#because you never know what’s in the ordinary you know! What extraordinary graces are hidden in that everyday moment!

[xo-cuteplosion-xo]

How about a musician reader x character fic? Maybe a singer who performs in a cafe, or a classical musician who plays in an orchestra, or who plays in a rock band? I dunno I have a lot of ideas in my mind but I'm just too lazy to write them :D What do you think?

So here's the baseline you gave me - a musician reader fic x character. Here's what I decided to fill in for this lovely fic- a fluffy bsd collage Au where the reader is majoring in music and has the side job of a stage performer. Then, because they would match well, so I decided to go with a Fyodor x reader. Hope this is alright!

Words- 1728 ~

Hearts Composition | fyodor x musician reader | (collage Au)

Music thudded against the walls, muffled only by the thick layers that hid backstage from the audience. The aroma of heavily worn perfume surrounded people in pleasant bliss. Waitresses and waiters swayed with heavy plates rested along arms and in hands. Carrying much-wanted foods and booze to awaiting customers. The collection of accents muted under the heavy beats of taps and clicks from the metal of the dancer's shoes. Picking up a smaller wooden, finely carved, and rather expensive model of a violin, stood yourself. With a smile, your hands trailed the curves and strings of the delicate instrument. With all the work you had to do for university you had truly didn’t have time to be doing some minimum wage job. Though you didn’t care much, if you could play something, it would be fine. You performed here every once in a blue moon. You weren't one of the performers, but they would grace you with the intermission on busy nights. Much like these nights, when the crowd was full and the people rowdy and in need of constant entertainment. You could soothe those shouts and demands of perverted drunk men; Soothe the cries of broken women and rich spoiled children.

Stepping onto the wooden stage as the lights dim, allowing you the bare minimum of the peeping moonlight to find the microphone located at the center. Inhaling as your anxiety turned into bliss, you waited. As the colored light flew on, you rested your chin on the soft velvet. Holding up the bow, you set it to the strings. With a final inhale, your eyes fluttered shut as you played a classical piece; one constructed for an upcoming project that was due for your music composition class. You had nearly all the string instruments you could play finished; all but the cello. With every strum of your instrument, the crowd fell silent, enjoying the break from all the heavy excitement. Even the children's chatter soothed down, so your instrument could echo off the thin walls of the pub.

Sipping nothing but a cup of tea with a small side of biscuits, a male leaned in his seat. Sitting with a pristine, perfect posture, he listened to the soft sound. The way his violet eyes slowly lidded, and his hair fell back against his face, lit his features in a urethral, almost divine light. His mind working to recognize the piece. As an up-and-coming musician, he had several classics memorized. He could join in by ear, or even write out the full pieces without needing to see the original sheet music. This piece wasn’t something he recognized, could it be an original piece?

If you were to open your eyes as you neared the end of the first piece, you would notice his gaze rested on you. Eyes open halfway with hidden interest, and yet, the stare was attractive. The blank look that hid everything beneath a mask laid strewn across his features. As you finished and stood up, surrounded by applause, he watched your every stride. It was funny, he thought he could almost recognize you.

~

With shaking hands, your fingers typed within a group chat of other college students you had met and become close to. “I’m so nervous. I have to hand in that piece today. I pulled an all-nighter trying to decide on the cello part, but nothing sounded right, so now I might not get a full mark.” You could hear the whine through the text. When replies of good luck came to you, except for two replies, you chuckled. One read “could always just die before handing it in.” Another wrote, “I've got the wine ready.” laughing to yourself as you walked into the classroom and set down the folder in the bin. Glancing through the room, you took a seat with your head down. It was unusual for you to arrive early to class, but your anxiety with this project was slowly picking at you to just get there and hand it in. With twenty minutes till class started, you decided to pull out your laptop and listen to the recording from last week.

Taking out your notebook, you started jotting notes about small things to improve, and things you hated about your performances. You didn’t notice somebody else enter the classroom rather early. Carrying his bag, he set it down at one of the desks before the sound of a violin entered his ears. Sitting down he listened to the melody you had played several nights before. As the piece finished, his eyes traveled to the bin. Now understanding where you had gotten the piece from, he sighed. “You’re not half bad, you played a little flat, but it sounds okay. Becoming a flustered disaster, you froze glancing over to him. This wasn’t the first time you had noticed him in class, he was hard to miss. His completely perfect grades, perfect posture, and looks made him stand out. Not only that, but he had strong ideals and his debate skills could sway anybody. Though, you knew it wasn’t really skill, more manipulation. To add to everything his Russian accent stuck out with every word he spoke. “Could you play that again?” hesitating at first you restarted the piece.

He took out a blank piece of sheet music and started scribbling down notes. As if memorizing the piece, he tapped his fingers before bringing his thumb to his mouth and chewing on it. Tapping his foot as the piece came to an end, he glanced at the time before walking over to one of the room's cellos. His face resembled discontent as he looked at it. Looking to where he sat, you realized he didn’t have his with him. You presumed it had to do with the instrument being heavy and somewhat large. Though for somebody of his height, it may not be that big of a deal. Perhaps he didn’t want to lug it around with him, considering he had all of those other books for classes. “So uh, why did you want to hear it again?” you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck as you watched him strum a few strings. He was checking the accuracy and pitch of the notes. With a contempt sigh, he shrugged.

“Your writing is considerably well done. I wished to try something that is all.” He did not shed a glance as he sat down and ran the bow across the strings. The sound was heaven within your ears, but to him, it was nothing but ordinary. The sound of a well-made expensive Russian model, the model he owned, was much better than this school-provided variant. As the melody played, you recognized it as your piece. Smiling slightly as your eyes sparkled. You bolted from your seat to grab your folder; the music that was due in 10 minutes.

Looking over the cello part you had constructed, you changed the key signature to hold a few new sharps and took away some of the flats. Boldly, you handed the male the sheet music and pointed as if asking "Is this the piece you were playing?" Setting the cello aside, he ran a finger over the bars with a nod. “So that’s what I was missing! You're a god at memorizing and creating. Now I'm excited to see what you concocted for the presentation.” You smiled lightly before placing the folder in the bin. “Oh, I never got your name. I’m-” he cut you off before you could formally introduce yourself.

“You’re y/n. I do pay attention to people who aren't a complete waste of time.” The layers of his ego began to shine through his solid expression. The way you'd called him god just then, was another layer added to the ever-growing ego this man had. He thought he was above everybody else; he indeed was. In every way possible, he was above the normal human. With an exceptionally sharp mind, emotionless facade, and a spin of extraordinary talents, he was a god among men. “I’m taken aback, you don’t know me.” frowning you sat back at your desk. Leaning your head against the palm of your hand with a frown, you clicked your tongue.

Coming up with a sharp reply, you rolled your eyes. “Please, who doesn't know the great Dostoevsky. You’re only at the top of our class. Correcting myself before you can, the top in everything.” He snickered his brows raising in interest. His lips curled into a smirk moments before breaking to speak to you again.

“Consider your words before speaking. That wasn’t exactly the best wording to say "I'm better than everybody at everything.” It took you several seconds to realize what had gone through his head. Of course, he understood what you were saying, but he also managed to nitpick everything.

Blushing you placed your hands in front of your face. “I didn't think about it because that’s not what I was saying!” he snickered again. Listening to him stand you peeked from your hands to watch him set away the cello and bow.

“How often do you perform at that pub?” He switched the discussion relatively quickly. But with the sudden pause of your reaction and the setting away of the instrument, it flowed nicely with the conversation.

“Once or twice a month?” You answer honestly. A bit upset by the lack of real performances you had.

“Next time, I'll reserve something, and we’ll set something up. I want to see if you can play something… difficult.” It wasn't much of a question, more a demand. Nodding you wrote down your number, sliding it to the student with a smile as the bell rang.

For the next week, the two of you met in the unused rooms Fyodor managed to snag for practicing. He often shook his head at your way of playing. He did compliment the several different instruments you would take with you. From the cello to the violin, there wasn’t much you couldn’t play. Each was expertly designed and crafted to fit your arm length and height. Custom made and shipped from all over the world. Eventually, it became a routine, going to his concerts as he attended yours. While you praised how good he was, he would find the smallest mistakes to condemn you about.

#bsd #bsd x reader #bsd x reader scenerio #bsd scenerio #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #fyodor #bsd college au #bsd college au x reader #bsd college x reader #fyodor college au #fyodor college #fyodor x reader #musican fyodor #musician fyodor x reader #fyodor x musician reader #fyodor x you

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Handmaiden🌹1

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Princess Madeline has left her homeland to marry a king. On her journey, she has brought her most trusted handmaiden. Little do either of them know how perilous their new home will be.

Note: Alright, here’s another medieval AU ft. King Steve. His darkness will build as we go and we’re gonna ride those vibes, thots. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Madeline was the fairest woman you’d ever seen. Her strawberry blonde waves flowed like water down her back and shoulders. Her jaw was etched by the gods themselves and her lips were soft to the eye and as you guessed, the touch. Her eyes were like gems and her figure was graceful and lithe. Her voice was a melody and her laugh like the pluck of a string. 

How could she not be perfect? Porcelain and precious. She was a princess. The eldest of Eddor.

It would be unnatural not to envy  her. Not to compare your ordinary features with her extraordinary ones. Not to measure your circumstance against hers. You had grown up in her shadow. Once a playmate, now a maid. You served as her closest companion and attendant. A mere servant, you were but another accessory among many.

Your jealousy was not spiteful. Many a peasant lived a life worse than yours. You did not complain or want. It was the order of things. The world as it was.

She was serene, often intimidatingly calm. That day, you could see the nervous tension in her cheek. Not many others would notice but you did. You didn’t blame her. She was to meet her betrothed at last. A man more than ten years here elder; of the few men grander than her in prestige; a widower and king.

You stood just a few steps away, hands folded and head slightly bowed in deference. If she needed you, she would call to you. You were glad for the camouflage of your low standing. Among the foreign court, on such a significant day, you were nothing; just another witness.

Your journey was long. A month at sea, a fortnight in a draughty northern castle, a week upon the road, and finally you were in the capital; Halder’s Arch. A night spent awaiting the first meeting and a further hour for the king’s appearance. The other servants were growing restless; Madeline’s ladies, too.

 It would be a sad and heartless act to send a princess out upon her own. Sybil and Lucille were the only noblewoman to accompany Madeline. They were to remain at the foreign court and seek their own suitors. Her guards, her priest, and her physician were also among the party as well. Her retinue was finely outfitted.

Finally, the doors shifted and the armoured guards hit their staffs on the stone to announce the arrival. As the hall opened up, you held your breath as Madeline did the same. She raised her chin slightly and rose with the rest to receive her betrothed. A line of lords preceded their king, hidden by the group of men.

The Princess of Eddor was announced first. Her crest bearer spoke loudly for all the people to hear. Then it was the king’s turn. Steven, first of his name, son of Stewart, ruler of Anglhem and its territories. The lords broke and formed two rows as they stood at attention.

King Steven strode between them, as proud and stoic as the princess he would wed. You kept your chin down but watched him below your lashes. His dark blonde hair was thick above a trimmed beard. He wore a simple golden crown without stones, his jacket a turquoise brocade slashes with citrine. A chain of golden links hung from his shoulders with a single sapphire upon it. 

It was simple but bespoke a man of intent; of standing. His simplicity said it all. You suspected he dressed for the occasion; a very deliberate impression for his future wife. The capital, the castle, the lords, did not suggest a ruler without extravagance.

The king stopped before Madeline and bowed to her; she curtsied to him in kind. He seemed pleased as he took her hand and kissed it. His eyes flicked all over as he considered his new wife; his second. The first had come to a tragic end during a summer plague not two years past.

“Princess,” He greeted. “It is a privilege and a pleasure to meet you at last. The painter did you an injustice for no canvas could capture such beauty.”

“And you, my king,” She said evenly. “I did hear of a handsome and noble king but the accounts do leave much untold.”

You were always rather amused by such empty courtesies. These words were rehearsed and recited without thought. It was what was expected. A princess could not come off as appalled by her suitor, even if she were, and a king could not be disappointed in a princess, even for a crooked nose or blotchy complexion. It was all an act. You did not envy the fallacy of status.

Your eyes wandered as the royals went about their performance. The audience was rapt and marvelled at the perfect pair; a stately king and a beautiful princess. You bit down to keep from grinning wryly. Your amusement was stifled completely as your eyes were caught by a pair most unexpected. 

As Steven was offered a chair to sit with his queen, his gaze strayed from her. You withheld your surprise and assured yourself he was merely distracted by the portrait behind you or perhaps a nick in the stone. It couldn’t be you. Servants were like windows; transparent.

His brow twitched and he looked back to the princess. Her ladies were dazzled by the king’s stature, the lords were pleased by the princess’ grace. All seemed to be in a trance; all but those who held their attention. 

Madeline held her veneer only because the cracks could not be noticed by strangers. Steven’s matched hers though you saw no flaw. You only saw a man sure of himself because he knew what to say. To him, it was a ritual, each step another closer to the end.

You straightened at the subtle signal from the princess. She wanted wine. You went to her and took the ewer from the table beside her. You filled the king’s goblet first and presented it to him with a bow. He took it and you repeated the steps for the princess. She thanked you and you didn’t miss the king’s eye. He was watching you. Why?

You resumed your vigil along the wall with the other servants. Your gown differed from no other. The blue-grey wool was plain enough that it could’ve been another stone in the wall. Your cap hid your hair and no ornament sparkled at throat or wrist. You lowered your head as the king turned his goblet in his hand and gazed over at the princess.

You wanted to laugh at yourself. It was preposterous. He hadn’t looked at you for any reason but what you offered; a cup of wine. How could one ignore a figure right before them? You did long for it to be over for the sake of your weary mind. Your travel had left you endlessly exhausted. It was clearly affecting your judgement.

Yet, you peeked up again and the king squinted over at you. You blinked as he grinned and leaned back. He drank from his goblet and returned his gaze to Madeline. She presented him the letter sealed with her father’s crest. He accepted it and she seemed not to notice his wandering eyes.

Maybe because they did not wander. Maybe because he had been thinking and they averted to follow his thoughts. Or he was listening and did consider her words as he considered the room. 

You twined your hands together behind your back. You were trained, you were patient, you were attentive. You could bear yet another royal meeting. You could cling to your duty and see it through. You only had to resist the nagging fatigue that caused your mind to drift. 

You needed to focus as the princess’ goblet was empty.

🌹

The wedding was already well-prepared. Both parties had settled their arrangements long before that fateful meeting. Steven and his advisers had the date, the feast, the ceremony, all plotted carefully for the next week. Madeline had her gown in her trunk and her virtue intact. Or so it was written in their betrothal.

The princess seemed pleased with her husband. That night she watched herself in the mirror as you brushed out her hair. She touched her long neck and her fingers trailed down to her collarbone. She let out a wearisome sigh.

“Do you think he was taken by me?” She asked. “He was cordial but a marriage cannot survive on cordial.”

“I’ve never known a man who wasn’t taken by you, your highness,” You dragged the bristles through her lush strands. “A king could not hope for a better princess.”

“Oh, so they say,” She preened. “I am told he sent his painter to at least a dozen courts to paint their princesses. Then he was presented with their likeness and he chose me himself.”

“And you were deemed the worthiest to share his crown then,” You said. “I see not how he could be disappointed.”

“And I cannot say I am,” She smiled and batted her lashes. “He is very handsome. I feared when they said he was older than me.”

“He doesn’t appear to suffer from it,” You assured her. “His step is as sure as any youth.”

She was silent as you finished brushing out her hair and you parted it. You began to braid her long tresses before she found her voice again. When she was thoughtful, she was often plotting.

“And the wedding night?” She ventured quietly. “Do you think he will be pleased with me then?”

“I… am certain he should be,” You said stiffly. “I see not how any man cannot be pleased with his wife in such a way.”

She giggled and played with the buttons of her sleeping gown. She eyed you and looked away guiltily. You tilted your head at her and tied up the end of her braid.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Oh, you know,” She stood and turned to you. “I was always told servants were more experienced in those matters, but you are always so modest.”

“As I have served you loyally, when should I have had time to take experience in such matters?”

She laughed and pulled a stray thread from your cap. 

“Much too loyal,” She chided. “Let us retire for the night. This kingdom is still strange to me and I do wish to know it better before I am bound to it entirely.”

🌹

Madeline was not to see her betrothed again until the wedding day. Their separation was tradition and ensured the legitimacy of the marriage. Thus, the princess could only emerge from her chambers when she was assured the king was engaged and the corridors were clear. 

On the first day after their introduction, she took to the gardens, dewy with the early spring dampness. The second she explored the wing within which her rooms were. On the third, she was warned to stay in as the king was to attend to the wedding’s final arrangements. She was irritated by her exile but not unhappy. It would end soon enough and this would be her castle to reign as she wished.

As you had since you were children, you slept beside her and woke before her. You touched her shoulder and advised her to wake but she stirred only a little. You dressed and left the lanterns unlit as the sun streamed in through the windows. You hid your hair beneath your cap and allowed yourself a moment of vanity as you adjusted your skirts in the mirror.

The best way to rouse the princess was food. You closed the heavy door behind you and greeted the guards who stood in the corridor. Lawrence and Hal were selected by Madeline’s own father and had served her since she was a girl. You knew them well and they were little disturbed by the mousy maid upon her duties.

You carefully counted the corners as you still found the castle unfamiliar and confounding. The day before, you’d become so lost, you had to ask another servant how to find your way back. You loathed a repeat but it was likely as you already felt entirely displaced.

You came upon the lower floors where the kitchens resided. You were confident that your destination was close but found yourself in a hall you’d never been before. A round door was open to the cool morning air and voices mingled with the scent of horses. You cursed under your breath and looked back over your shoulder. You must’ve turned the wrong way at the stairs.

You were kept from righting your course as the voices grew louder and a shadow appeared in the doorway. A lord, vaguely familiar from among those who had accompanied the king, strolled through as he laughed over his shoulder. You skirted against the wall and bowed your head in deference.

You peaked up through your lashes as he was followed by another. You recognised King Steven as he yawned behind his hand.

“You disturbed me so early for--” He complained but paused as his eyes fell upon you. “...nothing.” He finished slowly as he nodded at you. 

He carried on as he caught stride with his companion who reprimanded him for his grumbles. They were bawdy and the king took no offence to the remonstrance. You kept your head down until you heard them turn the corner. You wondered little at the reason for the king’s visit to the stables; you only wanted to retreat before the stench lurked in any further.

#Steve Rogers #king!steve #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #medieval au #au #fic #series #dark!fic #dark fic #the handmaiden #mcu #marvel #captain america

[readerbookclub]

Hello everyone! It's time for another book list. This list is composed of books where characters have special powers/abilities. Let's dive right in!

Our first novel is the book that inspired this list! It was suggested to me in a survey, and I loved it immediately (thanks to the person behind that suggestion!). This newly released novel is a superhero story about so much more than just super powers. It's about race and what it means to be a young black man:

The Cost of Knowing, by Brittney Morris:

Sixteen-year-old Alex Rufus is trying his best. He tries to be the best employee he can be at the local ice cream shop; the best boyfriend he can be to his amazing girlfriend, Talia; the best protector he can be over his little brother, Isaiah. But as much as Alex tries, he often comes up short. It’s hard to for him to be present when every time he touches an object or person, Alex sees into its future. When he touches a scoop, he has a vision of him using it to scoop ice cream. When he touches his car, he sees it years from now, totaled and underwater. When he touches Talia, he sees them at the precipice of breaking up, and that terrifies him. Alex feels these visions are a curse, distracting him, making him anxious and unable to live an ordinary life. And when Alex touches a photo that gives him a vision of his brother’s imminent death, everything changes. With Alex now in a race against time, death, and circumstances, he and Isaiah must grapple with their past, their future, and what it means to be a young Black man in America in the present.

Our next book approaches the classic super hero story from a different perspective--the villain’s. 

Soon I will Be Invincible, by Austin Grossman

Doctor Impossible—evil genius, diabolical scientist, wannabe world dominator—languishes in a federal detention facility. He's lost his freedom, his girlfriend, and his hidden island fortress. Over the years he's tried to take over the world in every way imaginable: doomsday devices of all varieties (nuclear, thermonuclear, nanotechnological) and mass mind control. He's traveled backwards in time to change history, forward in time to escape it. He's commanded robot armies, insect armies, and dinosaur armies. Fungus army. Army of fish. Of rodents. Alien invasions. All failures. But not this time. This time it's going to be different... Fatale is a rookie superhero on her first day with the Champions, the world's most famous superteam. She's a patchwork woman of skin and chrome, a gleaming technological marvel built to be the next generation of warfare. Filling the void left by a slain former member, Fatale joins a team struggling with a damaged past, trying to come together in the face of unthinkable evil.

For our next book, we take a step back from the world of superheroes. Instead we turn to those who create these much-loved stories:

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon:

Joe Kavalier, a young Jewish artist who has also been trained in the art of Houdini-esque escape, has just smuggled himself out of Nazi-invaded Prague and landed in New York City. His Brooklyn cousin Sammy Clay is looking for a partner to create heroes, stories, and art for the latest novelty to hit America - the comic book. Drawing on their own fears and dreams, Kavalier and Clay create the Escapist, the Monitor, and Luna Moth, inspired by the beautiful Rosa Saks, who will become linked by powerful ties to both men. With exhilarating style and grace, Michael Chabon tells an unforgettable story about American romance and possibility.

In our next book, the character is not a superhero. But she does possess a special ability, a connection to the dead. (To be honest, it’s really hard to find standalone superhero books, so we had to switch it up a bit!)

Elatsoe, by Darcie Little Badger

Imagine an America very similar to our own. It’s got homework, best friends, and pistachio ice cream. There are some differences. This America been shaped dramatically by the magic, monsters, knowledge, and legends of its peoples, those Indigenous and those not. Some of these forces are charmingly everyday, like the ability to make an orb of light appear or travel across the world through rings of fungi. But other forces are less charming and should never see the light of day. Elatsoe lives in this slightly stranger America. She can raise the ghosts of dead animals, a skill passed down through generations of her Lipan Apache family. Her beloved cousin has just been murdered, in a town that wants no prying eyes. But she is going to do more than pry. The picture-perfect facade of Willowbee masks gruesome secrets, and she will rely on her wits, skills, and friends to tear off the mask and protect her family.

Being a super hero is cool and all, but most of us aren’t. Sometimes, you’re just a normal kid, living a normal life. That’s what our last book explores:

The Rest of Us Just Live Here, by Patrick Ness

What if you aren’t the Chosen One? The one who’s supposed to fight the zombies, or the soul-eating ghosts, or whatever the heck this new thing is, with the blue lights and the death? What if you’re like Mikey? Who just wants to graduate and go to prom and maybe finally work up the courage to ask Henna out before someone goes and blows up the high school. Again. Because sometimes there are problems bigger than this week’s end of the world, and sometimes you just have to find the extraordinary in your ordinary life. Even if your best friend is worshipped by mountain lions...

Please vote here!

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#book list #super heroes #super powers #sci fi #book club #booklr

[subarubi]

The List

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Everyone’s got a submission to his list. Watch this. Read that. Go there. But you’ve never given him anything. Not a single idea of what it is you like, what makes you feel at home in this world. Never made an effort to bridge the gap between the 40s and now, and yourself and him. And it oddly bothers him.

Word Count: 3.6 k

A/N: this is my very first reader insert i’ve written and am posting, so i’m excited :) appreciate anyone who takes the time to read!

Everyone’s got a submission to his list. 

Watch this. Read that. Eat here. Go there. I Love Lucy. Moon Landing. Berlin Wall. Steve Jobs. Disco. Thai food. Star Wars. Nirvana. Rocky. Troubleman Soundtrack. Things he absolutely must do if he wants to call himself a modern man. Which, he does. But kind of doesn’t? Doesn’t even matter much now anyway.

You don’t.

Have a submission to his list, that is.

You’ve never been talkative anyway, he reasons. You’re quiet, reserved, and a bit of an outsider in this haphazardly thrown together group of extraordinary people. 

Not that you’re ordinary, not in the slightest. You’re a comet. Your power, palpable. A volatile missile, ice and dust carving a hole through space. Nucleus, hard body amalgamation of granite muscle and tungsten bones. Tail, a whipping flurry of wild hair, muted decimation in its wake. No, you are far from ordinary.

You just... stick to the walls.

With arms-- arms he’s seen bring men to their knees-- crossed over your chest, face set in marble. Not unfriendly. You’ll talk nice when prompted, smile when appropriate, but you never initiate. 

You seem to prefer a distance, a line between work life and personal life. A line that just doesn’t exist with the Avengers. Somehow, though, you manage to maintain the separation. Natasha’s prying questions, Stark’s intentional invasions of your personal space, Sam’s harmless but persistent flirting. 

It’s all so easily deflected. 

Made even easier now that the family you’d always resisted has been fractured. 

You don’t care to foster intimate relationships with any of these people. And you definitely don’t care to put in a submission to Captain America’s To-Do List. 

Everyone, everyone has something to add to his list. Even Bucky, Bucky, who has spent the better part of 70 years in and out of cryo, brain pulled apart and replaced with a new, foreign synapse each time, said something about a movie he’d seen somewhere. 

It bothers him. It shouldn’t, but it does. 

Steve can physically feel it--  that’s how much it bothers him. A now permanent path of his eyes to your form in a room. An itch in his fingers for a pen and paper anytime you say anything. A burn on the tops of his ears, hot and red, if you smile softly at some reference he doesn’t understand. Is that a signal? Would that be a suggestion if you actually talked to him?

Regardless, he trusts you. A boundless amount. Unexplainable given just how little the two of you have actually spoken.

You don’t make suggestions for the list, and it only really bothers him because he does trust you. He wants to know what you have to say, what you think is important for him to experience. What you like. If, perhaps, what makes you feel at home in this world could help him too. 

It’s a Thursday and he’s thumbing the pages of his notebook when Natasha gets the idea. 

The quinjet cabin is filled with a heavy, pregnant silence that no one can bear to cut through. Full-term. Unbearable pressure on the sciatic nerve-type silence. 9 months discomfort and anxiety, stifling their words. 

A mission gone right, but leaving a bad taste in their mouths. 

Bucky sits near the front, aimlessly bouncing a tennis ball against the starboard wall. Sam is in the co-pilot seat, trying to read a book with a red cover and yellow spine. Nat’s knuckles turn white on the yoke, keeping the quinjet on track even though it could pretty much fly on its own. 

You like music, Steve thinks. You there now in the back corner-- fingers drumming to the private beat on your thigh, eyes closed and head tipped back, white of earbuds in stark contrast with your dark combat suit-- is a frequent sight. He imagines your recommendation might be an album for him to listen to. 

Steve’s fingers ghost over the familiar scrawl of his list; some crossed out, some recently added. 

He decides it could use more music. 

You should just ask her, Natasha smirks, jutting her chin your direction. When she moved to sit next to him, Steve didn’t know. But, she is, after all, the spy. He’d been otherwise occupied anyway. He lifts his bowed head up to fix her with a puzzled look. Nat gives him that smirk and Steve has to fight back a groan. Knocking her knee against his, she teases,  you know, she can probably feel you staring.

His eyes shoot over in your direction, sighing a little in relief when you seem to still be lost in the music pumping in your ears. Steve realizes Natasha isn’t talking about the list. Years now, and she still hasn’t given up on playing his personal matchmaker. It’s slowed, surely, due to circumstance, but she’s never satisfied. A date. He should ask you on a date, is what she means. He’s suddenly as red in the face as the tips of his ears and Natasha’s hair. 

Steve’s not blind. 

You’re attractive. 

Soft and hard in so many ways. Lips, pink and pillowy and parted ever so slightly. Sharp line of your jaw clenched, brows furrowed. The gentle curve of your neck, warm skin disappearing beneath a dirt stained, hole ridden suit that hasn’t seen mending hands in months. Not since you followed him in his free fall from grace. 

You’d followed. Wordlessly. Burned out, abandoned by coworkers and the public, you resigned yourself to this life of Motel hopping and operating outside of the realm of what’s legal. Though not outside of what’s right.

Pondering what any of that could mean feels forbidden to Steve.

The hard shell of a man, not any less great, but perhaps less sure.

He looks back at Natasha with a low shake of his head, abruptly shutting his notebook. She sighs, but takes the hint. Enough. Not now. 

Almost a year later, he does ‘just ask’. 

It’s kind of like a date, in barely-there ways. You’re left alone, facing each other in a booth, knees brushing. You go to the bathroom, Steve orders for the both of you. Kind of like a date. 

Stuffed in the sticky booth of some diner in Middle America, alone together. Natasha gone off on her own again. Bucky recovering in Wakanda. Sam out like a light on a creaking Motel 6 mattress-- hard, just like he likes it. Your muscles like jelly, stomachs rumbling with the dull ache of hunger, soaked head to toe from the torrential downpour outside. No idle chit chat for you two. Steve stares out the window, impossible blue eyes following the path of a raindrop. You ring the bottom of your shirt out onto the small bit of floor between two pairs of feet. It splatters on the ground loudly. 

Not a date. 

You risk a glance at him over the piping hot brim of your coffee mug. Silently marvel at just how much he’s changed through thin white wisps of steam. More than longer hair, more than a handsome and disguising beard, more than the ripped out star of his suit sitting in a heap on the motel room floor. You can’t say how, it’s more a feeling. 

He’s a lot quieter now. Like you. 

Steve’s always been stoic. Passionate when needs be, but not exactly loose with his emotions; never as restrained now. His voice was always strong and sure, but never quite so gruff from frequent disuse as in this past year. You suppose it’s partially your fault. With Natasha gone much more now and Sam talking enough to carry a conversation himself, you’re not exactly great company. You might be one of the reasons he speaks less and less. 

A pretty waitress is smiling wide at him, a signal that she knows. A beard and hat pulled down as far as possible would never be enough to hide those golden boy blue eyes. 

Those eyes millions of women would gladly melt into a puddle of rainwater on the dirty floor of some diner in Midwest America for. You’d have to ask for a mop later to clean up the mess. Yours and the one spilling from ‘Molly’s lips. 

I heard you have a list, she smiles coy. You tuck in to the plate of chocolate chip pancakes doused in maple syrup as she bats her eyelashes down at him. 

Steve shifts, glancing over at you seemingly uninterested in the conversation. He’d given up on you having anything to do with the list weeks ago. He may be a fugitive-- may no longer be an Avenger, Captain America-- but he’s still a nice guy.  

Yes, he laughs kindly, hands clasped together on the table top.

You sniff and his eyes snap to yours again, tense. You’ll have to leave soon. Now that ‘Molly’ from the midnight shift at Red’s diner has seen Steve Rogers and his pretty blue eyes, you’ll have to wake Sam from his long overdue sleep and be gone before dawn. You wish he could’ve been left longer. It’s just how things work these days. A long shot from living plush, courtesy of Tony Stark. But you can wait long enough to finish coffee and breakfast.

Can I make a suggestion? she leans down and speaks in soft tones, a wicked grin hidden beneath those sweet, innocent looking red lips. 

You raise a brow when Steve politely nods, pulling out his trusty notebook from his back pocket. Steve asks to borrow a pen which she hastily holds out to him, purposely having their fingers brush in the exchange. Surely he knows she’s flirting, he’s not that naive. There’s no way. He’s a nice guy, maybe too nice.

She’s young. You imagine she has spent more than a few nights looking up at a poster of his face, clean shaven and perfect, playing this exact conversation in her head. That she has carefully thought over what her input would be. 

You should definitely watch ‘Friends’ when you have the time. 

You snort. Loudly. 

Molly instantly shrinks in on herself, deflated. Steve gives you an odd look, which you brush off and promptly resume shoveling the sweet breakfast food into your mouth. 

He’s so kind, it’s downright disgusting. 

Steve makes a point of writing it down underneath ‘Stevie Wonder’, smiling, Thank you. And for good measure, when he returns the pen, Captain America runs his ring finger across her knuckle. Oh, he knew. So considerate, you almost want to smirk when you catch it.

She’s gone now to wait on the other late night stragglers, blushing and gently ghosting her fingers over the spot he’d touched. Your hurtful mocking isn’t enough to dampen the feel of being caught in Steve Rogers’ warm glow. 

His knee presses along the inside of yours again when he shifts to shove the small book back into his pants. You take a measured sip of coffee. 

Steve raises a brow in your direction, Did you have a better suggestion?

There. He’s asked. 

Maybe he could finally breathe in your presence now. 

No luck considering you simply shrug and break from his gaze. So unreadable. It’s frustrating. He has half a mind to write ‘shrug’ underneath ‘Friends’. Are you? Friends, he means. You’ve known each other what feels like a lifetime now. At whatever this is for a year and a half. He can count on one hand the amount of conversations not involving a mission you’ve shared. 

He trusts you with his life, which, after everything that’s happened, is a rare commodity. He’s sure you feel the same. 

You’d say that no, you’re not friends. You probably wouldn’t deny the unfathomable trust in each other, though. That’s comforting at least. You sleep a bed away every night after all. 

Steve doesn’t really sleep. 

He doesn’t know you know that; you don’t sleep either. 

He’s staring, maybe he doesn’t realize it. 

You’ve abandoned your fork, suddenly feeling sick with it. That fucking blue. It split you like butter and might’ve knocked you over had you not been tightly gripping your knee under the table. 

So handsome it hurts. 

How could anyone be that pretty? Heartbreaking. Even before the serum-- you’ve seen the pictures. Breathtaking. The beard. The beard is really something. So so pretty. Adonis and Aphrodite. Michelangelo’s David. Torturous. 

It’s been almost a full minute now. Of him, just staring. 

You clear your throat in hopes it might pull him out of whatever it is that has claimed him. It doesn’t work. You talk just to end it. You know for certain that will surprise him. 

Why do you even keep up with it? The list. That stupid goddamned list.

You can see the flush on Steve’s neck when he does realize that he’d stared at you, through you, in you, for the longest two minutes in history. He coughs into his fist. 

What do you mean? his brow furrows, and you almost want to touch the crease between them to make it go away. It’s a ridiculous thought. One you shake away with another measured sip of coffee. 

Doesn’t it seem... you shrug, and there’s an urge in him to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to stop fucking shrugging so goddamned much. Steve thinks he might go insane if he sees those shoulders twitch up again. I dunno, kind of pointless now?

In a way, yes, it is. 

Steve can’t exactly pop in a film or binge watch a tv show like this. And sitting down to listen to read a book doesn’t really seem right.

He doesn’t answer. You watch him finally pick up his own fork, cutting into an omelette more cheese and meat than egg. 

It still rains down hard. 

Steve pays the bill, smiling tightly at Molly when she lays her hand on his bicep. He tips her well, she was sweet and young and still half terrified from just you snorting. 

You follow a few paces behind him out of the diner, mindful of maintaining that distance. 

Neither of you bother to fight against getting soaked. 

You’re both immediately set on edge when three cars pull into the parking lot, tightly together. It’s the kind of thing you’d been trained to be suspicious of. The kind of thing that never means anything good when around people like you. It means they have come for you both. It means you'll probably have to fight. 

He pauses underneath the buzzing neon sign. His back is to you, the tense expanse of muscles outlined by the wet shirt clinging to his skin. A breath. Another. 

Giggling.

You hear giggling of all things, bubbling through the parking lot. Girls, a whole crowd of them, spilling out of the cars, hushing each other. His name is on their cherry chapstick lips. Not his name, his title: Captain America. Molly had texted them, that’s clear now. 

It’s better, at least, than your previous estimation. But it’s trouble nevertheless. 

Steve turns to face you and somehow, the soft glow of red on his face only makes his eyes bluer. He takes a step forward. You understand. You always understand in the absence of words. There’s a link between the two of you when you’re in that working mode. That trust, tangible in how you too, step forward. 

It’s procedural. You fall into it so easily.

His head ducks, yours raises. Eyes locked in one another, but ears elsewhere, listening. Not touching, but near to it. A breath away. Swaying in the rain. You feel it sizzle on your skin, see it coming off him in steam. 

No one bothers the two lovers, obviously too occupied with each other to be superheroes. Natasha had taught you both that. 

It pours harder yet. 

The giggles fade into nothing, drowned in the monsoon-- no space between the fat drops pelting the earth. They couldn’t see the two of you now even if they tried. 

Why did you come? You never really said, he has to shout, the rain is so loud. 

You’ve left a lot unsaid. Some things are better that way. 

Steve’s hands, large and powerful, stop your shoulders mid shrug. Don’t, he squeezes his eyes shut, drops of rain trickling down the slopes of his nose, For the love of God, don’t fucking shrug.

Everything is heavy: your drenched clothes, his hands still gripping your shoulders, the crushing weight in your chest-- the rock lodged in your throat with all the things you’ve never said for the sake of some stupid credo about not letting things get personal. You’ve let the words die on your lips and for what? 

It did nothing. The lines blurred anyway, out of your control. 

The truth: there hasn’t been a distance greater than the width of his notebook between the two of you for a long time now. 

You pretend. 

You both pretend that absence of any extended conversation means you haven’t already learned everything about each other just by watching. Stealing glances when the other is turned away. 

Steve pretends that the reason your input in the list matters so much to him is because he wants to know the people he’s trusting with his life. 

He already knows you. Not your favorite color or band, but you. Your outline in the darkness of a thousand motels. The smell of you under layers of grime and sweat and blood-- you’re scrubbed clean with the same soap he uses. Your breathing patterns: one when you’re resting with your earbuds in, head bopping to songs he’s not been privy to; another when you’re side by side in combat, moving together like one; the most prominent, when you’re both laying in bed staring at the ceiling, too lost in thought to even care about sleep. 

You know him too.

His question. How do you answer? You followed. Wasn’t that answer enough?

Where’s your notebook? You ask instead, though it’s more of a call in this downpour. 

Steve’s brow furrows again, left hand flying back to pat the small book in his pocket. This time, you do reach out, though you don’t have to go very far. His breath quickens when the pad of your thumb brushes against the wet crease of skin pulled together in uncertainty. He swallows hard, rifling through the pages a little messy because he can’t stop looking at you. Your hand stays there until the pressure releases. For a good second after, too.     

When he finally opens it up to the two pages worth of ‘to-do’, the ink is running. Black to blue. A melted mess of jumbled letters on delicate paper one wrong twitch away from ripping. 

You take it from his hands, gentle, because you’re pretty sure this notebook has been a lifeline for him. Grounding. There’s sketches in there that you’ve only caught glimpses of. 

You lament now that it has been ruined by the rain. 

I don’t have a pen, he says softly. Softly, because he’s closer now than you’ve ever been. You’ve never heard him so soft. So cautious that his voice might scare you away. 

You spare a languid glance up to see just how close he is. It must be only inches because you can hear him through the rain. You tilt your chin to the sky, heavy lids widening slightly. 

He’s closer than even that. Not inches, centimeters. If you hadn’t been swaying in synchronization and instead leaned forward at the same time...

You don’t even know what you’re doing. For the first time in a while, you’re scared. 

The book is closed between your palms, the list shut. You’ll deal with it another day. You’ll help him remember everything that was on there so he can rewrite it. 

Steve leans in more. Not enough. 

I’ll just tell you then, you nod. Steve’s chest brushes against yours as you both suck in heavy breaths. You press the notebook there, against the hard swells of his front, closer to his heart. 

Which question are you answering? Why did you come? Or did you have a better suggestion?

Bob Dylan.

What?

Bob Dylan. Bringing It All Back Home. 1965.

Oh.

The stupid list. For years now, that’s all he’s wanted to hear. But there, under the neon sign, in the parking lot of Red’s diner, drenched in the deluge of rain, it’s not enough. 

We’ll listen to it together, you smile and he’s never seen it quite so big or bright.

Together. It is enough. 

Your lips taste of rain and maple syrup. He’ll remember it for a while. Forever, maybe. And him, you don’t recall something ever being so rich in your life. Steve’s mouth, so decadent you could die with a sated smile still. It’s all the sweeter, the press of your lips together; in it all those words left unsaid. You breathe them into his mouth, warm and red and waiting, and he sears them back into yours with the delicate slide of his tongue. Mouths together form lost sentences and sing. A crescendoing flurry of soundless vowels and consonants that only the two of you will ever hear. 

Steve faintly hears the notebook fall in a splash at your feet and you can feel the grin in his lips by the scratch of his beard against your chin. You’ll feel guilty for dropping it later, but your hand had been hellbent on curling itself under his arms and around his shoulder. His own hands cradle your neck and face, slipping across the rain wet planes of your face. And those forearms, like hams, rest heavily on your shoulders-- so that you can never shrug again. If you can’t find the words, Steve’s content to have you speak them on his lips. 

Everyone’s got a submission to his list. 

But yours come with a kiss. 

Yours is the only one that he’s ever really cared about.  

Sam complains weeks later that he’s sick of hearing Bob Dylan.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #fanfiction #self insert #marvel #one shot #captain america x reader

[mythicamagic]

Impostor Syndrome: Sesskag oneshot

Summery: Kagome is resurrected by a grief stricken husband- brought back to fill his late wife Kikyo’s shoes. While the characteristics unique to Kagome are rejected by Inuyasha, there’s a certain Daiyoukai who has a fascination with her blue eyes, sun kissed skin and curling hair.

Rated T (angst, relationship drama, romance and hurt/comfort) 7,000+ words.

AN: Inuyasha plays a more antagonistic role here but in case you’ve never read my stuff before, just know that I do like him and love me some good platonic best friends Inukag, as seen in Conversing with Emotion and Swimming in Silk. It’s just that I like to play around with the characters, so forgive me for how he’s written in this one.

No smut here but please enjoy.

Impostor Syndrome

There once was a young man who married for love. Born a half-demon, he never anticipated anyone loving him, let alone a priestess; enemy to his father’s kin.

But just as he did not fit in with demon or humankind, she did not belong within the role assigned to her either. An extraordinary woman wishing to be ordinary. To be free from the weight of expectation placed upon her shoulders.

And so they’d fled.

After marrying for love the young man experienced pure, quiet happiness with his wife. She had a calming spirit that could turn hard as flint, blinding in her cold ruthlessness. She could slay enemies efficiently and with poised control yet turn soft and loving for him alone.

They lived for a time together in the forest, keeping to their personal haven.

Because of her skill, the young man trusted her power not to fail on the night of the new moon.

He howled his grief and despair long into the early hours of morning after discovering her broken body lying in the grass of a clearing.

But that was not quite the end of the man who married for love. Instead, he attempted to play God.

—-

She took her first breath and broke into a coughing fit. Rising up from the cold floor, a young woman shivered. Glancing down, she found herself covered in sticky sweat, completely bare.

“Kikyo,” someone breathed, barely above a whisper.

The young woman started. Her hand was caught between two larger ones that clasped her fingers tight, squeezing. Blue eyes raised to the stranger with muted confusion.

He blinked with equal confusion and mounting anger, sniffing. “You don't… smell like her,” the words came faintly. “Why doesn’t she smell like her!” He burst, causing the woman to jolt.

“Master Inuyasha, the spell you desired is a finicky one.” A slippery, hoarse voice came from behind them, dripping fake pleasantries. “Be patient. Your wife may not look or smell quite the same but her memories will return from the dead.”

Inuyasha glared over his shoulder at the witch who lingered in the entrance to his hut like an unwanted spectre. “She better. This ain’t what I agreed to,” he stood, fists trembling.

The girl at his feet stared with furrowed brows, uncertain why disappointment brimmed in the stranger’s eyes. Nonetheless, he seemed to try and correct his attitude, reaching down to grasp thin arms. Roughly tugging her to stand, he supported her around the waist when she wobbled. “I guess we’ll just take this slow,” he sighed. “I’m your husband, Inuyasha. And your name is Kikyo.”

She blinked and tried to steady herself on trembling legs, frowning.

The very first words out of her mouth were;

“I’m not Kikyo.”

—-

Perhaps those words didn’t help endear her to Inuyasha. Nonetheless, he resolved to start from scratch.

‘Kikyo’ was given his late wife’s clothes to wear, smoothing the priestess robes over her body. However, with every opportunity, the woman slipped out of the robes in order to wear a yukata or kimono instead. Anything but the miko attire. It set his teeth on edge. At least she held the holy power of a priestess like his wife.

She understood his language and already knew the basics of reading and writing. Inuyasha took this to be a good sign since his late wife had been educated.

When it came to other things, the woman tried her best to learn the necessary herbs for healing as instructed. Yet her attention often wandered away, lost in a daydream.

“Oi,” he grunted. “Focus. Kikyo was dedicated to this stuff.”

“But we already have enough herbs from yesterday,” sighing, she straightened and rested the basket of herbs against her hip. “Can’t we do something else?” Blue eyes lingered on the treetops. “Is there a beach near here? I’d really like to see the ocean.”

White ears flicked and pressed to his skull. “Where’d you hear about beaches? I never took Kikyo to one.”

She continued to gaze longingly at the trees, as though looking through them to somewhere else, somewhere far away. Inuyasha grit his teeth, bristling. Grasping the woman’s chin and turning it slightly to better inspect the structure of her face, he tsked. “Damn it… wish your eyes were brown like they used to be,” he grumbled. “Hurry up and remember everything already. You’re not acting right.”

Blue eyes slid away, lips thinning. “I’m just acting like myself…”

“Keh, you ain’t anyone else but Kikyo,” dropping her chin, he straightened. “Things are weird right now but they’ll go back to normal as soon as you remember, I promise.”

The young woman buried her feelings anew. She’d been doing that a lot lately. When he walked away and called for Kikyo, it took her a moment to remember that she’d been assigned such a name. It didn’t sit right on her tongue.

—

Inuyasha lived fairly isolated within the woods with his wife. However, there were those who knew where to find him. Namely: his half brother.

“Don’t you think it’s about time you used it?”

“I have used it.”

“Experimenting with the sword on Jaken and a little girl does not count,” Inukimi hummed with amusement, watching her son with dancing eyes.

Sesshoumaru’s narrowed, head tilting back and brushing long silver hair over his shoulder. “As this one has stated numerous times; a sword of healing is a useless prop for a warlord to wield.”

His honoured mother hummed, resting her pale cheek in her palm boredly. “I do wish your Father were still with us to temper that disrespectful tongue of yours. Consider my words, pup. That sword should be used, and preferably to save a life that is precious to you. Don’t squander it, dearest. I thought you hated wasted potential.”

With a snort, Sesshoumaru took his leave. Disappointment radiated off Inukimi but he hardly cared. Whatever ‘lesson’ Father had intended for him to learn about Tenseiga was ultimately useless for a demon like him.

Returning to his own stronghold, Sesshoumaru listened to the reports from his advisers, before making his way down a hallway. Strange that his blood did not sing with the thrill of victory. Reports of his army’s success in battle were usually a favourable thing. Lately, however, there was no burning satisfaction. Perhaps he merely needed to visit the front lines again for himself. Jaken was most likely instructing Rin in her morning lessons at that time, so he made his way towards the gardens.

Whispers flitted into the air, irritating his ears. Sesshoumaru zeroed in on the hushed mutterings and paused mid-step. The Lord of the Western lands did not care much for idle gossip, yet a particularly prevalent one kept cropping up lately.

“Did ye hear? Master Inuyasha’s wife perished.”

“The priestess Kikyo?”

“Mn- and do not repeat this but I hear he revived her with the use of dark magic.”

“No!”

“Yes. Though I suppose he’d need to rely on such means. It is not as though Lord Sesshoumaru would lend him Tenseiga.”

At the mention of his name, a frosty gaze swung to the servants down the hallway. They squeaked and hurried away.

Though he loathed agreeing, the validity of their statement couldn’t be denied. He and his brother were not ‘close’ by any stretch of the imagination. Still, Sesshoumaru felt mildly curious about the whelp’s situation.

This curiosity resulted in the Daiyoukai gliding through the sky that afternoon. It took a few hours, but Sesshoumaru followed his memory towards Inuyasha’s humble hut. He did not land gracefully before the house, instead keeping to the surrounding bushes. Moving near silently under the heavy shade of the trees, pointed ears twitched.

Thwack.

Sesshoumaru scented the air and minded some low hanging branches aside, revealing the figure of a dark-haired young woman in the clearing ahead. She drew a bowstring back and arched her spine slightly, pulling taut. Taking in a breath, she released in time with the arrow sailing free.

Sesshoumaru’s eyes widened slightly, watching it fly through the air. Blazing, rippling light flowed around it like a fireball, crashing into the target and licking at the paper with burns before fading away.

“The hell was THAT?!”

Sesshoumaru dazedly forced his attention to Inuyasha, who stomped into view. “One: ya missed the bullseye! Two: your stance was wrong, and three: Kikyo had amazing control over her powers. She never woulda let them loose like that! Ya stupid or something? Do I gotta tell you the basics over and over?”

The miko sighed and dropped her arms, making a face. “Can’t you encourage me for once and say ‘good job?’ I try my best every time!”

“I’ll tell ya 'good job’ when you do one!”

Sesshoumaru raised a brow, watching as Inuyasha fell quiet. He reached up and contemplatively curled his fingers into the woman’s thick dark hair. The woman stilled, becoming watchful.

“It’s startin’ to kink at the ends again. Go wash it,” he grunted so softly Sesshoumaru’s hearing strained a little to catch it.

Blue eyes dimmed. The woman broke from Inuyasha’s touch to flee, hurrying away from their training grounds.

Sesshoumaru pursued.

Silently moving through the trees with all the grace of a jungle cat, limbs shifted and eyes assessed, gleaming bright in the shadows. Sesshoumaru leaned against a tree, remaining hidden by the foliage. The sound of muffled sobs reached his ears, almost buried under the noise of a waterfall. Salt fanned through the air. The woman knelt in a pool beside the falls, stripped down to a white underlayer yukata. She poured a bucket over her head, shuddering. Biting back sobs, she miserably combed shaking fingers through her hair, pausing to inspect the naturally curling dark locks.

“Just flatten. Why can’t you stay straight?” She sighed.

Sesshoumaru rose a brow as the young woman raised an arm, pushing back her sleeve to glare at her skin. “And don’t even get me started on you.”

When she did not elaborate, he found himself walking through the greenery, pushing past the bushes to inquire: “What exactly has your flesh done to offend you, madwoman?”

Starting violently, she fell back to land on her ass, creating a small splash. Blue eyes flew wide, flitting over his figure. Sesshoumaru let her drink him in. He often had that effect on people.

She gathered herself a little quicker than expected, rising. “I was just annoyed about being so tanned. My uh… husband,” the word was faint and sounded almost like a question. “He said his former wife was pale but she spent all her time outdoors. How’s that possible?!”

Sesshoumaru blinked languidly, tilting his head slightly. “Hn. This one was led to believe Inuyasha had resurrected the priestess Kikyo. However, you seem more like a replacement than her double.”

Flinching, she began ringing her hair. Water droplets slid down rosy cheeks and fell from the dark, dishevelled strands of midnight black locks. The white yukata plastered to her body almost indecently.

Sesshoumaru lifted his eyes from where they’d been lingering and caught her gaze. Colour leaked into her cheeks, darkening them further as she huffed. “You know Inuyasha, then?”

“This one is his half brother, Sesshoumaru.”

“Oh,” her eyes clouded with thought. “I didn’t know he had a brother. I don’t get to talk to anyone else but he still doesn’t tell me much about himself.”

Sesshoumaru watched as the woman bowed slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m-” she caught herself, lips thinning. A dark look crossed her features before the name was pushed past her teeth like mud. “Kikyo. I'm… Kikyo.”

“No, you are not.”

The woman jolted and stared, fingers curling into her sleeves tightly. “I don't… have another name,” came a fragile murmur.

“Then give yourself one,” he uttered flatly, uncertain why he lingered. He supposed it displeased him on some level. Sesshoumaru did not like unnecessary waste. What he’d witnessed earlier of her powers hinted at a deep well of untapped potential in the girl. She’d likely not unlock it if Inuyasha kept her mind on trivial details like 'straight hair.’ “This one gave himself the name Sesshoumaru, or Killing Perfection. When a demon comes of age, they may choose a new one for themselves,” he elaborated. “I have been bred for war. So that is the most fitting name.”

She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, before raising her head, lips curving. “The 'killing’ part, sure. But 'perfection?’” She teased.

“I am very good at it,” he said in a silky tone.

Bursting into a laugh, the strange woman gave the brightest smile the demon lord had yet to witness, blue eyes glimmering. “I see. Thank you for the advice. I’ll do that.”

He frowned slightly, suddenly feeling a little odd. Hyper aware of his lack of reason to be there now, Sesshoumaru turned on his heel and walked away. In his eagerness to leave, he quite forgot to check in with Inuyasha himself.

A few days went by before Sesshoumaru made the journey back to Inuyasha’s home once more. Peace reigned throughout the Lord’s lands so he allowed himself the 'entertainment’ of watching Inuyasha’s latest drama. It was most definitely not to glimpse the miko again, nor to monitor her progress.

She seemed to have improved her aim, yet the reiki remained unfiltered and untrained. What was Inuyasha doing?

Ah, it seemed he was in the middle of their latest shouting match.

Clearly yelling would not make the girl learn any faster. Golden eyes cut to the sky. Why did he have to get involved?

“Concentrate your energy into the arrow.”

“Huh?” The woman glanced over her shoulder, now left briefly unmonitored by the whelp. She shifted the bow and arrow in her hands, dressed in traditional red and white miko attire today. They made her look like a Kikyo doll. “I don’t…know how,” she confessed. “It always feels like there’s so much of it. Like I’m trying to hold onto water that’s pouring too quick. I can cup a little into my hands, but the rest overflows.”

Sesshoumaru hummed, gaze ripping itself away from the light catching in her hair, causing some strands to shine a strangely blue hue. “Practice yields results. Eventually you will manage to filter the 'water’ into the arrow and allow the excess to flow back into you.”

She nodded and faced the target, elbows drooped and feet too close together. Biting back a sigh, he approached.

A hand met her elbow, pushing to raise it. “Keep your arms in this position…” his deep baritone became clogged with a velvety rumble, finding her scent not unpleasant when it brushed over his senses. His palm met the base of her spine, prodding to arch her back. She felt warm to the touch.

He then slid a foot between her own, nudging her legs to part wider. A rapid heartbeat thundered in his ears. “This is the correct stance.”

“A-ah, thanks.”

With a palm pressing against her back, Sesshoumaru felt it when she inhaled a breath, coiling static energy into the wooden arrow and releasing it.

The arrow flew free, missing the bullseye. However, the holy powers raced over her bow in an agitated manner before settling back down instead of scotching the target.

Better, he mused.

She gave a much louder whoop of success.

From that day on, he visited the miko in secret once each week. It pleased the slumbering desire within him to witness the smile come to her lips the instant blue eyes fell upon him. Like she’d been waiting. Whenever they met and the demon’s knuckles grazed her waist- her arm, her hair- the woman scrubbed herself afterwards in a hot spring or pool, mindful of Inuyasha’s keen nose.

Sesshoumaru’s voice was crisp and clear, instruction brief and to the point in his teaching. She tried her best as his pupil, grumbling sometimes but not outright complaining. Instead, the nameless woman threw herself wholeheartedly into what was demanded of her.

Two months later, she finally hit the bullseye with perfect control. Not a hint of reiki over-spilled.

“I did it!” The woman glanced over her shoulder to look up at him, beaming from ear to ear.

Sesshoumaru stared. Her happy scent washed over him in waves. His lips parted to drink it in easier. Faintly, the sleeping want for her stirred and stretched awake like a disturbed cat.

It was while staring that the dip of her collar hinting at succulent flesh laying just beneath- that something caught his eye. Her clothing shifted downwards, revealing a glimpse of something unmistakable.

A love bite.

The situation suddenly dawned on him, the ridiculousness of what he was doing. He should not get involved with Inuyasha’s wench. Hell, he shouldn’t even be there. What was he doing? He had wars to plan, subjects to lead. And yet he’d been waiting each day for that favoured time he’d visit her anew. Mentally he took a step back.

“Sesshoumaru?”

He frowned at the familiarity with which she used his name. At his pensive silence, dark brows pulled together and she bit her lip maddeningly.

Foolish miko. This one’s teeth should be the ones to catch your lips and bite down-

“Oi, Kikyo!” Came a distant shout.

They both jolted, Sesshoumaru raising his head. He did not run nor hide, because Sesshoumaru did not flee from anyone.

From out of the forest greenery, Inuyasha burst forth, snarling. He raised a hand and flexed his fingers. “I thought I smelled ya. The hell are you doing here, Sesshoumaru? Back off. That’s my wife you’re hovering around.”

“Is that so?” He uttered, raising his chin in a lofty manner. “She is so changed in appearance and scent this one mistook her for a different human entirely.”

Out of his peripheral vision, the woman flinched. For some reason, this set his teeth on edge. She should not think it an insult. Inuyasha’s words were starting to infect her, seep into the woman’s self-image, rotting it like poison.

Not that this one cares.

Inuyasha snarled. “She’s gonna go back to normal soon, it ain’t any of your business!”

“No, it is not. In fact, it is far beneath my notice,” he uttered, claws flexing. And then because he could, Sesshoumaru blurred through the air and struck. His fist plummeted into Inuyasha’s cheek, sending the hanyou sailing away and crashing into the ground.

His half brother sputtered and snarled, sitting up and holding his cheek. “The fuck was that for?! You wanna fight?”

“I have little inclination to linger here any longer than necessary,” Sesshoumaru lied, turning on his heel and passing the miko. Sadness fanned out from her scent, irritating his senses. She didn’t look at him, which the Daiyoukai found displeasing and unacceptable. Nonetheless, he walked away.

—-

Dark, wild hair had been tamed back into a low ponytail the next time he saw the miko. It was unfortunate that she happened to also see him. Oddly, the usual method of concealing his youki hadn’t worked, and she’d zeroed in on his presence within the trees. Perhaps she had much-untapped potential.

“Sesshoumaru?”

Gracefully dropping from the branches elicited a gasp from the woman. “Y-you’re injured!”

Sesshoumaru glanced at his shoulder wound. Blood had leaked into the red crest patterning his clothes, dying it a deeper crimson. “Hn.”

“Don’t you 'hn’ me! What happened? Why aren’t you treating it?” She fussed, approaching to grip the clean material of his white silks and try to pry them away from the wound, squinting at the slash marks.

“In a few hours this one will be healed. There is little reason to fuss, woman,” he tried to bat her hand away but surprise froze his veins when she caught his striped wrist. Her hands felt soft and smaller than his own, but firm and sure.

“I’m going to fetch my supplies. You wait here or I’ll damn track you down myself, got that?” She threatened, blue eyes sparking in such a way that they made the male twitch and wish for a different kind of touch from the miko. Sesshoumaru bit the inside of his cheek, watching her hurry away.

When she returned, Sesshoumaru had reclined against a tree, arm draped gracefully over one bent leg. The woman dropped to her knees before him and reached for his collar, gaze flicking to his wordlessly for permission.

He granted it by glancing away mutely, throat tight. For some reason, saliva pooled in his mouth the moment she began undressing him. It was foul to be affected so. She only aimed to aid him. Still, Sesshoumaru sat rigidly still while her gentle scent flitted and teased his senses.

“I think I’ve found a name for myself,” she hummed while cleaning his wound.

“Hn?”

“It’s Kagome.”

“That is acceptable.”

She giggled, “I’m glad you like it.”

“I did not say that.”

Kagome bandaged the flesh, despite him informing her that it was not necessary. He also did not stop her. Every faint brush of her fingertips became distracting, silently invited.

“It’s a really nice day,” she hummed, wiping her brow. The humidity made her bangs puff up. He hated that he found it endearing. “Perfect beach weather day. Does Rin enjoy going there? I’d love to meet her and take her paddling,” she babbled and cooed.

“I have not taken her. Why do you wish to go to the beach so badly? You mention it often.”

“Huh? I don’t think I’ve talked about it to you before?”

Sesshoumaru fell into moody silence, inwardly kicking himself. Thankfully she carried on, thinking she had a faulty memory rather than accusing him of eavesdropping. “I don’t know why exactly. I just keep feeling like it’s where I’ll find something important. Like I can see this image in my mind of the sun setting beyond the waves. It’s peaceful, but also kind of scary at the same time. Maybe it’s the last thing I saw before I died? Who knows.”

He glanced down, feeling hot breath fan over his exposed chest. “Hn…I suppose you were brought back from the same place Inuyasha intended to pull Kikyo from.”

“Mhm, though I don’t remember anything else about my previous life.” Kagome shrugged, fixing the silks back over his bandaged shoulder and smoothing the hankimono back into place over his chest. She fixed his collar with gentle hands, fussing like a wife.

A wife…

Sesshoumaru frowned slightly, startled to find her attention on his mouth. His heart started to pick up, blood heating when those intoxicating blue eyes flitted up to drink him in.

She abruptly broke the spell between them by getting to her feet and picking up the forgotten bandages and alcohol she’d used for disinfectant. Sesshoumaru’s hand snapped out to lock on her wrist.

Kagome stilled, lips thinning. “Please let go, Sesshoumaru.”

“Do you intend to return to that whelp in such a hurry?”

“At least I’m not 'beneath his notice’.”

Golden eyes cracked a fraction wider. So, his words had truly been the ones to cause her sadness. They’d bothered her. His grip tightened slightly, causing her to flinch.

“You’re hurting me, let go.”

“A human like you should be beneath my notice,” he uttered, shifting to stand before her. Sesshoumaru took a step closer, leaning down. Pale strands fell loose from behind a pointed ear, rushing down to hide their faces from view behind a curtain of silver. “You are Inuyasha’s wench, a miko, a mortal. Many unsuitable things wrapped into one. And yet I linger…I wonder why.”

“So do I, since you clearly don’t want to be here,” she hissed lowly, cheeks blooming red.

Slit pupils grew a tad larger, dilating. Sesshoumaru inched closer, on the cusp of grasping something as their lips were but a hair’s breadth away- before she snapped her hand out, slapping him across the face.

Kagome ripped herself free, panting slightly and raising a hand to her lips. “I’m only good at archery now because you taught me, and I only wanted to be good at it because Inuyasha told me to be better. I have a name now because you told me to get one. I keep…doing things just because other people want them for me! You could’ve asked me to kiss you just then and I would’ve-” tears pricked her eyes. “Just like Inuyasha has asked me to kiss him and…”

She hugged her arms tightly to her body, shuddering and bowing in on herself, folding like crumpled paper. “I don’t know who I am. What I want. I-I don’t know if things would be any different with you, Sesshoumaru. So please, just leave me alone. You’re making me question things. I obviously do strange things to you too so let’s just drop whatever this is.”

Sesshoumaru sneered, “you are content with being his doll, then?”

“At least being a doll doesn’t hurt! He doesn’t see me, so it doesn’t feel as personal as getting rejected by someone whose opinion I care about!” Kagome snapped, light voice darkening into something raw and real. Sesshoumaru’s cheek stung despite her hand having left no mark, his skin too tough for such things.

Blue eyes filled with tears as she turned and fled, salt catching in the breeze.

—

Sesshoumaru marched with his troops. Remaining on the front lines of their latest battle, he raised his claws and bid the song of war to flood his veins.

The sensation did not come.

Bereft, Sesshoumaru found himself immensely sober with each life he took. The slash of his claws unhinging a jaw- his sword swinging to cleave a horse in two. All felt like a mechanism. Easy, flavourless.

After the enemy soldiers lay dead and he returned to his stronghold, Sesshoumaru listened to his men. They made merry throughout the night, demons through and through.

“Lord Sesshoumaru?”

Blinking, he glanced down at Rin from where he leaned against a pillar. She yawned and rubbed her eye with a tiny fist. “You’re covered in blood, my Lord.”

He supposed he hadn’t changed clothes. Looking at the little girl that he’d resurrected on a whim, Sesshoumaru was struck by a troubling revelation.

The Killing Perfection hadn’t enjoyed the killing.

A strange feeling permeated his being, new and foreign. Such insecurity did not belong in a being carved from confidence, but the blemish was there all the same.

He wanted the beach.

Giving a long, extinguished sigh, Sesshoumaru pinched the bridge of his nose with bloodied claws.

Sitting up from the futon, Kagome hugged the furs to her bare chest. Shivering from the chill in the air, she glanced down at Inuyasha’s sleeping face, a snore rumbling out of him.

An emptiness crawled higher within the bowels of her stomach, threatening to consume her lungs and steal her breath. Kagome pressed a hand to her mouth and hurried out of the hut. She’d given herself away. Allowed Inuyasha to indulge himself in her countless times now. And it wasn’t as though the hanyou hurt her- but every grunt and curse, every pleasured sigh of 'Kikyo’ dug deeper into her heart.

She’d told Sesshoumaru it didn’t hurt, but that had been a lie.

Squeezing stinging eyes shut, Kagome took a wobbly breath. Taking a few steadying gulps of air, she raised a tear-stained face to the crescent moon in the sky.

Setting her shoulders, something quietly shifted within the woman. She slapped her cheeks lightly and exhaled.

The next morning, while preparing breakfast, Kagome stilled when a hand reached over and lightly tugged on her wild bangs.

“Cut these,” Inuyasha said easily. “Kikyo had short, chopped bangs. I can cut em off later if ya want-”

“No.”

The hanyou blinked and froze, ears twitching. He then did a double-take, frowning. “What’d ya say?”

“I said no,” she muttered, resting clenched fists on her knees. “And there’s another thing; My name isn’t Kikyo. It’s Kagome.”

Inuyasha stared for a long while. Slowly, bushy brows drew down. His lips thinned, golden eyes hazing.

Kagome held his gaze, feeling a thrill of warning rush down her spine. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She’d always been an impostor, from her very first breath.

—-

Many moons had passed by the time Sesshoumaru lay eyes upon her.

Remaining under the shade of the trees, he watched as she gathered herbs. Kagome wore miko attire, dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Her skin looked paler, and he wondered if she’d either isolated herself indoors for a while or layered powder over her tanned skin. Even her frame looked thinner, from what he could tell.

The wild bangs that had fluffed up so endearingly in the humidity had been chopped into neater, more orderly bangs on her forehead. She did not chatter to herself or smile.

Rather, she worked diligently in silence. Inuyasha skinned a rabbit not too far away, his face content.

Sesshoumaru could’ve left things be then. He could have carried on with his life, never to be blemished or disrupted by confusing thoughts and desires for his brother’s miko again.

But then he happened to catch sight of her eyes.

Bursting from the treeline, Sesshoumaru’s hand snapped out. Inuyasha’s snarl was ignored as the demon lord seized the woman’s chin and lifted it.

Sombre brown eyes stared back.

His own began to shake. “You are not her,” he breathed.

Kikyo frowned, her voice tempered and steeled like matured wine rather than the bright, confident tones of the other miko. “What are you talking about, demon? Unhand me at once.”

Sesshoumaru remained frozen until a hard force collided with his side, knocking him back enough to release her. Bellowing out an enraged snarl, Sesshoumaru’s hand snapped out- locking tight around Inuyasha’s neck as they struggled.

“Where is the miko Kagome?” He demanded.

White ears flicked and pressed to his skull. “The fuck are you talking about? Whose Kagome?”

“Your wife!” Sesshoumaru snarled, flicking his fingers out towards Kikyo. “This is not the woman you had with you previously. Where is she?”

Inuyasha sank sharp claws into his striped wrist, but the Daiyoukai barely flinched. “Keh…ah I get it now,” he growled. “It wasn’t working out, so I asked the oni sorceress who first used the spell on her to reverse it. I then tried to bring back Kikyo again and it worked out,” golden eyes darkened slightly with hazy stability. “She’s back now. Kikyo’s returned to me. It just took a little time- had to remind her of all her memories, but this time it’s definitely her, not like the other one.”

The other one…

Kagome’s breathtaking smile briefly came to mind.

Sesshoumaru’s grip tightened until Inuyasha chocked and squirmed, sinking his claws deeper into the Daiyoukai’s pale flesh until they scraped bone.

“By 'reverse it’ what do you mean, whelp?” He snarled, throat so tight it strained.

“Gah!- she’s a doll again. A clay pot! Ogoranko took the clay body back!”

Sesshoumaru released him, sending the hanyou staggering to the floor. Heedless of the blood pooling to the surface, running down his tattered wrist, he turned and collected white energy around himself, bursting away from the earth within a bright, glowing orb of light. He left behind the reunited couple, Kikyo’s gaze apathetic as she watched Inuyasha struggle to catch his breath.

—

Flying as pure, unfiltered instinct, Sesshoumaru forgot himself. He was no longer a warlord bent on total conquest and domination of the lands. No longer an inuyoukai with superior breeding and impressive lineage. He was nothing more than the simple, consuming desire to see someone again.

The glowing orb blasted straight through the door to Ogoranko’s workshop. She shrieked and grabbed her scythe- but felt it be knocked aside seconds before a hand met her neck, grasping tight. Her head met the wall, grey hair flying around her as a harsh choke sounded out. She wriggled, trying to get free.

The light died down, causing her eyes to widen and narrow. “You are not one of my previous customers…what does the Lord of the West want with me?” She hissed.

“Where is the clay body you took from Inuyasha?” He uttered quietly, voice like the finest steel wrapped in velvet. A calm before the storm.

Her brows drew together in confusion. “I-if you wish to have a loved one returned to you, I can perform the spell-” his hand tightened.

“The body. Where is it?”

“Gah- ah! O-out the back!”

Sesshoumaru released her and sped outside in a blur of white. He moved around the back of the meagre house, heart dropping into the depths of his stomach.

A large, deep pit had been dug into the earth, opening wide and vast. Countless clay bodies had been dumped inside it like a mass grave. They were featureless, faceless, yet retained the arms, legs and the general shape of a human. Sesshoumaru stared down at their discarded forms.

A cough sounded out beside him, Ogoranko rubbing her throbbing neck. “They’re quite useless once they’ve been used one time. They can’t be reformed into clay or burned down. Only thing left to do is bury them. Urasue herself taught me the spell but my techniques aren’t quite as refined as my great master. I can fashion a new body for you though my Lord- ah…my Lord?” Red eyes widened with disbelief as he pushed off the edge of the pit, sailing down. “There is nothing down there,” she called after him.

Sesshoumaru ignored her.

Landing on a mound of bodies, he began filtering through the different scents left behind on the clay surfaces. Moving some puppets aside, he lifted a few out of the pile and discarded them, deaf to how they chipped or shattered. Pushing his sleeves up, Sesshoumaru worked with single-minded intent, skin becoming stained with dust as he dug both arms down through the piles, searching.

He began to pant. Panic erupted in his chest though he were in no danger. Sticky fear leaked into his body like tar. Where was she? Why couldn’t he…

The scent of salt caught his attention. Lifting his head, Sesshoumaru softly muttered to himself; “the beach.”

Ogoranko blinked, observing him. It wasn’t every day you witnessed a demon lord lose his mind, especially not one of his calibre. “Yes, the ocean is just south of here.”

Sesshoumaru looked at the bodies. Their heads were all facing forwards, staring up at the sky with blank, smooth faces of clay. His frayed attention slid over them, and he moved to another pile, catching sight of one head turned south just as a familiar scent caught his nose.

Reaching out, Sesshoumaru picked up the fragile body, lifting it into his arms. She looked exactly like the rest, no distinguishing features, save for her attention on the sea beyond.

“What happened when you reversed the spell on Inuyasha’s wife?” Sesshoumaru said faintly.

Ogoranko hummed, “I took her back here and then discarded her with the rest. Ah, did you favour her, my Lord?” Her voice dipped into suggestive tones. “I can resurrect her for a reasonable price. Say the word and I shall-”

“Now I see.” Sesshoumaru appeared next to her, gaze blank and removed. A thrill of warning rattled down the oni sorceresses spine at how perfectly calm and apathetic he appeared towards her existence. Like how one might view a candle they were about to extinguish. “You prey upon a creature’s grief and offer a solution. Something too good to be true,” chuckling in a deceptively gentle tone, he held the clay miko a little closer. “And if I gave her over to you, yes…you’d resurrect this body with a soul. But not hers. A random one. That is all you are capable of at your level.”

Organko quickly reached for the knife hidden in her obi, intent on striking it through his windpipe.

A hand impaled itself through her chest. Easily. So painfully easily he may as well have cleaved through butter. Choking, she cried out, staring into his merciless, wintery eyes, the likes of which she’d never seen in all her years of rifling through souls in the afterlife.

“Only a God can restore a soul to their rightful body,” Sesshoumaru uttered, rippling his hand free of her torso and shifting to hold the clay figure with both arms, walking away.

Ogoranko wailed and clutched fruitlessly at her wound, crumpling to her knees and bleeding out, never to rise again.

He took her to the beach.

Soft, pleasant oranges bathed the clay in a gentle glow. Sesshoumaru set the body down on the white sands, steeling himself. He then reached for Tenseiga with a bloodied hand.

Drawing the sword forth from its sheath, he inhaled the salty breeze, soothed when it combed silver hair back from his shoulders in a sweet caress. Tenseiga lay silent.

Frowning, Sesshoumaru gripped the hilt tighter. “You will do this thing for me and bring her back,” he uttered in a dark voice. “If my Father wielded you to resurrect life from a body that has recently been cut down, I will imbue you with my own will. Heed me well,” he fed youki into the blade, effectively mirroring Kagome’s imagery of running water. His burst forth like a geyser, forcing itself into the blade so quick the sword could barely contain it. “Find the soul of the one I seek.”

Tenseiga rattled, wishing to be free of him. Sesshoumaru held tight, threatening to break the sword in two.

Blue light burst forth from the blade, shining so bright it rivalled the setting sun. Sesshoumaru closed his eyes and tried to focus on Kagome’s fleeting scent on the clay.

“Kagome. Come.”

A faint, flickering presence could be felt, drawing just out of reach from Tenseiga’s light. It hesitated, worn thin.

Blood ran down Sesshoumaru’s torn wrist, landing on the blade. “I desire you to join my side,” he admitted in a hushed tone. “However, it is your choice. If you must live, do not live for anyone’s will but your own this time,” the words came to him like a quiet revelation.

He then struck the blade down over the clay body.

Tenseiga made a noise of distress, blue sparks bursting forth before the light sputtered and died, swallowed up by the sun.

Sesshoumaru tried to force the blade to awaken once more, but it remained silent. Nothing about the clay shifted.

Sliding the sword back into its sheath with more force than necessary, thin lips peeled back to show gritted teeth. “Useless,” he chastised the blade. Easier to think Tenseiga was to blame than to accept that Kagome…bright, beautiful Kagome- should refuse to live again.

Giving one last look at the clay figure, Sesshoumaru turned on his heel and padded away. He’d allow her to be taken by the sea she so adored, rather than dig a grave. His heart sat like a heavy stone within his chest. Every nerve ending shrieked, skin-crawling like it did not belong on his bones.

Crack.

Pointed ears twitched.

Crack.

More cracks joined the first, spilling out like spiders webs. The clay began to split, crumbling away like sand.

A woman sat up from the overcoat, coughing. Sesshoumaru stopped dead, turning back with disbelief. Golden eyes widened.

Broken clay fell from dark hair, catching in the curling, wild mane. Her tanned, bare skin caught the light of the sun. Frightened, wide blue eyes struck an unknown part of him right into his core. Sesshoumaru blurred through the air.

Strong hands caught her elbows as she tried to stand, the two kneeling together. Kagome sobbed as she bowed into him, wrapping trembling arms around his neck. Calloused palms, rough with years of swordplay, slid around her waist and dragged up her spine, bringing her into his warmth.

“I h-heard a voice, calling my name,” she said, voice tenuous and thin as she sobbed. “It was yours.”

“Hn, Ka-go-me,” Sesshoumaru’s lips peppered her soft hair, the shell of her ear, her wet cheek.

Giving a broken noise, she clung to his solid figure, blunt nails sinking hard into his back. He did not mind the sensation.

“S-say it again.”

Sesshoumaru ran his hands over her body, moving his mouth over her jaw. “Kagome.”

She shivered and bowed in on herself, hiccuping. They remained like that for some time, Sesshoumaru unused to the burning, open display of feelings yet having no choice but to weather the storm of emotion with her, both hers and his own.

Feeling a wet and sticky sensation down her back, Kagome pulled away to touch the area above his bleeding wrist. “Silly, you’re injured.”

“It is of little consequence.”

“Of course its of consequence,” she sighed, rubbing her cheek. Silence reigned between them for a moment, only broken by the gentle crash of waves on the rocks. The ebb and flow of the tide.

“…Why did you come back for me?”

Noticing the goosebumps racing over her flesh, Sesshoumaru curled mokomoko around her middle. Golden eyes flitted away towards the sunset. “This one dislikes waste.”

“Ah,” a quiet, fragile laugh escaped her. Gratitude welled up like an inflated bubble when he flicked the secures of his armour open and lifted it away from his chest, discarding it into the sand to land with a heavy thud. Pressing close with no barrier between them, Kagome tucked her knees up, sitting on his lap. Sesshoumaru’s trailing sleeves slid over her bare form, regal nose buried in her hair. “I don’t know why I even returned,” she mumbled. “I mean look at that. We’re on a beach at sunset. My one wish is fulfilled. I don’t really know what else to live for…just that I want to.”

“I find myself dissatisfied with my own wish these days. My desire for supreme conquest,” Sesshoumaru admitted, a sin, surely, for a warlord to feel no passion for the prospect of battle.

Kagome hummed, watching the waves. “Maybe it’s possible to simply move onto a new wish. Dreams and desires can change, can’t they?”

“Hn, we may yet find new ones to pursue.” Tired golden eyes slid down to her, catching the sunlight just as the great orb slipped beneath the horizon. “Together, foolish miko.”

Kagome lifted her head. She watched him for a moment, before pressing a long, firm kiss to his jaw. “I’d like that very much, Killing Perfection.”

Bowing his head to catch her soft lips with his own, Sesshoumaru cradled the back of her neck, curling long fingers within dark hair and silently adoring the way it tumbled wildly down her back.

The Demon Lord was not supposed to be a part of the man who married for love’s tale. And yet, like a bookend, the story ends with him on a beach.

Embracing the discarded woman.

End

#sesskag #Sesshoumaru x Kagome #Sesshoumaru #Kagome Higurashi

[allaboutjoseph]

Patris Corde - Apostolic Letter of Pope Francis

https://www.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/apost_letters/documents/papa-francesco-lettera-ap_20201208_patris-corde.html

APOSTOLIC LETTER - PATRIS CORDE

OF THE HOLY FATHER, FRANCIS

ON THE 150th ANNIVERSARY OF THE PROCLAMATION OF SAINT JOSEPH AS PATRON OF THE UNIVERSAL CHURCH

WITH A FATHER’S HEART: that is how Joseph loved Jesus, whom all four Gospels refer to as “the son of Joseph”.[1]

Matthew and Luke, the two Evangelists who speak most of Joseph, tell us very little, yet enough for us to appreciate what sort of father he was, and the mission entrusted to him by God’s providence.

We know that Joseph was a lowly carpenter (cf. Mt 13:55), betrothed to Mary (cf. Mt 1:18; Lk 1:27). He was a “just man” (Mt 1:19), ever ready to carry out God’s will as revealed to him in the Law (cf. Lk 2:22.27.39) and through four dreams (cf. Mt 1:20; 2:13.19.22). After a long and tiring journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem, he beheld the birth of the Messiah in a stable, since “there was no place for them” elsewhere (cf. Lk 2:7). He witnessed the adoration of the shepherds (cf. Lk 2:8-20) and the Magi (cf. Mt 2:1-12), who represented respectively the people of Israel and the pagan peoples.

Joseph had the courage to become the legal father of Jesus, to whom he gave the name revealed by the angel: “You shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” (Mt 1:21). As we know, for ancient peoples, to give a name to a person or to a thing, as Adam did in the account in the Book of Genesis (cf. 2:19-20), was to establish a relationship.

In the Temple, forty days after Jesus’ birth, Joseph and Mary offered their child to the Lord and listened with amazement to Simeon’s prophecy concerning Jesus and his Mother (cf. Lk 2:22-35). To protect Jesus from Herod, Joseph dwelt as a foreigner in Egypt (cf. Mt 2:13-18). After returning to his own country, he led a hidden life in the tiny and obscure village of Nazareth in Galilee, far from Bethlehem, his ancestral town, and from Jerusalem and the Temple. Of Nazareth it was said, “No prophet is to rise” (cf. Jn 7:52) and indeed, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (cf. Jn 1:46). When, during a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Joseph and Mary lost track of the twelve-year-old Jesus, they anxiously sought him out and they found him in the Temple, in discussion with the doctors of the Law (cf. Lk 2:41-50).

After Mary, the Mother of God, no saint is mentioned more frequently in the papal magisterium than Joseph, her spouse. My Predecessors reflected on the message contained in the limited information handed down by the Gospels in order to appreciate more fully his central role in the history of salvation. Blessed Pius IX declared him “Patron of the Catholic Church”,[2] Venerable Pius XII proposed him as “Patron of Workers”[3] and Saint John Paul II as “Guardian of the Redeemer”.[4] Saint Joseph is universally invoked as the “patron of a happy death”.[5]

Now, one hundred and fifty years after his proclamation as Patron of the Catholic Church by Blessed Pius IX (8 December 1870), I would like to share some personal reflections on this extraordinary figure, so close to our own human experience. For, as Jesus says, “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Mt 12:34). My desire to do so increased during these months of pandemic, when we experienced, amid the crisis, how “our lives are woven together and sustained by ordinary people, people often overlooked. People who do not appear in newspaper and magazine headlines, or on the latest television show, yet in these very days are surely shaping the decisive events of our history. Doctors, nurses, storekeepers and supermarket workers, cleaning personnel, caregivers, transport workers, men and women working to provide essential services and public safety, volunteers, priests, men and women religious, and so very many others. They understood that no one is saved alone… How many people daily exercise patience and offer hope, taking care to spread not panic, but shared responsibility. How many fathers, mothers, grandparents and teachers are showing our children, in small everyday ways, how to accept and deal with a crisis by adjusting their routines, looking ahead and encouraging the practice of prayer. How many are praying, making sacrifices and interceding for the good of all”.[6] Each of us can discover in Joseph – the man who goes unnoticed, a daily, discreet and hidden presence – an intercessor, a support and a guide in times of trouble. Saint Joseph reminds us that those who appear hidden or in the shadows can play an incomparable role in the history of salvation. A word of recognition and of gratitude is due to them all.

1. A beloved father

The greatness of Saint Joseph is that he was the spouse of Mary and the father of Jesus. In this way, he placed himself, in the words of Saint John Chrysostom, “at the service of the entire plan of salvation”.[7]

Saint Paul VI pointed out that Joseph concretely expressed his fatherhood “by making his life a sacrificial service to the mystery of the incarnation and its redemptive purpose. He employed his legal authority over the Holy Family to devote himself completely to them in his life and work. He turned his human vocation to domestic love into a superhuman oblation of himself, his heart and all his abilities, a love placed at the service of the Messiah who was growing to maturity in his home”.[8]

Thanks to his role in salvation history, Saint Joseph has always been venerated as a father by the Christian people. This is shown by the countless churches dedicated to him worldwide, the numerous religious Institutes, Confraternities and ecclesial groups inspired by his spirituality and bearing his name, and the many traditional expressions of piety in his honour. Innumerable holy men and women were passionately devoted to him. Among them was Teresa of Avila, who chose him as her advocate and intercessor, had frequent recourse to him and received whatever graces she asked of him. Encouraged by her own experience, Teresa persuaded others to cultivate devotion to Joseph.[9]

Every prayer book contains prayers to Saint Joseph. Special prayers are offered to him each Wednesday and especially during the month of March, which is traditionally dedicated to him.[10]

Popular trust in Saint Joseph is seen in the expression “Go to Joseph”, which evokes the famine in Egypt, when the Egyptians begged Pharaoh for bread. He in turn replied: “Go to Joseph; what he says to you, do” (Gen 41:55). Pharaoh was referring to Joseph the son of Jacob, who was sold into slavery because of the jealousy of his brothers (cf. Gen 37:11-28) and who – according to the biblical account – subsequently became viceroy of Egypt (cf. Gen 41:41-44).

As a descendant of David (cf. Mt 1:16-20), from whose stock Jesus was to spring according to the promise made to David by the prophet Nathan (cf. 2 Sam 7), and as the spouse of Mary of Nazareth, Saint Joseph stands at the crossroads between the Old and New Testaments.

2. A tender and loving father

Joseph saw Jesus grow daily “in wisdom and in years and in divine and human favour” (Lk 2:52). As the Lord had done with Israel, so Joseph did with Jesus: he taught him to walk, taking him by the hand; he was for him like a father who raises an infant to his cheeks, bending down to him and feeding him (cf. Hos 11:3-4).

In Joseph, Jesus saw the tender love of God: “As a father has compassion for his children, so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him” (Ps 103:13).

In the synagogue, during the praying of the Psalms, Joseph would surely have heard again and again that the God of Israel is a God of tender love,[11] who is good to all, whose “compassion is over all that he has made” (Ps 145:9).

The history of salvation is worked out “in hope against hope” (Rom 4:18), through our weaknesses. All too often, we think that God works only through our better parts, yet most of his plans are realized in and despite our frailty. Thus Saint Paul could say: “To keep me from being too elated, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I appealed to the Lord about this, that it would leave me, but he said to me: ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness’” (2 Cor 12:7-9).

Since this is part of the entire economy of salvation, we must learn to look upon our weaknesses with tender mercy.[12]

The evil one makes us see and condemn our frailty, whereas the Spirit brings it to light with tender love. Tenderness is the best way to touch the frailty within us. Pointing fingers and judging others are frequently signs of an inability to accept our own weaknesses, our own frailty. Only tender love will save us from the snares of the accuser (cf. Rev 12:10). That is why it is so important to encounter God’s mercy, especially in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, where we experience his truth and tenderness. Paradoxically, the evil one can also speak the truth to us, yet he does so only to condemn us. We know that God’s truth does not condemn, but instead welcomes, embraces, sustains and forgives us. That truth always presents itself to us like the merciful father in Jesus’ parable (cf. Lk 15:11-32). It comes out to meet us, restores our dignity, sets us back on our feet and rejoices for us, for, as the father says: “This my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found” (v. 24).

Even through Joseph’s fears, God’s will, his history and his plan were at work. Joseph, then, teaches us that faith in God includes believing that he can work even through our fears, our frailties and our weaknesses. He also teaches us that amid the tempests of life, we must never be afraid to let the Lord steer our course. At times, we want to be in complete control, yet God always sees the bigger picture.

3. An obedient father

As he had done with Mary, God revealed his saving plan to Joseph. He did so by using dreams, which in the Bible and among all ancient peoples, were considered a way for him to make his will known.[13]

Joseph was deeply troubled by Mary’s mysterious pregnancy. He did not want to “expose her to public disgrace”,[14] so he decided to “dismiss her quietly” (Mt 1:19).

In the first dream, an angel helps him resolve his grave dilemma: “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” (Mt 1:20-21). Joseph’s response was immediate: “When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him” (Mt 1:24). Obedience made it possible for him to surmount his difficulties and spare Mary.

In the second dream, the angel tells Joseph: “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him” (Mt 2:13). Joseph did not hesitate to obey, regardless of the hardship involved: “He got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod” (Mt 2:14-15).

In Egypt, Joseph awaited with patient trust the angel’s notice that he could safely return home. In a third dream, the angel told him that those who sought to kill the child were dead and ordered him to rise, take the child and his mother, and return to the land of Israel (cf. Mt 2:19-20). Once again, Joseph promptly obeyed. “He got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel” (Mt 2:21).

During the return journey, “when Joseph heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. After being warned in a dream” – now for the fourth time – “he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth” (Mt 2:22-23).

The evangelist Luke, for his part, tells us that Joseph undertook the long and difficult journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem to be registered in his family’s town of origin in the census of the Emperor Caesar Augustus. There Jesus was born (cf. Lk 2:7) and his birth, like that of every other child, was recorded in the registry of the Empire. Saint Luke is especially concerned to tell us that Jesus’ parents observed all the prescriptions of the Law: the rites of the circumcision of Jesus, the purification of Mary after childbirth, the offering of the firstborn to God (cf. 2:21-24).[15]

In every situation, Joseph declared his own “fiat”, like those of Mary at the Annunciation and Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.

In his role as the head of a family, Joseph taught Jesus to be obedient to his parents (cf. Lk 2:51), in accordance with God’s command (cf. Ex 20:12).

During the hidden years in Nazareth, Jesus learned at the school of Joseph to do the will of the Father. That will was to be his daily food (cf. Jn 4:34). Even at the most difficult moment of his life, in Gethsemane, Jesus chose to do the Father’s will rather than his own,[16] becoming “obedient unto death, even death on a cross” (Phil 2:8).  The author of the Letter to the Hebrews thus concludes that Jesus “learned obedience through what he suffered” (5:8).

All this makes it clear that “Saint Joseph was called by God to serve the person and mission of Jesus directly through the exercise of his fatherhood” and that in this way, “he cooperated in the fullness of time in the great mystery of salvation and is truly a minister of salvation.”[17]

4. An accepting father

Joseph accepted Mary unconditionally. He trusted in the angel’s words.  “The nobility of Joseph’s heart is such that what he learned from the law he made dependent on charity. Today, in our world where psychological, verbal and physical violence towards women is so evident, Joseph appears as the figure of a respectful and sensitive man. Even though he does not understand the bigger picture, he makes a decision to protect Mary’s good name, her dignity and her life. In his hesitation about how best to act, God helped him by enlightening his judgment”.[18]

Often in life, things happen whose meaning we do not understand. Our first reaction is frequently one of disappointment and rebellion. Joseph set aside his own ideas in order to accept the course of events and, mysterious as they seemed, to embrace them, take responsibility for them and make them part of his own history. Unless we are reconciled with our own history, we will be unable to take a single step forward, for we will always remain hostage to our expectations and the disappointments that follow.

The spiritual path that Joseph traces for us is not one that explains, but accepts. Only as a result of this acceptance, this reconciliation, can we begin to glimpse a broader history, a deeper meaning. We can almost hear an echo of the impassioned reply of Job to his wife, who had urged him to rebel against the evil he endured: “Shall we receive the good at the hand of God, and not receive the bad?” (Job 2:10).

Joseph is certainly not passively resigned, but courageously and firmly proactive. In our own lives, acceptance and welcome can be an expression of the Holy Spirit’s gift of fortitude. Only the Lord can give us the strength needed to accept life as it is, with all its contradictions, frustrations and disappointments.

Jesus’ appearance in our midst is a gift from the Father, which makes it possible for each of us to be reconciled to the flesh of our own history, even when we fail to understand it completely.

Just as God told Joseph: “Son of David, do not be afraid!” (Mt 1:20), so he seems to tell us: “Do not be afraid!” We need to set aside all anger and disappointment, and to embrace the way things are, even when they do not turn out as we wish. Not with mere resignation but with hope and courage. In this way, we become open to a deeper meaning. Our lives can be miraculously reborn if we find the courage to live them in accordance with the Gospel. It does not matter if everything seems to have gone wrong or some things can no longer be fixed. God can make flowers spring up from stony ground. Even if our heart condemns us, “God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything” (1 Jn 3:20).

Here, once again, we encounter that Christian realism which rejects nothing that exists. Reality, in its mysterious and irreducible complexity, is the bearer of existential meaning, with all its lights and shadows. Thus, the Apostle Paul can say: “We know that all things work together for good, for those who love God” (Rom 8:28). To which Saint Augustine adds, “even that which is called evil (etiam illud quod malum dicitur)”.[19] In this greater perspective, faith gives meaning to every event, however happy or sad.

Nor should we ever think that believing means finding facile and comforting solutions. The faith Christ taught us is what we see in Saint Joseph. He did not look for shortcuts, but confronted reality with open eyes and accepted personal responsibility for it.

Joseph’s attitude encourages us to accept and welcome others as they are, without exception, and to show special concern for the weak, for God chooses what is weak (cf. 1 Cor 1:27). He is the “Father of orphans and protector of widows” (Ps 68:6), who commands us to love the stranger in our midst.[20]  I like to think that it was from Saint Joseph that Jesus drew inspiration for the parable of the prodigal son and the merciful father (cf. Lk 15:11-32).

5. A creatively courageous father

If the first stage of all true interior healing is to accept our personal history and embrace even the things in life that we did not choose, we must now add another important element: creative courage. This emerges especially in the way we deal with difficulties. In the face of difficulty, we can either give up and walk away, or somehow engage with it. At times, difficulties bring out resources we did not even think we had.

As we read the infancy narratives, we may often wonder why God did not act in a more direct and clear way. Yet God acts through events and people.  Joseph was the man chosen by God to guide the beginnings of the history of redemption. He was the true “miracle” by which God saves the child and his mother. God acted by trusting in Joseph’s creative courage. Arriving in Bethlehem and finding no lodging where Mary could give birth, Joseph took a stable and, as best he could, turned it into a welcoming home for the Son of God come into the world (cf. Lk 2:6-7). Faced with imminent danger from Herod, who wanted to kill the child, Joseph was warned once again in a dream to protect the child, and rose in the middle of the night to prepare the flight into Egypt (cf. Mt 2:13-14).

A superficial reading of these stories can often give the impression that the world is at the mercy of the strong and mighty, but the “good news” of the Gospel consists in showing that, for all the arrogance and violence of worldly powers, God always finds a way to carry out his saving plan. So too, our lives may at times seem to be at the mercy of the powerful, but the Gospel shows us what counts. God always finds a way to save us, provided we show the same creative courage as the carpenter of Nazareth, who was able to turn a problem into a possibility by trusting always in divine providence.

If at times God seems not to help us, surely this does not mean that we have been abandoned, but instead are being trusted to plan, to be creative, and to find solutions ourselves.

That kind of creative courage was shown by the friends of the paralytic, who lowered him from the roof in order to bring him to Jesus (cf. Lk 5:17-26). Difficulties did not stand in the way of those friends’ boldness and persistence. They were convinced that Jesus could heal the man, and “finding no way to bring him in because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let him down with his bed through the tiles into the middle of the crowd in front of Jesus. When he saw their faith, he said, ‘Friend, your sins are forgiven you’” (vv. 19-20). Jesus recognized the creative faith with which they sought to bring their sick friend to him.

The Gospel does not tell us how long Mary, Joseph and the child remained in Egypt. Yet they certainly needed to eat, to find a home and employment. It does not take much imagination to fill in those details. The Holy Family had to face concrete problems like every other family, like so many of our migrant brothers and sisters who, today too, risk their lives to escape misfortune and hunger. In this regard, I consider Saint Joseph the special patron of all those forced to leave their native lands because of war, hatred, persecution and poverty.

At the end of every account in which Joseph plays a role, the Gospel tells us that he gets up, takes the child and his mother, and does what God commanded him (cf. Mt 1:24; 2:14.21). Indeed, Jesus and Mary his Mother are the most precious treasure of our faith.[21]

In the divine plan of salvation, the Son is inseparable from his Mother, from Mary, who “advanced in her pilgrimage of faith, and faithfully persevered in her union with her Son until she stood at the cross”.[22]

We should always consider whether we ourselves are protecting Jesus and Mary, for they are also mysteriously entrusted to our own responsibility, care and safekeeping. The Son of the Almighty came into our world in a state of great vulnerability. He needed to be defended, protected, cared for and raised by Joseph. God trusted Joseph, as did Mary, who found in him someone who would not only save her life, but would always provide for her and her child. In this sense, Saint Joseph could not be other than the Guardian of the Church, for the Church is the continuation of the Body of Christ in history, even as Mary’s motherhood is reflected in the motherhood of the Church.[23] In his continued protection of the Church, Joseph continues to protect the child and his mother, and we too, by our love for the Church, continue to love the child and his mother.

That child would go on to say: “As you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me” (Mt 25:40).  Consequently, every poor, needy, suffering or dying person, every stranger, every prisoner, every infirm person is “the child” whom Joseph continues to protect. For this reason, Saint Joseph is invoked as protector of the unfortunate, the needy, exiles, the afflicted, the poor and the dying.  Consequently, the Church cannot fail to show a special love for the least of our brothers and sisters, for Jesus showed a particular concern for them and personally identified with them. From Saint Joseph, we must learn that same care and responsibility. We must learn to love the child and his mother, to love the sacraments and charity, to love the Church and the poor. Each of these realities is always the child and his mother.

6. A working father

An aspect of Saint Joseph that has been emphasized from the time of the first social Encyclical, Pope Leo XIII’s Rerum Novarum, is his relation to work. Saint Joseph was a carpenter who earned an honest living to provide for his family. From him, Jesus learned the value, the dignity and the joy of what it means to eat bread that is the fruit of one’s own labour.

In our own day, when employment has once more become a burning social issue, and unemployment at times reaches record levels even in nations that for decades have enjoyed a certain degree of prosperity, there is a renewed need to appreciate the importance of dignified work, of which Saint Joseph is an exemplary patron.

Work is a means of participating in the work of salvation, an opportunity to hasten the coming of the Kingdom, to develop our talents and abilities, and to put them at the service of society and fraternal communion. It becomes an opportunity for the fulfilment not only of oneself, but also of that primary cell of society which is the family. A family without work is particularly vulnerable to difficulties, tensions, estrangement and even break-up. How can we speak of human dignity without working to ensure that everyone is able to earn a decent living?

Working persons, whatever their job may be, are cooperating with God himself, and in some way become creators of the world around us. The crisis of our time, which is economic, social, cultural and spiritual, can serve as a summons for all of us to rediscover the value, the importance and necessity of work for bringing about a new “normal” from which no one is excluded. Saint Joseph’s work reminds us that God himself, in becoming man, did not disdain work. The loss of employment that affects so many of our brothers and sisters, and has increased as a result of the Covid-19 pandemic, should serve as a summons to review our priorities. Let us implore Saint Joseph the Worker to help us find ways to express our firm conviction that no young person, no person at all, no family should be without work!

7. A father in the shadows

The Polish writer Jan Dobraczyński, in his book The Shadow of the Father,[24] tells the story of Saint Joseph’s life in the form of a novel. He uses the evocative image of a shadow to define Joseph. In his relationship to Jesus, Joseph was the earthly shadow of the heavenly Father: he watched over him and protected him, never leaving him to go his own way. We can think of Moses’ words to Israel: “In the wilderness… you saw how the Lord your God carried you, just as one carries a child, all the way that you travelled” (Deut 1:31). In a similar way, Joseph acted as a father for his whole life.[25]

Fathers are not born, but made. A man does not become a father simply by bringing a child into the world, but by taking up the responsibility to care for that child. Whenever a man accepts responsibility for the life of another, in some way he becomes a father to that person.

Children today often seem orphans, lacking fathers. The Church too needs fathers. Saint Paul’s words to the Corinthians remain timely: “Though you have countless guides in Christ, you do not have many fathers” (1 Cor 4:15). Every priest or bishop should be able to add, with the Apostle: “I became your father in Christ Jesus through the Gospel” (ibid.). Paul likewise calls the Galatians: “My little children, with whom I am again in travail until Christ be formed in you!” (4:19).

Being a father entails introducing children to life and reality. Not holding them back, being overprotective or possessive, but rather making them capable of deciding for themselves, enjoying freedom and exploring new possibilities. Perhaps for this reason, Joseph is traditionally called a “most chaste” father. That title is not simply a sign of affection, but the summation of an attitude that is the opposite of possessiveness. Chastity is freedom from possessiveness in every sphere of one’s life. Only when love is chaste, is it truly love. A possessive love ultimately becomes dangerous: it imprisons, constricts and makes for misery. God himself loved humanity with a chaste love; he left us free even to go astray and set ourselves against him. The logic of love is always the logic of freedom, and Joseph knew how to love with extraordinary freedom. He never made himself the centre of things. He did not think of himself, but focused instead on the lives of Mary and Jesus.

Joseph found happiness not in mere self-sacrifice but in self-gift. In him, we never see frustration but only trust. His patient silence was the prelude to concrete expressions of trust. Our world today needs fathers. It has no use for tyrants who would domineer others as a means of compensating for their own needs. It rejects those who confuse authority with authoritarianism, service with servility, discussion with oppression, charity with a welfare mentality, power with destruction. Every true vocation is born of the gift of oneself, which is the fruit of mature sacrifice. The priesthood and consecrated life likewise require this kind of maturity. Whatever our vocation, whether to marriage, celibacy or virginity, our gift of self will not come to fulfilment if it stops at sacrifice; were that the case, instead of becoming a sign of the beauty and joy of love, the gift of self would risk being an expression of unhappiness, sadness and frustration.

When fathers refuse to live the lives of their children for them, new and unexpected vistas open up. Every child is the bearer of a unique mystery that can only be brought to light with the help of a father who respects that child’s freedom. A father who realizes that he is most a father and educator at the point when he becomes “useless”, when he sees that his child has become independent and can walk the paths of life unaccompanied. When he becomes like Joseph, who always knew that his child was not his own but had merely been entrusted to his care. In the end, this is what Jesus would have us understand when he says: “Call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven” (Mt 23:9).

In every exercise of our fatherhood, we should always keep in mind that it has nothing to do with possession, but is rather a “sign” pointing to a greater fatherhood. In a way, we are all like Joseph: a shadow of the heavenly Father, who “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (Mt 5:45). And a shadow that follows his Son.

* * *

“Get up, take the child and his mother” (Mt 2:13), God told Saint Joseph.

The aim of this Apostolic Letter is to increase our love for this great saint, to encourage us to implore his intercession and to imitate his virtues and his zeal.

Indeed, the proper mission of the saints is not only to obtain miracles and graces, but to intercede for us before God, like Abraham[26] and Moses[27], and like Jesus, the “one mediator” (1 Tim 2:5), who is our “advocate” with the Father (1 Jn 2:1) and who “always lives to make intercession for [us]” (Heb 7:25; cf. Rom 8:34).

The saints help all the faithful “to strive for the holiness and the perfection of their particular state of life”.[28] Their lives are concrete proof that it is possible to put the Gospel into practice.

Jesus told us: “Learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart” (Mt 11:29). The lives of the saints too are examples to be imitated. Saint Paul explicitly says this: “Be imitators of me!” (1 Cor 4:16).[29] By his eloquent silence, Saint Joseph says the same.

Before the example of so many holy men and women, Saint Augustine asked himself: “What they could do, can you not also do?” And so he drew closer to his definitive conversion, when he could exclaim: “Late have I loved you, Beauty ever ancient, ever new!”[30]

We need only ask Saint Joseph for the grace of graces: our conversion.

Let us now make our prayer to him:

Hail, Guardian of the Redeemer, Spouse of the Blessed Virgin Mary. To you God entrusted his only Son; in you Mary placed her trust; with you Christ became man.

Blessed Joseph, to us too, show yourself a father and guide us in the path of life. Obtain for us grace, mercy and courage, and defend us from every evil. Amen.

Given in Rome, at Saint John Lateran, on 8 December, Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, in the year 2020, the eighth of my Pontificate.

Franciscus

#saint joseph #saint joseph the worker #Saint Joseph the Patriarch #Terror of Demons #st joseph #st joseph the worker #yearofstjoseph #Year of St Joseph #st. joseph #head of the holy family #protodulia #chaste heart #Model of Artisans #patron of refugees #san jose #san giuseppe #savior of our savior #Husband of Mary #La Sagrada Familia #patris corde

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Ancient Wisdom Revealed: 5 Hidden Magical Knowledge That Can Transform Your Life

We are usually amazed when we discover hidden knowledge related to mysticism, magic, and witchcraft. Not only does this ancient knowledge enlighten us but it can also help us understand the very essence of our being. However, most of the times valuable magical information and insight are hidden right before our very eyes. We simply need to know where to look.

“Secrets have a way of making themselves felt, even before you know there’s a secret.” – Jean Ferris

It’s true that this is World which has never actually cut off from the Old Ways. In fact, so many things we still do, reflect on the Old Religion and our Witchy Ways. Therefore, we decided to publish an article, on all weird things that actually got Pagan Origin or even Witchy! This is going to be really really fun!

Magical Knowledge Hidden in Plain Sight

“It is hidden but always present.” – Laozi

The list is endless. We could keep going on and on about it but we chose 5 facts which make more sense to almost anyone.

1. Why do we Wink to signal about secret knowledge?

A Winker actually signals the Winkee that they share or s/he is about to share some secret knowledge. It’s not obvious why or what it is, but this is a sign to immediately question reality. This is an awakening call. If you really think about it, it’s already pretty weird.

Wink & the one eye of Odin

Odin is the mighty and wise father of Norse Religion. God of Wisdom, Healing and Victory he is beloved in all germanic traditions. He is famous for his thirst for Wisdom and magical knowledge. According to one story, Odin was traveling again in his quest to expand his awareness. One day he ventured to Mimir’s Well, located beneath the world tree Yggdrasil. The Guardian spirit of this well, whose wisdom and magical knowledge for the Realms was unprecedented, greeted Odin. Odin asked for some water.

I know where Othin’s eye is hidden, Deep in the wide-famed well of Mimir; Mead from the pledge of Othin each morn Does Mimir drink: would you know yet more?

I know where Othin’s eye is hidden, Deep in the wide-famed well of Mimir; Mead from the pledge of Othin each morn Does Mimir drink: would you know yet more?

The mystical creature knew exactly what Odin was asking and he tried to make it as hard as possible. Thus he demanded his eye. Odin was asking for true and absolute wisdom and the price seemed fair for the Guardian. However, Odin gave it instantly and the Guardian gave the God of Wisdom what he was asking.

Hidden Magical Knowledge of Wink

In many ancient depictions, and due to the fact that Odin has one eye, he seems like he’s winking. This is where the ‘wink’ came from. As Odin lost his eye for hidden truth, we reenact his divine sacrifice by winking, to signal someone for secret knowledge.

“The only secrets are the secrets that keep themselves.” – George Bernard Shaw

2. Why do we give the ‘middle finger’ to insult someone?

Greeks understood the power of sex & sexuality, thus sexuality was part of each God’s powers. Thus, the ‘Phallus’ aka the erect penis, was a symbol of great potential, a power which could fight every demon, reverse bad luck to golden opportunities and create a new and successful beginning in everyone’s life.

Middle finger represents a phallus – a magical symbol

Indeed, the middle finger represents an erect penis. The middle finger also is known as “digitus impudicus” or “the impudent finger”. Saint Isidore of Seville explains in his Etymologies that the third finger is called impudent because it often expresses vexation, insult. But why?

“A graceful taunt is worth a thousand insults.” – Louis Nizer

This rude gesture actually dates back to ancient Greece. This was a sacred and magical gesture – something like a Mudra. Greeks used it to instantly counter any negative activity and dark arts that targeted them. Just like the statues of Phallus in crossroads and anywhere, they did it to repel dark magic.

Therefore, by ‘giving the middle finger and insulting’ the receiver we actually attempt to bind his/her power against us.

3. Why are Days Seven?

Have you wondered? Why aren’t the days of week 5 or 10 or 12? Why 7? Is there special power in it? Well YES!

Seven are the Days, Seven are the ‘Planets’ of ancient Witches

In the ancient World, astrologers and mages worked with the energy of the ‘7 Planets’. These 7 celestial bodies – which are not all planets – embody the diverse magical forces and energies from which everything is born into creation. Each ‘planet’ has a distinct vibration that can be directed and channeled in every magical work.

Each of the seven Days of the Week represents each of the ‘Planet’ of Astrologers and Witches which of course correspond to one God.

Monday is the Moon’s Day, day of Artemis / Diana – Goddess of the Moon

Tuesday is Tyr’s / Ares / Mars’s Day – God of War

Wednesday is Woden’s / Hermes’s / Mercury’s Day – God of Communication and Knowledge

Thursday is Thor’s / Zeus’s / Jupiter’s Day – all God of Lightning although Zeus is also King of Gods

Friday is Freya’s / Aphrodite’s / Venus’s Day – Goddess of Beauty and Love

Saturday is Saturn’s / Krono’s Day – old God of Time

Sunday is Sun’s / Apollo’s Day – God of the Sun

4. Why do we make Tattoos?

A tattoo is an ancient form of art appearing in different ancient cultures throughout history. Our modern word ‘tattoo’ comes from the Tahitian word tatau which means “to mark something”. Does this remind you of something? Maybe the Witch Marks?

“Tattoos are like stories — they’re symbolic of the important moments in your life.” – Pamela Anderson

Tattoos are in fact Witch Marks

Tattoos are similar to the Marks of the Witches. It’s a sacrifice we make to our bodies in order to connect deeper with what the symbol we chose represents. An eternal mark on our mortal bodies which can also pass through our incarnations. So please, before you decide which tattoo to do on your body, choose wisely the meaning and symbolism!

5. Why do we wear our wedding ring on our ‘ring finger’?

Haven’t you always wondered? Why do we choose to put our Wedding Rings on the ‘Ring Finger’? Well, as you can understand, the name of the finger itself actually implies its participation in Wedding Rituals.

Why a Golden Ring on Ring Finger?

This part of Wedding Rituals actually dates back in ancient years. First of all, the Ring symbolizes the Wholeness and Unity. It’s the perfect shape of Alchemists and it’s linked with Ouroboros – the symbol of eternity.

Now, why on Ring Finger? This finger is associated with the Sun and Apollo, the god of all blessings. When we ‘activate’ this finger we actually activate the power of the Sun and Apollo in us. As every ‘Planet’ is associated with one Metal, the Sun and Apollo are associated with Gold. Thus, to properly activate the Ring Finger we need to wear a Golden Ring on it. Check more on how to wear Rings to pursue your purposes here!

Therefore, in Wedding Rings, we conjure the blessings of Apollo and the Sun, the bring timeless happiness.

“Secrets are made to be found out with time.” – Charles Sanford

Esoteric wisdom can help you transform your life and the lives of your loved ones. Once you know how to access and decode such ancient knowledge, you can get a better understanding of different religions, practices and spiritual self. Now that you have gained some valuable insight, use this hidden ancient magical wisdom to build a happier and more purposeful life.

Post originally published on Magical Recipes Online

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Magical Recipes Online consists of a core team of 4 people who have dedicated their lives to bring Magic to a wider audience, to teach and to be taught, to help everyone in our World tap to the Great Source of All Things and bring happiness and love into their lives. We are everyday ordinary people who have lead extraordinary lives. We have heard our call to Magic from a young age but followed different directions.

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How to Decode Emotions In Text Messages: 6 Effective Ways To Get Started

“How do you decode emotions in text messages?”

Text messages can often be very confusing. It can be especially challenging to understand emotions when we communicate through text messages. With the lack of facial expressions and body language, we can often misinterpret the intended message and tone resulting in disastrous misunderstandings. So how can we read emotions in texts? Let’s find out.

“What is a moderate interpretation of the text? Halfway between what it really means and what you’d like it to mean?” – Antonin Scalia

It’s easy when people say they are angry or sad or excited, or if they tack an emoji to the end of a text. But when they don’t? Given that even face-to-face communication can be confusing, it should not surprise us that truncated, dashed-off text messages can result in disastrous misunderstandings.

In the age of technology, we not only need to decode in-person interactions, but we also need to decode textual transmissions.

How do we know what a person is feeling when we can’t see their faces or body language?

Here are six tips to help you better decode emotions in text messages, or at least prevent yourself from jumping to conclusions based on scant evidence.

1. Assume good intentions

In general, text messages are short. We have very little information to work with. A smiley face or series of exclamation points can help assure us that the text is meant to express positive emotion, but texts do not always include these extra emotion indicators. Our friends’ busy schedules lead to abrupt messages, and our partner’s playful sarcasm isn’t always read as playful.

Keep in mind that texts are a difficult medium for communicating emotion. We have no facial expressions or tone of voice, or conversation to give us more information. If the text doesn’t say, “I’m angry,” then don’t assume that the texter is angry. We are better off reading texts with the assumption that the texter has good intentions. Otherwise, we may end up in lots of unnecessary arguments.

“Texting is a fundamentally sneaky form of communication, which we should despise, but it is such a boon we don’t care. We are all sneaks now.” – Lynne Truss

2. Cultivate awareness of unconscious biases

In my research, I have had to train numerous teams of emotion coders. But even trained coders who meet weekly to discuss discrepancies don’t agree on which emotion (or how much emotion) is being expressed. People just do not see emotions in the same way. We have unconscious biases that lead us to draw different conclusions based on the same information.

For example, every time I lead a coding team I am reminded that males and females often differ in how they interpret others’ emotions. If Bob writes: “My wife missed our 10-year anniversary,” men may think Bob is angry, while women may think Bob is sad.

I don’t presume to know exactly why this is, but I can say confidently that our emotion-detection skills are affected by characteristics about us. When it comes to detecting emotion in texts, try to remember that our unconscious biases affect our interpretations. The emotions we detect may be reflective of things about us just as much as they are reflective of the information in the text.

3. Explore the emotional undertones of the words themselves

The words people use often have emotional undertones. Think about some common words—words like love, hate, wonderful, hard, work, explore, or kitten.

If a text reads, “I love this wonderful kitten,” we can easily conclude that it is expressing positive emotions. If a text reads, “I hate this hard work,” that seems pretty negative. But, if a text reads, “This wonderful kitten is hard work,” what emotion do we think is being expressed?

One approach to detecting emotions when they appear to be mixed is to use the “bag-of-words” method. This just means that we look at each word separately. How positive are the words “kitten” and “wonderful”? And how negative are the words “hard” and “work”? By looking at how positive and negative each word is, we may be able to figure out the predominant emotion the texter is trying to express. Give this bag-of-words method a try when you are having a hard time figuring out the emotion in a text.

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Dr. Tchiki Davis

Tchiki Davis, Ph.D., is a consultant, writer, and expert on well-being technology. She has helped build happiness products, programs, and services that have reached more than a million people worldwide. To learn more about how Tchiki can help you grow your happiness & well-being, visit berkeleywellbeing.com

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[omxriis]

               hi   guys      !      this   is   something   i’ve   been   tossing   back      &      forth   in   my   head   for   a   lil   bit   ,   but   the   fact   of   the   matter   is   that   my   muse   for   mari   was   starting   to   run   low   ,   but   i’m   a   mess      &      don’t   wanna   let   go   of   him   asdfjkns   ,   so   i   decided   to   revamp   him      !      or   more   accurately   ,   bring   old   mari   back      !      so   below   u   will   find   his   old   biography      (      thank   god   i   still   have   his   old   intro   up   sdfgkjfsd      )      as   well   as   a   little   update   bc   he   needs   smth   to   give   him   a   kick   up   the   ass   :/   this   shouldn’t   rly   affect   most   of   my   plots   but   if   u   would   like   to   plot   smth   w   him   ,   pls   let   me   know      !

&& .   announcing   his   royal   highness  ,      (      𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈   𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈   𝐙𝐔𝐋𝐔      )      ,   the      (      𝟑𝟎      )      year   old      (      𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍   𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄      )      of      (      𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐀      )      .   he   is   often   confused   with      (      𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋   𝐁 .   𝐉𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐍      )      .   some   say   that   he   is      (      𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒      &      𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒���𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍      )      ,   but   he   is   actually      (      𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐑      &      𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐅𝐔𝐋      )      .

trigger   warnings   :   brief   mentions   of   death      &      illness   .

*    𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑪𝑺   .

𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋   𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄      &      𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒   :      omari      (      god   the   highest      )      malachi      (      my   angel      )      zulu      (      heaven      )      .

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒    :      mar   ,   mari   .

𝐀𝐆𝐄   :      thirty   .

𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘   :      4th   of   august   .

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑   :      male   .

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒   :      he   /   him   .

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂   :      leo   af   .

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐍   :      christian   .

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   :      crown   prince   of   botswana      (      self   -   proclaimed   professional   pain   in   the   ass      )      .

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒   :      writing   ,   reading   ,   being   in   social   situations   ,   solving   problems   ,   traveling   ,   annoying   his   siblings   .

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒   :      loud   eaters   ,   obnoxious   people   ,   big   insects   ,   being   responsible   for   his   actions   .

*    𝑨𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑻𝑰𝑪𝑺   .

bare   feet   in   mornings   ,   neatly   folded   clothes   ,   an   organised   shoe   closet   ,   messy   sheets      &      an   unmade   bed   ,   missed   calls   at   2am   ,   highlighted   passages   in   a   book   ,   dogeared   pages   ,   unanswered   texts   ,   tucked   in   shirts   ,   unfinished   books   ,   warm   tea   ,   warm   jumpers   from   the   dryer   ,   odd   ceramic   mugs   ,   hidden   springs   of   water   ,   worn   out   military   boots   ,   fallen   leaves   during   autumn   ,   poetry   at   midnight   ,   sleepy   morning   voice   ,   unsent   letters   .

*   𝑩𝑰𝑶𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑷𝑯𝒀   .

               when   botswana   gained   its   independence   in   1966   ,   it   seemed   as   if   things   were   going   well   .   the   democracy   they   had   built   was   stable      &      it   appeared   as   if   the   land - locked   country   had   no   problems   ,      &      for   a   while   it   hadn’t   but   after   a   few   years   the   peace   in   the   government   started   to   dwindle   .   too   many   people   wanting   too   much   power   ,   somebody   said   .   they   jumped   in   feet   first   without   any   real   clue   how   to   run   a   country   ,   said   another   .   but   over   time   the   uninterrupted   tranquility   became   obsolete   .   botswana   was   slowly   going   down   a   sinkhole   until   1985   ,   when   the   south   african   king   titled   his   eldest   son   ,   arno   zulu   ,   the   king   of   botswana   .

                the   change   shook   the   botswanian   government   to   the   core   ,   a   change   that   it   needed   .   at   first   the   people   of   botswana   weren’t   sure   how   to   react      —      this   new   monarchy   was   something   nobody   had   expected   .   but   the   newly   crowned   king   had   ambition      &      he   had   stride   .   he   had   a   set   vision      &      a   set   plan   to   follow   ,   all   the   while   he   was   kind   to   his   people      &      a   fair   ruler   .   it   didn’t   take   as   long   as   he   expected   for   the   botswanians   to   settle   under   his   rule      (      not   being   given   the   south   african   throne   was   a   huge   knock   on   his   confidence   as   a   royal      )      so   the   speed   his   country   settled   was   comforting   .

                however   ,   the   king   could   never   forgive   his   father   for   throwing   away   his   right   to   the   throne      &      instead   promised   it   to   the   youngest   of   the   zulu   heirs   .   this   bitterness   ,   however   subsided   into   a   more   a   more   subtle   distaste   as   he   settled   into   his   new   role      &      a   short   few   years   later   ,   he   was   married   to   a   libyan   princess      &      not   too   long   after   that   ,   she   fell   pregnant   with   their   first   child   .   the   pregnancy   wasn’t   easy      ;      there   were   a   few   complications   along   the   way   but   after   only   8   months   of   carrying   him   ,   omari   malachi   zulu   was   born   .

                omari   wasn’t   by   any   standards   an   extraordinary   baby   .   his   birth   was   easy   ,   all   things   considered   but   as   the   first   born   child   of   the   king   of   botswana   ,   he   had   responsibilities   he   never   even   knew   he   had   .   the   country   accepted   him   with   open   arms      &      celebrated   his   birth   in   an   ornate   fashion   .   after   all   ,   he   was   the   first   born   child   of   their   first   king   .   streets   were   decorated   with   the   botswanian   flag      &      music   filled   the   streets   for   days   after   .   the   prince   was   a   vision   ,   as   many   called   him   .   he   looked   strikingly   similar   to   his   father   ,   even   small   features   like   the   dimples   in   his   cheeks      &      the   crease   between   his   eyebrows   as   he   smiled   .   for   months   botswana   was   full   of   joy      &      that   joy   started   to   bring   the   country   back   into   the   state   of   peace   they   had   at   the   very   start   of   their   independence   .

                   the   birth   of   their   future   king   gave   them   hope   .   stability   .      &      in   turn   they   treated   their   leaders   with   grace      &      kindness   ,   living   in   harmomy   .   it   was   almost   idyllic      ;      omari   grew   up   in   a   world   where   everyone   was   at   peace   as   opposed   to   just   a   few   years   before   he   was   born   .   he   had   everything   he   wanted      &      was   treated   with   respect   ,   so   he   treated   his   people   with   respect   in   return   .   he   grew   up   in   a   loving   household   ,   full   of   books      &      all   the   learning   tools   a   young   heir   could   need   ,      &      although   his   professor   was   hard   on   him   ,   omari   did   not   let   this   harden   him   .

                as   a   child   he   had   always   been   a   free   -   spirit      ;      he   was   intrigued   by   the   idea   of   traveling      &      had   read   about   all   the   places   in   the   books   from   the   palace’s   library      &      from   strangers   who   had   stayed   at   the   palace   in   passing   .   he   was   quite   content   ,   he   had   a   certain   mischievousness   which   often   caught   the   guards   out      &      a   long   string   of   jokes   that   could   keep   people   laughing   for   days   .   however   ,   for   a   child   living   in   such   a   large   expanse   it   was   incredibly   lonely   ,   so   it’s   to   be   expected   that   when   his   brother   was   born   ,   omari   was   over   the   moon   .

                the   pair   were   like   two   peas   in   a   pod      ;      where   you’d   see   one   ,   you’d   no   doubt   see   the   other   following   not   too   far   behind   .   they   grew   close   quickly      &      omari   was   fiercely   loyal   to   his   younger   brother   .   however   ,   much   like   any   ordinary   older   sibling   he   could   be   difficult   .   although   he   wasn’t   nasty   ,   he   was   a   bit   of   a   tyrant   .   causing   ruckus      &      playing   pranks   on   his   brother   was   omari’s   favourite   pastimes      &      although   they   had   their   disagreements   ,   he   did   it   with   love      &      there   was   very   little   omari   wouldn’t   do   for   him   .

                when   his   brother   was   born   ,   omari   learned   a   lesson   in   sharing   .   when   his   sister   was   born   ,   he   learned   a   lesson   in   protection   .   growing   up   he   was   educated   on   how   to   run   a   country   successfully      &      how   to   be   a   good   king   ,   but   nobody   taught   him   how   to   be   a   good   brother   .   sometimes   he   could   be   intolerant   to   who   he’d   often   call   the   ‘ bonus   zulu   children ’   just   to   irritate   them   ,   but   despite   his   annoying   habits   his   siblings   were   his   best   friends   .   they   filled   the   empty   void   that   would   otherwise   still   be   hollow   in   the   palace      &      on   stressful   days   ,   they’d   be   the   ones   to   aid   him   in   unwinding   .

                the   pressures   of   becoming   king   one   day   didn’t   truly   hit   full   force   until   he   hit   his   teenage   years   .   he   was   expected   to   set   a   prime   example   not   only   for   his   country   but   also   his   siblings   ,      &    although   he   did   a   good   job   at   being   generally   liked   by   his   peers    &      the   like   ,   he   realised   soon   enough   he’d   have   to   get   out   there      &      represent   his   country   ,   so   that’s   what   he   did   .   he   started   travelling   the   world      &      meeting   new   people      &      after   a   while   ,   he   went   to   college   .   someone   had   briefly   suggested   a   college   in   portugal   so   he   decided   to   go   there   ,   studying   literature      &      modern   language   .

                it   was   here   where   he   met   barbara   de   bragança   ,   being   in   college   at   the   same   time   as   she   was   getting   her   degree   .   due   to   his   royal   status   he   was   invited   to   stay   at   her   college   home      &      after   taking   the   opportunity   ,   the   two   quickly   became   close   friends   .   he   completed   his   education   in   portugal   before   he   jetted   off   to   carry   on   exploring   the   world   ,   however   he   never   lost   touch   with   barbie      &      he   started   to   become   more   responsible   as   he   prepared   to   one   day   be   king   .   while   on   his   travels   he   learned   a   lot   about   different   cultures      &      could   strike   up   a   conversation   with   anyone   over   anything   .

                give   or   take   a   few   years    &      his   family   asked   him   to   get   engaged   to   the   princess   of   hungary   ,   fanni   croÿ   .   the   arrangement   was   strange   given   they   already   had   a   history   but   due   to   it   being   for   the   benefit   of   botswana   he   agreed      &      then   they   were   engaged   .   however   ,   just   as   they   were   starting   to   figure   things   out   the   engagement   was   called   off      &      out   of   his   confusion   ,   omari   took   off   without   a   word   to   anyone      &      has   been   m.i.a   ever   since   ,   only   keeping   in   touch   with   a   short   selection   of   people   .

*     𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀   .

omari   is   a   lover   of   adventure      &      experiencing   new   things   .   people   might   call   him   a   thrill   seeker   ,   but   he   just   believes   that   a   life   without   experiencing   everything   you   can   isn’t   a   life   worth   living   .   he   enjoys   learning   new   things      &    is   always   keen   on   hearing   different   opinions   to   benefit   his   own   ,   however   he   can   come   across   as   being   quite   opinionated   when   it   comes   to   his   own   thoughts      &    he’s   not   afraid   to   speak   his   mind   ,   which   sometimes   got   him   into   trouble   when   he   was   younger   but   has   earned   him   great   respect   as   he   grew   older   .

                in   general   ,   omari   is   kind      &      thoughtful   .   he’s   been   influenced   a   lot   by   his   father’s   way   of   ruling   the   country      &      is   a   firm   believer   that   you   should   treat   people   the   way   you   expect   to   be   treated   ,   but   he’s   not   afraid   to   stand   his   ground   when   he   needs   to   or   protect   those   that   he’s   closest   to   .   when   it   comes   to   his   family      &    his   close   friends   ,   omari   will   go   to   the   ends   of   the   earth   for   them   even   if   it   was   just   to   bring   them   a   pretzel   from   europe   .   he   values   them   a   lot      &      is   extremely   loyal   to   them   .

                however   ,   omari   can   be   quite   flaky      &      fickle   .   when   it   comes   to   making   decisions   regarding   his   country   ,   he’s   very   clever   in   his   approach    &    makes   sure   it’s   the   best   decision   but   when   it   comes   to   his   personal   life   ,   he’s   not   very   good   at   all      &      often   has   to   seek   advice   from   other   people   just   to   make   the   correct   decision   .   he   dislikes   situations   that   are   too   messy   ,   which   is   one   of   the   few   reservations   he   has   about   being   king   because   he   knows   he’ll   be   stuck   in   some   but   he’s   working   on   his   habit   of   fleeing   before   the   situation   gets   too   bad      &   instead   striving   to   resolve   them   .

                he   can   be   pretty   mischievous   ,   since   when   he   was   younger   he’d   often   play   pranks   on   the   guards      &    his   siblings   just   to   ,   as   he   used   to   say   ‘ pass   the   time ’   so   although   he’s   someone   you   can   trust   with   your   secrets   ,   he’s   not   someone   you   can   trust   not   to   scare   the   living   daylights   out   of   you   the   next   chance   he   gets   .   he   loves   to   have   fun      &    is   slightly   worried   that   when   he   becomes   king   all   the   fun   he’s   having   now   will   no   longer   exist   ,   but   following   in   his   father’s   footsteps   is   something   he’s   always   been   keen   in   doing      &      seeing   how   well   he’s   doing   pushes   him   to   do   the   same   .

                although   his   father   isn’t   so   bothered   anymore   by   the   fact   that   he   was   ,   as   omari   sees   it   thrown   to   the   side   for   his   younger   brother   ,   omari   is   extremely   bitter   about   it   .   even   though   he   loves   botswana      &      its   people   ,   he   still   heavily   believes   that   since   his   father   is   the   oldest   of   the   zulu   heirs   ,   he’s   rightfully   in   line   for   the   south   african   throne   so   the   fact   that   his   uncle   ,   who’s   little   over   ten   years   older than   him   never   fails   to   stir   up   troubling   thoughts      &      now   that   his   grandfather   has   fallen   ill   ,   he   sees   this   as   an   opportunity   to   start   conflict   with   his   uncle   .

*   𝑼𝑷𝑫𝑨𝑻𝑬   .

ok   i’m   literally   just   gonna   bullet   point   the   things   that   have   changed   for   him   bc   i’m   too   lazy   to   go   back      &      edit   this   entire   bio   sdfkjdnsjkg

but   u   guys   already   know   gramps   is   dead   ,   which   means   ayo   is   king   ,   which   means   the   cousins   failed   in   their   attempts   smh

mari   was   slightly   bitter   after   the   coronation   ,   but   it   only   lasted   for   a   short   while   ,   bc   news   hit   him   that   his   father   wasn’t   very   well   ,   which   meant   that   mari   would   have   to   step   up      &      do   more

i’m   gonna   say   to   save   confusion   that   he   just   wasn’t   doing   enough   .   he   rarely   got   involved   with   political   moves   ,   so   that’s   crucial   now   since   his   father   can’t   cope   as   usual

so   i   don’t   rly   know   how   this   will   affect   him   ,   it’ll   either   make   him   kick   his   ass   into   gear      &      do   shit   with   his   life   or   he’ll   get   so   stressed   he’ll   have   a   break   down

WHO   KNOWS

#hshqintro #tw illness #tw death #i forgot how long his bio was wTF

[qhostqizmo]

the truth can be hard to swallow

I wanted to name this piece bad o/mens but then realized some fandom folk would find this and be sorely disappointed so thought better not

- - - - - - - - - -

Alone. Just like before. Wasn’t this the way it was supposed to be?

No. No, this wasn’t what she wanted. This wasn’t what she wanted at all. This was never what she wanted; the smothering silence, the dull ache in her chest, the feeling that she wasn’t good enough. She would never be good enough. Not for herself, not for anybody.

‘I need no one.’

A lie. Pretty lies, keeping the world at bay. If she kept them at arm’s length, they would be safe. She would be safe. They wouldn’t need to fall to the misfortune of being around her; or the bane of knowing her, and she would not be tricked again. No one could get under her skin if she didn’t want them to. No one could break her more then she already was. Haunted by words and wounded by piercing dagger tongues of others; damned by her own demons which whispered and spat her own self-loathing and hatred back at her.

Nevertheless, Essätha’s heart betrayed her. She craved. She wanted the things she passed from town to town; the smiles on the faces of others, the ordinary life, the jokes, the friendship shared. It made her sick to want. Beautiful things she could not have, and people reminding her with every sneer and curled lip as gazes met that she never would.

She opened her eyes, staring ahead blankly.

Maybe not everyone despised her…

The unlit fireplace, cold and empty, allowed a breeze to sweep down and chill her to the bone. A shiver coursed through her veins and into her aching joints. The musky odor of mold lingered in the air. With a snivel, she pivoted on the creaky floorboards to examine the remainder of the dark, dingy, dusty room.

Curtains draping the cloudy windows were chewed to rags; lined with holes and brittle from bugs eating the fabric. The only sitting furniture in the room; an impressively large sofa, had its metal springs breaking the surface and was filthy. Like the shades, it too was a mass of holes and scratches from pests eating away at it.

Something about this place seemed familiar. Maybe because so much of it was such an echo to her own soul; void and forgotten, left to rot and wither away.

Essie escaped the eerie room to walk the path of the hallway. She avoided stepping on the most warped boards and near the holes that riddled the floor, revealing slivers of light to the first floor. Below and among the other rooms of the imposing house, she could still make out the muffled conversation of her allies sorting through the building.

Breathing heavily; coughing as she inhaled the choking stale aroma of the air and dust, she covered her mouth.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

What was wrong with her?

What isn’t wrong with me, she thought with bitter scolding to the small, longing voice in the back of her head.

Pacing down the adjacent corridor, her mouth parted in surprise. A ladder that entered to the attic, partially pulled down and leaving a gaping maw open to the loft. She inched closer suspiciously, half expecting something to jump down upon her.

Nothing did.

Squinting suspiciously, Essätha examined the old wood. None of the dirt upon it looked like it had moved recently; still caked on it layers. Strange though. She wondered if the steps had unlatched itself with time. Perhaps the catch had gone bad? Certainly the estate itself was spooky and ominous, but it was unlikely people would depart leaving this open?

She took the rung, and pulled it down the remainder of the way. More dust fell upon her, leaving her staggering and coughing as she stepped away.

Definitely unused.

With no paw-prints and no scat immediately in sight, she tentatively tested a boot against the bottom step. It was firm, and steady. Curious, she tested the next, and the next; gradually climbing up to poke her head up at the top.

Nothing spectacular. As with most home owners, it appeared this room had been used as storage space.

Still, she wondered if they’d left anything useful behind. Maybe a magical heirloom, or some books that might come in handy for study…

Clawing her way the remainder of the way up, Essätha swung her legs over and crawled on her hands and feet cautiously across the baseboards. They softly groaned, but didn’t appear overly worn. She got on her feet, and brushed as much of the dust off her slacks as she could. So far so good, she hadn’t fallen through at least.

Various boxes, old lamps, neatly organized files, and portraits greeted her. She cared little for these, as they eyes appeared to follow her judgmentally as she moved slowly around the room.

I know I’m a hideous creature, you need not point it out, she thought sourly, glaring at one extraordinary well detailed painting of a man who appeared to be sternly glowering towards her. He appeared quite youthful in the painting; not entirely attractive or unattractive, but plain. Many of the drawings were actually uneventful; images blurring together. Some had more defined noses, or a broader forehead; some older and some younger, but they weren’t spectacular. It was difficult to tell if they were related or not.

Traversing the room, she paused curiously at a desk behind a row of boxes. It had parchments lined upon it, and a dried out ink bottle. The spot appeared to be a little nook for privacy, hidden out of sight. It offered a slanted view of the only window up here; small, but one that could offer decent light in the day to avoid keeping a lantern on. She wondered what they’d been writing…

Stepping closer, Essie’s sharply darted her eyes over the faded, yellowed paper. Stained with time, the pigment of the ink barely legible and handwriting atrocious and difficult to read. Her feet dragged her closer, trying to inspect the delicate pages without daring touch them, and ruin whatever may be written on them.

‘Talon of the Raven Lord, You are hereby charged, by the order of His Glory…’

She exhaled sharply, stepping away from the table. Her rear bumped into one of the boxes on the floor. It fell over, spilling out paperwork and scattering it upon the floor.

Essie’s eyes moved to the bumbling mishap, and all the letters.

‘Talon of the Raven Lord-’

‘Talon of the Raven Lord-’

‘Talon of the Raven Lord-’

“Oh Gods,” she wheezed, taking a side-step away from the tainted parchments. Nervously licking her lips, her gaze shifted hastily from the mess, towards the desk.

With horror, she realized that the ink upon the paper began to steadily darken. As if written new, the paper, too, began to change; taking on a soft manila over the fragile yellow-age. A droplet of red began to bleed out from the corner. Nausea swam in her stomach, staring at the frayed edges reform and for more of the off-colors to grow bolder splotches of crimson.

From above, a drip splashed against her nose. Essätha reached up, stepping away from the study as her fingers swiped at the liquid upon the bridge of her face.

Her digits came away stained crimson.

Against all better judgment, her eyes moved towards the ceiling.

With empty eyesockets and rotted flesh hanging off of bones; and what remained of its clothes, a corpse offered her a twisted, welcoming grin from above.

A terrified scream tore through her throat, making it feel raw. She fumbled backwards, her eyes unable to tear themselves away from the dreadful sight. The figure moved; its head cracking to the side like an intrigued bird. Fragments of bone from the neck vertebrate rained down, and the undead thing began to climb with gangly arms, like a spider, from rafter to rafter and down the side of the wall with the grace of a spider.

“Where are you going, Essätha?” the skeleton cooed in a masculine voice, its teeth clicking together as it laughed. Old blood flaked off its matted hair, and what remained of its scalp. Fresh blood oozed from beneath its ribcage, and left splotches and smeared imprints of its hands where it gripped.

As it spoke, a chill ran over Essätha. She found it possible to tear her eyes away; finally, and back towards the scuttle. She lunged for it; knees hitting the floor.

It rolled upward, slamming shut before her very eyes.

Someone distantly cried out her name in alarm.

“Look at you,” the creature scoffed, reaching out with bony fingers. “You are just a girl. Only a frightened child.”

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, whirling away. She scooted back on her rear, using her hands to scrambling out of its reach. As it coaxed towards her; curling its fingers, she raised a hand to wave a shaky gesture; muttering the ancient draconic words of a spell.

A skeletal hand appeared; pale transparent and ghostly with a blue aura. It reached out; gripping the abomination crawling towards her by the face.

It loomed at her. The sickening appearance of a grin with what remained of the flesh on its cheek stretching up into a smile. More grimacing in appearance, but delighted.

“Oh Essätha, you can not get rid of me so easily.”

“H-How do you know my name?”

The skeleton laughed; husky and raspy. Its entire body shuddered violently, and maggots and flies came rushing out of its abdomen. Appalled, Essie drew herself further away.

“I know all of your names,” it sang. “Abernathy Harding, Adela of Rivesee, Amon Thomad Illiad, Penimra Korvis, Pri’cha Sunspot, Ravamora Carnivale, Sulhadur of Vuulthidel… And you, dear Essätha Meduza.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she held out out her hand as though it would keep the corpse away like a bared shield. Her other jerked and shoved at the attic’s door, but it wouldn’t budge. It didn’t so much as creak under her weight as she bore all of herself upon it. Anything was better then this unholy sight; even falling face-first into the floor below.

“What is one little Yuan-Ti doing so far from home?” the figure chortled, inching closer. “I forget myself; this one does not have a place to call their home.”

Her breath hitched, and a ghastly wash of sweat peppered her temples as she leaned away. Her face was drained of color, and her eyes round and wide enough to show her whites and the thin slit of her pupil.

“S-Stop.”

“You are a broken thing, aren’t you? A lost, broken, unsightly thing.”

“Leave me alone you don’t know me!”

“I know you better then you know yourself,” the monstrosity argued sweetly. The tones of is voice changed; altering until it sounded like a chorus of people were talking at once.

Gasping through a spring of tears, Essie was left to forfeit the door. She scurried backwards as the creature crept forward, allowing it to take a place on all fours, standing guard above the only exit she had. Below, the continued bellowing of voices, and a sharp thudding against the floor, reminded her that someone had to be looking for it. But it was muted; growing quieter. It existed less and less, and she could feel the hope dashed and draining from her chest until she was saturated in loneliness and terror.

Trapped and desperate, her eyes scanned the area for any sign of help. Her gaze paused on the lone window; much too high and too small for her to fit through, but her common sense had left her. Instead, forcing herself on shaky legs, she reached up for it. It lay out of reach of her fingertips.

“Where do you intend to go, little snake?” the Multi-Voices echoed, drawing on each syllable. When she did not answer; clawing at the wood with her nails, it spoke in Many-Voices of amusement, “What catastrophe’s you have wrought, dear Essätha. Do you think the next hiding place you claim will be any safer?”

“Please,” she whined, her heart hammering against her chest. Just a few more inches, that’s all she needed…

As she lunged and scratched the walls, a haze of black descended from the ceiling. She cringed, sliding down to her knees as the force of dark magic swirled like a storm’s black cloud above her head.

Another series of laughter; too many to count.

“You want to run, don’t you?” the Voices taunted. “You are a coward; only looking out for themself. You are going to fail them. People don’t fail you, do they, Essätha? You fail them. It’s what you do. It’s what you’re best at.”

Hiccuping, she sagged lower on the floorboards. All of her hope, her energy, her faith, her will; it was all gone. She had nothing. She felt weak, and tired, and empty. Helpless as a newborn babe, curling up into a ball against the wall. Her tears welled up to the surface, spilling over onto her cheeks silently as her breath hitched uncomfortably in unending silent sobs.

“You wonder why they do not trust you; why they do not want you. What is there to devote, from something so undependable? You are never there. They call you flighty, and skittish behind you back. If you are not ugly on the outside, perhaps it is the nature of what is inside that wards away everything you touch.”

“Stop it,” she whispered hoarsely, rocking herself. Tears spilled over the dams, rushing out, falling upon her clothes and the floor.

“No one is coming for you. No one wants you. No one is going to protect you; a stupid girl, a fragile child. What do you have to offer them? What importance does Essätha Meduza of nothing have?”

“STOP IT!”

Her cry unanswered, the being rattled closer. “They pity a poor Yuan-Ti; an animal tangled in their grievances. Better to be rid of it, but you are an obligation now, aren’t you? You do not really believe they could like you?”

She turned her head away, rancid breath close enough now to begin billowing over her as the creature whispered, “You do not really believe Lord Amon Thomas Illiad could possibly love a monster like you?”

Twisting her face away, Essätha shuddered violently. Her stomach churned, wanting to toss her last meal. The odor from the undead beast was becoming worse by the second; burning her teary-eyes and nose, making her skin crawl; as if any of the insects occasionally tumbling out of it were not already possibly skittering upon her clothes.

“Look at me.”

Ignoring the demand, she kept her face turned away; eyes squeezed shut.

The skeleton clattered closer still. It hissed out in a clear, singular voice this time; a foreign tongue she did not know nor understand, and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to spin her face towards it.

Either by fright, or some unknown force, her eyes opened wide and frightened. She stared up into the unsightly view of the corpse’s face.

“Such a disappointment,” the Many sighed with sorrow, stroking her face with the back of its other hand. “Such potential, wasted.”

Essätha whimpered, trying to ball herself even more. She could not close her eyes. She could not close them, what was wrong with her? Why could she not look away? This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t possibly be real.

Within the black of its sockets, twin flickers appeared. She squinted, but could not turn away. It was quiet. There was no banging, no screaming, no hollering of her name. No one was coming.

No one was coming for her.

The pin-pricks of crimson suddenly flared up, revealing licks of flame. They began to burn a searing blaze, but emitted no light or no warmth.

Many roaring echoes of laughter; all different but sinister and gnarled as the twisted bony fingers touching her, began to fill the room, her head, the space. They were everywhere.

Essätha let out one, final scream.

#qhost story #Essatha Meduza #painfully written

[romancatholicreflections]

24th October >> Daily Reflection/Commentary on Today’s First Reading for Roman Catholics on Wednesday, Twenty-Ninth Week 29 of Ordinary Time (Ephesians 3:2-12).

Today’s reading is fairly dense and needs to be teased out a little if we are to get to its central meaning.

Paul begins by recapitulating what the Ephesians and the surrounding churches had previously been told, how Paul is God’s chosen agent to communicate the blessing of God’s love to the Gentiles in those places and that it was through a special revelation made to him personally that he was given an understanding of previously hidden messages that God wished his people to know.

As he puts it, he was given “the stewardship of God’s grace”. The revelation he speaks about is first of all the experience he had on the way to Damascus (Gal 1:16; Acts 9:15) and which was the great turning point in his relationship with God.

If Paul’s readers will only look closely at his words, they will get some idea of the depth of the “mystery” of Christ, that is, of the whole revelation that has been made to us of the Son of God becoming incarnate as a human being so that we could have a direct and unique experience of God’s love for us and of his desire to make us one with him.

In particular, this mystery as it affects them involves the intimate unity that now binds Jews and Gentiles together through Christ in a previously unimaginable way. It may be thought of as a secret that is temporarily hidden, but more than that, it is a plan God is actively working out and revealing stage by stage.

This revelation that has come through the apostles and prophets was something quite unknown to, or even desired by, previous generations. They are called “holy” because they have been set apart for God’s service. This is the real meaning of the word hagios (‘agios), a term also applied to all the members of the Church. The revelation, too, was not only made to Paul; in fact, as he admits, he came late on the scene. The prophets mentioned here are those of the New Testament and who, in the list of special charisms, come only second to the apostles in importance.

The revelation is that the Gentiles are “coheirs, members of the same Body and co-partners” in the promise in Christ Jesus made through the Gospel. There is a total equality between them and the Jewish Christians. This has been brought about by Christ and his Gospel which is directed to people everywhere .

It indicates the unique aspect of the mystery that was not previously known, namely, the equality and mutuality that Gentiles now have with Jews in the church, forming one body. That Gentiles would turn to the God of Israel and be saved was prophesied in the Old Testament; that they would come into an organic unity with believing Jews on an equal footing was not foreseen.

By a special grace, a special blessing, Paul has been made the “servant” of that Gospel, even though Paul believes that, because of his past behaviour, he is the very least in the community of the “saints”. He never ceased being amazed at how he had been chosen by God for his mission, especially after the way he had tried to wipe out the Christians before his conversion.

He describes that mission under two aspects: he is to unfold to the Gentiles all that comes to them through Christ and how that is to be personally experienced by them.

Up to now all of this had remained hidden with God, the Creator of all. And why was this?

It was, says Paul, so that the extraordinary wisdom of God might become known to the ‘Sovereignties’ and ‘Powers’, the evil powers that try to dominate the world. The evil spirits were unaware of God’s plan for salvation and so they persuaded human beings to crucify Christ, and it is only the existence of the Church that makes them aware of it now. For now Jesus has risen and ascended above them all in power and glory.

It is a staggering thought that the church on earth is observed, so to speak, by these spiritual powers and that to the degree the church is spiritually united it portrays to them the wisdom of God. This thought may be essential to understanding the meaning of “calling” mentioned at the beginning of the next chapter (4:1) where Paul calls on the Christians to live worthily of the call they have received. The fact that God had done the seemingly impossible – reconciling and organically uniting Jews and Gentiles in one church – makes the church the perfect means of displaying God’s wisdom.

So now, all of us can have the courage to approach our God in complete trust and confidence.

We, too, can thank God that it is through Jesus Christ and our fellowship in the Christian community, that we have come to know and experience the plan and the love of God in our lives.

Let us thank all those individuals and groups who, in one way or another, have taught us to know and love God in Jesus. And the obvious response on our part is to go out and, as Church, help others to know and understand the extraordinary things that God has done for us through Christ our Lord.

There is also, of course, a huge responsibility on all of us to strengthen the unity of all Christians among themselves and also to create close relations with Jews with whom we share so much. And we can include Muslims, who are also “People of the Book”. Let us hear the prayer of Jesus at the Last Supper: “May they all be one…. That the world will believe you sent me” (John 17:21) and help to make it a reality.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

1st June >> Mass Readings (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)  for Friday of the Eighth Week in Ordinary Time

 or Saint Justin, Martyr.

Friday of the Eighth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Red) First Reading 1 Peter 4:7-13 Each of you has received a special grace Everything will soon come to an end, so, to pray better, keep a calm and sober mind. Above all, never let your love for each other grow insincere, since love covers over many a sin. Welcome each other into your houses without grumbling. Each one of you has received a special grace, so, like good stewards responsible for all these different graces of God, put yourselves at the service of others. If you are a speaker, speak in words which seem to come from God; if you are a helper, help as though every action was done at God’s orders; so that in everything God may receive the glory, through Jesus Christ, since to him alone belong all glory and power for ever and ever. Amen.    My dear people, you must not think it unaccountable that you should be tested by fire. There is nothing extraordinary in what has happened to you. If you can have some share in the sufferings of Christ, be glad, because you will enjoy a much greater gladness when his glory is revealed. The Word of the Lord R/ Thanks be to God. Responsorial Psalm Psalm 95(96):10-13 R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth. Proclaim to the nations: ‘God is king.’    The world he made firm in its place;    he will judge the peoples in fairness. R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth. Let the heavens rejoice and earth be glad,    let the sea and all within it thunder praise, let the land and all it bears rejoice,    all the trees of the wood shout for joy at the presence of the Lord for he comes,    he comes to rule the earth. R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth. With justice he will rule the world,    he will judge the peoples with his truth. R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth. Gospel Acclamation Matthew 5:16 Alleluia, alleluia! Your light must shine in the sight of men, so that, seeing your good works, they may give the praise to your Father in heaven. Alleluia! Gospel Mark 11:11-26 The fig tree; the cleansing of the Temple After he had been acclaimed by the crowds, Jesus entered Jerusalem and went into the Temple. He looked all round him, but as it was now late, he went out to Bethany with the Twelve.    Next day as they were leaving Bethany, he felt hungry. Seeing a fig tree in leaf some distance away, he went to see if he could find any fruit on it, but when he came up to it he found nothing but leaves; for it was not the season for figs. And he addressed the fig tree. ‘May no one ever eat fruit from you again’ he said. And his disciples heard him say this.    So they reached Jerusalem and he went into the Temple and began driving out those who were selling and buying there; he upset the tables of the money changers and the chairs of those who were selling pigeons. Nor would he allow anyone to carry anything through the Temple. And he taught them and said, ‘Does not scripture say: My house will be called a house of prayer for all the peoples? But you have turned it into a robbers’ den.’ This came to the ears of the chief priests and the scribes, and they tried to find some way of doing away with him; they were afraid of him because the people were carried away by his teaching. And when evening came he went out of the city.    Next morning, as they passed by, they saw the fig tree withered to the roots. Peter remembered. ‘Look, Rabbi,’ he said to Jesus, ‘the fig tree you cursed has withered away.’ Jesus answered, ‘Have faith in God. I tell you solemnly, if anyone says to this mountain, “Get up and throw yourself into the sea,” with no hesitation in his heart but believing that what he says will happen, it will be done for him. I tell you therefore: everything you ask and pray for, believe that you have it already, and it will be yours. And when you stand in prayer, forgive whatever you have against anybody, so that your Father in heaven may forgive your failings too. But if you do not forgive, your Father in heaven will not forgive your failings either.’ The Gospel of the Lord R/ Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ. ——————

Saint Justin, Martyr

(Liturgical Colour: Red) First Reading 1 Corinthians 1:18-25 We preach a crucified Christ, the power and wisdom of God The language of the cross may be illogical to those who are not on the way to salvation, but those of us who are on the way see it as God’s power to save. As scripture says: I shall destroy the wisdom of the wise and bring to nothing all the learning of the learned. Where are the philosophers now? Where are the scribes? Where are any of our thinkers today? Do you see now how God has shown up the foolishness of human wisdom? If it was God’s wisdom that human wisdom should not know God, it was because God wanted to save those who have faith through the foolishness of the message that we preach. And so, while the Jews demand miracles and the Greeks look for wisdom, here are we preaching a crucified Christ; to the Jews an obstacle that they cannot get over, to the pagans madness, but to those who have been called, whether they are Jews or Greeks, a Christ who is the power and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength. The Word of the Lord R/ Thanks be to God. Responsorial Psalm Psalm 33(34):2-9 R/ From all my terrors the Lord set me free. I will bless the Lord at all times,    his praise always on my lips; in the Lord my soul shall make its boast.    The humble shall hear and be glad. R/ From all my terrors the Lord set me free. Glorify the Lord with me.    Together let us praise his name. I sought the Lord and he answered me;    from all my terrors he set me free. R/ From all my terrors the Lord set me free. Look towards him and be radiant;    let your faces not be abashed. This poor man called, the Lord heard him    and rescued him from all his distress. R/ From all my terrors the Lord set me free. The angel of the Lord is encamped    around those who revere him, to rescue them. Taste and see that the Lord is good.    He is happy who seeks refuge in him. R/ From all my terrors the Lord set me free. Gospel Acclamation Matthew 5:16 Alleluia, alleluia! Your light must shine in the sight of men, so that, seeing your good works, they may give the praise to your Father in heaven. Alleluia! Gospel Matthew 5:13-19 Your light must shine in the sight of men Jesus said to his disciples: ‘You are the salt of the earth. But if salt becomes tasteless, what can make it salty again? It is good for nothing, and can only be thrown out to be trampled underfoot by men.    ‘You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill-top cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp to put it under a tub; they put it on the lamp-stand where it shines for everyone in the house. In the same way your light must shine in the sight of men, so that, seeing your good works, they may give the praise to your Father in heaven.    ‘Do not imagine that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets. I have come not to abolish but to complete them. I tell you solemnly, till heaven and earth disappear, not one dot, not one little stroke, shall disappear from the Law until its purpose is achieved. Therefore, the man who infringes even one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be considered the least in the kingdom of heaven; but the man who keeps them and teaches them will be considered great in the kingdom of heaven.’ The Gospel of the Lord R/ Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

19th July >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 13:24-43 for The Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A: ‘Let them both grow till the harvest’.

Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Matthew 13:24–43

Let them grow together until harvest.

Jesus proposed another parable to the crowds, saying: “The kingdom of heaven may be likened to a man who sowed good seed in his field. While everyone was asleep his enemy came and sowed weeds all through the wheat, and then went off. When the crop grew and bore fruit, the weeds appeared as well. The slaves of the householder came to him and said, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where have the weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ His slaves said to him, ‘Do you want us to go and pull them up?’ He replied, ‘No, if you pull up the weeds you might uproot the wheat along with them. Let them grow together until harvest; then at harvest time I will say to the harvesters, “First collect the weeds and tie them in bundles for burning; but gather the wheat into my barn.”’”

He proposed another parable to them. “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that a person took and sowed in a field. It is the smallest of all the seeds, yet when full-grown it is the largest of plants. It becomes a large bush, and the ‘birds of the sky come and dwell in its branches.’”

He spoke to them another parable. “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed with three measures of wheat flour until the whole batch was leavened.”

All these things Jesus spoke to the crowds in parables. He spoke to them only in parables, to fulfill what had been said through the prophet:

I will open my mouth in parables,

I will announce what has lain hidden from the foundation of the world.

Then, dismissing the crowds, he went into the house. His disciples approached him and said, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds in the field.” He said in reply, “He who sows good seed is the Son of Man, the field is the world, the good seed the children of the kingdom. The weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sows them is the devil. The harvest is the end of the age, and the harvesters are angels. Just as weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all who cause others to sin and all evildoers. They will throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Whoever has ears ought to hear.”

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 13:24-43

Let them both grow till the harvest

Jesus put another parable before the crowds: ‘The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a man who sowed good seed in his field. While everybody was asleep his enemy came, sowed darnel all among the wheat, and made off. When the new wheat sprouted and ripened, the darnel appeared as well. The owner’s servants went to him and said, “Sir, was it not good seed that you sowed in your field? If so, where does the darnel come from?” “Some enemy has done this” he answered. And the servants said, “Do you want us to go and weed it out?” But he said, “No, because when you weed out the darnel you might pull up the wheat with it. Let them both grow till the harvest; and at harvest time I shall say to the reapers: First collect the darnel and tie it in bundles to be burnt, then gather the wheat into my barn.”’

He put another parable before them: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed which a man took and sowed in his field. It is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the biggest shrub of all and becomes a tree so that the birds of the air come and shelter in its branches.’

He told them another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like the yeast a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour till it was leavened all through.’

In all this Jesus spoke to the crowds in parables; indeed, he would never speak to them except in parables. This was to fulfil the prophecy:

I will speak to you in parables

and expound things hidden since the foundation of the world.

Then, leaving the crowds, he went to the house; and his disciples came to him and said, ‘Explain the parable about the darnel in the field to us.’ He said in reply, ‘The sower of the good seed is the Son of Man. The field is the world; the good seed is the subjects of the kingdom; the darnel, the subjects of the evil one; the enemy who sowed them, the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; the reapers are the angels. Well then, just as the darnel is gathered up and burnt in the fire, so it will be at the end of time. The Son of Man will send his angels and they will gather out of his kingdom all things that provoke offences and all who do evil, and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and grinding of teeth. Then the virtuous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Listen, anyone who has ears!’

Reflections (3)

(i) Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

It has often been said that our weaknesses are the shadow side of our strengths. A person prone to anger can have a powerful passion for justice. Someone who tends to be intolerant of others can be very conscientious about doing everything well. The line between the good and the not-so-good within us can be very subtle. If we are overzealous in trying to root out what is not so good in our own life, or in someone else’s life, we might damage what is good there too.

In the first of the three parables that Jesus speaks in today’s gospel reading, the landowner’s servants wanted to root out the weeds that had appeared among the wheat. The landowner had to restrain them. It was not the time for such separation because it is not always easy to distinguish wheat from weeds at an early stage of growth. The separation would come at harvest time. In the meantime, patience was needed with the weeds. Jesus may have been warning against a kind of religious zeal that was too eager to identify weeds, what is considered worthless, and to separate it out from wheat, what is considered good. Saint Paul showed this kind of religious zeal before his conversion on the road to Damascus. He saw the followers of Jesus as weeds in the field of Judaism; they had to be rooted out. He was blind to the presence of God among them. It was only after his meeting with the risen Lord that he could look back and say, ‘I was violently persecuting the church of God’.

We can all get it wrong when it comes to others. We only have to think of those innocent people who have been wrongly imprisoned. In our own personal lives we may have judged someone harshly only to discover in time that we were wide of the mark. The church itself has not always heeded the warning of Jesus about the dangers of premature separation. Too great a zeal to purify the wheat field risks doing more harm than good. We need to be patient with imperfection, in ourselves and in others. As we know only too well, life is not tidy. It is not like a well-manicured garden, in which order and harmony prevail. Each of us is a mixture of wheat and weed; we are each tainted by sin and yet touched by grace. The Lord’s good work is ongoing in our lives, even if it is hindered by the presence of sin. Only beyond this earthly life will we be fully conformed to the image of God’s Son. In the meantime, we need a certain amount of patience with ourselves and others, while seeking to grow more fully into the person of Christ, and helping each other to do so. As we travel this journey, Saint Paul reminds us in today’s second reading that ‘the Spirit helps us in our weakness’.

If we focus only on the ‘weeds’ in our lives, we can easily get discouraged. Sometimes we may feel that our good efforts at something are bearing very little fruit. We can get into a frame of mind that says, ‘What good have I been doing with my life?’ We can feel that we have precious little to show for our endeavours. Yet, we can be doing a lot of good without realizing it. Even a little good can go a long way. That is the message of the other two parables that Jesus speaks in today’s gospel reading. The mustard seed is tiny and yet it grows into a very large shrub. What looks completely insignificant takes on a life of its own and develops in a way that is out of proportion to its small beginning. Sometimes in our own lives, the little good we do can go on to become something that we had never envisaged, and might never even get to see. The little bit of yeast that a woman uses in baking has a huge impact on a large batch of dough. Again, in our own lives, the little good we do can impact on those around us in ways that would surprise us. Jesus says, that is what the kingdom of God is like, how it comes among us. The good deed that seems insignificant can turn out to be powerful and beneficial for many.

These two small parables assure us that humble beginnings can have an extraordinary outcome when the work in question is God’s work. This is an encouragement to us all to keep doing the little bit of good we are able to do. It may not seem much in our own eyes or in the eyes of others, yet God can work powerfully through whatever little good we do, in ways that may surprise us. We can all plant the equivalent of the mustard seed; we can all be the equivalent of the tiny piece of leaven. The little initiative, the small loving gesture, can all bear fruit in ways that we could never have imagined at the time. The Lord can work powerfully through our smallest efforts if they are done out of love for him. Our calling is to keep planting some good seed and to trust that the Lord will do the rest.

And/Or

(ii) Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

  We have had some beautiful weather recently. Many of us may have been gardening, and part of our gardening work probably involved pulling up weeds. We all long for a weed-free garden. We are not convinced by the view that weeds are really only flowers in the wrong place and that we should learn to appreciate them. We see weeds as a nuisance, as something to be got rid of. Some of us may have discovered that our zeal to get rid of weeds can have unfortunate consequences. In my ignorance I once sprayed a lawn that had weeds among the grass with a weed killer. I succeeded only in killing off the grass; the weeds seemed to have got a new lease of life. In going after weeds, we can do a certain amount of unintended collateral damage.

 We can easily identify with the servants in the gospel reading who were poised to pull up the weeds that an enemy had sown in the wheat field of their master. However, the owner of the field was a more patient man. He recognized that at the early stages of growth this particular weed looked very like wheat and that it would be very difficult to distinguish between the two. In going after the weeds, the wheat would suffer too. He saw that it would be better to wait until both the weed and the wheat got much bigger and were ready for harvest. Then it would be possible to distinguish one from the other and to separate them accordingly. The owner knew that there was a time to leave well enough alone and there was a time to act. The time when the servants wanted to act was really the time to leave well enough alone. The servants had zeal but not much insight, and zeal without insight and sensitivity can be a very dangerous thing.

 The parable suggests that doing nothing can sometimes be better than doing something. Jesus may have been alerting his followers to the dangers of a certain kind of well-intentioned zeal that demanded immediate action, when patient inactivity would actually be the better option. This was the kind of zeal Jesus’ disciples showed on one occasion when Jesus was refused entry into a Samaritan village. His disciples asked him if he wanted them to call on God to rain down fire from heaven and destroy the village. No doubt the disciples considered that Samaritan village to be the equivalent of the weeds in the wheat field of today’s parable. The evangelist tells us that Jesus rebuked his disciples for their suggestion and went on his way to another village. History, even recent history, is full of the tragic consequences of the kind of attitude displayed by those disciples. It is the attitude that says that the world would be a better place without such and such a person or without such and such a group, and, therefore, the right thing to do, the godly thing to do, is to take zealous action to remove such people or such groups from the world. Weed them out! The zeal of the weed killer can be a frightening thing. Jesus perhaps warned against this kind of purifying zeal because he was well aware that such zeal is not always accompanied by insight, by the wisdom that comes from above.

 Jesus in the parable was warning us against a premature separation of the wheat from the weed, of the good from the bad. He was saying that this kind of separation is really God’s work, not our work, and that it will happen at the end of time rather than in the course of time. Just as the servants in the parable would not have been able to distinguish the wheat from the weeds if they had been let loose, we do not always have the necessary insight to distinguish who is good and who is evil. We can get it terribly wrong; we only have to think of those innocent people who have been wrongly imprisoned. How often in our own personal lives have we judged someone harshly only to discover in time that we were very wide of the mark. St. Paul put it very simply and clearly in one of his letters: ‘Do not pronounce judgement before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart’. Unfortunately, the church itself has not always heeded the warning of Jesus about the dangers of premature separation. It could be argued that the inquisition was not in the spirit of the parable that Jesus speaks in today’s gospel reading. Too great a zeal to purify the wheat field risks doing more harm than good.

  A weed-free garden may be highly desirable, but the gospel today suggests that we may have to learn to live with weeds. We need to be patient with imperfection in ourselves and in others. As we know only too well, life is not tidy. It is not like a well manicured garden, in which order and harmony prevail. Our own personal lives are not like the garden displays that win prizes at the Chelsea flower show. Each of us is a mixture of wheat and weed; we are each tainted by sin and yet touched by grace. Our calling is to grow in grace before God and others, as Jesus did. We look to him to help us to keep on turning from sin and growing in grace. St Paul assures us in today’s second reading that the Spirit helps us in our weakness. With the Spirit’s help we can grow more and more into the person of Christ and become what Paul in one of his letters calls ‘God’s field’.

And/Or

(iii) Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

  We all long for a weed-free garden. We are not convinced by the view that weeds are really only flowers in the wrong place and that we should learn to appreciate them. We see weeds as a nuisance, as something to be got rid of. Some of us may have discovered that our zeal to get rid of weeds can have unfortunate consequences. In my ignorance I once sprayed a lawn that had weeds among the grass with a weed killer. I succeeded only in killing off the grass; the weeds seemed to have got a new lease of life. In going after weeds, we can do a certain amount of unintended collateral damage.

 We can easily identify with the servants in the gospel reading who were poised to pull up the weeds that an enemy had sown in the wheat field of their master. However, the owner of the field was a more patient man. He recognized that at the early stages of growth this particular weed looked very like wheat and that it would be very difficult to distinguish between the two. In going after the weeds, the wheat would suffer too. He saw that it would be better to wait until both the weed and the wheat got much bigger and were ready for harvest. Then it would be possible to distinguish one from the other and to separate them accordingly. The owner knew that there was a time to leave well enough alone and there was a time to act. The time when the servants wanted to act was really the time to leave well enough alone. The servants had zeal but not much insight, and zeal without insight and sensitivity can be a very dangerous thing.

 The parable suggests that doing nothing can sometimes be better than doing something. Jesus may have been alerting his followers to the dangers of a certain kind of well-intentioned zeal that demanded immediate action, when patient inactivity would actually be the better option. This was the kind of zeal Jesus’ disciples showed on one occasion when Jesus was refused entry into a Samaritan village. His disciples asked him if he wanted them to call on God to rain down fire from heaven and destroy the village. No doubt the disciples considered that Samaritan village to be the equivalent of the weeds in the wheat field of today’s parable. The evangelist tells us that Jesus rebuked his disciples for their suggestion and went on his way to another village. History, even recent history, is full of the tragic consequences of the kind of attitude displayed by those disciples. It is the attitude that says that the world would be a better place without such and such a person or without such and such a group, and, therefore, the right thing to do, the godly thing to do, is to take zealous action to remove such people or such groups from the world. Weed them out! The zeal of the weed killer can be a frightening thing. Jesus perhaps warned against this kind of purifying zeal because he was well aware that such zeal is not always accompanied by insight, by the wisdom that comes from above.

 Jesus in the parable was warning us against a premature separation of the wheat from the weed, of the good from the bad. He was saying that this kind of separation is really God’s work, not our work, and that it will happen at the end of time rather than in the course of time. Just as the servants in the parable would not have been able to distinguish the wheat from the weeds if they had been let loose, we do not always have the necessary insight to distinguish who is good and who is evil. We can get it terribly wrong; we only have to think of those innocent people who have been wrongly imprisoned. How often in our own personal lives have we judged someone harshly only to discover in time that we were very wide of the mark. St. Paul put it very simply and clearly in one of his letters: ‘Do not pronounce judgement before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart’. Unfortunately, the church itself has not always heeded the warning of Jesus about the dangers of premature separation. It could be argued that the inquisition was not in the spirit of the parable that Jesus speaks in today’s gospel reading. Too great a zeal to purify the wheat field risks doing more harm than good.

 A weed-free garden may be highly desirable, but the gospel today suggests that we may have to learn to live with weeds. We need to be patient with imperfection in ourselves and in others. As we know only too well, life is not tidy. It is not like a well manicured garden, in which order and harmony prevail. Our own personal lives are not like the garden displays that win prizes at the Chelsea flower show. Each of us is a mixture of wheat and weed; we are each tainted by sin and yet touched by grace. Our calling is to grow in grace before God and others, as Jesus did. We look to him to help us to keep on turning from sin and growing in grace. St Paul assures us in today’s second reading that the Spirit helps us in our weakness. With the Spirit’s help we can grow more and more into the person of Christ and become what Paul in one of his letters calls ‘God’s field’.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Taylor you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Daisy Hookum!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Taylor lovely, your applications are always so full of beautiful characterizations and complexities (as is your writing in general) that it is a joy to get them and read through everything you provide! I adored Daisy from when you first played her in the rp and it’s so wonderful to think about having her back on the dash and to see you explore her character further! We can’t wait to see what you do with her and how she’s going to change as the war progresses! 

application beneath the cut (tw: Death)

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

It’s Taylor! Currently 18 and residing in the midwest, in good ol’ CST and using female pronouns.

ACTIVITY

Er – well, currently around a six or seven out of ten, weekly? I have real life responsibilities of course, and dearest Marlene, but I try to generate about four replies weekly. Of course this depends on circumstance but for the most part I can stay caught up with little issue.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Originally, I think it was somewhere in an Andromeda Black tag way back in December. But I’ve been here nearly a year now!

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Okay, don’t judge, and I’m sure this isn’t a great surprise but - Draco. I’ve been immensely attached to him for years now, for a variety of reasons, and I just have a lot of feelings. But also, Harry and Ron as well - for a very recurring theme we don’t need to get into, just know I love them all very much.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nothing that wouldn’t absolutely just be my singing praise, which really I do enough as it is.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Daisy Grace Hookum.

Her mother, Jocelyn, was a Muggle with a deep fondness for The Great Gatsby, and chose to name her only child accordingly. However, Daisy’s middle name was a hopeful sort of gesture from her parents, a suggestion and prayer that she would grow up to be eloquent and beautiful in all forms throughout her life.

FACE CLAIM

Katherine McNamara will always be my first choice for Miss Daisy.

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I tried.  I really, really tried to bid her ado, to tuck her away and move on but it’s proven impossible. Daisy is, and will always be, my first love, a part of me that is unshakable  - it’s that easy.

And oh man, oh man. How do I even begin to describe the deep rooted love and affection I hold for Daisy Hookum? She was my first character in CRT, and the first character in a Marauders rp that I truly fell in love with. I had dabbled with others before of course, but none enough that truly struck the way that Daisy did. She was the first character I understood without fault, that I could question and push and she would push back – I grew so much as a writer during my time with her and I know she has so much more to teach me.

She’s such a gentle, kind soul. Raised to have courage and be kind in all strokes of life, Daisy strives to do exactly that; she’s incapable of hate, because there has never been any reason for it. Even after the traumatic, devastating murder of her parents in the new year, Daisy cannot bring herself to hate the Death Eaters. Then again – she doesn’t know what truly caused such a horrendous crime to take place. If she did, it is completely possible that the tables would be turned, but well, she doesn’t. That in itself is an incredibly important facet to her personality, to her humanity; at nineteen to be faced with such a brutal loss is a hardship that I, thank the heavens, have never had to personally experience. To be so young and in the midst of way, to feel so wholly alone must be terrifying. It takes a toll on even the brightest rays of sunshine, which Daisy truly is.

But trauma is not all there is to a person, and there is a love and passion for the written word that was instilled into Daisy by her mother by such an incredibly young age that it is not just a passion, it is a very important facet of who she is. While she doesn’t believe her writing to be any good, it is her safe space, therapy from the world.

Her place in Aversio is one that is to be questioned. She doesn’t get her hands dirty, nor does she truly condone the things that they do – but she’s frightened of the Order. That is what it comes down to, the true reason she never joined. Members of the Order are brave, willing to take risks, be hurt. And while Aversio is very similar, they’re a bit more reckless, and therefore she is more capable of being hidden in the shadows. It has nothing to do with cowardice, it’s fear. Fear that she isn’t a good enough witch, not strong enough to hold her own, not magically, not emotionally. The self doubt is crippling.

But she’s strong, oh lord, is she strong. She has the temper of a red-head, even if it is very seldom seen to the naked eye. Very often Daisy hides her emotions, buries them in fear of becoming too much for someone to handle. But there is nothing she does not feel so strongly that it sometimes pains her in the most powerful of ways. Sometimes it feels as if she may combust with the pressure of it all. Especially now, with the loss of her parents. Moreso than anything else, Daisy is predominately lost now. Protecting her mother was her sole intent behind every motive, in the war, in life. And without her here, Daisy isn’t entirely sure where she stands; a typical teenage emotion, in a much more mature version of life.

There are so many layers to this character, things I still discover now, even after having parted with her. I love her with all of my heart and would be so grateful to write her beautiful mind again.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Sexuality is not something Daisy thinks of, per se, for no reason other than it truly just makes her uncomfortable. Wildly unfamiliar with her own body and personal preferences, the concept of sex isn’t something that bodes well. Never having explored sexual experiences in the past, Daisy often considers the idea as something her body has now become incapable of such acts. However that aside, Daisy is truly demisexual. It takes true emotional connection to become sexually attracted to anyone, but Daisy isn’t convinced she’s ever experienced as much. But this does not specify female/male preference; when it comes down to it, Daisy sees people. That’s all.

Okay. Let me preface this by saying that Daisy views gender primarily on a spectrum more than anything else. There are those who identify as men, as women, and then a very broad area gray shades in the middle. She, predominately, is genderfluid but generally uses female pronouns. This is in part due to the time; they/them pronouns were not widely used in the 70s, and Daisy is not all that aware of her true gender identity. This meaning, Daisy goes between feeling predominantly feminine to out of place in her female body, almost uncomfortably so, almost as if she would feel better to be detached from the sex she was born with. It is something that confuses her greatly, that she does not very often think of - well, that she admits to - but it is always present in some way or form. Whether she knows it or not.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

Oh boy, oh boy.

Aesthetic1

Aesthetic2

Mock Blog

Pinterest Board

Caring (adjective) - displaying kindness and concern for others; there is not a bone in Daisy’s body that is not built on love. It is almost impossible for her first reaction to anyone to not care more about them and how they are doing, no matter what is going on in her own life. Daisy just wants others to be happy, and okay. Her heart is truly too big for her body, so much that it sometimes feels as if she might die from the weight of it all. Especially, and almost exclusively, when she is suffering - or if someone she cares for is.

Imaginative (adjective) - having or showing creativity and inventiveness; from the earliest days of the capabilities, Daisy has been writing. Creating ideas that simply won’t stay within her head, things that must be released onto paper. They strike at any moment and very rarely do they ever leave her be until the moment comes that she can release and truly do something with them. Otherwise they tend to circle through her mind like a carousel or broken record, repeating and growing, until something is done with them.

Timid (adjective) - showing a lack of courage or confidence; hoo boy, if there ever was a hamartia. A very prominent problem with Daisy is the fact that she doesn’t understand how strong she truly is. If she would only tap into her grief and pain, and true abilities more than just being ordinary Daisy could truly be extraordinary. She already is of course, but too afraid of rejection and criticism to realize it’s so close to her fingertips, so easy to reach out and grip. Daisy has a particularly hard time understanding that in the midst of war, especially, softness is strength. There is too much fear, too much self doubt that it is crippling at times, but so deeply embedded into the very core of being.

Reserved (adjective) - slow to reveal emotion or opinions; really, it all goes back to Daisy’s strong, innate desire to please others. It takes a very specific person for Daisy to feel safe enough to express opinion without fear of being shut down - so few of these exist they can be counted on one hand, and even fewer than truly see her angry.  It comes down to fear, and feeling safe. She had it once, at home. But with the loss of her mother and father it has become even more scarce than before, if possible. She puts others first, always, no matter how many times she is told not to.

Unsteady - X Ambassador Hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady

Moondust - Jaymes Young I long to hear your voice But still  I make the choice To burn my love In the moondust

Jack and Jill - Katie Herzig She wore that dress Like it was a Saturday Pretty as a summer rose Picked in the morning Time ticked away, the way That it will

Turn it Off - Paramore I scraped my knees while I was praying And found a demon in my safest haven, seems like The tragedy, it seems unending I’m watching everyone I looked up to break and bending We’re taking shortcuts and false solutions Just to come out the hero

Beauty Queen - Ben’s Brother And her eyes shouldn’t have Blurred my vision I know that she, oh she Was a beauty queen And if you’re gonna cry Don’t cry for me

If You Could See Me Now - The Script (for her parents, rip) I’m trying to make you proud Do everything you did I hope you’re up there with God Saying ‘that’s my kid!’ Would you stand in disgrace or take a bow Oh, if you could see me now

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it: “Something to…help see what the most likely outcome of a situation would be.” Daisy said, a small nod of certainty following the words after a moment of quiet consideration. A moment to really think about it. “I have absolutely no idea what I could possibly name that, but it would be quite helpful.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you: “Oh, that’s easy. Andromeda, and a flashlight. A bit of bravery, something to provide a vast amount of light. And then I would just have to hope Andy would know a spell to help keep us shielded.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make? “The kind where someone could get hurt. Which I guess are…a lot of decisions these days.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you? “That I…that I’m a failure,” it caught in her throat, the words. Thick and painful, almost like swallowing a cauldron cake whole. “Especially to Dora. I don’t think I could take it.”

WRITING SAMPLE

Warning: this is an old para I wrote for Daisy and for this case, I must prepare for the angst monster that exists in terms of Taylor.

Things had felt wrong all day. New Year’s Eve had come to pass, and Daisy couldn’t help the dread that swarmed in the pit of her stomach. It should have been expected, really – what with the events of the previous evening. The witch had yet to hear from any of her friends, to find that they were okay. But still…something felt off.

It had been the first holiday season Daisy had spent with no contact to her family. As horrible and painful as it was, the decision had felt like a necessity. She had spent months fighting her father. Begging him to help her master Fidelius, to protect her mother, only to be told no, again and again. If only she thought she could do it on her own, she would have…but she couldn’t.

Christmas and New Year’s had been increasingly lonely. Most of it had been spent in her tiny apartment with her cat, or at Aversio meetings, trying to remind herself why she had entered a place in the war in the first place.

Perhaps the loneliness was what left her waking up on the first of the new year with such a hollow ache in her chest. Or maybe it was the fact that now marked two months since she had returned home, had any contact with her parents at all. The truth of it was, Merlin, did she miss her mother. Her gentle eyes, and warm heart and the way she seemed to just calm the realities of what was happening.

Hours seemed to pass, simply sitting in her bed, frowning to herself, tiny grey kitten mewing quietly in her lap. Snow drifted down outside the window, cheerful chattering echoing up from the streets as London emerged into a new year. Once the afternoon sun shifted in the sky, only then did Daisy realized she had wasted so much of the day…realized that she still had yet to hear from her friends.

Impulse took over, blinding her, accompanied only by the desperate need she had to be in Jocelyn Hookum’s embrace again. To be promised that everything would be okay, if only for a moment – to be with her mother.  Preparing best she could, Daisy soon Apparated to her family’s home.

The house was still - just enough that Daisy hesitated on the doorstep, unsure of if either her mother or father were truly home. Regardless, she allowed herself in, stepping carefully through the house, unease spreading over her. Even in the January afternoon, the house was dark. It was still.

As she reached the sitting room, the dread, the unease she’d felt for months and even through the morning had nothing on the agony that replaced it all. There, lying on the floor, paled and cold, was her mother. A devastated scream burst from Daisy’s lungs, ringing out so badly that all else seemed to have faded away. There was nothing to give her the indication that she was still moving.

Her small frame dropped down next to her mother’s corpse, tears flooding out of her green eyes at such a speed that it was nearly impossible to see. Breathing had all but ceased. Several pained moments of sobbing later, she finally noticed her father, crumpled dead only feet away.

“No,” she cried, incapable of thought, of anything but just pain as she remained on the ground, desperately wishing for it all to be a cruel nightmare, knowing that there was no waking up.

#Accepted App

[gracewithducks]

“Learn to find the Lord in the everyday ordinary life.” - Josemaria Escriva (Romans 12:1-2 MSG)

This spring, I picked up a book on a whim… and it was the kind of book that wormed its way into me, as books sometimes do. It’s a book by Barbara Mahany called, “Motherprayer: Lessons in Loving.” Mahany shares, with beauty and honesty, how the ordinary stuff of being a mom has informed her understanding of God, and love, and faith, and grace. I highly recommend this book to you, and I especially encourage you to look up the chapter called “Sacramental Supper: On Holy Communion at the Kitchen Table.”

 She writes: 

 “It was the sort of day-after-hubbub when quiet invited me in for a long, slow visit. Nothing rushed about the day. A day to breathe deep, breathe slow. To fill my lungs with quiet prayers, the prayers of lavishing love on the ones so dear to me, the ones who deserve nothing less than the very best dinner I could chop and stir and taste-test along the way. And while I’m at it, why not take it up a zany notch? Just because there’s never enough oomph in an ordinary day. And what day, really, deserves to be plain old ordinary?

“By suppertime… Before I’d said a word, the stovetop’s incense was deep at work. The house was filled with something holy, for what else can you call it when you claim a whole long day to aim for higher?

“To say in smell and taste and temperature and touch what words alone just might not say: “You are worth it to me to spend a whole day cooking just for you. I’ve not lost sight of my holiest calling, to carve out a hallowed space here in this place of walls and windows and creaky floors and solid roof, to be the one reliable source of all that’s good, that’s edifying. To fill you with warm spoonfuls – as much as you want, there’s plenty here. And I’ve made it beautiful because you are, because beauty speaks to the deep-down whole of us. And you so richly deserve every morsel I can muster.

“The day was chilly brisk. I did what I could to make the kitchen glow, the holy light of heaven here on earth. And to fill those who came to the chairs at long day’s end.

“Far as I can tell, that’s a sacrament, a sign of the sacred. With a flat splat of butter drooling off the plate.”

  I wager, friends, you’ll never look at a beef stew the same way again.

 We’ve been spending time this fall with some of the superstars of the faith – with saints, with men and women who’ve stared down injustice, who’ve founded schools and changed governments and rescued children and faced martyrdom. And while it’s been inspiring, I hope, there are also times when these men and women can seem so far removed from our own lives – like they are larger-than-life heroes for Christ, who kept the faith and persevered in pivotal moments, while I’m just over here trying to make sure my kids don’t punch each other and that they eat a little protein and maybe even a vegetable before they pull the M&M’s out of the cupboard.

 Most of us aren’t trying to figure out what to do with an inheritance of millions. Most of us were never kidnapped into slavery, trying to forgive our captors. Most of us have never been imprisoned because we spoke up against apartheid; and I don’t think any one of us has had to try to figure out how to praise God and love our neighbors in a concentration camp.

 Does that mean, then, that our lives are any less important? Does that mean that the stuff we do doesn’t matter?

 I don’t think so. I really don’t. Because that’s not how God works; that’s not how the kingdom of God works. The God who called fishermen and tax collectors, the God who fed crowds with a sack lunch, the God who talked about the last and the least and mustard seeds of faith, who took water and bread and wine and made them holy – that’s a God who values ordinary things, and ordinary people, and ordinary lives, and who uses them – uses us – to do extraordinary things.

 And that’s the message that today’s saint, Josemaria Escriva, is remembered for. Escriva dedicated his life to the idea that everyone – laity and clergy alike, everyone is called by God, everyone is called to live a holy life, and even ordinary lives are holy ones.

 And compared with some of the stories we’ve heard this fall, Escriva’s is a relatively unimpressive one. He was born in Spain the second of six children, the son of a merchant. When his father’s business went bankrupt, the family moved and his father took up a job as a clerk in a clothing store. Young Josemaria began to feel that he was “chosen for something” and, with his family’s blessing, studied and prepared for leadership in the church. And while praying, he “saw” his life’s work, in equipping all people to live holy lives, no matter what shape their life might take. He is remembered as a humble, energetic leader, a man who embraced each present moment, expecting to find God there.

 Josemaria Escriva said, “Either we learn to find the Lord in the ordinary everyday life or else we shall never find [the Lord at all]…. God is calling you to serve Him in and from the ordinary, secular and civil activities of human life. He waits for us every day, in the laboratory, in the operating theater, in the army barracks, in the university chair, in the factory, in the workshop, in the fields, in the home and in all the immense panorama of work... Understand this: there is something holy, something divine, hidden in the most ordinary of situations, and it is up to each one of you to discover it…”

 There is something sacred in every day – because God is there; in every day, we have an opportunity to love God and to love and serve our neighbors. The trick is learning to see it: to recognize God’s presence, to recognize the opportunities that are before us, and to believe that there is no such thing as an ordinary day any more than there is an ordinary person – every one matters.

 Over my years of ministry, I’ve had the opportunity to sit with many families as they celebrate the lives of their loved ones. And more and more, it’s affirmed in me that there is no one way to live a good and faithful life. I’ve stood surrounded by medals and trophies; I’ve stood in rooms full of people in suits with titles and in rooms full of children with scuffed knees and runny noses; I’ve celebrated lives of men and women with more letters after their names than I could remember, and men and women who never finished high school, because life got in the way… I’ve celebrated war heroes and business owners and teachers and moms… and I am reminded, again and again, that it’s all holy, and it all matters: whether we’re establishing foundations and building legacies or whether our legacy consists in years and years of beef stew and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches… when it’s done with love, it all matters; none of it is wasted, and nothing we do, for the sake of our love for God or our love for others, nothing is empty, or ordinary, or lost.

 In just a few weeks, we will be celebrating All Saints Sunday: we will be pausing to remember the saints of this community, the people who’ve impacted our lives… and they’ve done so in many ways. And at the same time, on that same day, we’ll be bringing our own commitments, our pledges, to serve God and love our neighbors in the coming year. And I hope that you’ll remember, that we will all remember and believe, that every life, every offering, every little bit really does make a big difference.

 Your time matters. Your gifts matter. Your life matters. You are more powerful than you might ever know.

 In our scripture for today, Paul writes to the Roman Christians, and he says, “Here’s what I want you to do, with God’s help: Take your everyday, ordinary life – your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life – and offer it to God.” This is the same letter that has given us our theme for this fall: We are all “beloved by God and called to be saints.” Because a saint, after all, is just someone who loves God and loves others, as best they can, every single day, over and over again. And through our lives, faithfully lived, hope is shared, and the world is transformed.

 It all matters. May you learn to recognize God’s presence in all your ordinary moments: may your everyday be an expression of persistent and patient love; may you truly believe that it all matters.

  God of our waking, God of our resting, God of our work, God of our play, God of our big days, God of our everydays, be with us through it all. May our lives be a living, daily expression of our faith in you; in Christ’s name we pray. Amen.

-----

Barbara Mahany’s amazing book is available many places, including here:

https://www.cokesbury.com/product/9781501827273/motherprayer/?rank=2&txtSearchQuery=motherprayer

[fear-god-shun-evil]

Devotional Diary: How to Know God? There’s a Key Question

January 10, 2018 Wednesday Overcast

When practicing spiritual devotion after getting up this morning, I saw these words in the Bible, “And it came to pass, that when Jesus had finished these parables, he departed there. And when he was come into his own country, he taught them in their synagogue, so that they were astonished, and said, From where has this man this wisdom, and these mighty works? Is not this the carpenter’s son? is not his mother called Mary? and his brothers, James, and Joses, and Simon, and Judas? And his sisters, are they not all with us? From where then has this man all these things? And they were offended in him. But Jesus said to them, A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country, and in his own house” (Matthew 13:53-57). Then I turned to the Book of Luke, chapter 4, which also records the matter that the Lord Jesus was rejected by people when preaching in the synagogue of His hometown: “And all they in the synagogue, when they heard these things, were filled with wrath, And rose up, and thrust him out of the city, and led him to the brow of the hill where on their city was built, that they might cast him down headlong” (Luke 4:28-29).

These passages of the scriptures allowed me to see a fact: The people in the Lord Jesus’ hometown all thought the Lord Jesus standing before them was an ordinary person and was the son of the carpenter Joseph; they didn’t believe the Lord Jesus was the Christ, the Messiah. With this in mind, I couldn’t help but fall thinking: If we had been born in the Age of Grace, when we saw the Lord Jesus standing before us, who was an ordinary and normal person on the outside and also lived and ate with people, would we have also denied and rejected Him as these people had done? It’s really hard to say!

January 12, 2018 Friday Cloudy

After getting home from work this evening, I opened the Bible and wanted to see who in the Bible recognized the Lord Jesus was the coming Messiah and how they made it. When turning to the Book of John, I saw the conversations between the Lord Jesus and the Samaritan woman: “Jesus answered and said to her, Whoever drinks of this water shall thirst again: But whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life. The woman said to him, Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come here to draw. Jesus said to her, Go, call your husband, and come here. The woman answered and said, I have no husband. Jesus said to her, You have well said, I have no husband: For you have had five husbands; and he whom you now have is not your husband: in that said you truly” (John 4:13-18). “The woman then left her water pot, and went her way into the city, and said to the men, Come, see a man, which told me all things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?” (John 4:28-29). When seeing the Lord Jesus for the first moment, the Samaritan woman also thought He was a common Jew. But when the Lord Jesus said she had five husbands, as she felt the secret hidden within her heart was something that nobody could know and that only God inspects people’s hearts and knows people’s secrets, she recognized from the words of the Lord Jesus that He was the Christ, the coming Messiah.

Then I turned to the Book of John, chapter 1, and read verses 45-49, “Philip finds Nathanael, and said to him, We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph. And Nathanael said to him, Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth? Philip said to him, Come and see. Jesus saw Nathanael coming to him, and said of him, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile! Nathanael said to him, From where know you me? Jesus answered and said to him, Before that Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you. Nathanael answered and said to him, Rabbi, you are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel.” These scriptures again put me in a thoughtful mood: When hearing of the Lord Jesus, Nathanael was of the view that Nazareth was a small town, so there might never have been a famous people. As a result, he didn’t believe a word of what Philip said. However, after the Lord Jesus talked with him, to his surprise, the Lord Jesus could actually see through his thoughts and speak out his true identity. Because of this, he firmly believed that the Lord Jesus was just the coming Messiah, and then he followed the Lord.

Pondering these scriptures, I suddenly saw the light: Both the Samaritan woman and Nathanael heard and knew the voice of God from the words of the Lord Jesus, thus recognizing the Lord Jesus was the Christ. It seems that in our belief in God the most important thing is to pay attention to Christ’s words and work. If we only look at Christ’s appearance, it will be quite easy for us to deny and oppose Him. Thank the Lord! I’ve gained a lot through reading the Bible today, which allowed me to have some practical paths of how to welcome the coming of the Lord.

February 8, 2018 Thursday Sunny

Today, on my way back home after work, I met my old school friend—Lin Tao unexpectedly. He is also a Christian. We chatted for a while. When we talked about our own spiritual condition, he gave me a book. I asked him in great surprise, “What book is this?” He replied with a smile, “The words in this book can resolve problems that we have when it comes to our faith in God. After getting back home, you can have a look, and then you will know it.” I happily took the book and then went home.

After getting home, I began to read it eagerly. Then I saw the following passage, “If man sees only His external appearance, and overlooks His substance, then that shows the ignorance and naivety of man. External appearance does not determine substance; what’s more, the work of God has never conformed with the conceptions of man. Did not the outward appearance of Jesus conflict with the conceptions of man? Were not His appearance and dress unable to provide any clues as to His true identity? Was not the reason why the earliest Pharisees opposed Jesus because they merely looked at His external appearance, and did not take to heart the words that He spoke?” (Preface). After reading these words, I was extremely astonished, for they have spoken of the underlying reason why the people of that time resisted the Lord Jesus. At that time, the Lord Jesus came to work as an ordinary and normal image of the Son of man. Just looking at the surface, He was an ordinary normal person. Besides, what the people then saw was that He had not only parents but also brothers and sisters, etc. It was because they only focused on His outward appearance that they began to wantonly convict, reject and blaspheme Him, and in the end, they nailed Him to the cross, committing a heinous crime. Nevertheless, the Samaritan woman and Nathanael heard the Lord Jesus’ words were extraordinary—being able to expose things hidden in people’s hearts, and as a result, they recognized that He had come from God. In addition, other disciples who followed the Lord Jesus also saw that His words and work had authority and power and came from God; thus they recognized that He was the Christ, the coming Messiah, thereby following the footsteps of the Lamb.

Thinking of this, I suddenly recalled what the Lord Jesus said, “I have yet many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. However, when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he will guide you into all truth: for he shall not speak of himself; but whatever he shall hear, that shall he speak: and he will show you things to come” (John 16:12-13). These scriptures showed: At that point, the Lord Jesus still had something else to say, but the people couldn’t receive or bear them, due to their small spiritual stature, so He didn’t speak out; when the Lord comes in the last days, He will expose every truth and mystery, letting people know and understand them. Now the prophecies regarding the return of the Lord have basically all been fulfilled. In the matter of welcoming the coming of the Lord, I remembered the Lord said, “And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom comes; go you out to meet him” (Matthew 25:6). So, in the last days, when people testify that the Lord has returned, I need to be the wise virgin to focus on listening to the voice of “Bridegroom” and to actively investigate and differentiate God’s voice; otherwise, I’ll be liable to miss the opportunity to be lifted up upon the Lord’s return, becoming the foolish virgin who is abandoned and eliminated by the Lord. At that time, it will be too late to regret.

Then I read the following passage, “Since we are searching for the footprints of God, we must search for God’s will, for the words of God, for the utterances of God—for where there are the new words of God, there is the voice of God, and where there are the footsteps of God, there are the deeds of God. Where there is the expression of God, there is the appearance of God, and where there is the appearance of God, there exists the truth, the way, and the life. While seeking the footprints of God, you ignored the words that ‘God is the truth, the way, and the life.’ So when many people receive the truth, they do not believe that they have found the footprints of God and much less acknowledge the appearance of God. What a serious error that is! The appearance of God cannot be reconciled with the conceptions of man, much less can God appear at the behest of man. God makes His own choices and has His own plans when He does His work; moreover, He has His own objectives, and His own methods. It is not necessary for Him to discuss the work He does with man or to seek the advice of man, much less notify each and every person of His work. This is the disposition of God and, moreover, should be recognized by everyone” (“The Appearance of God Has Brought a New Age”).

Contemplating these words, I felt them so deep and meaningful. Right! God is almighty and God’s wisdom is above the heavens. He will have His own plan and choice when He does His work. He doesn’t need to ask us men for advice and He doesn’t even need to explain to us in advance. Moreover, the appearance of God will certainly not fall in line with our thinking. Take, for example, the work of the Lord Jesus in the Age of Grace. The prophecy said very clearly, “Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel” (Matthew 1:23). But when the Lord came, He was called Jesus; furthermore, He put on an ordinary mortal flesh to do His work. If man didn’t seek the truth in his heart, it would be really hard for him to accept. The words in that book clearly tell us that to seek the footprints of God and to welcome the Lord’s return, we must pay attention to seeking the new words of God and hearing God’s voice. No matter what God says or in what ways He works, we ought to maintain an attitude of seeking and obedience and can’t analyze and research them based on our notions. This is the only attitude that every person who truly believes in the Lord ought to possess. Just as the Bible says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 5:3). “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). It is thus clear that if we wish to welcome the Lord’s return, we have to seek the truth humbly; only in this way can we obtain God’s enlightenment and illumination and see the appearance and work of God.

#the Son of man #son of god #Lord Jesus #The Bible

[focusontheeasternlightning-blog]

7. How Can One Understand That Christ Is the Truth, the Way, and the Life?

Bible Verses for Reference:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God (Jhn 1:1-2).

And the Word was made flesh, and dwelled among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth (Jhn 1:14).

I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man comes to the Father, but by me (Jhn 14:6).

The words that I speak to you, they are spirit, and they are life (Jhn 6:63).

Relevant Words of God:

The way of life is not something that can be possessed by just anyone, nor is it easily obtainable by all. That is because life can only come from God, which is to say, only God Himself possesses the substance of life, there is no way of life without God Himself, and so only God is the source of life, and the ever-flowing wellspring of living water of life. From when He created the world, God has done much work involving the vitality of life, has done much work that brings life to man, and has paid a great price so that man might gain life, for God Himself is eternal life, and God Himself is the way by which man is resurrected. … God’s life force can prevail over any power; moreover, it exceeds any power. His life is eternal, His power extraordinary, and His life force not easily overwhelmed by any created being or enemy force. The life force of God exists, and shines its brilliant radiance, regardless of time or place. God’s life remains forever unchanged throughout the upheavals of heaven and earth. All things pass away, but God’s life still remains, for God is the source of the existence of all things, and the root of their existence. Man’s life originates from God, the existence of the heaven is because of God, and the existence of the earth stems from the power of God’s life. No object possessed of vitality can transcend the sovereignty of God, and no thing with vigor can break away from the ambit of God’s authority. In this way, regardless of who they are, everyone must submit under the dominion of God, everyone must live under God’s command, and no one can escape from His control.

…………

Christ of the last days brings life, and brings the enduring and everlasting way of truth. This truth is the path through which man shall gain life, and the only path by which man shall know God and be approved by God.

from “Only Christ of the Last Days Can Give Man the Way of Eternal Life” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

This time, God comes to do work not in a spiritual body but in a very ordinary one. Not only is it the body of God’s second incarnation, but also the body in which God returns. It is a very ordinary flesh. In Him, you cannot see anything that is different from others, but you can receive from Him the truths you have never heard before. This insignificant flesh is the embodiment of all the words of truth from God, that which undertakes God’s work in the last days, and an expression of the whole of God’s disposition for man to come to know. Did you not desire greatly to see the God in heaven? Did you not desire greatly to understand the God in heaven? Did you not desire greatly to see the destination of mankind? He will tell you all these secrets that no man has been able to tell you, and He will even tell you of the truths that you do not understand. He is your gate into the kingdom, and your guide into the new age. Such an ordinary flesh holds many unfathomable mysteries. His deeds may be inscrutable to you, but the goal of all the work He does is sufficient for you to see that He is not a simple flesh as man believes. For He represents the will of God as well as the care shown by God toward mankind in the last days. Though you cannot hear the words He speaks that seem to shake the heavens and earth or see His eyes like blazing flames, and though you cannot feel the discipline of His iron rod, you can hear from His words the fury of God and know that God shows compassion for mankind; you can see the righteous disposition of God and His wisdom, and moreover, realize the concern and care that God has for all mankind. The work of God in the last days is to allow man to see the God in heaven live among men on earth, and to enable man to come to know, obey, revere, and love God. This is why He has returned to flesh for a second time. …

… All you have this day is because of this flesh. It is because God lives in the flesh that you have the chance to live. All this good fortune has been gained because of this ordinary man. Not only this, but in the end every nation shall worship this ordinary man, as well as give thanks to and obey this insignificant man. Because it is He who has brought the truth, the life, and the way to save all mankind, ease the conflict between God and man, bring God and man closer together, and communicate thoughts between God and man. It is also He who has brought even greater glory to God. Is not an ordinary man such as this worthy of your trust and adoration? Is such an ordinary flesh not fit to be called Christ? Can such an ordinary man not be the expression of God among men? Is not such a man who helps mankind be spared disaster worthy of your love and for you to hold? If you reject the truths uttered from His mouth and also detest His existence among you, then what will be your fate?

from “Do You Know? God Has Done a Great Thing Among Men” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

And yet it is this ordinary person hidden among people who is doing the new work of saving us. He does not clarify anything for us, nor does He tell us why He has come. He merely does the work He intends to do in steps, and according to His plan. His words and utterances become ever more frequent. From consoling, exhorting, reminding, and warning, to reproaching and disciplining; from a tone that is gentle and kind, to words that are fierce and majestic—they all instill both compassion and trepidation in man. Everything that He says hits home at the secrets hidden deep within us, His words sting our hearts, sting our spirits, and leave us ashamed and humiliated. …

Unbeknownst to us, this insignificant man has led us into step after step of God’s work. We undergo countless trials, are subjected to innumerable chastenings, and tested by death. We learn of God’s righteous and majestic disposition, enjoy, too, His love and compassion, come to appreciate God’s great power and wisdom, witness the loveliness of God, and behold God’s eager desire to save man. In the words of this ordinary person, we come to know the disposition and substance of God, come to understand God’s will, come to know the nature and substance of man, and see the way of salvation and perfection. His words cause us to die, and cause us to be reborn; His words bring us comfort, yet also leave us wracked with guilt and a sense of indebtedness; His words bring us joy and peace, but also great pain. Sometimes we are as lambs to the slaughter in His hands; sometimes we are like the apple of His eye, and enjoy His love and affection; sometimes we are like His enemy, turned to ashes by His wrath in His eyes. We are the mankind saved by Him, we are the maggots in His eyes, and we are the lost lambs that He thinks of finding day and night. He is merciful toward us, He despises us, He raises us up, He comforts and exhorts us, He guides us, He enlightens us, He chastens and disciplines us, and He even curses us. He worries for us night and day, He protects and cares for us night and day, He never leaves our side, and He devotes all His care to us and pays any price for us. Among the words of this small and ordinary flesh, we have enjoyed the entirety of God, and beheld the destination that God has bestowed upon us. …

The utterance of God continues, and He employs various methods and perspectives to admonish us what to do and express His heart’s voice. His words carry life power, and show us the way we should walk, and allow us to understand what the truth is. We start to be drawn to His words, we begin to focus on the tone and manner of His speaking, and subconsciously begin to take an interest in the heart’s voice of this unremarkable person. He makes painstaking efforts for us, loses sleep and appetite for us, weeps for us, sighs for us, groans in sickness for us, suffers humiliation for the sake of our destination and salvation, and His heart bleeds and sheds tears for our numbness and rebelliousness. Such being and possessions of His are beyond an ordinary person, and cannot be possessed or attained by any of the corrupted. He has tolerance and patience possessed by no ordinary person, and His love is not possessed by any created being. No one apart from Him can know all of our thoughts, or have such a grasp of our nature and substance, or judge the rebelliousness and corruption of mankind, or speak to us and work among us like this on behalf of the God of heaven. No one except for Him can possess the authority, wisdom, and dignity of God; the disposition of God and what He has and is are issued forth, in their entirety, from Him. No one apart from Him can show us the way and bring us light. No one apart from Him can reveal the mysteries God has not disclosed from creation until today. No one apart from Him can save us from Satan’s bondage and our corrupt disposition. He represents God, and expresses the heart’s voice of God, the exhortations of God, and the words of judgment of God toward all mankind. He has begun a new age, a new era, and brought a new heaven and earth, new work, and He has brought us hope, and ended the life we led in vagueness, and allowed us to fully behold the path of salvation. He has conquered our whole being, and gained our hearts. From that moment onward, our minds become conscious, and our spirits seem to be revived: This ordinary, insignificant person, who lives among us and has long been rejected by us—is He not the Lord Jesus, who is ever in our thoughts, and whom we long for night and day? It is He! It’s really Him! He is our God! He is the truth, the way, and the life! He has allowed us to live again, to see the light, and has stopped our hearts from wandering. We have returned to the home of God, we have returned before His throne, we are face-to-face with Him, we have witnessed His countenance, and have seen the road ahead.

from “Beholding the Appearance of God in His Judgment and Chastisement” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

In the Age of Kingdom, God uses the word to usher in a new age, to change the method of His work, and to do the work for the entire age. This is the principle by which God works in the Age of Word. He became flesh to speak from different perspectives, enabling man to truly see God, who is the Word appearing in the flesh, and His wisdom and wondrousness. Such work is done in order better to achieve the goals of conquering man, perfecting man, and eliminating man. This is the true meaning of using the word to work in the Age of Word. Through the word, man comes to know the work of God, the disposition of God, the essence of man, and what man ought to enter into. Through the word, the work God wishes to do in the Age of Word is brought to fruition in its entirety. Through the word, man is revealed, eliminated, and tried. Man has seen the word, heard the word, and become aware of the existence of the word. As a result, he believes in the existence of God, in the omnipotence and wisdom of God, as well as in God’s love for man and His desire to save man. Though the word “word” is simple and ordinary, the word from the mouth of the incarnate God shakes up the entire universe; it transforms man’s heart, notions, and old disposition, and the way the whole world used to appear. Through the ages, only the God of today works in this manner, and only He speaks thus and comes to save man thus. From this time forward, man lives under the guidance of the word, shepherded and supplied by the word. All humanity has come to live in the world of the word, within the curses and the blessings of God’s word, and even more of them have come to live under the judgment and chastisement of the word. These words and this work are all for the sake of man’s salvation, for the sake of fulfilling God’s will, and for the sake of changing the original appearance of the world of old creation. God created the world with the word, leads men from all over the universe with the word, and again conquers and saves them with the word. Finally, He shall use the word to bring the entire world of old to an end. Only then is the management plan wholly complete.

from “The Age of Kingdom Is the Age of Word” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

Today, God has become flesh primarily in order to complete the work of “the Word appearing in the flesh,” to use the word to make man perfect, and make man accept the dealing of the word and the refinement of the word. In His words He causes you to gain provision and gain life; in His words, you see His work and deeds. God uses the word to chastise and refine you, and thus if you suffer hardship, it is also because of the word of God. Today, God does not work using facts, but words. Only after His word has come upon you can the Holy Spirit work within you and cause you to suffer pain or feel sweetness. Only the word of God can bring you into reality, and only the word of God is capable of making you perfect. And so, at the very least you must understand that the work done by God during the last days is principally the use of His word to make every person perfect and guide man. All the work that He does is through the word; He does not use facts to chastise you. … And so, during the last days, when God becomes flesh, He principally uses the word to accomplish all and make all plain. Only in His words can you see what He is; only in His words can you see that He is God Himself. When God incarnate comes to earth, He does no other work but the speaking of words—thus there is no need for facts; words suffice. That is because He has principally come to do this work, to allow man to behold His power and supremacy in His words, to allow man to see in His words how He humbly hides Himself, and to allow man to know His entirety in His words. All that He has and is are in His words, His wisdom and wondrousness are in His words. In this are you made to see the many methods with which God speaks His words.

from “All Is Achieved by the Word of God” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

The Word has become flesh and the Spirit of truth has been realized in the flesh—that all the truth, the life, and the way has come in the flesh, and the Spirit has really arrived on earth and in the flesh. Although, superficially, this appears different from the conception by the Holy Spirit, in this work you are able to see more clearly that the Spirit has already been realized in the flesh, and, moreover, that the Word has become flesh, and the Word has appeared in the flesh, and you are able to understand the true meaning of the words: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Moreover, you must understand the words of today are God, and you must behold the Word becomes flesh. This is the best testimony you can bear. This proves that you possess the true knowledge of God become flesh—you are not only able to know and dissect Him, but are also aware that the way you walk today is the way of life, and the way of truth. Jesus did a stage of work which only fulfilled the substance of “the Word was with God”: The truth of God was with God, and the Spirit of God was with the flesh and was inseparable from Him, that is, the flesh of God incarnate was with the Spirit of God, which is greater proof that Jesus incarnate was the first incarnation of God. This stage of work fulfilled the inner meaning of “the Word becomes flesh,” lent deeper meaning to “the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” and allows you to firmly believe the words that “In the beginning was the Word.” Which is to say, at the time of creation God was possessed of words, His words were with Him and inseparable from Him, and the final age makes even clearer the power and authority of His words, and allows man to see all of His words—to hear all of His words. Such is the work of the final age. You must come to know these things through and through. It is not a question of knowing the flesh, but of knowing the flesh and the Word. This is that to which you must bear witness, that which everyone must know. Because this is the work of the second incarnation—and the last time that God becomes flesh—it fully completes the significance of the incarnation, thoroughly carries out and issues forth all of God’s work in the flesh, and brings to an end the era of God’s being in the flesh.

from “Practice (4)” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

My words are the forever unchanging truth. I am the supply of life for man and the only guide for mankind. The worth and meaning of My words are not determined by whether they are recognized or accepted by mankind, but by the substance of the words themselves. Even if not a single person on this earth can receive My words, the value of My words and their help to mankind are inestimable by any man. Therefore, when faced with the many men who rebel against, refute, or are utterly contemptuous of My words, My stance is only this: Let time and facts be My witness and show that My words are the truth, the way, and the life. Let them show that all I have said is right, and is that which man should be furnished with, and, moreover, that which man should accept. I will let all who follow Me know this fact: Those who cannot fully accept My words, those who cannot practice My words, those who cannot find a purpose in My words, and those who cannot receive salvation because of My words, are those who have been condemned by My words and, moreover, have lost My salvation, and My rod shall never stray from them.

from “You Ought to Consider Your Deeds” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

As such, since we are searching for the footprints of God, we must search for God’s will, for the words of God, for the utterances of God—for where there are the new words of God, there is the voice of God, and where there are the footsteps of God, there are the deeds of God. Where there is the expression of God, there is the appearance of God, and where there is the appearance of God, there exists the truth, the way, and the life. While seeking the footprints of God, you ignored the words that “God is the truth, the way, and the life.” So when many people receive the truth, they do not believe that they have found the footprints of God and much less acknowledge the appearance of God. What a serious error that is! The appearance of God cannot be reconciled with the conceptions of man, much less can God appear at the behest of man. God makes His own choices and has His own plans when He does His work; moreover, He has His own objectives, and His own methods. It is not necessary for Him to discuss the work He does with man or to seek the advice of man, much less notify each and every person of His work. This is the disposition of God and, moreover, should be recognized by everyone. If you desire to witness the appearance of God, if you wish to follow the footprints of God, then you must first transcend your own conceptions. You must not demand that God do this or that, much less should you place Him within your own confines and limit Him to your own conceptions. Instead, you should ask how you should seek the footprints of God, how you should accept the appearance of God, and how you should submit to the new work of God; that is what should be done by man. Since man is not the truth, and is not possessed of the truth, man should seek, accept, and obey.

from “The Appearance of God Has Brought a New Age” in The Word Appears in the Flesh

#incarnation #Lord Jesus #the Holy Spirit #eternal life #God Himself