at the amount I managed to actually create is demoralizing if not at all shocking. I’m not sure I think next year will be ‘better’ in many important ways, although at our job there is a growing feeling among coworkers that next year has to have some work/life balance because 2020 was, maybe more than anything else, unsustainable.

That’s not to say I didn’t spend a lot of time and emotion on music this year, and if nothing else constant sleep deprivation, stress, and panic meant I was probably open to being deeply moved by all sorts of art even more than normally (it’s gotten to the point where I can’t even read a sad or moving twitter thread out loud to my wife without getting teary, which is kind of… nice?). Funnily enough the band that did the most to keep me sane didn’t really put out anything in 2020. Personal favorite, Low, instead started, in early April, getting on Instagram with something they called on whim “It’s Friday I’m in Low.” With one brief break they have now done by my count at least 35 shows (catalogued here, by the way), every Friday at about 4 my time.

Admittedly it’s easier for Low to pull this off than some bands, since the 2/3 of the trio that sing are a married couple (they’ve had a couple of socially-distanced backyard shows with bassist Steve Garrington, but he’s mostly been isolating elsewhere). These shows have seen the band’s Alan Sparhawk take a mid-set break to do follow-up phone interviews with the acts featured in the COVID-curtailed touring bands series Vansplainingthat they started on YouTube, or just to give a tour round their vegetable garden and talk tips. It’s seen Alan and Mimi Parker draw on their impressive, 25+ year body of work (averaging 4-5 songs a set, I don’t think they’ve repeated themselves yet) and talk a bit between songs about pandemics, politics, song choices, and whether Alan should grab his bike helmet this time.

They’re not the only musicians out there speaking love and sanity (and playing music) into the strange digital interzone filled with hate and disinformation where we’ve all been forced to gather while locked down, but they were and the most consistent and steady signal being emitted each week. No matter how tired I was from work or what new symptoms I’d developed or what horrific thing I read into the news, even if I had to take an emergency nap while it was actually airing, every Friday the show was there. Once things do return to something more like normal, it’s one of the few things I’ll unambiguously miss about this weird-ass year.

So if that makes an argument for Low as my band of the year (admittedly again… it’s not like Double Negative has aged poorly, either), that does a disservice to those 2020 records I did connect with; even if there are still literally dozens I have to go through, many of which I expect to love, my top picks this year (if as unrankable by me as always) hit me as hard as any top pick in recent years did. So here I present a quick and informal top 5, which the rest of my top 20 following in alphabetical order. Here’s hoping for more time and space in 2021 for music, and even more than that, for more support for those who need it from those who could have been providing it all this time. (The Matthew Good Band, incidentally, always did best with their ballads. “Strange Days” is another I’ve had in my head these days; the image of moving “backwards, into a wall of fire” has stuck with me since the 90s and it’s never felt more grimly appropriate.)

Greet Death — New Hell

New Hell by Greet Death

This one is, in some sense, cheating; it came out November 2019. But that just means it’s the latest winner of my personal Torres Prize for Ian Being Late to the Party (so named because becoming slightly obsessed with Torres’ Sprinter just after I sent in my 2015 list was the first time I noticed that one of my favorite records of each year tends to get picked up by me just after I call it quits on the year, no matter how long I try to wait). This very doom and gloom slowcore/metal/(whatever, just know it’s heavy) trio at first felt very much like my beloved Cloakroom (whose Time Well has also won a Torres Prize) but sure enough nuances revealed themselves. Back in February it felt almost a little too negative, but then the rest of 2020 happened. And the extended burns of “You’re Gonna Hate What You’ve Done” and the title track remain searing.

Holy Fuck — Deleter

Probably the record I’ve been trying to write about the longest in 2020, and the one I’m most disappointed in myself that I just couldn’t get the requisite paragraphs together. It’s a wonderful effort from the consistently great Toronto resolutely human-created (and —mediated) dance music quartet, one that both feels like a summation of everything they do well, and with the addition of some outside voices (including strong turns from the singers of both Hot Chip and Liars) a step forward at the same time.

Spanish Love Songs — Brave Faces Everyone

Brave Faces Everyone by Spanish Love Songs

As the year got worse, this roar of defiance only got more crucial for me to hear every so often; I was a big enough fan of it, even after writing it up for Dusted, that when they solicited fan footage for a subsequent music video you may just be able to get a glimpse of me in it. (I’m the one in a “No Tories” t-shirt.) My punk rock-loving twin brother was the one who introduced me to Spanish Love Songs and we were supposed to spend an evening in June screaming along to them live in a packed, sweaty room. I need that in my life again.

Julianna Barwick — Healing Is a Miracle

Healing Is A Miracle by Julianna Barwick

It’s a sign of what 2020 has been like here that even just this album title leaves bruises, and while I privately worried Barwick would have a hard time following up 2016’s sublime Will (probably my favorite record that year), it seems that continuing to take whatever downtime she needs to keep focusing and refining her particular muse has once again yielded amazing results. Anyone who thinks they know what a Barwick track sounds like should really check out, say, “Flowers”, but much of this record absolutely sounds like Barwick, just even better than before. She also boasted my wife and I's favorite streaming concert of 2020, an absolutely gorgeous rendition of this album with Mary Lattimore showing up.

Phoebe Bridgers — Punisher

Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers

I joked on Twitter recently that I have far too nice a dad (and far too good a relationship with him) to be as obsessed as I am with Phoebe Bridgers’ “Kyoto”, but here we are. Like most of her generation, Bridgers’ social media presence ranges from shit-posting to inscrutable, but even though things are often just as hard to figure out in her beautiful songs (as they often are in life), there’s an emotional clarity to them that can just grab you deep down. Couple that with seriously impressive songcraft and the progress from her already astounding debut Stranger in the Alps and more than anyone else in 2020 I’m excited to see just where the hell Phoebe Bridgers is going to go, because it feels like she’s talented and hardworking enough to go just about anywhere and drag a lot of our hearts with her.

Other Favorites

Aidan Baker & Gareth Davis — Invisible Cities II

Anastasia Minster — Father

Deftones — Ohms

Hum — Inlet

Kelly Lee Owens — Inner Song

Mesarthim — The Degenerate Era

Perfume Genius — Set My Heart On Fire Immediately

Protomartyr — Ultimate Success Today

Rachel Kiel — Dream Logic

The Ridiculous Trio — The Ridiculous Trio Plays the Stooges

Sam Amidon — Sam Amidon

Shabason, Krgovich & Harris — Philadelphia

Stars Like Fleas — DWARS Session: Live on Radio VPRO

Well Yells — We Mirror the Dead

Yves Tumour — Heaven to a Tortured Mind

Five Reissues/Compilations/etc.

Aix Em Klemm — Aix Em Klemm

Bardo Pond — Adrop/Circuit VIII

Charles Curtis — Performances & Recordings 1998-2018

Coil — Musick to Play in the Dark

Hot Chip — LateNightTales

Ian Mathers