#these days i often get reminded of death; the truest of truths

[rueyam]

sometimes i forget how easily tangible we are to the afterlife. it could be over in a matter of seconds. we often forget death but death won't forget us.

[dcstruction]

[ olivia cooke | cis female | she/her | twenty-six ] ——   welcome to grimrose, ESTHER MCLEAN. it’s cool that you’re here, you know. haven’t you heard of the history of this place… anyway, how’s being a NEWCOMER who has been in town for ONE MONTH , especially since you spend most of your days as a CASE WORKER at GRIMROSE TOWN HALL ? also, not that it’s a bad thing, of course, but i’ve heard people say you can be a little BRITTLE more than you are INCISIVE… but that’s just coming from people who are bored here, i promise. to me, you remind me of BITTER SWEET SYMPHONY  by THE VERVE and repeating your sentence thrice before giving up , the fog that settles on the land after a rainy night ,clumps of cut brown locks in the bathroom sink , building sandcastles at the beach even as the tide comes in and speaking your truth even as your voice shakes . hope to see you around, ESTHER. —

full name — esther renee mclean name meaning — "star” / to hide or to conceal age — twenty-six date of birth — december 01 place of birth — austin, texas current location — grimrose, new hampshire gender — cis woman pronouns — she / her religion — baptist , only semi-religious occupation — case worker education level — MSW / masters degree in social work, certified in texas and newly in new hampshire residence — fixing up her grandmother’s home just several minutes from main street  family —  frances jean mclean (nee howard) [grandmother, living ] , willie mclean [grandfather, deceased ] , pauline mclean (nee gordon) [mother , living ] , cecil mclean [ father , living] , everette mclean [brother , presumed living ]  finances — comfortably middle class spoken languages — english, some bits of french faceclaim / voiceclaim — olivia cooke

background — tw mentions of death ,

the house in mary’s cove was pretty decent at the time . it was only one floor , but it had enough rooms to house all four siblings of the mclean family . willie was a fisherman by choice and frances a midwife by necessity - some evenings at the house lonesome for the children but the oldest soon learned how to cook and was the matron at the young age of fourteen . finishing high school was not required when there was a baby to take care of at home -- and cecil mclean was no easy child . he was rough by the edges , independent even as a newborn and steadfast as a young father years later .

cecil remembers the evening that his father came home from the sea with an extra wrinkle etched on his forehead and a defeated ‘the fish haven’t been biting’ . that memory was clear but the rest were muffled ; something about how they should move down south - it was warmer , it was new and hell , even the jobs seemed even better down in texas .  so the family left everything they knew and made a new life in a very different state . the house was forgotten , left to dust and photos on the walls never aged while the mclean family did .

esther is born to a teenage mother only two years later . it was a consequence of a spiked punch at senior prom and a couple that had only gone on a few dates. the teen pregnancy was first met with disdain ( mostly from the perspective that cecil was raised to be a very respectful gentleman by the word of god ) but pauline soon became the daughter frances soon adored . sundays were always spent at church ( the only hour pauline really dared to be a decent lady ) but the rest at some bar that she fronted as her job . pauline was never meant to be a mother - she had a drive to be someone so why let some mistake ruin her life ? they only had to get married for the snobby church - some elaborate lie that the child was definitely not out of wedlock . but they divorced when esther could walk so pauline could travel the world because that was the truest marvel ; not the baby left alone in the bassinet .

the only real mother figure esther had growing up was her maternal grandmother . they often butted heads about religion , but it had been her who had changed all esther’s dirty diapers , told teenage esther about the birds and the bees , and who had been the first to know that esther had gotten engaged to the brainy kid from her high school .

the engagement didn’t really last more than a year . what began as an impulsive forever soon withered under the pressure of reality . adulthood was no easier than university and certainly not when the two had different ideas of what a family meant . he wanted children and she wanted a life  ( really the only similarity she had to pauline ) .

a letter came on an otherwise unremarkable tuesday . addressed by her grandmother who often seemed lonely these days after her grandfather’s untimely demise. it was a property deed for a home that had been abandoned fifty years ago . several inked words told the story of the wooden house near the coast . a picture was attached to the prose and the blue paint was most definitely chipped by now , but all it took was one glance for the pull to drag esther back north .

it’s been one month and esther spent most of her time in the attic . the house was certainly a skeleton of memories as nothing’s moved . she walks the same steps her father once did and it’s the closet thing to home she’s got now .

several head cannons :p

at the surface level , esther is pretty easy going . however , as someone gets to know the true her - the one that is hidden under several layers of truly complicated feelings , she is a ghost . there are times that she is aware of how shitty of a friend she can be but it doesn’t outweigh the flight that carries her day to day . to know her is to not know her.

she decided to pursue case work after picking up a part time job when she was in university at an office that worked with at risk youths . it’s truly an emotional job for her which is why she is a pretty emotionless person at home . but since moving to grimrose, she’s taken on a full time job at the grimrose town hall where she assists tourists and newcomers acclimating to the new town by providing local resources. it’s not exactly her passion but it pays decent.

with the roleplay’s progression , esther will develop the ability of pathokinesis . while it is one’s ability to manipulate emotions, it will take a rather different approach at onset . she will have a sudden rush or awareness of someone else’s emotions to the point of becoming overwhelmed . i find that this will be ironic for a person who has always had difficulty in conveying emotions so this ability will be the literally the only way (whether conscious or subconscious) for esther to communicate how she feels at the moment or about someone.

[inspiteallthedanger]

Anon on tinhatting. I consider myself a shipper in that shipping is a part of fandom I enjoy. I read fanfic and meta and enjoy reading people's theories and exploring my own. I don't consider myself a shipper in that I don't have any set ideas about the reality of John and Paul's relationship. What I said in my ask (I believe John was interested in men and making the leap to him being interested in Paul on some level feels perfectly logical) is the most I feel certain of.

I think you're question of "where is the line?" is the core of what I was trying to articulate. I don't know what experience you have in other rpf fandoms, but the outline I gave is hugely informed by the stuff I've seen in fandoms like One Direction and Supernatural rpf. I'm in my late twenties, I've been in fandom since I was 12. And decent handful of those fandoms were rpfs. And it's shocking how quickly shipping theories spiral into conspiracy theories which often quickly turn toxic. And equally shocking is how, after you've been in one or two of those fandoms, you realize all those conspiracy theories look exactly the same.

I want to make clear, I think the Mclennon/Beatles fandom is 1000x better than any rpf fandom I've ever been in before. The premium placed on well sourced evidence is amazing and the openness to ambiguity is wonderful. But when that other anon said how they were occasionally uncomfortably reminded of larries, I felt that. So what I was trying to articulate in my last ask was those moments when I feel like things teeter close to that line.

What I was trying to point to with the song lyrics stuff was the reciprocal nature of the more conspiracists bent. If that makes sense? Theorizing that "in my life" is about Paul and romantic makes perfect sense. As does compiling evidence to try to support that theory. But, unless your evidence is 100% rock solid there is no other plausible theory, turning around and using "in my life" being about Paul as evidence in another theory is, for me, based on other fandom conspiracies I've seen, where things go from thoughtful fandom meta to uncomfortable tinhat rabbit hole. Same with the lying stuff. It's fine to assess if someone's telling the truth, but when dealing with real people, I do think there's an ethical obligation to double check whether your cognitive bias is encouraging you to dismiss the legitimacy of someone's report on their lived experience. It's not the analysis that slides into tinhattery, it's the willingness to discount evidence that doesn't fit a narrative you've already decided on. And over inflate evidence that does.

I maybe shouldn't have tacked on the platonic relationship stuff because it really isn't specific to John/Paul. It's just that the kind of "if not than why?" stuff always starts to drain on me and make me as an ace/aro person feel unwelcome in fandom spaces. Fandom is so romance centered in a way that most other fiction (besides romance novels and romcoms) really isn't. This isn't just a mlm thing either. I was talking about this with Mulder/Scully in X-Files fandom the other day. So that feeling for me is way bigger than tinhattery.

But I do think that kind of leads into the "loves of each other's lives" stuff. Because it's another thing that's really born out of lifelong fandom. The "one truest love" thing is such a fandom staple. It's basically in the DNA of fanfiction. And that's great! I like a "one true love" thing too. But when applied to real people it gets stickier. If that makes sense? And I don't think it comes out in any one way in practice necessarily (well, occasionally it does, I did once see someone say that Linda was great for Paul because she accepted that John would always be the most important person in his life). It's more the general, meeting to death, feeling you occasionally get from fandom sometimes. And there's nothing inherently wrong with the theory (sometimes I buy meeting to death), but it's impossible not to recognize how based in the standard fandom blueprint it is. And once you notice that the idea of when either one of them "got over" the other rarely, if ever, gets discussed as even a possibility, that standard fandom stuff starts to feel somewhat insidious.

I want to reiterate that I think this fandom is way better than any rpf fandom I've been in before. It's just these hints of conspiracy that peak through every once and a while.

I hope this all made sense. I'm about to go to bed so sorry if it's phrased weird

Hello again anon, and thanks for coming back. I know a lot of people were interested in hearing what you had to say, so we'll all appreciate the clarifications.

What you're saying makes a lot of sense to me. I can see that you'd be on edge from other fandoms, even if you've not seen the exact same behaviour here.

You're right that I've seen a lot less of the weird conspiracy stuff here than I've witnessed (at a distance) in other rpf fandoms (in fact the two you mention seem to be the worst of them). This isn't my first rpf fandom, but my first was very chill, much like this is. Here, there's not really lots and lots of disagreement that the men loved their partners or were really with them. Which I know isn't the case everywhere. Honestly, that's something that would really put me off.

And that's before we get into the really weird stuff people end up saying in other fandoms.

Yes, building theories on top of theories is very classic in conspiracy theories everywhere. It's something that it's important to look out for, for sure. I guess, I always take anything in fandom as not being 100% true, unless we have a lot of sources for it. Even John's sexuality, which does seem to be the most clear, we can't be sure of. And we certainly don't know how he felt or identified.

I also get what you mean about OPT thing. Like, real life doesn't work like that. It's not something that I've ever felt compelled towards, to be honest. I'm personally comfortable that people can love multiple people at once. Or, indeed, you can love someone so much it makes you insane... but it can still go away.

Anyway, I think you're right in all of this. I agree that I've only seen a little of what you're talking about actually done in this fandom. But, I do think it's worth checking in with yourself about it. Like, as I say, people should have fun. But, when you start taking things really seriously, start believing you have the 'one truth' that's where it starts to justify weird, invasive behaviour. Like commenting on the guys' or families' social media posts.

[sinceileftyoublog]

Walt Disco Interview: The Truest Picture

Photo by Izzy Leach

BY JORDAN MAINZER

They're growing as a band--sure--but they're also simply able to reveal more of themselves. Glasgow post-punk quintet Walt Disco broke out in 2022 with their debut album Unlearning, a stellar, concise collection of indie rock songs that was stitched together over the Internet during pandemic-era lockdowns. Listening to sophomore album The Warping, out Friday via Lucky Number, at first, you wonder what Unlearning might have sounded like had the band members been able to collaborate in the same room. Then again, Walt Disco has proved to impress due to their clear ability to create something big with constraints, and now, deliver something cohesive with a plethora of options at their fingertips. For The Warping, the band had pre-album recording sessions with Lucas Polo (at the studio of none other than Phil Manzanera of Roxy Music), co-produced the album with Chris McCrory, got Vale Studio's Chris D'Adda to engineer, and collaborated with string and horn players to flesh out already existing arrangements. The result is, well, whatever the opposite of a sophomore slump is, a hard-to-avoid pitfall when your debut already a clear artistic voice. Instead, Walt Disco have provided the glam rock record of the year.

Of course, Walt Disco didn't choose such an aesthetic just because it sounded cool: They needed something to match the grandiosity and gamut of emotions The Warping's songs exude. Lead vocalist Jocelyn Si sings about getting older and gaining self-confidence, often in the context of gender dysphoria they've felt throughout their life. Fittingly, the title track represents the greatest encapsulation of the album's themes and aesthetic, Si delivering bits of stark truth atop high-pitched synth whirrs, textured piano and acoustic guitar, cinematic strings, and staccato percussion reminiscent of Roxy Music and The Psychedelic Furs. Namesake single "Jocelyn" imagines a conversation between singer and mother, a gently galloping song with electric picking, thudding drums, fluttering woodwinds, and slide guitar, Si looking at themselves from what feels like an outside perspective on lines like, "Her name was Jocelyn / She had a worried grin / A mole upon her chin," but ultimately inhabiting their true self. Their ruminations on identity carve other paths, too. Nursery rhyme-inspired "Black Chocolate" tackles the warm parts of family, connecting over food, simplicity that nonetheless wields seemingly infinite emotional power, represented by the song's fast strings, atonal horns, electric synth lines, and huge programmed drum beat.

Much of The Warping is about change, both tangible and in the past, and inevitable and in the future, and not just from Si's perspective. "Weeping Willow" was inspired by the amicable departure of a founding member of the band; its swayed acoustic guitar strum and synth melody answers the question, "If a weeping willow made music, what would it sound like?" "I Will Travel" is a tearjerker for anybody that's lost a pet when Si sings about their family dog, "I will be there at the end of your days and remind you that our deaths are the same." Closer "Before The Walls" is a spiritual sibling to "Jocelyn", Si detailing the imagined last shared words between themselves and their parents. Their vocal vibrato is like its own instrument, chopped and shaky alongside flutes, thumping and thwacking echoed percussion, and woozy strings, the volatility of time incarnate. And "Pearl", penned by drummer Jack Martin and released first as a standalone single before The Warping was even announced, is perhaps most effective in context of the record. Here, Martin imagines himself living alone in Glasgow, "holding onto no one for the long rides," an old-school song rife with lush strings and pop chops, Lewis Carmichael's unexpected slide guitar adding a feeling of seriously expansive solitude. Whether or not these moments of loss have happened or will happen doesn't matter so much as Walt Disco's confronting of all possibilities head-on, again able to survive and thrive amidst the curtailments of life.

The band answered some questions over email about The Warping, including how some of the songs started, the cover art, and playing them live, as well as about their general influences and what art they've been digging lately. Read their responses below, edited for length and clarity.

Photo by Izzy Leach

SILY: Your debut album was put together electronically out of necessity due to being recorded over lockdowns. In contrast, The Warping has all analog instrumentation and features a wide array of live orchestration. Do you think The Warping is a more exemplary presentation of Walt Disco as a band?

Walt Disco: The Warping feels like more of a summation of everyone in the band. We couldn't all be together for most of the making of Unlearning, but here, everyone got to dig their hooks in and throw in a good piece of themselves. It feels like the truest picture of Walt Disco that's come out yet. All of us individually have a varied music taste, loads of different things make us all tick, and this album is a real coming together of all of our tastes and habits.

SILY: Did the lyrics or the music come first on this album?

WD: On a song to song basis, it varies, but mostly it feels as though we were starting from a musical jumping off point and creating the narrative from there. "Pearl" came from its piano part, "The Captain" came from the guitar riff, "Jocelyn" from the bass part. We even had the vocal melody for "Gnomes" figured out before the lyrics were put together. Songs come around in a multitude of different ways. Lyrics are very important to us, and these songs cover a range of subjects we wanted very much to address. We feel the music and lyrics go hand in hand quite deeply on this album.

SILY: Did you collaborate with the players themselves in coming up with the string and horn instrumentation?

WD: We had many of the orchestral elements arranged from the demoing phase. The rest were put together in collaboration with Krayg Miqman, who added arrangements, wrote out the scores, and primarily instructed the players while we were in the studio. The players were given freedom in the studio to interpret a lot of parts for themselves and try things out. They all did a magnificent job and added a lot to these songs with their performances.

SILY: Was there something about the singles released so far that you think made them representative of the album as a whole?

WD: With these singles, we wanted to achieve the same thing we want the album as a whole to achieve, and that's to slightly alter people's perception of the band. We'd never released a song that was anything like "Pearl" before, or "Jocelyn". We weren't exactly known for these kinds of meditative and patient arrangements. Yet, this is something we love in a lot of music, and [we] wanted to present it as something that we're capable of in addition to being maximalist. That's the spirit of the sound of this album, showing people more of what we're capable of.

The Warping album art by Lulu Lin

SILY: What's the story behind the album's cover art?

WD: We discovered the artwork of Lulu Lin while we were in pre-production for recording the album. Our co-producer, Chris McCrory, had one of her pieces saved to his desktop, and it caught our eye. We then looked at the rest of her work online and fell totally in love with her style. The figures she creates seemed to gel perfectly with the narrative and vibe of the album. At that time, she hadn't worked with many bands before, but she took our brief and did something magical. We're very grateful to have come across her.

SILY: Have you performed these songs live? How do you adapt to the live stage an album with such a huge aesthetic and so many players?

WD: With keyboards and synths, there's many ways to recreate organic sounds. We also have a Mel 9 pedal which allows our guitarist to play string and flute samples. There's some backing track to fill in the gaps, but we don't rely on it for most songs. It's always a fun challenge to reinterpret recordings for live shows, it was a lot easier to do with this album than our last.

SILY: Jocelyn, who are some of your favorite vocalists? Are there any that particularly influenced you when developing your singing voice?

JS: Paul Buchanan, Scott Walker, Kate Bush, Linda Ronstadt, and Beverly Glenn-Copeland are vocalists that I love and think are very talented. I think what I'm attracted to most with vocalists is drama, emotion, creativity, and individuality. All my favorite vocalists, those I've named, and others I'm often compared to like Bowie and Billy Mackenzie, all use their voice in a range of ways and use their voices to push the emotion of a song to its furthest point. This is what I try and do, too.

SILY: Jocelyn narrated a short film about queer identity, Christopher at Sea, and the band participated in a Louboutin campaign that challenged the gender binary in clothes. How important is it for the band to explore similar themes to those present in your music, in artistic mediums other than music?

WD: Music has always gone hand in hand with most other forms of media. We see the visuals we make as a way to enhance our world and to create more art in its own right, not just to serve the songs. We want to give that element the care it deserves in the same way we do with our music.

SILY: What are your favorite cities to play in?

WD: London is always a great show. Amsterdam is a favorite, too--lovely people and very polite crowds. We recently had an unreal show in Paris. We've had some great times in Austin, Texas in the past. We're excited to be revisiting all these places on tour this year!

SILY: Is there anything you've been watching, reading, or listening to lately that's caught your attention?

WD: The new Fallout series is incredible. Jocelyn watched Billy Elliott for the first time. It was really good. Jack has been enjoying the drumless edition of Daft Punk's Random Access Memories; the way they build layers of groove even without drums present is unbelievably impressive.

[aseioh]

Of Stars and Moonlit walks pt.3/?

Chapter 3: Evening with a view ( TRIGGER WARNING: PLEASE NOTE THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH SUICIDE OF A FAMILY MEMBER. )

Days blur into weeks as life continues to buzz around the Castle. With harvest season fast approaching, Alcina and her daughters has been busy. Thankfully, most of their ‘wine making’ operation is contained in the basement. Donna has never ventured below the castle, and even though she offered to help with their ‘harvest’ Alcina declined good naturedly. After all, the process of creating “Sanguis Virginis” was a family secret -even though all the Lords knew what was inside the wine- still she appreciated the offer.  

Donna herself has been busy with helping Heisenberg in his factory, between this and her own work as Mother Miranda’s chief interrogator for prisoners, she was often left haggard at the end of the day. But beneath the tired feeling, Donna was proud of her work.  

After all she was needed, she wasn’t disposable.      

Donna remembers the first time she entered Heisenberg’s Factory and found it stifling. The metal doors that never seems to open and the constant smell of oil that permeates the air made her want to regurgitate her breakfast.  

‘Heisenberg himself carries the same smell, along with the smoke of his preferred cigar.’ Donna muses as she makes her way to the hidden lift at the side of the front warehouse. The lift itself was a new addition, after Heisenberg noticed Donna’s reaction to the metal doors he graciously installed the one way lift for her.

“A direct access to our workspace! We need to be efficient and what better way than an ‘in and out way’. No need to walk around the factory floor.”  Heisenberg boasted as he revealed it to Donna at the end of their first week working together.

Donna has never been more grateful with her ‘brother’.  

The two of them shared a passion of building things, a trait Mother Miranda noticed early on and took advantage of. Donna with her dolls and Heisenberg with his technical proficiency, the two would always discuss their newest projects after every meeting.  

When Mother Miranda said that she needed to expand her control, and increase their territory Heisenberg volunteered to make her a ‘mechanical army’, and with Donna’s help with in the early stages the plan was going along nicely.

Today had been a rather slow day for the two of them, after the field test of ‘Soldat’ prototype Heisenberg offered a break on their work. Of course, with nothing new on their plate discussions quickly turned to Donna’s stay at the Castle as well as its colorful inhabitants.

“So how’s the stay at the gilded castle?” Heisenberg inquired, as he lazily smoked his cigar, the red dot at the tip reminds Donna of the Soldats central weak point, something they need to remedy if they want the mechanical man to have a chance.

Donna sipping her tea frowns at the question. “Quite fine actually. I wished you would stop teasing Alcina, Karl. One day she’ll get so angry at you that you’ll end up as confetti on the floor”

“ohh, are we having a party Mistress” Angie pipes up from her stool.

“Now, now you know I’m only joking. and Alcina’s too strung up, it’s funny to piss her off. Besides I’m genuinely curious, are they treating you well? No headaches or nightmares? I know you get stress in new environments”  

“I’m fine Karl, Alcina and the girls are lovely. Even Angie is having fun” at that the Doll nods enthusiastically. “As for the headache, its manageable, the herbal tea helps”

“and the last one?”

“Like I said, manageable.” She said with finality

“Right, you know I care about you Donna. If anything happens, you’re more than welcome to stay here. You’re friends are getting antsy sometimes but all is well here. I’m sure they’ll be happy when they know that their Mistress is in the same room as them”  

“Thank you”

“Right enough about that.” Heisenberg extinguishes his cigar and stands up animatedly, walking to the side table with blueprints laying on top, he motions for Donna to follow him.

“So I have this new idea… what do you think if we attach a huge propeller at the head of one of the soldat”

The afternoon at Heisenberg’s factory just became interesting again.

----

In her dreams she wasn’t fast enough.  

It was always the same scenario, her and Mother standing near the viewing docks of the waterfall. The sound was deafening but she can distinctly hear Mother talking and saying that she will always be there for her and urging Donna to run back inside the house.  

Donna turns intending to follow her Mother’s order. She hears a soft “goodbye love” and when she looks back Mother is gone.  

Gone. Gone.

Gone…  

She makes her way at the edge of the viewing dock and looks down…  

---

It was Bela's turn to patrol the corridors of the castle, with the harvest of maidens it isn't uncommon to see one or two of their 'prey’ to try to escape. As she makes her rounds near the guest wing she hears a scream.

 ‘Donna!?’  

Bela hears Donna scream and rushes to the woman's room, thinking that someone had managed to escape and made their way to Donna's room or even worse. Bursting through and seeing there are only embers near the fireplace, Bela was about to light a candle when she was stopped.

"STOP!” Donna and Angie both shouted, the duality of their voices unnerved Bela. Donna was hunched over the bed, her hands shielding her whole face.

“Are you alright Donna?” Bela doesn’t sense anyone is in the room, and she felt her shoulders sag, she didn’t even realized that she was holding her breathe. Getting a better bearing of the room, she understands why Donna stopped her.  ‘Ah, she's not wearing her veil’ quickly turning around the other direction she makes her way to the fireplace and stokes it back to life.

Donna still feeling the effects of the nightmare answers in short burst.  

Bela doesn't know how to react on these situation, usually when one of them does experience nightmares they would just usually walk around the castle to decompress and shake the feeling off. On worst occasion when it was really bad they would knock on their Mother's door to seek comfort.

‘How do you comfort a woman?’  

An idea forms in Bela's mind “Would you like to have a short walk? That usually calms me down when I suffer nightmares” Donna considers the invitation, sensing that Bela will not leave her easily she agrees beside she doesn’t really want to be alone right now. She wouldn't want to worry Alcina if she finds out she had this outburst.

“Yes, I would like that” Adjusting her veil she stands up and makes her way to Bela. “Angie will you stay here. Alcina probably heard that scream, will you tell her that I'm with Bela if she comes by?”

"Yes mistress” Angie agrees and settles by the wingback chair near the fireplace . Donna approaches Bela, touching her shoulder. Sensing that it’s alright to turn around, Bela faces the woman, based on the tensed shoulders and wringing hands in front of her, she makes a bold move and gently takes one of the hands.

"Come, I know the perfect place where we can go.”

‘She has warm hands.’  Donna though looking down on their joined hands. She wonders when the last time someone held her hand this way.  

She comes up empty.  

A quick detour to the kitchen for some tea and Bela leads them to the Castle Garden.

Thankfully, it was a warm night.  

By this point Donna has managed to settle some of the earlier tension she's been feeling. She even managed to smile a little, although her companion cannot see it.  

“I will always be surprised at how big this Castle is. Tell me are you also the one that tended to these plants?” Donna motions to the assorted flowers encircling the garden.  

“Unfortunately not, we have the gardener take care of this area. I'm afraid I cannot tend to them when it becomes too cold.”  

“I see.”

Silence follows, as they made their way to the center of the garden where a small gazebo was located.

“Are you feeling well now?” Bela asked after some time, hoping that the open air and the calm night has settled Donna’s nerve.

“Yes, thank you. You were right the short walk really helped.”

Bela can tell with Donna’s posture that she was still not a 100 percent alright, so she decides to distract the woman with questions. “How did you become one of the Four Lords?” at the question Donna’s head snapped up.

‘Shit!’ Bela blanched further, if that was even possible for her. ‘what the hell kind of a question is that? Mothers’ going to kill me’  

Donna studies the woman in front of her. She weights her options on whether to tell Bela the truth or not.

‘You weren’t fast enough’ the intrusive thought taunts her on.  

“First, do I have your word that what I’m about to tell you here will not leave and that you will not divulge my secret to your sisters?” Donna asked seriously as her voice takes on a lower timbre  

“Yes”  

“My Father was the village doctor and we have always lived at the Beneviento mansion. One day my Mother met an accident when we were out near the waterfall. I say an accident because that was what Father said, Mother slipped while I was turning to go back to the house”

“And the truth?”

“She jumped. I don’t know why and until now I have never learned her reasons, but one moment she was there and next she was just gone.”

‘Gone’ she hated that word and the absence it implies.

“My Father never recovered from the heartbreak, then one day he met an accident and I was left alone. Alone in the truest sense possible. The only one I have left was Angie” Donna pauses trying to catch her herself and willing her mind to not spiral down further.

“There were the house servants and the gardener a nice old man who taught me how to care for my plants, but other than them I was a ghost. Just counting my days, existing without living. Then one day Mother Miranda showed up.” At that, Donna smiled recalling the time that the woman suddenly appeared on the anniversary of her mother’s death.

An Angel with black wing. Or was it the Devil?

“She offered me salvation from my loneliness; she gave me the gift to influence others. The moment I’ve received her power, I gave a little of myself to Angie and I was never alone ever since.” Donna lets her story end. Looking at the young woman in front of her, she was surprised to find tears streaming down Bela’s face.

“I’m sorry, I know it was an upsetting tale-“ Donna starts only to be interrupted by Bela standing up and embracing her.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Bela whispers as she rest her cheeks on Donna’s head “But I hope that you will never feel alone again, Mother’s here, Cassandra and Daniela are here-“

“And you’re here as well” Donna finishes Bela’s sentence

Chuckling “Yes, not to mention, Heisenberg and Moreau. Donna, I swear as long as I’m here you will never feel alone” Bela declares as she tightens her embrace

Donna sinks further into Bela’s embrace and for once, she felt it.

She felt peace.  

The two stayed in the same position for some time, With only the moon and stars as their witness.

[juniorgman187]

The Bones (Reid Series) Part 1

Summary: Almost a year after Maeve’s death, Spencer reaches out to the recipients of Maeve’s donated organs to reconnect with his lost love. However, when the receiver of her heart, Reader, doesn’t write back, Spencer goes on a poorly-motivated mission to find her. 

Playlist: “The Bones” by Maren Morris & Hozier   (BONUS: song includes major foreshadowing)

A/N: There is an OC in this story because to me, writing “(y/n)” over and over again cheapens the story and doesn’t flow well. It was a personal decision, and to anyone it sincerely bothers, I’m sure there’s a way you can insert your own name instead. This fic is also inspired by “Things We Know By Heart” by Jessi Kirby. Category: Series, Soft Angst, Eventual Smut + NSFW content* Pairing: Spencer Reid POV x Fem!OC Content Warning: allusions to death, mourning, loss, recovery, arrhythmia (this is an intro chapter, so it’ll get more interesting from here I promise) Word Count: 2.2k

This will be a multi-part series.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

It all started that first autumn after Maeve’s death - just five weeks past a year since I parted with her. I was absentmindedly reading when, rather out of the blue, Mary Donovan called to inform me about a Mrs. Rachel Larsen. 

Although we didn’t learn her actual name until later, she was first known to us as the recipient of Maeve’s liver. Not a single one of the three of us - Maeve’s parents and me - had expected a recipient to be in contact with us. That inability to predict such an event was caused by my neglect to remember Maeve was an organ donor. It wasn’t particularly relevant in the grand scheme of things, and for that forgetfulness, I was truly ashamed, but after reading Rachel Larsen’s letter together with the Donovans, it all came back to me. 

Every single thing. 

You see, despite the anonymity of the person writing to us, it was as if I could actually feel Maeve’s soul coming alive again, as strange as that sounds. 

She was still here with me ... in some form. 

Later that night, when I would return to an empty apartment, I would wonder why I hadn’t thought of reaching out to the recipients before. Even though I’d already started writing a thank you letter back to Rachel, the thirst for more of Maeve became increasingly insatiable. 

While I did have fond memories of her to live by, I couldn’t thrive off of them in the way that I did with that letter. Our only moments together worth reliving were those spent over the phone, a time when I didn’t even know what she looked like. But that letter from Rachel Larsen ... it was somehow more wholesome and pure than any memory of the living Maeve that I could cultivate.

You could say I was doing this to ease my mourning, meaning it should’ve made me feel better, but that didn’t stop the guilt from eating away at me piece by piece as I wrote letters to the rest of the recipients. 

The Donovans had no idea I was doing this, but I reasoned to myself that they would appreciate the surprise. Though they were still undeniably riddled with grief, smiles embellished their sullen faces when they read about Rachel’s quality of life now with a new liver. So maybe, just maybe, hearing from the rest of the receivers would be good for us all. At least, that’s what I told myself.

In one of those rare moments when inspiration strikes and it courses through your veins at the speed of lightning, I found myself being more productive than I had been in nearly a year. By midnight, I’d successfully composed five letters, each dedicated to the receiver of one of Maeve’s major organs - none of which, though, included my identity.

Given the fragile process of contacting the transplant coordinators, getting consent forms, and premeeting counseling, it would be months, if not years, before I would be able to really speak with these faceless people. Nothing against Donor Family Services - I’m sure they do the best they can - but for me, their best wasn’t good enough. So instead, I enlisted the help of someone I knew could never let me down. 

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” Penelope peered up at me from her seat, her pinky finger hesitantly hovering over the ‘enter’ button. 

“Yes.” 

With just one click, she discovered the addresses of each one of those faceless people. This singular operation, albeit somewhat unethical, was the final piece to my puzzle. All there was left to do now was send the letters to them, with the tenuous hope they might send one back. 

Luckily for me, not a single recipient questioned how I managed to find them or why this process wasn’t being handled by Donor Family Services, but I suppose if they did wonder those things, they didn’t feel comfortable asking me. Especially not after they learned who I was in relation to their donor. I didn’t intend to guilt-trip anyone with what I wrote in my letters nor did I want to take advantage of anyone’s empathy, but how could you possibly make a foe out of your organ donor’s grieving boyfriend? Exactly - you can’t. So you don’t. Instead, you send an inviting letter back, telling me you’d love to meet. Which is what four of them did.

Only one person didn’t reply, and while an 80% success rate was great, I simply couldn’t let this one go. Trust me, I would have ... had it been any other organ. 

For quite some time, I was the one with Maeve’s heart. 

I just needed to see where it was now.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The heart has several definitions and corresponding connotations. 

Scientifically speaking, the heart is a hollow muscular organ that pumps the blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation. However, figuratively, the heart can be seen as the central or innermost part of something. The heart of a city, for example. But in literature, the heart is symbolic of love. It is often regarded as the source of all knowledge, which is where the comparison between the head and the heart comes from. The head operates logically, whereas the heart functions emotionally, but despite the rationality the head holds, the heart is what people advise you to listen to because it holds the ultimate truth. 

The heart, because it is equipped with your truest feelings, supersedes any logic and reason the head might hold. 

But you see, I only ever knew Maeve’s mind. I could understand the inner workings of it - I’d probably be able to navigate through her consciousness if I entered it given the fact that our intellect matched one another’s - and I shared nearly identical thought processes with her, but that was all that I ever knew. 

And if that was how much knowledge she held in her head alone, then, undoubtedly, her heart held so much more.

Science defines the heart as an organ. Figurative language uses the heart to establish a focal point. Literature likens the heart to love. But I compare her heart to the ocean. Like the sea, Maeve’s heart was 80% undiscovered, and exploration was simply calling my name. 

For that reason, and that reason alone, I couldn’t abandon my pursuit of it. 

That’s not to say I wasn’t ashamed of this mission, though. If anything, shame for the man I had become in the face of Maeve’s death was the only feeling I was truly capable of anymore. Any other emotions were fleeting or insincere. 

Unfortunately, that slimy, disgusting feeling was only amplified times ten when I found myself driving two hours and forty-five minutes to get to Virginia Beach. 

No sane man would drive this far on a weekday for even their most prized possession, and yet here I was, exactly 180 miles away from home, seeking out someone who hadn’t had the courtesy to even write me back, let alone agree to meet with me. Who knows if she’d even give me the time of day. 

She being Valerie. 

“Valerie Elise Bishop was born on August 5th, 1988 in Henderson, Nevada, to parents Andrew and Sara, but when Valerie turned seventeen, she was diagnosed with arrhythmia,” Garcia explained to me over the phone on the car ride here. “It’s when-”

“When the electrical impulses that coordinate your heartbeats don't work properly, causing your heart to beat too fast, too slow or irregularly,” I accidentally cut in. Realizing I interrupted Garcia, I brought her back into the conversation by asking, “I know there are more than 3 million cases per year in the U.S, but isn’t it usually common for ages 60 or older?” 

“You are most certainly correct, Boy Wonder. It is more common in ages 60 and older, however, her maternal grandmother passed away from arrhythmia, so the family history increased the likelihood.” 

At the sound of this news, I had to pull the car over and physically stop just so I could grasp the weight of what I was really doing. 

“In Henderson, Nevada ... maternal grandmother passed away ... family history increased the likelihood …” Garcia’s voice rang in my head. 

It was then that I came face to face with the gravity of reality. 

Valerie wasn’t just a faceless name or a recipient of Maeve’s heart, she was a person. And her humanity only became more apparent to me the more Penelope spoke. 

For god’s sake, she and I grew up in the same state. She and I saw the same sunsets from the same little corner of the earth. She drove down the same highways and byways - we might’ve even crossed paths at one point or another! Not to mention that she lost her grandmother to the same disease that she was suffering from, and if there was one thing consistent about arrhythmia, it was very likely she’d been living with it for decades, if not her entire lifetime. It’s a long term disease that takes years to improve but only seconds to kill. All it would take is just one irregular beat, and she’d be dead. How can you possibly live with that constant fear looming over your head? 

She is a person. I had to remind myself. Not just a means to explore more of Maeve. 

“Hey, Garcia,” I turned the car back on. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” 

“What do you mean?” I could just feel panic begin to rise in Garcia. 

“No, I’m not talking about life, I’m talking about this.” Though she couldn’t see, I grandly gestured to the location, the car, and the passenger seat that was cluttered with files on Valerie. “I don’t feel right invading her privacy like this. It’s just selfish.” 

I wasn’t the only one mourning something here. 

“Are you sure?” Penelope clarified. Which was ironic considering she was the one who was unsure of doing any of this, to begin with. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have dragged Garcia into this. Something as immoral as this was totally against her character, but she did it anyway because her loyalty to her friends conquers all. 

Like I said, my shame multiplied times ten. If not for Valerie, then certainly for Penelope. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m heading home.” 

“Okay,” She softly returned. “Be safe.” 

“Oh, and Garcia?” I asked before ending the call. “Thanks.” 

“Of course. Anything for you, Dr. Reid.” 

By the time I ended the call, the sun was already setting - that’s how long I’d been on the road for. The nearly-three-hour drive I would have to make for the second time today meant I wouldn’t be home in time to beat the pitch-black sky, so considering I was already in for a long night, I made a little detour for the one thing I couldn’t go home without.

A piping hot cup of coffee. 

I felt something as rewarding as caffeine was well deserved for the self-restraint I demonstrated minutes ago. And maybe it was my exhaustion, both mental and physical, that brought me to the near conclusion that I would truly let this go, but I was honestly feeling like I could accept this. An 80% acceptance rate. Not bad, right? 

Though I was basically half-asleep while waiting for my coffee, I could not miss the barista when she said, “Valerie! Your order’s ready!”

What are the chances?

A jolt of energy surged through my body and brought me back to life, causing me to whip my head around at the slightest semblance of movement. On instinct, my gaze gravitated to the woman walking towards the front counter. My pull to her was so strong that even if I hadn’t studied file upon file on her that included pictures of what she looked like, I still would’ve recognized her in a heartbeat.

I just knew. That’s her. 

I had no plan whatsoever for how I should approach this, and yet I still rose from my seat, motivated by nothing more than the single belief that I needed to.

Was this the universe telling me that I was meant to run into her after all? That I needed to meet the woman with an oceanic heart?

But when I finally got to where she was, she glided effortlessly past me, not paying any mind to my presence. Why would she though? To her, I was no one. To her, I was the faceless person. 

“Excuse me!” I bolted to the front counter after realizing I might’ve just missed my opportunity. The barista, stunned and concerned, furrowed her brows while she waited for my question. “Is that girl a regular here?”

“Valerie?” She pointed in her direction, to which I nodded rapidly. “Oh, yeah. She comes in here all the time. She works just across the street.” 

When I came to this coffee shop, it was simply by chance. It wasn’t even the closest cafe, but it was the one I chose to go to for some inexplicable reason. 

I’d like to think it was fate. I was meant to be here after all. Because right behind me stood the storefront of a building I had only briefly read about in Valerie’s file.

The Bones,  Art Gallery & Studio

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

PART 2 HERE!

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[yn-dreamlife]

Katsuki Bakugo x Reader || My Little Flower

pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader 

Warnings: mentions/memories of abuse, angst, guilty todoroki, guilty bakugo, Panic attacks, angst, fluff

Characters: Katsuki Bakugo, Izuku Midoriya, Ochaco Uraraka, Eijiro Kirishima, Shoto Todoroki, Mina Ashido, Tenya Iida.

Description: When one of Katsukis harmless insults Sends you flashing back into your abusive past you fear what he’ll think of you. Will your friendship possibly be ruined because of this? A.N: ok so I haven’t been able to watch a bunch of this show yet cause online schooling I’m going off of the fan fiction I’ve read so don’t come at me please. I love this fandom and honestly it would break my heart if I offended someone. I hope you enjoy. Also for the sake of things pretend that UA is a college 

I walk next to one of my best friends not noticing his heterochromiac gaze in me. I bite my lip deep in my thoughts i was still relatively new to the idea that I actually have to stay at UA college ever since it became a boarding school and to say I was nervous was a understatement, who would I be with? How would the rooms work? Would it be by class? What if I didn’t know anyone? What if-  “y/n,” shotos soft voice besides me brings me from my thoughts. I hummed in acknowledgement feeling my cheeks heat up worried he would be upset I was being like this. “relax.” He whispered softly placing a hand on my shoulder and letting out a warmth to help against the cool winter wether.  I felt some of the anxiety leave me.... some. Of course he wasn’t mad he knew how I got, anxious I was doing something wrong breaking an unspoken rule or not making everyone happy, worried constantly about grades, not caring for myself, all because of them. I smile apologetically at the duo colored hair boy. And he returns one back. 

But that doesn’t mean my anxiety’s of the dorm rooms would go away. We got to UA our bags in tow behind us as we walked up I saw a some of the people who have become some of my truest friends. Izuku Midoriya was standing next to Ochaco Uraraka, and I could see both there faces had a slight flush as there arm kept brushing against one another. I also saw Tenya Iida standing with them he was our class representative. I was still shocked I was in a class with such amazing people. As we came closer I also saw three other people approaching.  Mina Ashido smiled brightly at me rushing to give me a hug while leaving her bag to the two men she was walking with, I gladly welcomed the embrace needing it but never forgetting Shoto was right there because truth be told I would be crying already had it not been for his constant presences.  Due to her sprinting towards me it grabbed the attention of the group of three I had already noticed but my eyes where closed shut clutching to her. When we pulled away her two companions Eijiro Kirishima, and Katsuki Bakugo where also there now along with Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida.  “Hi everybody!” I said happily willing the heat rising to my cheeks down. Whenever Bakugo was around my heart soared and butterfly’s formed in my stomach and if I dint keep my emotions down a flower crown would soon be forming on my head. Todoroki place a cooling hand on my back calming me but I think he did it to calm the heat glaring to my cheeks as all the eyes landed on me. 

“Hey there pretty lady!” Kiri said to me smiling pulling me into a hug and I gladly hugged my red haired fiend. He was always so happy which made it easier for me. 

“So does anyone know how this is all going to work?” I asked worried maybe I was the only clueless one. Most everyone looked confused except of course for Iida. “We will be placed by classroom into rooms all classes will have one common area but all of us have bedrooms, I am unsure at the time if any of us will be sharing.” I nodded my head “Of course no boys and girls will be sharing. Right?”

He gave a pointed look to me. “W-what’s that look for?!” I shrieked as I could do nothing to hide the blush. And when shotos hand left me due to him covering his mouth as he laughed it only seemed down my neck. “Oh come on we all know you and Todoroki are together!” Uraraka spoke smiling, Shoto stopped laughing.

“Not so funny know huh Shoto?!” He only glared at me But there was no heat behind it, and looked at our friends. “Me and y/n are not together.” He spoke seriously. All there faces turned to confusion and Midoriya spoke first. “Wait your not? But you two call each other by first name and you don’t do that to anyone else!” He said defensively. “Well yeah Shoto does it out of respect I don’t do it because none of you have given me permission to do so. Besides Shoto is like my brother, I could never do anything like that.” I smiled over at him and he returned it.

“Maybe stop making heart eyes at icy hot and maybe we’ll believe you, shitty woman.” Bakugo scoffed Kirishima hit his shoulder rather roughly at the look on my face. Usually his playful insults never bothered me and I’d fire back but that one.... he Used that one. Shoto without thinking shot out in front of me shielding me from everyone as I took a few steps back slowly. Third person P.O.V

Todoroki knew the moment the words left Bakugos mouth what would happen. He quickly moved in front of you and Shielded you from view. Kirishima never liked when his bakubro spoke to you that way knowing of his feelings towards you and yours towards him but he looked over and saw as you took a few steps back. Your eyes seemed to glass over and you had a far off look, one that reminded him of the pro hero’s who had seen to much in there time.

Everyone made a move to get closer to you but you quickly stepped back again, Shoto took another step forward practically growling, but you where to busy turning around to notice as you ran off. Todoroki let you knowing you needed space for a minute but he would give you no more time than that.

“What the fuck happened icyhot?!” Bakugo spoke daring anyone to mention the worry that leaked into his voice with a glare. No one mentioned it to worried, they had never seen you like that. You had an energy like Kirishima always happy and smiling always helping others. And your reaction to the name was not anticipated. So often you would fire something back at Bakugo that he was left feeling horribly guilty. Before anyone could ask Todoroki made his way to you.

Your P.O.V

Warning abuse flashback

I ran to the only place I had felt safe in all of UA it was a hidden garden long since forgotten at the back of the school. Once I had found it the first few days of school I instantly fell in love my quirk blossomed here. I could control all things natural from the elements to plants and animals. I could make animals listen and plants grow. But I also had the power to kill said plants easily. The trail of death I left behind in the grass as I ran a clear path to anyone but i was to far gone in my mind.

“You want to be a hero?!” His cold voice echoed in the basement the voice I still longed to hear praise come from. “Your quirk is nothing compared to mine. Do you hear me?! NOTHING! And besides....” he grabbed my throat roughly making me meet his eye, “your gonna be my slave for the rest of your stupid life.” His cold eyes once so filled with love broke the last part of my spirit I had left, I bowed my head in submission.

——

“Oh shitty woman!” His voice echoed through the house to my cage in the basement i whimpered. “Be ready cause I’m just pissed of tonight!” I shook out of both fear and coldness. I wasn’t allowed to wear anything except my shackles. He liked to keep me chained up my wrists attached to a chain that was liked to a metal collar around my neck. My feet also cuffed together. Both allowing me to move but never escape. I was his slave, his dog, his shitty woman, his punching bag, and his fuck hole. I had no other purpose anymore. I haven’t spoken to any of my loved ones in months? Years? Time blurred together, especially since I was locked away in the dark damp windowless basement. I heard his foot steps come thudding down the stairs, he held a knife in his hands, he liked to make me bleed.

I can’t tell how long it’s been, hours, days, minutes? All I knew was he wasn’t stopping and I knew one more cut, one more kick, I would be gone I couldn’t stop the happiness that flooded me I would be free.

I didn’t notice Shoto coming towards me till he placed his cool hand on one cheek and his warm one on the other the two temperatures grounding me slightly  

“y/n come back, you’re in your garden remember? I got you out of there, he’s gone he can’t hurt you.” His words shifted my thoughts to what happened next.

The hope I had just felt was suddenly ripped away as the doorbell rang. He growled and stormed upstairs stripping off the bloody shirt. I couldn’t hear anything but suddenly I heard his frustrated scream through the whole house the name he cried barley recognizable since the amount of time it has been since I heard it but a part of me knew.

“Todoroki!!” I laid there stunned... Todoroki? Thoughts of a pair of heterochromia eyes popped into my brain. The piecing blue and grey, but they held warmth. I could remember his hair two colors both white and red. I heard frantic footsteps rush down the stairs.

“y/n!” I heard a man yell I flinched but looking up I was met with those warm eyes except they had worry and fear i ached to take that away my mind still foggy on how I knew him. and it suddenly all came back, the times we spent laughing so hard tears streamed down our faces, sneaking into his home to see him when his father shut him away, sparing with him, creating flowers the same color as his eyes and hair.

“Sho...” I whispered the ghost of a smile in my eye the last thing I heard was his calming voice

“Don’t worry sweet flower I’ve got you”

“Sho?” I spoke the fog slowly leaving my brain I squeezed his hands to my face. “That’s it, there you go...welcome back.” I looked around and sighed but it was quickly turned into a hitch in my breathe as I saw the path of death I had created, quickly with a wave of my hand it was regrowing, Shoto smiles at me. “Sorry about that.” I muttered quietly he shook his head pulling me into a hug, “never apologize,” He pulled me away slightly staring at me directly in the eyes. “Never.” I nodded and he smiled at me grabbing my hand and helping me stand. It was getting dark so we headed back to what was now our class dorm.

When I entered I was quickly pulled into a hug I recognized it as Kirishima and hugged him back letting him hold me for a while as Shoto walked off going to his room. When I pulled away I looked behind him not seeing anyone else. “How is he?” I asked softly. “I should be asking about you.” He smiled softly “but of course you always worry about everyone else... he’s upset, to say the least but not at you more at himself.” I nodded and kiri showed me to my room turns out we didn’t have to share much to all of our reliefs. We loved each other sure but our own space was nice. It had been several hours and in that time I decided to clean my room, unpack everything, read something and scroll through social media all to distract myself from the inevitable nightmare I would have. But of course I drifted to sleep and of course I had a nightmare. I woke up hot a sweaty shaking away the flashes of the dream, I was back with my ex but this time he made bakugo watch as he did things to me and he begged and cried even though I knew the real bakugo had never shown such emotions to me but it seemed so real.

I walked out to the kitchen the mere thought of his eyes looking that way and my ex made me once again cry. I bit my hand the way I always did and before I knew it snow was falling above me.

“y/l/n?” I heard a voice behind me I turned around and saw none other than bakugo. The sight of his eyes made the sob I was holding back rip from my throat. They where the same eye from my dream the same look of pain and sadness in them.

“Katsuki-” I stopped myself despite my sobs. I felt a surge of dread wash through me. I knew I called him that in my head but to say it to him felt so rude without permission. I fell to my knees my hands taking position in front of my chest clasped together as I softly whispered

“I’m sorry I meant no offense bak-” I was cut off my soft hands cupping my face and sweat pants clad knees brushing against the skin of my own bare knees. “Don’t, katsuki is fine. I’m more concerned about what’s wrong?” I pursed my lips shaking my head. He sighed as he hoisted me up into his arms and began walking into the living room type area. He set my on the couch and then sat himself down next to me. “So tell me y/n, what’s wrong.” I took a deep breathe studying myself. He gave me all the time I needed and I was grateful. I sighed running my hand through my hair as I stood up. “what I’m telling you only Shoto knows I’m trusting you to keep this information to yourself.” He nodded sitting up and I felt like he had the same commitment to that Silent promise As he did to trying to be number one hero. “I was with an ex... and we where together towards our senior year of high school. You probably didn’t notice but well we went to the same high school you, and i know you knew that. But you probably didn’t notice my absence towards the end of the year. Well my boyfriend snapped or something and he... he made me his slave. Locked me in the basement, kept me chained, he would abuse me in every way possible. Sexually, physically, mentally, emotionally... and well Shoto... when he found me I was an inch from death and I was ready to welcome it with open and willing arms... that was a year ago.” His breathe hitched.

“Thanks to someone’s quirk a lot of the memories are gone... for the most part, I still have triggers and nightmares. One of those triggers being what he used to call me. I was his fuck hole, his slave, his... shitty woman.” I watched his hand fly to his mouth anger seeping into his eyes. “And today, I called you- oh my god I am so sorry!” He truly looked like he was about to pass out. “Is that why you where upset just now? Because of me? I can get my room transferred probably I’ll do whatever I ca-” I shook my head. “no not directly you, it was a nightmare I had but well uh.... you where in it.” I watched color leave his face I knew what he thought so I quickly stopped the thought from continuing by adding “my ex was doing those things in front of you! He was making you watch and I had to watch you... I had to watch your beautiful vermillion eyes be covered in pain and sadness and worry. And well you came into the kitchen and that’s the exact look i saw. And the reason it affected me is because I like you katsuki. A lot and honestly I’m sorry, because who wants some broken cry baby to be head over heels for them but I am and I understand if you don’t wish to speak to me again.” before I could comprehend what was happening I was being pulled into his arms. His scent of burnt sugar and caramel invading my senses. His hands moved through my hair and I hummed at the feeling.

“i feel the same way about you baby.” I sighed as I moved closer to him and he in turn pulled me into his lap. He rubbed his hands steadily up and down my back as he layer down on the couch. “I’m sorry all of that happened to you, I’m sorry I said that to you, and I’m sorry that I never went to check on you in high school. Truth is I did notice I just thought you moved or something.” We sat in scilence for a little while till I spoke up again.

“Katsuki...” he hummed “what am I to you?” He moved my head so I was looking at him. I saw his vibrant eyes and they warmed me throughout even my whole soul. “you... you’re my little flower, so delicate under harsh conditions but no matter how heavy the foot or how harsh the winter you’ll come back as vibrant or even more vibrant than before. You are my light, and my everything and if you will allow me the honor my girlfriend.”

Tears brimmed my eyes “Oh god, I’m sorry. Don’t cry! Shit! Um-” I cut him off smiling and he sighed and visibly relaxed.

“i would love nothing more than to be your girlfriend, firework man.” I gently leaned down my lips a hairs breath away from his and he leaned in closing the distance I sighed I had wanted this since I first layed eyes on him. It felt so nice.

“Goodnight katsuki.” I whispered as I kissed his jaw cuddling back into his warm bare chest on,y now realizing his attire but not caring enough to be embarrassed. “goodnight my little flower.” The last thing I heard before drifting into sleep was “ill protect you, always.”

[admiralty-xfd]

cross to bear

This story first appeared in Volume 2 of the MSR Fanzine. The ending has been slightly edited.

It first meets Dana when she’s fifteen.

Braces, freckles, awkward teenage-ness. It’s comfortable against her chest, nestled against her heart, hearing it beating. Slow and steady while she sleeps, then faster when the boy with sandy hair in homeroom touches her hand as he passes back a pencil.

It’s just a small piece of gold but it stays put, constant, like her faith.

At first her faith is in Him, that ubiquitous Him she’s known since childhood. He watches over her, He keeps her safe. He is there when no one else can be. And this particular faith ebbs and flows with age.

High school, college, medical school. Worn, unworn. Sometimes she is faithful, on nights when her heart is broken by some insufficient male and she misses her mother and it’s too late to call; those nights she wears the cross, holds the cool metal between her fingers and imagines Him, protecting her, guiding her.

And other times she is not so faithful, those days where her scientific rigor is put to the test, where she knows in her mind He simply cannot be but somehow He is there on her shoulder anyway, ever-present, judging her for leaving the cross in the small dish on her nightstand.

The length of its chain changes over time, as does its vantage point from her neck (although not by much). But the cross remains: part of her, steadfast and true.

†

It first meets her partner thirteen years later.

Only from across the room at first, but it always knows him by the way Dana’s heart beats faster, like it used to when she was younger. It happens so rarely anymore.

Her faith has never been so tested in all of her life: faith that first was confronted by hard evidence in various labs that shattered it to pieces. Now, with Mulder, the reverse seems to occur: her hard evidence is continually being shattered by miracles, by doubts. It’s difficult to know what to believe anymore.

Trust is fleeting, oblique. But not with him. From the very beginning she has faith in him. And it is true faith, genuine faith, because she cannot explain or quantify it: it just is.

Perhaps it’s simply her faith transitioning naturally from Him to him, but soon she wears the cross all the time again. And just as it settles back into its comfortable place at the hollow of her throat it is ripped away from her neck, discarded onto the itchy fabric floor of a stranger’s trunk.

And she is gone.

†

Her partner’s hand is the next thing it feels. Closing around it, larger, rougher than hers.

“Scully!?”

He calls for her desperately in the chill of night, his hand clutching the cross as if it were a piece of her; his only piece of her.

He knows so little about her yet that he places the cross into the shaking hand of her mother, a piece of Scully he is not familiar with. He feels strongly the cross belongs with her family.

But Margaret Scully knows that her daughter’s faith doesn’t come from the cross; it comes from Fox Mulder. And it doesn’t belong with her.

It belongs with him.

†

Putting the necklace on is strange for him. His family was never religious so neither was he. Funny how that happens.

But he worries if he doesn’t wear it, he will lose it. He’s already lost her; he can’t bear the thought.

It’s been difficult going into the office every day. Even before her abduction it was difficult; knowing she wouldn’t be waiting with a stack of research and those reliable indulgent eyes he’d become so accustomed to. But now, it’s worse. Everything just hurts all the time. He feels solely responsible, the only person who might have prevented this and he couldn’t.

Just like Samantha. Once again, he couldn’t save her.

The responsibility of finding his partner consumes his every thought. He doesn’t realize the weight of this immediately but day after day, the cross hangs heavier around his neck, against his chest, under his shirt; a constant reminder of her absence. His heart beats but something is different; empty. He is not himself.

Head down, eyes forward, he continues the work, because it’s the only thing he can do for her.

†

Malibu Canyon. Santa Ana winds. Blazing fires that will grow out of control, much like his own judgment. A choice that becomes a mistake.

“All I know is normal is not what I feel.”

He isn’t normal, not really. It’s clear he is in a dark place, an unfamiliar place. Just like Scully.

Just like her cross, he thinks, touching it.

This stranger is dark and mysterious. He’s drawn to her, because he is Fox Mulder, and he gravitates toward darkness more often than he’d like to admit. But more likely, he feels deserving of the dark right now.

“You’ve lost someone. Not a lover, a friend.”

The stranger isn’t wrong. His devotion extends to their partnership, it's purely professional.

Or is it?

He’s barely learned to know Scully, and to uncover the precise depth of his own feelings for her. It’s a band of elasticity, constantly pushing forward and back, one feeling one day, an entirely new one the next. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to feel for her, what he should allow himself to feel.

Perhaps that’s why he lets the stranger in tonight: to feel something, anything; to take a brief moment of pleasure within this hellscape of pain. Nearly two years into his partnership with Scully and he’s only just realizing he’s subconsciously avoided sex with anyone else.

What does this mean?

Maybe he wants to save Kristen because he wants to save Scully. Like he wanted to save Samantha.

So many different feelings are bouncing around his mind, and faced with the attractive and eager stranger he lands on sex as the answer. Fucking Kristen is not an acceptable substitute for saving Scully, not at all, but it’s what she seems to want.

And what he wants is to feel something.

The cross dangles between his sweaty chest and the stranger, making it impossible to forget his partner even for a moment. And he hates himself for doing this; for failing Scully, for the time he’s spending not searching for her, and fucking some random stranger instead.

What does this mean?

Afterwards he extracts himself from her grasp, collecting his clothes from the couch and resuming his position in her living room. The silent sentinel.

The silent, useless sentinel.

†

The cross goes back to its rightful owner. Mulder is tight-lipped, almost bashful as he places it into her palm. Scully wonders about this.

She’d felt him when she was in the white place, wherever it was, whatever they’d done to her. She’d known somehow she would see him again. It was the only thing that kept her going.

Their work, the quest, the truth. These are the things she’s convinced herself she needed to come back for. But now, as he opens her door for his second visit, she sees the face of a true friend. Her truest friend.

He is who she’s come back for.

“I watched your football video,” she greets him.

“Really?”

“No.” She smiles.

“Funny.”

“Sorry,” she smirks. “When you’ve stared death in the face your priorities tend to change.”

He chuckles. “Mark my words, one night you’ll run out of things to watch and in an act of desperation...” he trails off.

“Stranger things have happened,” she admits. He sits, gingerly, in the chair beside her bed. “Thanks for coming, Mulder.”

“Of course,” he says. His hands rest on his thighs. He appears restless, uncertain.

She thinks about her necklace, how he kept it safe for her all these weeks. Mulder isn’t the tidiest of bachelors. Was it in his pocket? Strewn across his nightstand? Dangling from the edge of the framed picture of Samantha on his desk?

“How did you manage not to lose this?” she asks, holding the chain of her necklace taut. “I’m amazed it didn’t disappear forever into one of your piles of stuff.”

His hand goes to the back of his neck, awkwardly. “I, uh… I wore it, actually.”

Surprise floods her heart. “You?”

“Yeah, I never took it off.”

She smiles, touched. “Wow, Mulder.” She doesn’t say it, but she thinks it: I never left his mind.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he breathes, as if the words have been bottled up inside his chest.

“Me neither.” She is reflective. “There was a moment when I felt like letting go.”

“But here you are.”

Her hand goes instinctively to the cross. “Here I am.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Does she tell him? “I felt you with me, Mulder. You believed I wasn’t ready to go, and I believed you.”

I had the strength of your beliefs.

He nods, smiles. There isn’t much else to say. She made it home, and so did the cross. Her faith in him has been rewarded.

†

A stormy night in Philadelphia. Raw, newly inked flesh. A choice that becomes a mistake.

The cross dangles between herself and a stranger. She hadn’t planned this, not at all, but it’s happening just the same.

“Sounds a little like your time has come around again.”

The stranger isn’t wrong. She’s earned attention, but isn’t getting it from Mulder. The stranger is here, though.

As unfamiliar hands grip her hips and unfamiliar eyes look into hers she instead sees Mulder, thinks of Mulder. Feels Mulder. And she hates herself for doing this; for failing him, for spending time not being honest with him, and fucking some random stranger instead.

This all began with a strong urge to prove that she is desirable, that she is wanted. That she is worthy of attention.

But she’s discovered she only wants that from Mulder.

What does this mean?

When it’s over she and the stranger lay awkwardly strewn across the floor of his sparse living room. He offers her the bed, because for now, he’s a gentleman. Her hand goes to the cross Mulder wore while he searched for her years ago.

He never leaves her mind.

†

They sit in the dim lamplight of a motel, him propped against the headboard, reading a book. She sits cross legged at the foot of the bed in his Yankees shirt, a pillow in her lap, just watching him read, which apparently serves as a legitimate activity these days.

“How many women have you been with, Mulder?”

He looks up, surprised. “Oh god, are we doing this?”

He can’t recall, he doesn’t really want to recall. But he isn’t afraid to. Being on the run from the law makes these heart to heart talks between them unavoidable. For the first time in nine years they are no longer afraid of the truth.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she grins.

He removes his glasses and sets them on the bedside table, raising an eyebrow. “Ooh, really? How many women have you been with, Scully?”

She throws the pillow at him. “You know what I mean.”

The temptation to find out if she’d actually slept with Ed Jerse is too great so he agrees. “Okay. You go first,” he says.

“Hey! This is my game, I asked first,” she grins.

“Consider it my only condition.”

She sighs, leans over, stretching herself on her stomach across their bed. As she does this, his shirt rides up her back, revealing one of his favorite views. White cotton panties have never looked so exciting. She drags her finger along his leg. “I already know, Mulder.”

“Know what?”

“Which one you want to know about.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“The answer is yes,” she says quickly, and the words sting. He knew; deep down he thinks he’s always known. But it’s always bothered him; that maybe if he hadn’t behaved the way he did none of it would have happened. The one night stand, the subsequent attack, all of it.

“Can I ask... why?”

She catches his eye. “You can ask me whatever you want, Mulder. But that’s not really part of the game.”

He searches her eyes. He has to know. “Why?”

She moves to sit up on her knees. Her fingers move to her cross and it reminds him instantly of Kristen, and why he has no reason or excuse to be angry with her about Ed Jerse.

“I was lost,” she shrugs, looking at the cross. “I didn’t know at the time how I felt about you. I was acting out, like a kid, like I was stealing my mom’s cigarettes again.”

“So… nothing to do with me, then?”

Her eyes drift up to his face and she pins him with a look. “It had everything to do with you, Mulder. I just didn’t realize it until afterwards.”

He nods, wanting to understand. He thinks maybe he does; his own situation with Kristen was surprisingly similar. He mentally prepares for the impending divulgence he hadn’t anticipated tonight.

“It feels good to tell you, though,” she says, absently fingering the necklace. “Finally.”

“It feels good not to wonder anymore.”

“Now you go,” she says. He doesn’t press her for more tonight; this feels like enough.

“Are we counting the 1-900 women?”

“No. We’d be here all night,” she laughs. It’s not as if they have anywhere else to be, anything else to do, but he’s relieved nonetheless.

“Well, a few girls at Oxford.” Post Phoebe Green.

“I had no idea you were such a player, Mulder.”

“I wasn’t,” he admits. “Bit of a self-destructive streak, you know.”

“Ah.” She’d met Phoebe. She knows. “What about after you met me?” In her haste to avoid all mention of his past with Diana she’d inadvertently put him in a position to either be completely honest about Kristen or lie to her face. He will not do the latter, not anymore.

“There was one,” he confesses. “While you were… gone.”

She is silent. She had absolutely no idea. He suddenly feels like maybe he shouldn’t have told her at all, but then where would they be? What kind of honesty, what kind of trust could they claim?

He reaches out, touching her chin, making her look at him. “I was lost, too, Scully.”

She exhales softly. “Who was she?”

“Does it matter?” he asks. “She wasn’t you.”

She smiles, seemingly satisfied. Then her expression changes slightly. “But… you said you wore my cross while I was gone. Are you telling me…?” her eyebrow goes up.

Oh… yikes. “Um.” He can feel his face turn white and knows he could never tell a lie of the same color. “I’m sorry. Are you upset?”

“Why would I be upset?” she asks, perfectly seriously.

He shakes his head, opening his mouth, but he can’t form words. His guilt exists, but he’s unable to explain it properly. His heart had been hers already, he just hadn’t known it.

“It was so many years ago, Mulder,” she reassures him. “Before us. Before any of this. Besides...” she says with a smile, touching the tiny gold cross that settles into the hollow at her throat. “I was closer to your heart than she was.”

Her words touch him: his Scully, endlessly devoted to him. Finding the good in every shitty thing he’s ever done. Will he ever deserve it?

“You were, you know.”

She nods. She knows. “We were both stupid for so many years, Mulder,” she continues. “I’m not about to make a checklist and keep score.”

He chuckles. “Well that’s a relief.”

“Because you’d lose?” she grins.

“Because I’d lose.”

She laughs in response, gazing into his eyes. “I hope you know this isn’t a contest,” she says. “It never was.”

“I still think I’d lose, Scully.”

She runs her fingers through his hair. “I think we’ve both won,” she whispers, and she's right, as usual.

He smiles, but his eyes turn serious. “I really should have been more careful with it.” He takes the cross between his fingers, softly dipping his index finger into the hollow at her throat and she shivers. Her eyes darken and she brings her hands to the back of her neck, unclasping the necklace. She then leans forward, putting it around his own neck.

"You'll be careful with it," she says. "I have faith in you."

He raises an eyebrow in question and, in answer, she draws him in for a kiss, long and decadent. He closes his eyes, savoring every last bit, and her kiss absolves him; the cross no longer feels heavy around his neck.

They move together, his hands squeezing her flesh, her fingernails embedded in his back. He whispers her name into her ear, she moans his in return.

The cross dangles between two hearts now, two hearts that beat wildly only for each other.

[loki-hargreeves]

Loki’s 12 days of X-Mas - Tony’s Christmas Party

A/N: I’m so sorry for taking so long. Being sick is the worst. Anyway, I’m catching up on these. Hope you like them! :) Loki’s 12 days of Christmas Warning: just fluff, a bit of alcohol, this is such a cliché  Word Count: 2,3K Summary: You and Loki attend one of Stark’s iconic Christmas parties. It doesn’t take long until you find yourself under pressure with no other than Loki. The entire team has gotten enough of your flirting going nowhere. You’re in for a wild night...

Third POV

“...It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas....” The infamous tune played softly on Y/N’s lips, filling the room with melody. It was already dark outside, but the New York lights made it easy to see the cold snowflakes falling down from the sky. The Avengers were all gathered for once to celebrate Christmas. Tony Stark had hosted a party and he even invited Loki. Sure, Tony said it was only out of kindness and because he didn’t want Y/N to kick his ass, but unbeknownst to Loki and Y/N, the man of iron had other plans. 

Loki was going to pick her up from her room at the compound, not expecting to hear her sing along to a song so jolly. So far, she hadn’t even noticed him as she walked across her room, her hips swaying in her crimson red dress. Loki could harly believe how beautiful she was. In his eyes, Y/N was a goddess in disguise. It was almost a shame that they were just friends. Deciding not to be a creep, Loki cleared his throat which made her jump.

“Loki! I didn’t see you...” Y/N seemed flustered, which was just adorable. She was quick to brush it off with a beaming smile. She was ready to go. Even though the pary was a few floors up, it felt appropriate to go there together. 

“I can’t blame you, now can I? Sneaking up on people is my specialty,” Loki teased her lightly, earning a giggle from her. He noticed her black heels now and how beautifully she had done her makeup and hair. Her look was so contrary to her armour and tight suits. She looked great in anything. “You look beautiful,” Loki let her know smoothly, hoping he didn’t sound too much in awe. 

The compliment made her roll her eyes, but little did Loki know the words went right to her core. “You’re such a gentleman sometimes, I swear...” She mumbled and grabbed her small purse and then closed the distance between them. As a Prince, Loki had manners and he had not forgotten about them. He offered her his arm to hold on which she gladly did. “You look good in that black suit, by the way.”

A gentleman, indeed, but not for everyone. Most people treated Loki like the plague - they avoided him and believed his touch resulted in a painful death. Y/N was different. She welcomed the Trickster with open arms and made him feel like a person. It had taken time, but eventually Loki let down his walls when he was with her and he could be himself. For her, he was his truest self, a prince who would treat her like a princess. Nevertheless, they were just friends and he kept reminding himself of that. 

They entered the elevator at the same time as Natasha and Clint. Y/N greeted them happily, which they returned. But when it came to Loki, the duo didn’t seem as happy. “Do you think Tony will pull off any crazy stunts this year?” Y/N wondered innocently, remembering the parties from previous years. Tony was known to go overboard quite often. 

“We’ll just have to wait and see, Y/N,” Natasha smirked with mischief in her voice. Loki noticed. Natasha glanced at Y/N and then at Loki and her smirk grew. It wasn’t that obvious, but it didn’t escape Loki’s sight. He knew right then at that moment that they were up to something. 

As the elevator doors opened, the four of them were welcomed with drinks. They walked further inside the party and separated as different people got up to greet them. Thor made his way to Loki and Y/N. “Brother! Lady Y/N! I’m so happy to see you arrived,” the blonde prince beamed of joy. Y/N let go of Loki’s arm to hug the God of Thunder.

“It’s good to see you, Thor,” She said as they parted from the hug. Loki didn’t like the jealousy that formed in the pits of his stomach. He knew very well Y/N wasn’t his, but he didn’t want Thor to take her. It was his biggest fear - to lose what he loved to his brother. 

“You came just in time. Stark said the food is ready. Come, I’ll show you to the table,” Thor offered in a friendly manner. Y/N grabbed Loki’s arm and they followed Thor to the long tables on the other side of the common room that reminded them more of a nightclub right now. 

So when they entered the dining hall, it surprised them. It was so cozy and it smelled delicious. Tony and Pepper had only invited some friends and of course, the Avengers. They would feast before the true party. Y/N already knew that it would end up a drunken mess before midnight. 

The host himself spotted Y/N and Loki and he just had to welcome them personally. “Finally! I thought you wouldn’t come,” Tony pulled Y/N into a friendly hug which was well returned.

“I couldn’t ghost you on this day, Tony, now could I?” Y/N chuckled. The two of them were close, everyone knew that. Even when Y/N and Loki became close, Tony never cut ties, although everyone knew what he had initially thought about the Trickster getting close to Y/N - the sweetheart of the team. 

Loki and Tony simply shook hands. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad you came, Reindeer games.”

That nickname. Loki had no clue what it meant. Reindeer games? It wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so Loki ignored it. “Well it would’ve been quite rude not to show up,” Loki shrugged, playing it cool. After all this time, there was still tension between the two of them. 

“Well, take your seats. I hope you’re hungry because the food is ready. Pepper made her iconic, absolutely fantastic roasted potatoes. God, I can’t wait to dig in,” Tony seemed excited for once. 

Just like that, everyone sat around the table. Y/N and Loki were sat next to each other, which was just what they hoped for too. The food was served and luckily everyone seemed hungry.

                 An hour later, everyone had eaten. They moved from the dining hall to the common room where the actual party got started. Drinks were downed and people got drunk very fast. Eventually, they gathered around the couch because someone suggested they’d have a drinking game. 

Loki knew he wouldn’t get drunk on Midgardian alcohol, but Thor had thought of that beforehand. He had booze from Asgard which the brothers shared - Thor a bit more than Loki. 

Y/N sat next to Loki on the soft couch, a little bit too close perhaps, but neither of them seemed to mind. After all, they were a little bit tipsy already, not drunk but it was enough to make them more comfortable. 

“Okay, okay...” Tony raised his hands up, making all heads turn to him. “What if, hear me out, what if we played truth or dare,” the billionaire suggested, making some people laugh. 

“What are we, 14?” Bucky joked which made Steve giggle. 

Tony simply rolled his eye, “come on! It can be fun. Besides, if someone doesn’t do their deed, it costs a shot.”

That’s how a bunch of super soldiers, gods and avengers ended up playing truth or dare. It began with silly dares and truths that embarrassed people. Eventually, a very drunk Sam had his turn to pick a victim. “Y/N!” The falcon pointed at his friend who was cuddled against Loki by now. Just friends, Sam thought as a smirk grew on his face. “Truth or dare?”

Even Loki was curious now. What would she choose?

“Dare,” Y/N chose confidently, having no clue what could possibly happen. 

People seemed surprised and some even gasped in surprise. For some odd reason, everyone in the room seemed too interested in this. Loki was worried something stupid was about to happen. 

Sam had a devilish smile on his face and his friends refelcted that just as well. “I dare you to kiss whoever you like in this room. Now.” 

Was he for real?

Y/N’s heart jumped to her throat as the words sunk beneath her skin. Sure, she had had two or three drinks, but she was sober and she knew how dangerous this could be. Suddenly, she became very aware of just how close she sat next to Loki. “Sam, are you kidding me?”

“It’s a dare, Y/N,” Sam shrugged and had the audacity to look Loki right in the eye.

The god was tense. He was worried Y/N would get up from the couch and smooch someone else. It would be humiliating! Although, he hated the crowd, he kind of wished she would kiss him - if anyone. 

“I swear you guys are so childish. How can you be so sure I like anyone?” Y/N crossed her arms and pouted. She was flustered again and she tried to hide that desperately. 

A bunch of ‘come on’s and eyerolls erupted in the room as she said that. Everyone under the same roof knew she must’ve fancied Loki. Their chemistry was obvious, it radiated to every inch in whatever place they occupied. Sometimes, it was sickening that they didn’t act on it. So the avengers had come up with a silly plan to bring them together. If not now, when?

“Y/N, we’re not blind. Come on! It’s just a kiss,” Sam urged her on.

Just a kiss?!

“Or do you want to take a shot? I mixed hot sauce in it - delicious,” Tony suggested and held up a shotlgass of something that looked very nasty. 

Y/N’s nerves were burning up. Sure, she had wanted to kiss Loki for ages now. She wanted nothing more than to embrace him and make him feel happy. But she was so scared of rejection. Perhaps, if it all went south, she could blame it on peer pressure and alcohol? 

After a few deep breaths and being encouraged by everyone in the room, Y/N turned to look at Loki who seemed oblivious to the situation. Whether it was a show he put on or if it was really him, no one knew. Their eyes met and shame burned through Y/N. Why was she doing this? She wasn’t sure, but it was too late to stop now. “Do you mind? I-I just want to get this over with...” Y/N wondered shyly, her voice barely carrying above the chants of people cheering her on. 

Loki’s heart swelled in his chest. She wanted to kiss him? He could hardly believe it to be true, but he was not going to let this chance slip through his fingers. Perhaps the small amount of booze was enough to make Loki comfortable enough to push through as well. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be so persuaded by such foolish games. “Not at all,” He smiled and hoped it would help her relax. 

Just like that, Y/N wrapped her arms around Loki’s head and closed the gap between their lips, bringing him into a long-awaited kiss. Their lips locked warmly and both hearts began to beat a little bit faster. Adrenaline rushed through the two of them as they finally kissed. Y/N closed her eyes and closed out the other people. For just a moment, it was just the two of them. Loki’s tender hand held onto her, resting on the back of her head as his other hand held onto her jaw, cupping her face ever so gently. 

He couldn’t believe what was happening, but it felt so good. He couldn’t care less about people watching right now. Finally, he was kissing Y/N and it sent his mind to an euphoric state. 

After a while, their lips parted. Both of them wanted to pull in for another kiss, but for now, they could only look at each other in awe. They were stunned. 

Natasha decided to break the silence, “God, finally!”

Both Y/N and Loki turned to look at the crowd that had seen that. Suddenly, Y/N felt a little bit embarrassed, but truth be told, she was so happy that it didn’t really matter. “I..I need some air. Nat, you can take my turn,” Y/N cleared her throat and got up. Joy and realization were overwhelming Y/N’s mind and she needed a moment without all these people around her. 

Silently, Loki got up and followed Y/N outside. They were on a balcony together and the cool air around them felt good. 

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Y/N admitted nervously, her smile bright as ever. 

Loki wished she didn’t regret it. “Does that mean you have feelings for me? Or was that simply a dare?”

Did he have any idea what he was doing to her? Y/N was shocked, honestly. How did he not know how deeply and foolishly she had fallen for him? Did he think, after all this time, that she would kiss him with no true feelings attached? 

“Loki! I would never...I mean, gosh! This is embarrassing, but I really like you,” There, she finally said it. 

Hearing her vocalize her feelings meant the world for Loki. He felt like the happiest man in the nine realms as she admitted that. “I thought I’d never hear it, love.”

The petname lit up Y/N’s pretty eyes. “Wait- does that mean...?” She seemed to shy to finish the sentence, but Loki saw the hope on her face. 

“I care for you too. Never would I have thought I’d let you know of this in this way, but I suppose it’s better than keeping it a secret,” Loki decided to be completely honest with her. He knew he had nothing to lose now. She just admitted she liked him. What could possibly go wrong anymore?

It surprirsed Loki when Y/N leapt into his arms. He caught her, wrapping his arms around her waist, just in time before she would’ve slipped with those heels on. No words were exchanged as their lips closed into a passionate kiss once more.  This time, it was for their eyes only and it felt much better. Joy, love, relief - everything they felt became so evident in the kiss and it felt magical. It was definitely long-awaited.

Who would’ve thought a silly game of truth or dare would’ve led them to confess? 

A/N: As I’ve said before, I don’t know how to do fluff, but for you I really tried. Also, I just want to write happy!Loki for now, he’s suffered enough. This is such a cliché, but after iw and endgame, I’ve learned to love that. A classic avengers truth or dare, I hope you liked it! :)

[otonymous]

Your first time headcanons for Ikesen Masamune and Yukimura are amazing!!! I really love reading them! Not because I’m a horny mf (okay maybe) but they’re really well written and really embody the characters. Would you do one for Kenshin to please?

Hi dear Anon and @dani677​!  Thank you both so much for your comments and asks! 💕 I’ve combined the answers since your questions are so similar, so get ready for A LOT of reading!  

And don’t worry dear Anon, when it comes to Kenshin, I am also a horny MF 😂 Hope you both enjoy these HCs!

Warnings:  NSFW/18+: explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Slight spoilers for Kenshin’s MS.  Potential trigger warning: bondage.

Even Gods Fall in Love: Intimacy, First Times & Erotic Triggers for Uesugi Kenshin (Ikesen HC)

Make love, not war: How does it feel to lie with the God of War?

Sex with Kenshin is INTENSE like the man himself

Light-hearted is not in his vocabulary, and love making is no exception

It is a serious, passionate affair, practically a spiritual experience — two separate entities coming together physically and spiritually to become one — think Tantric sex

Hence, quickies are really not his style, but all the same, he will never pass up the opportunity to have sex with you

In fact, Kenshin doesn’t do casual sex.  He doesn’t have a particularly high sex drive (unless he’s in a committed relationship), and would rather go without than sleep with someone he had no feelings for

Once he’s found that special someone however, watch out because he’ll be down to dip his wick 24/7 (why do you think rabbits are so inexplicably drawn to him?!)

He can and will go wherever, whenever — it doesn’t matter as long as no one else can see your naked perfection (or else they can kiss their eyes goodbye)

Once Kenshin has decided you’re the one, he will love you forever and a day.  Even something as trivial as death could never alter his love for you  10000% would watch over you as a ghost if he passes first

It’s no secret that the man’s thoughts can border on obsession, especially when it comes to you.  And although he is trying to overcome it, his past has left him irrevocably scarred.  He still struggles with an intense fear of losing you and it leaves him feeling lost and helpless, something he finds difficult to accept — it is at times like these that love making will be crucial in helping him get a grip

So while he has moved beyond keeping you safe by locking you up in a cell or his castle (thank god), the act of physical intimacy is the one area where he can feel as deeply connected to you, physically and spiritually, as possible

It is as if the man wants to become one with you in the truest sense of the word, his alone to love and protect forever

Therefore, sex with Kenshin would both reflect and encourage this sense of bonding

His favourite positions will be ones where he can hold you as close to him as possible while he’s buried deeply in you: Missionary, Side-By-Side, Lotus, Spooning (basically any position where he can fuck you with as much skin-to-skin and eye contact as possible)

There’s a real need for Kenshin to feel every single twitch of pleasure in your body, sense the heat emanating from your skin every time your precious heart beats to send the blood rushing through your veins

Look into his eyes, for he will always be seeking yours.  And try not to gasp when you see the vulnerability in those tender pools of blue and green.  Kenshin will bare his soul to you and only you.  And nowhere do his walls crumble faster than when you’re making love

A single session can cycle from love making that’s tender, gentle and sweet to something that’s absolutely primal and unbridled, and then back again.  Wash, rinse, repeat.

Kenshin’s love embodied in a song: “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden

First Kiss:

Kenshin will have his eyes open for most of it, if not all

The man doesn’t want to miss a thing.  He wants to see every reaction: the pink that suffuses your cheeks, the barely perceptible flutter of your eyelashes, the slight lift of your brows in euphoria

He is trying to sear the moment into his mind — life is so ephemeral, he often feels like memories are all he has; that try as he might, they’re the only things he can hold onto

Hence, Kenshin engages all of his senses when he kisses you (or is intimate with you in general) to commit as much colour and detail to memory as possible

He is drunk on the smell of your skin, the warm silkiness of your lips, the taste of your mouth, the blooms of crimson on your cheeks, the breathless whimpers that reach his ears — all that you are is this man’s greatest aphrodisiac

The kiss starts off delicately slow: gentle presses, the soft brushing of lips against each other, mouths tentatively opening to accept hesitant licks from shy tongues

Kenshin will drop tiny kisses at the corners of your lips, and you will never have felt so cherished before in your life

He needs to touch you, feel you under his skin: his long, elegant fingers — which never shook when wielding the weight of his blade — will tremble as they move to frame your face, weave through your hair, circle the shell of your ears.  Kiss his hands as they’re tracing the line of your jaw and you’ll have him in the palm of your hand (as if you didn’t already)

Then, the kiss grows in intensity as Kenshin suddenly becomes ravenous: his tongue is pushing further into your mouth, greedily exploring and tasting every inch, testing your limits until you need to gently push him away so you can breathe again

Seeing him in this moment, it strikes you once again just how ethereally beautiful the man is: fair hair falling over delicate features, eyes so dark with desire they almost mask his heterochromia, flushed cheeks that naturally draw the eyes to the masculine lines of his sharp jaw

Perhaps he really is a god amongst men

You barely have a chance to inhale before his lips are on yours again, passionately insistent as his tongue pushes at the seam of your mouth, begging for re-entry

Pack your Sengoku era equivalent of chapstick and be prepared for swollen lips: Kenshin will be kissing you for a very, very long time

Declaration of Love:

Kenshin will be the first to say “I love you,” and he will tell you early on in your relationship

It is rare for Kenshin to find someone he deems worthy of his time and attention, and even rarer for him to fall in love

Once he does though, he falls hard and will not hesitate to try and get what he wants — the man is incredibly straight-forward and doesn’t play games

If he loves you, you will know it, by way of both action and words

You are initially taken aback when the Lord of Echigo tells you he loves you within the first week of your relationship

This is no dramatic declaration and there is no prior planning.  Kenshin simply says what he feels as he wanders the streets of Kasugayama’s castle town with you

“I love you.”

Surprised, you turn to him, thinking it impossible for Kenshin to be serious when you’ve barely spent enough time together to be able to judge whether or not you truly love a person.  Surely, he must be mistaking infatuation or the excitement of a new relationship with love…

But then you see the look in his eyes and are struck dumb

The light in his soft gaze is wise beyond his years, reasoned and measured, tempered by some mysterious intelligence that speaks to the truth of his words: the God of War loves you — you are the first and will be the last person to ever make him feel this way.  The strength of his conviction shakes you to your core, and you know that you cannot, will not, ever doubt him again

Kenshin wasn’t expecting an answer from you, he just wanted you to know the extent of his feelings and the sincerity of his intentions

So he is absolutely beside himself with happiness when you respond in kind — it is more than he could ever wish for

The First Night:

Although Kenshin was quick to tell you he loved you, he will be excruciatingly slow to take you to bed

You will partake in hot and heavy make-out sessions: tons of kissing, lots of heavy petting and grinding up against each other for hours on end but still NO SEX

You’re so pent up you accidentally snapped at Shingen (and then apologized profusely when you saw the crestfallen look on his face)

At first, you’ll wonder if it’s something you said or did.  Even worse, you’ll start to wonder whether Kenshin has fallen out of love with you.

But when you finally gather up your courage to broach the subject with him, you’ll discover that he was holding back out of fear of breaking you with the intensity of his love and feelings

Cradle his face between your hands as you solemnly whisper that you need him to fuck you immediately or else you will expire on the spot

Invite him to assess the sturdiness of your body for himself by running his hands up and down your body.  Tell him to seek proof that you’re stronger than you appear, and that the only thing that would break is your will to hold back any longer should nothing continue to happen

The God of War goes slack-jawed when you suddenly undress before him, but the shock only lasts for a second before the fire ignites in his eyes.  Your breath hitches at the sight, for it reminds you of the way Kenshin looks on the battlefield in the middle of a particularly good fight: he is a man possessed, so singularly focused on his goal the rest of the world could crumble around him and it would be nothing more than a mere annoyance.  During times of war, he’s acting on an instinct to kill.  But here, the vision of you bared before him stirs some other primal desire that incites him to claim you, ravish you…ruin you for anyone else by making you irrevocably his

And when you finally see him fully naked for the first time, it is your turn to be speechless: you’ve always figured Kenshin would be fit beneath his clothes, but the man looks like Michelangelo’s David come to life, and despite the odd battle scar here and there, his skin is incredibly fair (yes, we are jealous, and stop staring, the man is staring to blush)

Kenshin’s hands are cool on your skin, as they’ve always been.  But this is offset by the blazing heat of his mouth and tongue roaming across the surfaces of your body

Kenshin really wants to know everything about you and will take his time finding out.  Just lay back, relax and enjoy watching and feeling Kenshin explore every part of your body with his mouth, tongue and fingers

You find proof of the God of War’s divinity when he goes down on you: Kenshin’s oral skills are so damn good, they transport you straight to heaven.  You almost black out when he adds his long, deft fingers into the mix

By the time Kenshin is finally ready to penetrate you, you are so impatient with desire that you’ve wrapped your legs tightly around his waist and are rubbing up on him like it’s nobody’s business

The man must know a thing or two about the wonders of delayed gratification because when he finally enters you, the anticipation has got you so aroused and swollen with desire that every move he makes within you has got you screaming into the bedclothes like a madwoman.  But don’t worry, Kenshin looooves it when you get loud for him 😏

If you thought the intercourse itself would be anything like Kenshin’s foreplay — soft, slow and sweet — you are in for a surprise

Sure, it starts off that way.  Kenshin does want you to be able to handle his above-average length after all, so he will give you the opportunity to acclimatize to the sensation of feeling full to bursting with him inside you

But once you do, the God of War will be holding you close, looking deeply into your eyes and dropping tender kisses on your face and neck as he jackhammers into you (is it even humanly possible for hips to move that fast?  You have half a mind to ask Sasuke in the most discreet way possible afterwards)

Dimensions: Kenshin’s cock is as beautiful as he is.  Above-average length and average girth.  But the way he uses it is anything but average

Just when you think he is on the verge of cumming, Kenshin will pull back into gentle, unhurried love making — the man is the undisputed KING of prolonged orgasms (a single session can last for hours)

Things will get messy — yes, you will have to change the bedclothes before finally retiring for the night (when you actually get a chance to sleep — see above)

If you allowed it, the man would definitely prefer to cum in you, as he views the act as the pinnacle of intimacy and bonding.  What better way to become one than by actually leaving a part of himself deep within you?

Aftercare: stay where you are and don’t move a muscle.  Taking care of you after you’ve been intimate is a point of pride for Kenshin.  Not like you’d be able to move anyways after that pounding.  You know what, take the next morning off too.

Erotic Triggers/Kinks:

Body worship: Kenshin especially loves the areas which are particularly delicate and vulnerable, like the nape of your neck, your hands and fingers, your ankles

Absolutely lives for you to sit on his face — the man can go for hours

Loves, loves, loves your lips.  Loves to stare at them while you speak and is entranced by how nimbly expressive they are, changing from smiles and smirks to frowns and pouts with ease.  He loves their smoothness, their warmth, their taste, their colour.  Just another reason why this man adores kissing you

Has a love/hate relationship with bondage: Kenshin knows he cannot and should not keep you under lock and key like he initially tried to, but he also cannot help but feel incredibly aroused at the sight of you so beautifully tied up and entirely at his mercy.  You’ll have to convince him that this is something you enjoy doing as well, explain to him that the existence of mutual consent and understanding makes this a completely different situation from being involuntarily imprisoned, and introduce him to the concept of boundaries and “safewords”

Good conversation is actually Kenshin’s biggest trigger.  The man could spend hours on end just talking with you, learning to see the world in an entirely new way through your eyes.  

Your take on the meaning of life, happiness and sorrow is so foreign to Kenshin that he is absolutely fascinated by you

Because of this, the sound of your voice has turned into an erotic trigger for him 

Talk dirty to him.  Nothing gets the God of War off faster than your voice gasping into his ear that you belong to him now and forever as he’s pounding you to within an inch of your life

You made it to the end!  Thanks for reading and check out more of my work here! 📚

[basicsofislam]

THE COMPANIONS OF THE PROPHET (PBUH) : Uqba bin Amir (r.a.)

Uqba was a shepherd. He used to herd sheep on the meadows of Madinah. When he was on the mountain, he heard that the Prophet (pbuh) had migrated to Madinah. It was impossible for him to remain there any longer. He wanted to see the Prophet. He left the sheep there and went straight to Madinah. He asked where the Messenger of Allah was. As soon as he found about the house he was living in, he went into the presence of the Messenger of Allah.

When he saw the Messenger of Allah, he felt very relieved and his heart became full of light. He felt as if he was he was about to fly.  He had never felt such excitement before and he had never been happier before. He himself could not believe in the changes in his spirit.

The Messenger of Allah told him some pearls of truth and taught him the principles of Islam. Uqba did not have any hesitation to become a believer. He became a Companion. He was a distinguished Companion among the People of Suffa.[ Usdu’l-Ghaba, 3: 417; Tabaqat, 4: 344. ]

After that, Uqba started to learn religious sciences. He never missed the talks of the Prophet, which were full of life. He collected knowledge and information from the Prophet. The Prophet gave special care of to Uqba because he knew that Uqba had great enthusiasm for religious sciences.

Once, he addressed Hz. Uqba as follows:

“There are some chapters in the Quran. Allah Almighty did not reveal any chapters like that in the Torah, the Gospel and the Psalms. They are the chapters of al-Ikhlas, al-Falaq and an-Nas.”

Uqba, who always remembered those words, said,  

“After that day, I never went to bed before reading those chapters.”[ Musnad, 4: 158. ]

Hz. Uqba never hesitated to ask the Prophet what he did not know and what he wanted to know. Thus, he was able to learn many things. Once, he approached the Prophet, held his blessed hands and said,

“O Messenger of Allah! Will you tell me about the best deed and worshipping?”

The Prophet gave him the following advice:

“Ask about the health of a person who does not ask about your health. Try to give something to a person who does not give you anything. Forgive the one who wrongs you.”[ ibid, 4: 148 ]

Once, Hz. Uqba asked the Prophet, “O Messenger of Allah! What is the way of salvation?” The Prophet (pbuh) said, “Control your tongue. Do not disclose the secrets of your house. Cry for your sins.”[ Tirmidhi, Zuhd: 60. ]

They were difficult deeds. They were things that were very hard for the soul but Paradise was not easy to reach. For, it was necessary to deserve Paradise in the world. Therefore, it was necessary to do the deeds that were difficult for the soul in order to attain the consent of Allah.

Once, Uqba (r.a.) set off with 12 of his friends in order to learn something from the Prophet. They had their camels with them. They did not want to leave the camels unattended. They said, “If one of us takes care of the camels, the others can go to the Messenger of Allah and talk to him. Then, we will tell him what the Messenger of Allah said when we return.” Hz. Uqba wanted to listen to the Prophet a lot but he believed that somebody had to look after the camels. He acted altruistically. He said,   “You can go. I will take care of the camels.” Then, he narrated the rest of the incident as follows:

"A long time passed after my friends left. I said to myself, 'I think I made a mistake. My friends are hearing from the Messenger of Allah what I did not hear and learning what I did not learn.' I went to the city. I met a group of Companions on the way. One of them said, "the Prophet said, 'A person who makes wudu properly becomes free of his sins as if he has just been born.'" I was amazed by this hadith. When Umar bin Khattab noticed that I was amazed, he said, 'That is nothing. You should have heard the hadith before that.' I said,

'Please report it to me!' He said,

"The Messenger of Allah (pbuh) said, 'A person who dies without associating any partners with Allah, Allah opens the gates of Paradise for him. He enters Paradise through any gate he wishes. Paradise has eight gates.'"

Meanwhile, the Messenger of Allah (pbuh) arrived. I sat in front of him and started to listen to him. However, he turned his face away from me. I said, 'O Messenger of Allah! May my mother and father be sacrificed for you! Why are you turning your face away from me?'

The Messenger of Allah said, 'Which one do you think is more important? One person or 12 people?'

I understood my mistake, stood up and left."[ Hilyatu’l-Awliya, 9: 307. ]

Hz. Uqba’s efforts to learn enabled him to be one of the scholars among the Companions. Hz. Uqba reached the level of ijtihad when the Prophet was alive. Once, the Prophet left the decision to be made between two people who sued each other to him. Uqba (r.a.) said, “O Messenger of Allah! May my mother and father be sacrificed for you! You deserve it more to decide.” However, the Messenger of Allah said, “You decide!” Uqba asked, “According to what shall I decide?” The Prophet (pbuh) said, “Decide based on your own ijtihad. If you are right, you will be given 10 rewards; if you are not right, you will be given 1 reward.”[ Mu’jamu’s-Sagghir, 1: 51. ]

Hz. Uqba was very respectful to the Prophet (pbuh). He regarded it disrespect to ride a camel in the presence of the Messenger of Allah. Once, he was going somewhere with the Prophet (pbuh). The Prophet was riding a camel. He was going on foot. The Messenger of Allah wanted him to get on the camel. He said, “O Uqba! Do you not want to get on the camel?  Hz. Uqba said, “O Messenger of Allah! I fear that it will be a sin for me.” When the Prophet insisted, he had to get on the camel.[ Musnad, 4: 144. ]

Uqba (r.a.) never revealed the mistakes of his believing brothers. He did not search the mistakes of others and he felt disturbed when somebody mentioned the mistakes of others in his presence. Once, his servant told him about a mistake of his neighbor.  Hz. Uqba did not get angry with his servant. He gave him some advice and told him that it was something bad. Then, he told him the following hadith:

“If a person covers the mistake of a believer in the world, Allah will cover his mistake in the Day of Judgment.”[ ibid, 4: 159. ]

Hz. Uqba had an exceptional position related to hadiths, division of inheritance and rhetoric. He was one of the Companions that recited the Quran nicely. Once, Hz. Umar said to him, “Read me the Quran.” When Uqba started to read the Quran, Hz. Umar wept.

Another property of Hz. Uqba was that he was interested in military art. He often reminded people the following hadiths of the Prophet: “None of you should stop practicing archery." "A person who learns how to shoot arrows and then abandons it though he knows that it is sunnah is not one of us." "Allah puts three people in Paradise due to one arrow: The artisan who makes it with the intention of using it in a good way, the one who shoots it and the one who helps the person who shoots it.” Thus, he wanted the spirit of jihad to be active and wanted the Muslims to give importance to training against the enemy.[ Nasai, Hayl: 8; Musnad, 4: 144. ]

Uqba (r.a.) kept the glad tiding given by the Prophet about the conquest of Istanbul in his heart like a secret. He joined the army established by Hz. Muawiya in the 52nd year of the Migration for the conquest of Istanbul. He was the leader of the troops prepared in Egypt since he was the governor of Egypt then.[ Tirmidhi, Tafsiru’l-Qur’an: 3. ]

Hz. Uqba, who died in the 58th year of the Migration, reported many hadiths. These hadiths are included in Bukhari, Muslim, Musnad and other hadith books.

A sermon of the Prophet reported by Uqba is as follows:

“O people! The truest word is the book of Allah. The best sunnah is my sunnah. The most valuable word is mentioning Allah (dhikr). The most valuable stories are in the Quran. The best deeds are fard deeds. The worst of everything is the one that appears later (bid'ahs). The best call is the call of the prophets. The most honorable death is the death of the martyrs. The worst blindness is to go astray after finding guidance. The hand that gives is better than the hand that takes. Little and adequate property is better than abundant property that leads man to bad ways. The worst repentance is the one on the Day of Judgment.

Some people perform prayers late. Some people remember Allah from time to time. The biggest mistake is to tell lies. The best wealth is the richness of the heart. The best food is taqwa. The essence of wisdom is fear of Allah. The best thing in the heart is real belief. Doubt and indecisiveness come from unbelief. To cry and to beat one's breast after dead people are customs of Jahiliyya. To steal from the state means to steal embers from Hell. To stock gold and silver and to pay zakah for them is equal to cauterizing one's body with hellfire. Alcohol is the root of all evil. Women are the trap of Satan. Youth is a kind of madness. The worst profit is interest. The worst food is the money of an orphan. A lucky person is the one who can take lessons from others.

All of you will rest in graves of a few meters. Every deed is evaluated by its results. What is valid regarding deeds is their outcomes. The worst informant is the one who spreads lies. What is bound to come is close even if it is far. It is a sin to curse a believer. To backbite a believer is to oppose Allah. It is haram to violate (harm) a believer's blood as well as his property. If a person swears by Allah in order to commit a bad deed, Allah will contradict him. Allah will forgive those who forgive. Allah will give rewards to those overcome their anger. If a person shows patience, Allah will replace what he has lost. If a person believes in rumors, Allah will disgrace him. If a person shows patience, Allah will give him a lot of rewards. If a person opposes Allah, he is punished.  

O Allah! Forgive me and my ummah! O Allah! Forgive me and my ummah! I ask Allah to forgive me and you.”[ Faydu’l-Qadir, 2: 175. ]

[bloodybells1]

On Specialization

I’ve never been comfortable with the term “bassist”. This may sound peculiar coming from a bassist, though not so peculiar if you consider that, as Whitman famously wrote, “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

First, a word about the pecking order of a typical rock band: often, the singer is understood, rightly or wrongly, as occupying the top rung, while the bassist will often come last. The zeitgeist supports this claim. For example, in one episode of Just Shoot Me, Wendy Malick’s character, Nina Van Horn, brags about having laid the singer of a band the previous night, but spits out her water when she’s informed by more sober members of the party that it was in fact the bassist she’d slept with.

In the broadest sense of the term, a rock band is kind of like a layer cake. The singer occupies the top layer, with the other instruments on down. Flashy guitar leads and sexy lyrics (“Come here, baby,” and so on and so forth) take center stage, followed by the drums, slamming and banging like an army coming from behind.

And at last, at the bottom of the cake, the bass guitar, which, to the untrained ear, most often presents a barbaric, low-frequency drawl. Often it’s made even more unintelligible by the music hall’s cavernous reverb. The end result is that the casual listener begins calling the bass player “the other guy”.

When I was active as a professional musician, as the band Interpol’s bassist, I obsessed over this totemic arrangement. It was difficult to ignore how recessive I could become with this instrument around my shoulder.

So, when the band stumbled onto the good fortune of fame and success, when cameras and journalists trained their gaze on us, I compensated for this “imbalance” with sheer braggadocio. Onstage I impersonated Nikki Sixx, while backstage, in interviews, I dropped outlandish statements, the better to have my words show up as pull-quotes. Sealing my public relations push, I scheduled extracurricular activities, such as DJ’ing and, well, coitus, because, hello, it was rock music.

It seemed I’d pulled a switch, that ropes were cranking open an underwater gate, and, before I could finish saying “Cocaine”, an inner Poseidon was releasing the Kraken. It felt as though I couldn’t possibly sate my appetite.

This was a survival strategy, of sorts. I had to find some way to course correct for the imbalance, to prevent my ego from disappearing under the bass guitarist’s fate, the opaque destiny of the bottom rung. I was (and still am) too much a narcissist to endure the role of “filling in the blanks”. I needed more, much more.

Many a fine bassist is perfectly happy to fulfill the humble dispensation of their craft. The best of them are masters of understatement, achieving great notoriety among aficionados (John Paul Jones, for example). But, for better or for worse, I was too much of a diva for that. I’m not exactly proud per se that I’m a diva, but this shouldn’t stop me from being honest.

I suppose this is why I now bristle when someone calls me a “bassist”. The word registers to me as a reminder, not only of lowly status, but also of an embarrassing rebellion against that status, which time has demonstrated as the sign of narcissism, not to mention immaturity.

But the word also implies a degree of specialization with which I have never been comfortable. Jaco Pastorius was a bassist. Bernard Edwards, of Chic, was a bassist. Cliff Burton, of early Metallica, was a bassist. Among the living, Billy Sheehan, of David Lee Roth’s band and Mr. Big, is a bassist. I will even concede that the chief influencers of my bass playing, Peter Hook of Joy Division/New Order and John Taylor of Duran Duran, are bassists, in the truest sense of that word.

But I? I was a gifted musician and composer who came across the bass guitar by way of a college band that happened to take off. Afterwards, I simply used that talent for the less than sincere objectives noted above.*

I don’t disparage the life of specialization, nor those who’ve chosen it. If anything, I envy their attention span. Encountering satisfaction, and even success, following a single career track strikes me as patently wise, to say nothing of the karma of furthering the conversation in a certain field.

But I would hate to detract from the more esteemed practitioners of this instrument, those who clearly set out to make it their life’s work, by welcoming this appellation without the caveat I am writing here.

In anything, one can’t start from a weak place. Otherwise, the foundation is shabby, having begun from an inauthentic proposition. “This is what I should do” is deplorable. “This feels truthful to me” is the better course, no matter the cost, nor the risk. Playing the bass guitar, over and over again to the exclusion of other pursuits, just didn’t feel truthful to me.

At every step on the One Path of Specialization, my gaze would inevitably fall on the alleys and byways fanning out on either side. I’d feel a piece of my heart break every time. At the end of each day, having successively stranded one part of me, then another, I’d go to sleep feeling much less complete than in the morning.

This is no way to end the day. So, in order to preserve my sleep, I decided my curiosity was too important to ignore, that the greatest failure I could envision, for which there seemed to be no justification in permitting, was lying on my death bed wondering what lay under the stones I’d passed my whole life.

Naturally, taking action was an agony. Procrastination was the order of the day. It took years to make headway, years of worrying what would happen to me if I quit, of the deep regret I might encounter. My therapist at the time, listening to the 124th hour of my pretzel-twisting, finally said, “Carlos, you have the right to fuck up your life.” That was the narrative game changer I needed to hear, and I made my decision right then and there to leave Interpol and pursue training in other fields of interest, mainly acting, but also writing.

This isn’t to say I don’t experience regret, agonizing distress even. How often have I stopped for a latte at the local café, overheard myself playing bass guitar through the speakers, and rued the impetuous decision to leave behind such glorious specialization! It’s the height of confusion to taste blessed freedom and bitter mediocrity in the same quaff.

But then I think of two of my heroes, who support their rejection of specialization with an ironic philosophical outlook.

Stephen Fry, on a recent airing of Sam Harris’ podcast Making Sense, explained to his host how he was able to produce the astonishing breadth of his oeuvre – novels, TV appearances, comedy specials, productions of Shakespeare, documentary films, influential tweets – with a humble confession: “Without sounding over paradoxical, it may be a result of having no particular talent.”

Henry Rollins, the punk rocker emeritus, admitted to as much on the multimedia web portal, Big Think, when he said, “I don’t have talent, I have tenacity . . . I have discipline, I have focus.” TV show host, lead singer, travel documentarian, actor, spoken word artist, writer, publisher, Rollins is not so much a great artist as a great “artwork of himself”. He exemplifies the truth that the sum total of mediocre talents equals a net gain of life excellence.

I always like to say: “There’s nothing wrong with being a jack of all trades, for the adage is incorrect: yes, you’d be master of none except that of being a jack of all trades.”

Thomas Jefferson’s epitaph reads: “Author of the Declaration of Independence [and] of the Statute of Virginia for religious freedom & Father of the University of Virginia." Notice the absence of his eight years as our third president. “Author of the Declaration” is certainly no secret, but the other two are generally not well known. Clearly, he was making a statement, despite what historians might prefer to emphasize, of what was truly deserving of remembrance.

Hedy Lamarr, a talented and beautiful mid-century Hollywood star, also co-invented a radio guidance system for Allied powers in World War II that Bluetooth technology incorporates today. August Strindberg, the dean of Swedish drama, was also an influential painter whose subjective landscapes, like the astonishing Wonderland from 1894, were ahead of their time.

Don’t get me started on Al Franken.

Rejecting specialization, because it affords multiple avenues and narratives, is a roundabout way to attain control, and therefore, if he’s feeling constrained, a control freak’s preferred modus operandi. What you lose in the area of expertise, you gain in control over the conversation, for at no point do you involve yourself so much as to permit outside narratives to latch (or leech) on to your pursuits.

At a certain point, I realized that my rockstar posturing in Interpol had an expiration date, past which it would be cute no longer, not to mention hazardous to my health and the emotional wellbeing of my colleagues. The history of rock music presents copious examples of this sequence of events.

But I still needed control. Therefore, I chose to reject the specialization of a successful career as a bassist.

Differences in career objectives meant that I would eventually have to leave the band. Of course there were other factors, more personal than I’m choosing to write here. I will cover that part in other entries. But the need to retain control of my own conversation, along with the desire to achieve that control through a kind of diaspora of artistic pursuits, is salient nonetheless.

I’ll close with a bit of a Marxist riff. Specialization is a capitalist construct (and I mean that with all the opprobrium that statement must sound like it’s making). Its origins lie in the Agricultural Revolution, the first time human labor was ever divided on a large scale, and the Industrial Revolution, which automated that division, created incredibly precise specialization, and amplified the labor force beyond anything previously imaginable.

This has given birth to a fetishization of “expertise” that has pervaded almost every industry. Today, we often ask someone we just met “What do you do?” One of the chief faults I could lay on modernity’s doorstep would be that this question, among all others, does indeed, sadly, provide the fastest track to a person’s core identity. “Trust the experts” sounds eminently advisable. People distrust non-experts the way they distrust when someone’s thoughts evolve, branding them as inconsistent, therefore untrustworthy.

But this is all optics. We are inculcated to believe in the unhindered progress of Capital and this presumes labor, specifically specialized labor, to fulfill its mandate. This makes us suspicious of those who do not specialize. We want someone to stand still, and “be someone”, meaning “be a specialist” in this, that, or some other thing. But this suspicion holds only if you truly believe that the end all of human civilization is the progress of Capital, a belief I am sure most readers, hopefully, at the least, of this blog, reject.

*There is an interplay between sincerity and artifice that permeates rock music, but I don’t wish to get into that here. Suffice it to say for the time being, that there are instances when a rock band suffers extraordinary reputational costs when pursuing a “sincere” style, and this happens, in my opinion, because rock music, in amplifying lifestyle, spectacle, and fashion, is inherently a post-modern art form akin to Pop Art and Dadaism, and therefore more ironic than sincere. This explains why it is so easy to make fun of Coldplay. But I’ll spare the reader the musicology lesson for another time. Yet, I write this to mitigate, perhaps only slightly, the disingenuousness of my “insincerity” as a bassist.

[cheshiregrimmjow]

Read until the end, it will make sense...

The Color of Redemption, A Story of Hope as told by a former Nazi

My name is Karl Loeffler. I was raised in the German countryside, the only child of a Protestant pastor named Wagner and his wife, Liesel. From the time I was young, I dreamed of escaping rural life and becoming a city boy. I craved the excitement of Berlin, and I was determined that when I was old enough, I would make it there, somehow.

In my early teenage years, I began reading literature and listening to radio broadcasts from an enigmatic man who was gaining popularity all across my country.  A boy in my village introduced me to the patriotic message that this man brought, promising a better, brighter, and purer future for my country.  I was enraptured, as so many other youth were, by his passionate orations and compelling words.  So, at 19 years old, I joined the ranks of Hitler’s Youth.  

My parents were vehemently opposed to my choice.  They held very traditional views and refused to understand the obvious truth that people are not all equal. They even showed sympathy to the Jewish plague that was infesting our nation.  I broke all ties with them, and instead poured my heart and soul and energy into my new family.  

The war that was brewing for years finally erupted, and I joined the ranks of the military.  Early on, I distinguished myself as having a talent for extracting information, so I was quickly assigned as an interrogator. At a turning point in my career, I proved my unswerving loyalty when I turned in my own father, who I knew to be harboring Jews, to the Gestapo. After that, I was granted the position of chief interrogator at a high security prison in East Germany.  

One year later, a man arrived at that prison who would forever change my life.  His name was Raymond King – as British a Brit as could ever be found.  He was a pilot who had been shot down while delivering intelligence to his command. The letters with the precious information had been burned, but we had reason to believe that he had seen the contents before destroying them.  

Right away, I knew this was a man who would not give up his information easily.  Conventional means of interrogation would not work on him. I could tell from the defiant look in his eyes that no amount of physical duress would compel him to give up what he knew.  I probed him a bit with some psychological techniques, but without much luck.  There was something about him that intrigued me. His flinty eyes held a steady strength in them that I couldn’t help but admire. I decided to try an approach that I had never before employed.  I determined that I would befriend this man.

As with all good relationships, one must give in order to receive.  I found myself telling Raymond things about myself, many things.  They were all true, for he was clever enough to see through a deception.  In time, his animosity toward me lessened, and eventually we began to discourse more as equals than as enemies.  He knew that I was working him, but I was determined to play the long game out with him, and win him over.  

He shared with me his own history – how he had been orphaned as a young boy and raised in and out of group homes growing up.  He had finally been taken in by the Church, and was given a good education when it became apparent he was something of a prodigy, despite having sporadic schooling as a boy.  He was drafted out of college and joined the Royal Air Force at 17 years old - their youngest pilot.  I couldn’t help but be a little impressed by his story – though I suspected some of it had been embellished.  

Raymond began to delve deeper into my own story, asking me questions about my faith growing up, and why I had chosen Hitler instead of God.  I tried to make him understand the wisdom behind what we were trying to accomplish, that communism was the only good future for the world – but I am not a gifted speaker, and for all his intelligence, he had the stubbornness of a mule.

The first time he tried to escape, I caught him and turned him in.  He was beaten and left in the cooler for seven days.  It didn’t deter him in the least.  He kept trying to get away and he kept failing, and I found myself looking the other way when I knew he was attempting another run for the fence.

I don’t know when it happened – it crept up on me so slowly – but at some point I ceased to become an enemy playing the part of a friend to gain knowledge, and simply became his friend. Soon after, I received word that my father had been executed in a concentration camp not fifty miles from where I was assigned.  The news split my soul to the bone.  For the first time, I truly questioned the cost of my ideals.  I was responsible for his death; I might as well have pulled the trigger myself.  

I found myself confiding not in my Nazi comrades, but in Raymond.  His initial response at learning my part in the deed was anger, for which I could not blame him.  But he did not stop talking to me.  On the contrary, he spoke to me more and more often, speaking of forgiveness and redemption. At first, I did not think that I needed redemption.  Yes, I had something very wrong, but I had done it for a good cause.  But the more I tried to justify it to myself, the more I realized I was on a slippery slope straight to hell and I had only myself to blame for it.

Time passed and I became increasingly torn and agitated.  I felt as much a prisoner as Raymond truly was.  I was imprisoned by my choices.  I was imprisoned by my sins.  I was imprisoned by my guilt.  I could not escape the torment that gnawed at my soul day and night.  I could no longer perform my duties as I had before.  My superiors began to watch me closely, and I could sense that I was no longer considered an ally to my own kind.  And through it all, Raymond was there, calling me back to the faith of my childhood and caring for me as a person, despite my sins and the fact that we were still enemies.

One frigid December morning in 1944, I told Raymond that I wanted to escape with him to Britain.  I can still remember the look on his face. He wasn’t surprised in the least – it was as if he had been expecting this for some time.  It took several months of preparations, but eventually our opportunity presented itself and we escaped the prison.  We managed to sneak out of Germany via France, where Raymond was reunited with his countryman.  For my decision to defect from the Nazis, and for aiding in Raymond’s escape, I was granted citizenship in Britain.  Due to the injuries sustained when he was shot down, Raymond was medically discharged from the RAF, and I found myself in a new country and a new home.

I wish I could say that it was a happily ever after from there on – but that was not the case.  As a German, I was treated with disdain and distrust by many.  Very few knew I had been a Nazi, but it made little difference.  Beyond that, I was eaten up with guilt and self-loathing for the actions that I committed in the name of Hitler’s ambitions.  Let alone the fact that I was responsible for my father’s death, the information that I had extracted from many people (German and foreign alike) had led to the deaths of countless Jews and any of those who harbored them.  Military intelligence that I had ferreted out had led to the deaths of many more.  I was a murderer.  I was a bigot.  By my own hand I had executed prisoners and by my work had gotten many more killed.  The darkest part in my life was not when I was in the midst of my greatest sins, but after, when I understood the full weight and consequences of my actions.

But through it all, Raymond King never left my side.  He opened his home and his heart to me.  He stayed by my side and defended me before all who scorned me, even at the cost of his own reputation.  He unashamedly held me in the night when my nightmares woke us both from slumber.  He comforted me when I discovered that my mother had passed away, before I could find her and tell her how sorry I was. He reminded me of the faith my father had taught me. Jesus had died for my sins – even my sins – and forgiveness and redemption lay at His feet.  I repented.  I accepted that God could forgive me.  I even accepted that Raymond could forgive me.  And last of all, with the help of my truest friend whom I loved more than myself, I finally forgave Karl Loeffler.

I’ll never forget the words that Ray spoke to me that one morning as we shared a boring British breakfast in our little London flat.  

“Nothing will ever change what you’ve done, Karl.  Nothing will ever make up for it. You deserve to die for what you’ve done.”

And as I contemplated where he could possibly be going with this positive and inspirational speech, he continued.

“Living.  That’s harder than dying.  It’s braver.  Facing each day and deciding that instead of brushing off who you were or ignoring what you did, you acknowledge it.  You accept who you were and you decide who you will be today, and the next day, and the next.”

I just stared at him for a while.  His words struck a chord with me and I never forgot them.  Ray helped teach me many things over the years – like how to exchange my bitterness for compassion to all people, my pride and supremacy for humility, and my brokenness for hope. Jesus saved me, but Ray pointed the way to Him with his patience and kindness.  Ray showed me that the only way to live life to the fullest was to save what you love instead of fighting what you hate. 

Redemption is dark, muddy, and messy.  It’s red with the blood of those who paid its price in your stead.  It’s gray, when the darkness of your past begins to lift from your soul like a stain.  It’s the brightest, purest white, when you find that salvation doesn’t come through punishment, but through abundant life lived for the love of all people. 

*             *             *

The story above is a work of fiction.  Karl and Ray are fictional characters, though some of their experiences are based on the lives of actual historical figures.  I want to pose the readers who stuck with my story to the end a question:

At the end of the story, did you find yourself feeling a) satisfied and glad that Karl was able to find forgiveness and love with Ray or b) angry that Karl did not die the irredeemable bastard that he was?

If the latter, please feel free to disregard the rest of this post and I apologize for wasting your time.  If the former, you may now better understand the part of the Star Wars fandom who approves of the relationship between Rey and Kylo Ren/Ben Solo.  My story was meant to pattern itself after the progression of the Star Wars sequel trilogy.  Obviously, we do not know how the third movie will end, but many of us hope it will end similarly to the third act of my story. Those who ship Reylo do so because we are looking forward to that third act, not stopping at the first or second.  

In the first act of my story, Karl and Ray are enemies.  Karl interrogates Ray using several methods to try and discover what he knows.  While they are on opposite sides, and Karl is employing interrogation techniques that would be labeled as “abuse” in a domestic setting, Karl also has a begrudging respect for his prisoner.  The Force Awakens.

In the second act, Karl finds himself beginning to genuinely like Ray.  Though he thwarts Ray’s initial attempts at escape, he eventually finds himself looking the other way.  Finally, Karl’s attitude truly begins to change and he dares to believe that he can change.  Ray, likewise, begins to realize that Karl is a person in need of forgiveness. The Last Jedi.

In the third act, Karl makes the decision to join Ray.  This is what we hope to see in Episode IX.  We want to see Ben escape the prison of the First Order and return to the light, just as Karl did.  But we also acknowledge that this will not be easy to portray in one movie and it will take time to achieve.  

My story has an epilogue. Karl escapes with Ray and they make it to Britain in the third act.  But that is not the end.  It is only the beginning of Karl’s journey. He had to completely cast off the hate and the lies that had governed his life as a Nazi. He had to change his thinking and his heart.  He had to understand how evil he had been - to accept forgiveness and to eventually forgive himself for the lives he had ruined.  Only then could he begin to move forward, loving others instead of hating them.  Forgiveness and healing takes time, and we know that time is the greatest threat to us ever getting a “happy ending” for Ben Solo…because, quite frankly, it’s far easier to just kill him off, as Lucas did with Vader.

I could have ended it with Karl sacrificing himself for Ray to get behind enemy lines to the safety of his fellow countrymen.  And that would be an acceptable, if not rather tragic ending to their tale.  It wouldn’t be much of a kid’s story and most people would walk away feeling rather depressed.  Is that how Episode IX will end?  I surely hope not.  It would be an okay ending.  But Star Wars is traditionally a story of hope and redemption.  

I surely hope that Han and Luke and Leia, our beloved characters of old, will not have died in vain, only to see the last Skywalker die a young man (as a hero or a villain). Nor would we want to see Rey forced to survive without her other half, the man who taught her that no one is ever truly gone and hope can be found in the unlikeliest of people.  Whether they should end up as friends or lovers is up to you, and the answer is not necessary for it to be a beautiful story (which is why I left Karl and Ray’s relationship ambiguous).  But I hope you can all understand why we want an ending where they both live.  

Here’s to hoping Disney will do the brave thing, instead of the easy thing.  Cheers.

[smrwine]

Annual Writing Self Evaluation

Hello! My favorite person @emperorstyles tagged me to participate in this so here we go.

1. List of works published this year:

Love’s Truest Language 

Truth in Your Eyes

This drabble 

That drabble

Another drabble

And the rest of my drabbles 

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

I’m not proud of much but I guess I’m proud of how well received Love’s Truest Language was.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

I’m not happy with any of my works, really. I’m my biggest critic and most of the time I just don’t see what other people see, but I’, trying to be easier on myself, and I’m trying to learn how to write shit properly so I don’t have to be so hard.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

This is so impossible because my favorite is in a fic that won’t be published this year........so I guess I’ll go with this one since a lot of people liked it.

“You remind me of summertime.” his words languidly slipped past his lips.

Oh, this should be great, “Yeah? How so, love?”

“Well,” he pressed his lips from the corner of Louis’, down to the underside of his neck, “Your skin glows even as the sky clouds over for autumn. Your cheeks flush the perfect shade of pink, sort of like when you've been sitting in the blistering heat for hours, and finally come indoors to cool off. Your hair is always effortlessly windswept, with hints of red and gold shining off of your slightly curled ends,” Louis’ breath hitched as Harry kissed his way down to the middle of his chest, “You taste like a summer storm. One that tingles against your heated skin and melts coolly against your tongue.” he kissed down Louis’ torso and spoke against the tanned skin beneath his belly button, “Your crinkly eyed smile is brighter than a mid-July sunrise, and your eyes are every single colour of the ocean,” he looked up at Louis as he kissed further and further down, until he reached the inside of his left thigh, and gently nipped at the skin. Louis was reduced to trembles. Couldn't believe this is what he got to wake up to, “You're every shade of summer to me.”

5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

When @emperorstyles said my writing was detailed without being purple prose.

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

This whole year has been a bit hard. After ltl was published I was kinda lost on where I wanted to go next (fic wise). I started writing a famous/non famous au  shortly after, but for some reason I wanted to write something a little deeper and more angsty, and I couldn’t get that idea out of my head. When I finally figured out that I wanted to write my 80s au (that is long and angsty), I fell in love with the story, and I couldn’t wait do open up that document everyday, but in the past few months I’ve second guessed myself to death in fear of bad reception, and it has really REALLY become hard to write. It’s not a writers block thing it’s more of a it already feels like a failed idea without it being published yet so I dunno. Writing is hard. Sorry to go off on a tangent like that.

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

The entirety of Truth in Your Eyes. I could never imagine working with another magical or fictional element like that again.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

I put my mind through the wringer this year and I learned to ask for help when I need it. I don’t know everything there is to know about writing and it shows, and I’ve sort of learned I can only get better with time. I guess I’ve been trying to learn to trust myself the whole of this fic writing year. 

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I just hope I can post to ao3 more often.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

@customgucci because I forced her to be my beta when no one else would. She’s not afraid to tell me when something is off and when I’m using too way many commas lol. She’s really one of few people who I can rely on for help and she’s always so encouraging wow what a friend.

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Nope

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Have fun, ask for help, take all the time you need to write, and trust yourself. 

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

Just my 80s au finally being published and Harry’s pov from Falling Into Place which I started working on a few days ago. We’ll see where else this year takes me.

14. Tag three writers whose answers you’d like to read.

I’m hardly on here anymore so I’m not sure who has done this already so....I would just like to read the answers to these questions from @lads-laddylads and @smittenwithlouis they’re cuties and I really admire their writing.

[woodworkingpastor]

With the grain of the universe -- Romans 11:1-2, 29-32 -- Sunday, August 16, 2020

The lectionary gives us a challenging set of verses in a challenging passage of Scripture with today’s text from Romans 11. This is our third (and final) Sunday wrestling with Paul’s dilemma of how it could be that when God moved definitively and finally to redeem all of creation through the person of Jesus Christ, the very chosen people of Israel were missing out on the Good News. How is it that people can look at the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus; how is it that people can look grace squarely in the eye; how is it that people can look at the condition of the world—in any time and place—and say, “Nah, I think we’re fine just the way we are?

Has God rejected his own people? Paul is not the first person to ask this question. Had we kept reading just a bit we would have been reminded of a story from one of the major characters of the Old Testament, the prophet Elijah. Elijah was a man of great courage, unafraid to stand up for the truth of God in an evil and corrupt time.  And in one of his most famous stories—the one Paul uses here in chapter 11—Elijah has just scored the signature victory of his prophetic career: he has defeated the prophets of Baal in an epic showdown on the top of Mount Carmel.  The idols of the unfaithful king have been exposed as frauds; the Maker of Heaven and Earth has been shown to be the One True God.  

It’s what happens next that is the problem: Elijah’s life is threatened, and he is forced to run for his life.  So Elijah flees from Ahab and Jezebel, taking refuge in a cave.  In the blink of an eye he goes from the thrill of victory to the agony of defeat. He is convinced that he alone is faithful against the forces of evil in his day.

But God shows up and tells Elijah that he doesn’t know everything.  Not only is Elijah not the last prophet, there are 7,000 others who are faithful to God.  One of these was a man named Obadiah. We learn from Scripture that Obadiah is a faithful servant of God, who also happens to be the chief of staff for King Ahab. And of the 7,000 faithful ones who had not bowed the knee to the false prophet Baal, Obadiah was stealthily responsible for 100 of them, hiding them in two caves, feeding them with supplies from King Ahab’s storehouse.

Has God forsaken his people? The point is this: when things seem the most bleak; when the world isn’t going the way we think it should; God is still working to redeem all things in Christ. What is more, God invites us to position ourselves right in the middle of that work.  There is always a remnant, there will always be work to do, even when things look most bleak.  God has called you, and God will not let go.

Understanding sin

To get to his point, Paul comes back again to the reality of sin, something that we should never be too sophisticated to deal with honestly. The Bible talks about sin with deadly seriousness.  Where we tend to talk about sin as an action—something we do that we should not have done, or something we don’t do that we should have done—the Bible often describes sin as a power that lurks about, kneeling at our door as if to catch us and consume us.  Jesus places such a significance on sin that he includes it as a category of the Lord’s Prayer (“forgive us our sin, as we forgive those who sin against us”) and then comes back to the subject at the end of the prayer to impress upon us again the importance of forgiving others, reminding us that our own forgiveness from God is connected to our forgiving one another.    

Sin corrupts everyone and everything it touches, literally ruining God’s good creation. Sin twists and warps relationships, causing us to show partiality to some people over others, separating us from God, blinding us to seeing God as we should. Sin leaves us in a state of disobedience, a state in which we once were. Ultimately it was the warping corruption of sin that led to the Jewish nation of Paul’s day had not yet received Jesus as Savior.

But Paul reminds his hearers that God is still at work, even in ways we cannot see, even when the circumstances suggest otherwise.  God is still doing the messy work of redeeming all things.  Our invitation is to be in the middle of that messy work.

The grain of the universe

How do we know what that work is and what our part in it should be?  Here is one significant clue: God is always moving broken creation toward redemption. It’s what Paul is concerned about in Romans:

For there is no distinction, since all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus…(Romans 3:22b-24)

It is what Isaiah saw in his vision of the heavenly kingdom:

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea. (Isaiah 11:6-9).

It is what John saw in his vision of heaven:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth…And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them” (Revelation 21:1a, 3).

But we encounter God’s will within the context of the choices we have made—choices that sometimes go with the grain of what God is doing, and choices that other times go against the grain of God’s will.

Our calling is captured in a phrase used by some contemporary Anabaptist theologians: “the grain of the universe.”  The image is that of wood grain, which runs in a certain direction in a piece of wood, giving it both strength and beauty. One thing I need to pay attention to when working with wood is to be aware of the direction of the grain.  When I glue boards together, it is important to note which way the grain runs and curves, because wood will shrink and warp in certain directions.  These forces will either balance each other out or fight against one another.  So can our lives.  When we talk about “going against the grain,” it is often about choices or decisions that are in conflict with God’s will or our personal beliefs or ethics.  To go with the grain is to make decisions that are in alignment with our truest selves and what we believe.  Going with the grain is to go in the direction of God.

That’s what God invites us to do—live our lives in a way that goes with the grain of the universe.  God is the one who has established the grain of the universe; it’s the world that is going “against the grain,” wreaking havoc whenever we do so.

Whenever we are working to bring reconciliation to broken places, we are working with the grain of the universe.  Whenever we are working to bring peace and justice we are working with the grain of the universe.  It’s why we proclaim the gospel and invite people to turn from their sin and follow Jesus. It’s why our congregation participates in ministries like backpack meals, Sleep in Heavenly Peace.  It’s why I serve on the Task Force to Reduce Gun Violence.  God invites us to be right in the middle of things, proclaiming God’s grace, reconciliation, and peace.

As Paul concludes this long argument in Romans 11: “For from him and through him and to him are all things. To God be the glory forever.  Amen.”

[chwpromoblog]

REED LEWIS. college junior; twenty. ashley moore. OPEN.

and, as rochelle once said:

“I don't know. She doesn't want to be white trash anymore. I told her, 'You're white, honey! Just get over it.'”

BEFORE THE PARTY;

It had been paradise, and paradise was almost always too good to be true. Reed didn't know this, though. She was too young to understand that this was going to be as good as life was ever going to get. After all, children are taught that life only goes up from day one. Things get better. Her dads were living proof of that. They'd fought for her and loved her deeply, just like someone worth fighting for.

In her early years, her most precious memories were of Happyland, the place her dads had built together. They said it was just for her, and she had no reason to believe they weren't telling the truth. After all, she loved it so, and could frequently be lost in the rides and the joyous chaos, almost a mascot for the place. And the town of Rosewood seemed to adore her for it too. But when that ended, she finally learned — things like that just didn't last forever. They couldn't.

When her father died, things changed so drastically that she often thought herself a modern Cinderella, sweeping up the dust mites left in the wake of all that happiness that seemed so far away now. She knew she wasn't meant to have a favorite parent, just as parents weren't meant to have favorite children, but she did anyhow. Her dead father had been the one who loved the park more, who promised it to her when all was said and done, and Reed looked upon that future with such optimism that it carried her through any measly, bad day she experienced. But suddenly the park didn't matter. She hated to visit. In fact, she thought she couldn't hate anything more. Then, her dad remarried. And she really became Cinderella.

From day one, she could see the darkness. She didn't want to blame her dad for not seeing it. He was sad, and he was desperate. But she couldn't help but blame him, because in seeing his way out of desperation she found herself firmly in it. Her stepfather was a nightmare, and so was his daughter — pretty little Laurel, who made it clear with everything but her voice that she had no intention to be a loving stepsister. As someone who was only used to the deepest and truest of familial love, Reed was at a loss. There were so many things swirling about in her head, confusion that had nothing to do with the tragedy she'd been forced into, questions that her father would never be able to answer for her.

She had just begun her teens, a time when her family's support was most crucial, and nothing came. Her dad was warped into a silent soldier for their cause, meek and unwilling to fight the very white faces on the other side of the line. He loved a man who hated him, deep down. Laurel didn't keep things all that hidden, and she didn't have to. Her dad was no longer going to defend her, after all. Bitterly, she thought to herself that she had chosen correctly — that her favorite parent was in a casket now, and he wasn't coming back. It was just her now.

It didn't help that where Laurel went, Reed went too. That meant that St. Agnes was her destiny, though she had been dreaming of joining Rosewood's swim team since she was a child and her father had taught her how to push against the lazy current of the tide pool he'd had built in Happyland just for her. It was the only thing she had left; the park had been sold off when her dad couldn't exhibit enough interest in it anymore. And she couldn't have it.

Sure, St. Agnes had a swim team, but it was an awful one, and Laurel joined it just to torment her. On her best days, Reed could expect for her clothes to go missing after team showers. On her worst, Laurel and her groupies would whisper slurs into her ear and shove her against the pool wall.

Once, she got a concussion, and used it as an opportunity to be as impetuous as possible, because it had garnered the most attention her dad had given her in years. "I'm not a girl, not entirely," she bitterly retorted when he reached out to stroke her hair as she lay in her hospital bed. It wasn't the nicest way to admit such a thing, but it had weighed so heavily on her for years and no one had cared — so she cared little for being gentle about it. She'd never quite felt like one, not fully, and though she saw the recognition in her father's eyes towards the end of his life, she'd never quite know for sure if he knew all along. Her dad certainly didn't, if his shock was any indication.

Unsurprisingly, he spilled the beans, and Laurel had yet another thing to torment her about. She remembered that day vividly, her fingernails digging deeply enough into her palms to draw blood, as she stood outside of the showers and contemplated how little restraint she had left. She didn't want to be the angry kid. That would only give Laurel more ammo.

But she was at her limit, and Nadine came swooping in, holding a bottle of shampoo in her hands. "Aren't you sick of it?" She asked, seeping every bit of caring lilt she possibly could into the question. And Reed was. So she took the bottle and switched it out with Laurel's, not even asking what was inside. Laurel's hair was bleached to death and fell out in clumps for weeks. Reed and Nadine became friends, and later, they would become friends with Saskia and Beckett. She learned that she had her anger, but she didn't have to keep it. She could have revenge instead.

Reed became a force to be reckoned with from then on. Those who pressed, who thought her a weak-minded, too sweet for her own good victim they could prey on because of what Laurel had done to her, were taught a lesson. Sometimes a fight after school, sometimes worse. She was angry, all the time. No one fucked with her after a while, except for Laurel — who knew she had done what she did but had no proof. She pushed, and pushed, and pushed, through high school, into college. And so she suffered. Nadine came up with plans, complex and neverending, insisting after each time that Laurel would give in. Hives that left scars. Terrible bacne. Anything and everything to tear her persona, pretty little white girl, at the seams.

And then, Nadine did something without Reed having asked. One day, the diving board above the Ravenwood pool just gave, and Laurel found her leg broken in two. But she'd been lucky. Something in Reed sank, and she knew she was not this monster she had become. She'd let Nadine get the better of her, and she'd nearly become an accomplice in someone's death in the process.

Saskia had been horrified, but Reed knew she'd be condescending about it, say that this was how things were going to end up from the very beginning. So she said nothing, let her assume it was all an accident of Laurel's doing. Nadine only shrugged, asked where she would have ended up had she just allowed herself to be bullied for the rest of time.

And then there was Beckett, who she held a quiet sort of flame for, never going past middle school fare — holding hands, silent glances, deep conversations. He didn't know what to do, and he admitted that. And she felt relief, because she had no idea what to do either.

But one night, Beckett found it in himself to be brave, and he took her the one place she never wanted to go — to the park her father had built. "It doesn't have to be this way," he said. "It could be different." Reed looked up and saw her past in those glittering lights, a reminder of when she wore her heart on her sleeve without worrying if someone was out to break it in two. It could be different. But that wasn't just up to them. Not anymore.

DURING THE PARTY;

Reed was planning to go out on an actual date with this boy, after all this time, and even after waiting so patiently, she was sure something was going to fuck it up. Things were falling into place far too smoothly — Beckett was doing better these days, swim didn't suck nearly as much anymore, and even Laurel and Nadine were laying off.

She didn't make it to the date. Of course. Instead, she found herself on the other side of a frantic phone call with her dad, who was sobbing in panic — providing more emotion towards her than she'd heard in years. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, swore that this couldn't possibly be about them.

But then he said it. Laurel was missing. She'd been missing for days.

It was all a blur after that, really. She didn't remember texting Beckett, or nearly battering down Nadine's door. She only saw red, screaming that she was sure, so sure, that her devilish ass had everything to do with it despite the fact that she vehemently denied it, that she couldn't just leave them alone —

Apparently, she was nearly about to scratch Nadine's eyes out when Saskia entered the apartment. She was belligerent when she asked the girl to figure it out, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Saskia was her only shot.

Life was never kind to her. If Laurel was missing, even if Nadine was behind it, she'd take the fall. She'd be the one to blame. All the years of rivalry, all the strife — it would bite her in the ass. She needed to get out of this. She had to. Life just couldn't be this shitty. Not if she had anything to say about it. She had to fight.

Reed identifies as a demigirl and uses she / her pronouns.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.