#its kind of a continuation of that one thing i wrote ages ago about the moon but not really

[wintaerbaer]

in between (ksj)

summary: It's nights like this that are embedded into your memory—your face fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck, his chin resting on top of your head, your arms and legs thoroughly tangled together.

pairing: Seokjin x Reader

rating: all ages

genre: established relationship au

word count: 1.8k

warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, heavy angst, mentions of traumatic pregnancy/labor if you squint

a/n: this was originally a small piece i wrote for a class about a decade ago, which i then adjusted into a fic for a fandom that's no longer around. since i've never been able to get it out of my head, i figured it'd be fun to revise and re-release it again! dedicated to @btsborahaee who is apparently the angst demon that possessed me when i wrote it <3

MASTERLIST

He never fails to amaze you.

You lean in the doorway, watching as he cradles the baby to his chest and croons soft phrases of love into the girl's ear, trying to get her to fall back asleep. He's shirtless, flannel sleep pants slung low on his hips, bare feet pressed to the hardwood floor.

He's never looked more handsome in his life.

After a couple minutes of the baby's incessant cries, he moves to the rocking chair by the window in surrender. The moon turns his face a silvery white, highlighting the ruffled hair and stubbly shadow of a beard. You’ve never seen him with a considerable amount of facial hair before, and you don’t yet know how you feel about it.

He rocks back and forth gently—the chair creaking under him and the baby still whimpering pitifully in his arms. He doesn't see you as you watch him calm the child, whispering now. His voice is so low that it's hard to hear, but you definitely pick up something that sounds like "So pretty. Just like mommy."

Amazing how he can make you smile even when he doesn't intend to.

His quiet whispers mollify the baby faster than would seem possible, and it's not long before the girl has drifted off to sleep, tiny face pressed into his bare chest. He continues to gently sway in the chair, staring at the wall, and when he shifts his head, you can see that his eyes are shining.

The sight of his tears has you backing out of the doorframe and padding down the hall, feeling sick to your stomach. The walls around you are so horrifyingly blank and merely add to your growing anxiety. You wonder how long they'll stay that way.

You take the stairs down to the living room, not knowing what to do except make yourself scarce. You pace around the room, dodging all sorts of new things for the baby—items that haven't found a place in your home yet and are therefore just sitting in the living room until they do. Somebody really should make an effort to clean it up, but no one has the time.

It's eerily quiet down here. The only sounds are the soft ticking of the clock in the kitchen and the occasional creak from the rocking chair upstairs. Moonlight filters in through the window, casting a glow upon the room that should be calming; instead, it highlights all of the objects haphazardly strewn about the couch and the table and the floor, and the overall effect is nothing short of creepy.

You take a seat on the couch, right next to a stuffed elephant that stares up at you with beady eyes—a gift from one of your aunts or some distant cousin. You run your hands over the tiny thing, wondering what its fate will be. A future favorite of your daughter's perhaps? Or will he be condemned to a life in one of the closets? His melancholy gaze seems to ask you why you even care in the first place, and truth be told, you don’t really know. Maybe you just identify with him at the moment, with a fate so unpredictable and currently feeling as though you’re stuck in some kind of middle ground where you’re neither homeless nor sheltered.

The sound of a door closing startles you from your thoughts. Slipping across the study and into your bedroom, you find Seokjin lying on the bed wide awake, his eyes still glistening. Crawling in next to him, you press yourself into his side, stretching your body over warm skin. It's nights like this that are embedded into your memory—your face fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck, his chin resting on top of your head, your arms and legs thoroughly tangled together. You lie together in near silence, his ragged breathing the only thing disturbing the quiet. You squeeze closer, willing him to sleep just as he had done with your daughter moments ago.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispers as his eyes finally slip shut.

"I know," you tell him. "I know."

You’re sitting in the kitchen when you hear the front door open and shut.

"Honey, I'm home." His voice drifts to you from the foyer, the first lines of a ritual you had created in jest during college when you’d return to your shared apartment after days of classes.

"Hello, dear. How was work today?" is the traditional response you call back.

"Just swell, sweetheart. Just swell." He'd usually laugh after that, unable to contain his boyish amusement over how cheesy it is, but when he delivers the line today, his voice is soft and sober.

He hesitates by the stairs, leaning ever so slightly against the railing and kneading his forehead with the heel of his hand. He takes in the sight of the kitchen with all of the food that is lying around, practically covering every surface. Sighing, he moves to the sink, pressing his hands against the counter.

You stare at him, not knowing what to do, when his legs suddenly buckle and he's sliding down to the floor, shaking with sobs.

You leap to your feet, rushing over to where he's sitting up with his back against the counter and his knees pulled up nearly to his chest. Wrapping your arms around him, you brush your lips against his forehead, his ear, whispering anything and everything and just begging him to stop. Because, dammit, Jungkook and Hobi are right upstairs taking care of the baby and you don't want anyone else to see him like this. Not when he's been doing so well.

It's not long before you find that your own cheeks are wet, tears stinging your eyes. You hate having to see him this broken, hate even more how there's nothing you can do to help, how all you can do is hold him and pray that he'll get better.

Roughly ten minutes pass before his friends come bustling down the stairs to see what the commotion is. Even they can't help crying as they join you on the floor, offering hugs and words of comfort as he continues to break down.

Another half hour passes before he finally manages to compose himself and goes upstairs to see your daughter.

You huddle outside the bedroom door, listening to Seokjin read the girl a bedtime story. Your daughter is so incredibly quiet, soaking up the words like a dry sponge. Occasionally she'll ask a question about the story or one of the characters, but for the most part, she doesn't say a word—she barely even moves.

When the story is over, you hear your husband shifting around, closing the book and putting it back on its shelf in the corner.

"Daddy?" comes your daughter's voice after a moment.

"Yeah, baby girl?"

"Did Snow White and the prince live happily ever after?"

You hear a creak as he sits back down on the side of the bed. "Yeah, sweetie, they lived happily ever after. They got married and had a beautiful little girl just like you." There's a squeal as he leans down to tickle her.

Once your daughter's laughter has subsided, she asks another question, "Daddy, did you and mommy live happily ever after?"

There is a pregnant pause where everything in the world seems to go completely still in anticipation of his answer.

"Yeah," he eventually says, voice cracking ever so slightly. "Yeah, we did."

The sound of rustling sheets fills the void as he properly tucks her in. "You need to get some sleep now. You have a big day tomorrow."

"School!" she squeals.

"That's right, baby. School."

"Is mommy going to visit me tonight since it's a big day tomorrow?"

You hear him take a ragged breath. These questions must be taking their toll on him. "Mommy visits you every night, sweetie."

"Because she loves me?" your daughter asks.

"Yeah, because she loves you."

There's a pause as the girl thinks this over. "I love mommy too, daddy."

"I know, baby. Me too." And he must be crying now because there's a telling catch in his voice.

But that's okay because there are tears streaming down your own face.

You peek your head in the doorway, watching him press a kiss to the girl's forehead before he stands, turning off the light as he leaves the room. When he passes you, you examine his face--dark shadows that weren't there five years ago lurk under his eyes and his cheekbones are more prominent than they used to be. But still, you’re proud of the fact that he hasn't completely let himself go.

Once he's gone down the hall and disappeared down the stairs, you move into your daughter's room and sit on the edge of the bed, just as Seokjin had done only moments before.

The girl is completely buried under the covers with only her head sticking out. She's a tiny little thing, with her father's dark eyes and her mother's smile. And she's smart. She's so incredibly smart, with one hell of an imagination to match.

You run your fingers over your daughter's face, her hair, but not touching—no, never touching. You can't. You simply can't. Can't touch; can't feel. Most days, you don't know if this existence that you’re living is a blessing or a curse. Because you get to see your little girl grow up, but you do this knowing that your child will never know you—she'll never know the mother who died giving her life. And on top of that, you also bear witness to every second of your husband's grief.

But right now, looking down at your daughter, you just can't regret getting to see her grow older.

You brush your lips against the girl's forehead, her nose, her cheek. Then you make yourself pull away, whispering a "Good luck tomorrow, baby" before you stand up, taking note, as you always do, of the plush elephant that's sitting on the nightstand and bathing in moonlight.

And then you leave, taking the familiar trip downstairs and into your bedroom (because no matter what it will always be your bedroom) where your husband is lying on the bed, eyes wide open. This, too, has become a sort of ritual for the two of you, even though he doesn't really know it. And yet, he never seems to be able to sleep until you’re cuddled into his side.

"I love you, Y/N," he always says right before he closes his eyes.

"I know," is your reply. "I know."

a/n: sorry :') please remember to like/reblog!

#bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #bts angst #bts fic #bts fanfic #seokjin x reader #seokjin x you #seokjin angst #seokjin fic #seokjin fanfic #seokjin imagines

[strawberryya]

loving you is so easy

Minghao x reader

request: 13, 14, 28 with Minghao ? I think it would be so cute and funny I can’t

13: “my head hurts.” “that’s just your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity.” 14: “Well, my middle finger salutes you.” 28: “Oh god, that was cheesy.”

synopsis: a simple art museum date with your boyfriend along with a very serious arts-and-crafts competition can be exactly what one needs every once in a while.

currently playing: loving you is so easy - HONNE

word count: 2.9k

genre/contains: fluff, mentions of food and headaches, banter and art-talk

rating: sfw, all ages

a/n: helloooo, so I wrote this forever ago and just never posted it TT sorry anon for this slow response!

.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・.

It was amazing, you thought, how a person could have something like this existing solely in their head and then make it appear in our reality, visible to not only oneself but many others for many years to come. In front of you, was a field of tiny flowers on a huge canvas. Stuck in time, forever blooming. 

“I like this one,” you said longingly. 

“I think it captures the sadness of spring very well, it’s good,” Minghao agreed, adding his own interpretation of the painting as well. 

You nodded, not wanting to admit that you hadn’t understood the actual concept until he said it and that you had pretty much just liked the pretty colors used in it along with the feeling it gave you. Of course, the sheep did add to it, placed sporadically throughout the landscape filling the inside of the frame. 

Beside you, Minghao was standing, now turned to you and grinning behind his mask. His giggly voice startled you in your wandering train of thought, “It’s because of the sheep isn’t it?” he asked. You looked at him with wide eyes, your mouth slightly agape behind the mask covering your face. 

“How did you know?!” 

“You had a goofy smile, you always have that goofy smile when you see something cute that interests you,” he said, still giggling as he explained. 

“You can’t even see my face Hao!” you exclaimed, wondering how the hell he had been able to read your mind like that. 

“It’s the same expression you have when you look at me most days…” he teased and turned his gaze back to the framed canvas. 

Giving him a small bump to the side you too turned back to the flower field. “So annoying,” you mumbled, “but yes… I like the sheep…” 

This time it was you who got a small bump to the side, and as you stabilized yourself Minghao bent his head just enough to be able to bump his head with yours. There was no way you could hold onto your forced pout any longer after that. In response, you unraveled the arms you had crossed and let them drop to your sides, the one closest to Minghao’s open and welcoming hand reaching over discretely and embracing it, intertwining your fingers with his and feeling him squeeze your hand. 

You knew what he meant by it, and the butterflies in your tummy fluttered up and warmed you up from the inside. 

The next painting was one that Minghao knew more about. Apparently, it was rather famous, and he spoke about what he knew about the artist and how they were one of the people reimagining how to use the mediums popular during that time. When he was done with that one you continued over to a much bigger canvas, portraying some kind of mermaid. She was rather beautiful you thought, and when you said so Minghao agreed wholeheartedly. 

“She is beautiful, but she also seems so unfulfilled, something in her eyes seems to be longing for something,” he said, articulating things you had only felt but not seen clearly until then. 

You nodded thoughtfully, “At first it looks like she’s staring at the audience, but the more you look the more her gaze seems so distant like she sees right through us and past us into something we can’t even fathom,” you continued, and Minghao seemed entranced by your words, listening to you figuring out what the painting meant to you. 

The two of you continued like this for hours, wandering through the giant rooms decorated and embellished to match the frames and art they housed. Some of the paintings made you reflect and speak about what it could mean. Minghao had more knowledge than you ever thought possible about some of them and you listened to everything he had to tell you about what you were looking at. 

Other paintings you both just looked at, and some you found hilarious. The ones with owls were especially funny to you for some reason, so every time you saw one either in the background of the painting or smack dab in the middle, the person who noticed it first exclaimed a hushed kind of “Owl!” and the other then has to respond with a “Hoo,” and of course, the other is required to say “No, it’s just an owl I don’t know it by name,” making you both giggle and move quickly away from the turning heads wondering what was so funny about the picture that it had you two laughing your lungs out. 

The day had been passing like this and you were starting to feel tired from it all, a headache making its way to your head, causing you to lose more and more interest in the beautiful art all around you. 

“My head hurts,” you said, rather emotionlessly, as you stared at an abstract painting mainly in primary colors that looked a lot like a pile of messy blobs to your tired eyes. 

Minghao assumed you were joking and commenting on the painting and decided to take another playful shot at your statement. 

“That’s just your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity, don’t worry too much about it,” he said, bumping your arm to rile you up and make you fire back your usual retaliations. 

However, you just shook your head, “Hao, I’m serious. It’s pretty bad,” you said as you looked at him, your ailments showing in your eyes; at least to his eye, trained to spot any and all things going through your mind through your face. 

“How long has it been this bad?” he said, his tone shifting into very worried and cupping your face in his hands. 

“It’s been creeping up on me but I didn’t think it would become this bad,” you admitted, making Minghaos eyebrows knit together in worry. 

“Come on,” he said, taking your hand in his again, leading you away from the art in the big rooms, “let’s see if water and food will help, and if it doesn’t we just go home.” 

The theory of you being mainly dehydrated and crashing with your blood sugar was proven correct when you began feeling better immediately after you got something in you along with an entire bottle of water and a second one that Minghao told you that he would be carrying around for the rest of the day just so that this wouldn’t end up happening again. 

When you were done and just sitting and chatting about this and that, the headache was pretty much gone altogether, which was a huge relief since you had wanted to try out a thing they had at this particular museum that you two hadn’t gotten to yet. 

“Should we just wander a bit more and see if we can find something interesting in the ancient sections, or would you rather we start heading home? We could always order in and have a movie night,” Minghao proposed, trying to figure out how you saw the rest of the day going. 

“I actually had a thing in mind that I’ve wanted to do this entire time,” you said, shocking Minghao who had no idea you had something up your sleeve that he didn’t know anything about. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s a surprise!” you said with a sly smile. 

.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・.

You had figured out exactly where the location was when you got to the museum that morning, waiting for the right time to bring him there and surprise him, but walking around had been too much fun that you had kept waiting for the right moment, and here it was. 

In the room you had just entered stood multiple tables set out, some smaller and some bigger, perfect for groups and couples with any number of people. There were children and their parents, couples of all ages, and a couple of friend groups set up at the tables all around the studio. On the empty tables were just simple placemats laid out, waiting for someone to come around and create their art above them. 

Art, yes, art was what you came here for. However, there wasn’t only art made by professional artists in this particular museum. There was also this art that was being made here every day, a new stream of creativity coming alive within this place of ancient relics thorugh ordinary people. 

When you had seen the info about it on their website you had immediately decided that it was something the both of you had to go try out. 

“What do you think?” you asked excitedly, almost jumping in your spot waiting for his reaction. 

“Are we going to make something?” he asked, still not sure where you had led him. 

You nodded, “They have this workshop a couple of days every week and you can choose what you want to do, you can paint with a bunch of different mediums and you can even paint pottery if you want!” 

“Okay, alright, that sounds fun,” he said, looking around the room and the many shelves showing previous visiting artists’ work along with all the materials and tools available for the people coming there to use. 

You were smiling and almost skipping into the room with Minghao after you, “I wanna paint on pottery!” you told your boyfriend. 

“Oh, you’ve already decided? Hmm, what should I do then?” 

With renewed energy, you saw your chance to get back at him for his comment earlier about you being an idiot, and you knew you had to take your shot. 

“Give up. Because you will never make something prettier than the cup I’m going to make.”

It wasn’t a perfect comeback, nowhere close to perfect, but you still felt smug knowing he hadn’t expected you to return to the regularly scheduled teasing so soon after having miraculously recovered through inhaling some water. However, he was glad, which was evident in the way his face crinkled up showing you once again his cheeks rising and crinkling his eyes and telling on his mood while he slowly put up his hands in fists. 

You knew immediately what he was doing when he began slowly backing away while spinning one of his hands, keeping the other still with the back facing towards you as his middle finger slowly rose to flip you off

“Well, my middle finger salutes you,” he said in a teasing tone you both used way too often. 

He was about to back into a table when he turned around while you were both still laughing over your combined childishness. 

“It’s on!” he exclaimed as he went to gather the tools he was planning on using and you headed off to do the same before you both convened at a table for two. 

You with everything you needed for painting your premade mug ready to color however you pleased, and he, with a tiny canvas and a bunch of different paints and brushes that were placed next to the brushes you had brought. 

“Let’s begin,” you said, receiving a wink back from Minghao making you frown in a ‘don’t use those cheap tricks on me mister’ kind of way. 

The next hour or so was spent by the two of you deeply concentrated on your separate projects, occasionally looking up from whatever you were doing to try and catch a sneak peek of what he was working on. Of course, he caught you every time, snickering about how you were so incredibly mischievous. 

When you felt somewhat satisfied you looked up only to meet Minghaos eyes curiously watching you. The side of his face was being hit so exquisitely beautifully by the warm sunlight shining in through the window beside your table. You were stunned for a moment before you could form a proper question. 

“How long have you been watching me?” 

“Not too long,” he said and smiled brightly. 

You squinted at him suspiciously, “And you’re done already?”

“I am,” he said and nodded, not removing that grin from his face for a single second. It made you wonder what exactly he was planning on doing.

“Who should start? Also, how do we decide on the winner?” you asked, now increasingly curious to see what he has been working on this entire time, but still intent on winning over him in his own sport. 

“You can start if you want.”

“Fine, I’ll start. But only because I’m super nice,” you said with a very sarcastically morally righteous tone lacing your voice. 

“And because you love me,” Minghao added.

“...and because I love you,” you admitted, rolling your eyes while his eyes revealed how his smile became even bigger than before. 

“Anyways, I made this mug. It has pink clouds up here, and then we have green moss down here along with these tiny pink and yellow flowers,” you began and Minghao listened and watched your show and tell with much interest, “and then… sheep.” 

You reached the mug over to Minghao so he could take a closer look at the dozen or so sheep grazing the wide moss fields on the surface of your mug.

“The sheep are the best part, I won’t lie to you,” he said after inspecting them for a while, “however, the pink clouds and the green moss are very visually appealing too, very interesting choice… may I ask why you chose those two in particular?”

You chuckled, he sounded like one of the food critics on master-chef, without the iconic Gordon Ramsey vocabulary and accent that is, and now he was dissecting your mug art. 

“I don’t wanna say…” you said while trying to avoid eye contact with the man currently in possession of your prized art. 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s too cheesy okay!” you admitted, making Minghao smile a wide smile underneath his mask. 

“Please tell me anyways.”

You hesitated but decided to just tell him instead of having him bother you about whatever they could’ve meant in the future. 

“It’s because… you make everything feel like pink skies and green moss okay!”

There was a moment of silence, and then he chuckled, you opened the eyes you had closed as you said the words, cringing at your own sappiness. 

“Oh god, that was cheesy.”

“See! I told you!” 

He laughed again, seemingly loving how embarrassed you were over having made it thinking of how he made you feel every day. 

“I like it though, it’s really cute if I’m being honest.”

You didn’t acknowledge what he had said, just desperate to move on and forget about it as quickly as possible. 

“Okay, your turn!” you hurried to say, bringing the focus over to what he had been making. 

“You ready?” he said. You nodded and he turned around the canvas, showing you some kind of an abstract mess of colors. It was reminiscent of a galaxy, you thought as you studies his work. 

“I like it… but I can’t really tell what it is…” 

Minghao’s face crinkled up with a wide grin at your confession, “It’s a feeling,” he said and chuckled. 

You tipped your head to the side, deciding that maybe a new angle would make you understand the feeling he had portrayed better. It did not. You liked it a lot, you really did, but you could not for the life of you put your finger on what emotion he had made. 

“I’m sorry baby, I just cannot figure out what feeling. You’re gonna have to tell me before I lose my mind.” 

“It’s the feeling I get when I look into your eyes,” he explained, staring right into your eyes and seeing you become all flustered at his words. 

“How dare you! How dare you call mine cheesy when you had this planned all along!!” you exclaimed angrily. 

Minghao couldn’t help but laugh at your aggression toward his loving revelation. You began pouting, crossing your arms, and turning your head away from him while muttering under your breath. “I despise you,” knowing he would see through your charades as soon as you said it. 

“Oh, you know you love me,” he said in a smug voice as he continued finding your actions highly amusing. 

“So what if I do?” you retorted. 

“If you do… we can agree that your beautiful mug won our little competition,” he said, his demeanor telling you he was smirking under his mask, knowing you would admit and take the win. 

“I just have to admit that I love you?”

“Yup.”

“...I love you,” you said, feeling hot as you said it, his gaze so loving and warm and stuck on you the entire time. 

“And we have a winner, your gorgeous sentimental sheep mug has taken the first prize making the boyfriend end up in a lonely second place,” he proclaimed, making a cheering ‘woo’ sound as well. 

You decided it was only fair that you joined in, bowing in your seat and repeating “Thank you, thank you, everyone,” as you held your first-place winning mug in your hand. 

When you were both done with your ceremony you put up your art on the shelves, deciding that you wanted to leave your artwork there along with the many people who had left theirs there before you. You placed them together so they would always stay by each others’ side and left the studio. 

.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・.

Reblogging and commenting is highly appreciated!! Hearing what you thought is what makes writing and being here overall so much fun! Ty and ily 💕

[navigation post!]

#svthub #k-labels #kwritersworldnet #kvanity #minghao #minghao fluff #svt fluff #svt minghao #seventeen fluff #xu minghao fluff #xu minghao #svt #seventeen

[kyleraynermybeloved]

One Of A Kind -Chapter Two

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Batsis!Reader

Summary: A surprise is discovered. Is it terrifying? Absolutely!

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, mentions of morning sickness, pregnancy, canon-level violence, my bad writing

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: I'm very late but HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! Its FINALLY here, and guess who has covid! Sorry it took ages to arrive. If the pacing feels a bit off it's bc I wrote this a little drunk a while ago. (I did end up misplacing it and i finally found it so no proof read, we die like heroes) I hope yall enjoy this, if not then I'm sorry :/ ALSO, this is going to be the last short chapter of the series so expect the others to be a little longer from now on!

OOAK Masterlist

The overwhelming nausea woke you up, and you barely made it to the toilet before the contents of your stomach emptied out. You heaved some more, your body shaking from the force after each one. The bile in your mouth was enough to make you wince and spit into the toilet hoping to get rid of the taste.

Groaning, you set your head against the cold seat as the dizziness subsided a little. It was just the wake up call you needed before heading back to work. It seems the few days you had off were too short of time to readjust to your normal routine. You might as well get ready now that you’re up.

You were too busy leaving in a hurry to say bye to Billy once you checked the time, effectively running late. Hopefully you'd have time to check in with him later to see if he was faring the same. You had felt sick the entire time getting ready upon arriving on base, your stomach churning uncomfortably with unease. It might have been the food and drinks from last night or the winter air doing a number on you. For now, you shrugged it off to the best of your abilities.

There were plenty of other agents walking around when you arrived at the tarmac. A few faces you haven’t seen before looked towards you as you made your way to the chopper Sormael had instructed you to from this morning's message. They might’ve been the new hires you heard about coming in the other day. Deciding to put on a friendly face, you smiled and waved towards them as you continued walking.

“Thrasher! About time you made it, what happened to always being on time?” Sormael engulfed you in a hug, giving a firm little shake before breaking away.

“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t feeling all too well this morning and that seemed to cut into my arrival time. Won’t happen again, unless the husband has a say in it.”

“They do love to make things a little more interesting don’t you think? Are you feeling better, or do I need you to sit this one out? I have Zeru on standby seven klicks out from the target site.”

“Negative, sir. I’m much better now, only needed some fresh air and to see your wonderful face,” You bumped his shoulder against yours, sending him a lopsided grin. A gesture you’ve done countless times to let him know you were fine.

There was no chance in hell you would let Zeru, a colleague you’ve been competing against, take this job just because you felt a little sick. The two of you had an ongoing bet to see who could get more jobs done in the span of eight months, the loser had to buy the winner dinner for three weeks. And the eighth month was now coming to a close, you had one job on him but it was only a matter of time before he caught up.

“Alright, well, here’s everything you need to know,”  Sormael handed you a folder that was banded shut. “It’s a covert mission, a simple extraction job. Retrieve the data and get to the rendezvous point for further instructions. Like usual, you’ll have a ride there but you’ll need to find a way back to ensure no one can link you back here. Stay safe, the roads are freezing over. Do whatever you need to get back to us.”

“Always am.” Nodding your head in affirmation you turn to the awaiting helicopter. The snowfall began to pick up causing you to pull your coat closer to fight against the bitter cold. Harsh snowflakes pelted against your face once you got to the aircraft door. The aircraft shielded you from the oncoming storm once you got inside, sliding the door shut and getting situated in your seat.

“Morning, Agent Thrasher. Our eta is four hours, I would catch more sleep if I were you.” The pilot you recognized from previous assignments spoke through the headset. Giving him a half-assed response you went to look at the contents of the folder.

It was a fairly light folder, flipping through the papers and memorizing everything  given. Information on the building’s layout and number of personale working. Only select people had access to the server room which was located on the fifth floor, third room on the right. Attached to the last page was a small flash drive still wrapped in the package.

The nausea had finally settled down, giving you a break for the time being. But you had a sneaking suspicion that it would come back. If that was the case you'd have to make this quick.

You sent Kyle a brief text, letting him know of your whereabouts for the next few hours and decided against telling him of your sickness from the morning.

The sun had peaked through the clouds once you were high enough in airspace, warming you up from the chilly temperature. It was odd that you were cold for this long, your body had gotten used to adapting to the different temperatures over the years of constant traveling in different climates. Pulling your thick coat impossibly closer you thought it best to reserve your energy and get some sleep while you still had time.

*****

You had everything under control, the mission was going smoothly. Entering the building and getting into the server room had gone seamlessly. The flash drive had all the needed information and the only thing left was your escape.

The earpiece you had in your ear was patched into a secure channel only the rendezvous team had access to. It was silent for now.

Normally, you would have to reach out first once in range of any rendezvous point or an appointed team member would reach out if you’ve been dark for too long.

You had carefully tucked the flash drive into a secure pocket, adjusting to make sure it was unnoticeable. The uniform you had acquired once getting into the lobby at the beginning of the mission had been doing its job perfectly as a disguise. No one was the wiser when you had gone in and when exiting the server room, the door locked after shutting closed.

Keeping your head down you walked through the hallway successfully keeping attention off of you. Turning around the corner to the stairwell, you quickly descended down the flight of stairs only passing by two people as they left through the door you just went through.

After reaching the second level another wave of nausea washed over you making you unsteady. Not again, you could only do so much while your whole world was spinning. The stale air wasn’t helping at all either. It made everything feel more restricted and claustrophobic.

You carefully walked down the remaining steps to the floor level, supporting most of your weight on the railing and wall so as to not stumble down. The more you had turned the corners of the staircase the harder it got to keep your composure. There was only one more turn before the ground floor, deciding it would be best to take a breather once you were far enough away from the building, you pushed on. Finally leaving the stairwell and taking the closest exit towards you welcomed the fresh winter air, inhaling deep breaths as it helped ease the bile that was threatening to come up long enough to make it past the parking lot to a lone car where you had stashed your things.

You shed the uniform changing into the spare outfit you had packed in the warmth of the car. Digging through your bag you found something to ease the nausea for the time being until you could take something once you got home. For now, you just hoped it would work.

Little flecks of snow slowly drifted down, dark clouds were filling up the bright sky. You drove until you were three miles out from the rendezvous point, hidden well enough to not stick out to oncomers, after concealing the car  and wiping it down of any prints left you grabbed your bag and walked the remaining way there.

As soon as you made it inside the hidden cabin and debriefed with the team after handing over the flash drive, you threw a few more logs into the dwindling flames of the fireplace to heat the small cabin up.

Your hands felt like icicles and your legs had gone numb a mile into the journey. The layers you’d put on did very little to help maintain heat.

The team informed you before they departed that the cabin was yours for the time being, well at least until after you leave before the cleaning crew arrives.

Knowing you had enough time to shower and change into more comfortable clothing made you physically relax, letting out a content sigh.

Thinking now was a good enough time to check your phone, possibly give Billy a call. If he was fairing as badly as you were then you definitely needed to apologize for possibly getting him sick.

“Billy speaking, what’s up?” He answered on the second ring, judging from the noise in the background he must’ve been home.

“Hey kid, glad I managed to reach you. Sounds like you’re home, did you make it back safely and in one piece?” Shifting the phone to hold it with your shoulder, you were able to take out an outfit and some essentials into the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah I made it back just a little after you left. I was gonna say something but you left in a hurry and I didn’t want to keep you back any later than you had to.” That seemed about right. Both you and Kyle had told him on many occasions that he didn’t need to keep things to himself, whatever it was that he needed the both of you would pause what you were doing and give him your undivided attention.

“No worries, next time go ahead and ask me to stay back a little. Speaking of which, I wanted to ask how you’re feeling? I’m feeling a little under the weather, it might’ve been the food from last night.”

“You know how I get, I just didn’t want to bother you too much. And I feel fine, if you want we can head over and bring you some soup or something?” There was a muffled sound on the line before he spoke up again. “Hey, I got to go. Keep me updated though, I think we’ll head over later today, if not tomorrow. See you later.”

“Will do, see you later kid.”

Well that was interesting. What else could be making you sick if not the food? At least he wasn’t under the weather, that made you feel better knowing you didn’t get him sick as well.

A ding from your phone pulled you out from your thoughts. It was a message from Kyle saying he was back on Earth. You sent a reply of your location and asked if he could bring a thermometer and cold medicine before hopping into the shower.

The water pressure wasn’t great but it also wasn’t the worst you had. It came out in soft bursts, fortunately the shower head was large so it covered more than a small area. The water did wonders for your aching muscles, which had been unusually sore and stiff for the past few weeks. You knew it couldn’t have been from either of the previous assignments you were on. Or for this one as a matter of fact.

At some point you must’ve dozed off, still on your feet. Deciding it was better to get out and get some actual rest without any incoming injuries, you turned off the shower and wrapped yourself in a towel. Kyle would be on his way soon, in the meantime you could busy yourself getting ready and warming up on the couch in front of the fireplace.

By the time Kyle came around you were passed out.

“Hey sleepy, I wasn’t sure what to get so I bought whatever I could find. I also brought some soup from your favorite place, it should still be hot.” Kyle helped ease you up to sit on the couch, you must’ve laid d0wn while you were sleeping. 

“Oh, hi,” you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes with a smile. “How long have you been here?”

He put a hand to your forehead, “Long enough to know you were tossing and turning for a while. On the bright side you don’t have a temperature but better safe than sorry, take this.” He handed you a water bottle and two tylenol from one of the two bags he had, which you gladly accepted and took.

Once you finished your water Kyle traded it for a container of soup. It was still hot enough to warm you up. He plopped down next to you with his own food, digging in once he knew you could eat fully on your own.

“Thank you, I think the soup is helping me some. How are the fellas doing? Causing more chaos for the team I assume?”

“Oh you know it, nothing but the best from Guy. I also may have enabled him… just a little bit.” his smile had a hint of mischief with the knowing look he gave you.

“Of course, babe,” you nudged him with your shoulder, “ ‘Just a little bit’ my ass. You totally orchestrated whatever it was. I feel bad for the poor soul who was on the receiving end of you two maniacs.”

He threw his head back in a laugh. “You know me so well. It wasn’t too bad this time, I swear. Oh, I forgot. Before I left you said you had something you wanted to tell me?”

Ah, you had completely forgotten about that. You tried racking your brain for the right words to explain this best. After five years together it was kind of hard to just come out and say you had been lying to him all that time about yourself. Well, in a way you weren’t lying, just always avoiding mentoning your past and family.

“Uhm,” your hands clasped together in your lap as you leaned forward, “You know how I aoid talking about my past with you or brush it off when you ask me about it?”

He put his food down to give you his full attention, motioning for you to continue once he sat back, grabbing one of your hands in reassurance.

“Gosh this is hard, uhm. I want you to know that I didnt tell you because I don’t trust you, more because I was scared to tell you. I guess the best way is to rip the bandaid off. But more or less I was… Batman’s daughter, this was years ago of course. I don’t actually know if he told anyone in the league about me since I wasn’t one of the many side-kicks.”

“I think I remember Alfred having some photos of when you were young laying around the mansion when I lived there for a bit, I asked them about it but no one really said anything. Figured it was a sore subject. Im going to be honest, I’m a little hurt that you didn’t tell me sooner but I understand having moments of the past haunting you.”

“There’s more I would like to tell you,” I pulled him towards me more, “But I’d rather tell you once we get home. How about we head over once we’re done eating?”

“No problem, eat as much as you can and we'll take the leftovers with us.” Kyle grabbed his container and gestured at you to eat with a forkful halfway to his mouth.

*****

It had been two weeks later when you decided to see your agency’s doctor to check out your recent sickness. You had been expecting a stomach bug, or the flu, the last thing you expected was finding out you were ten weeks pregnant. Ten weeks. Kyle, who went with you almost and passed out from the news, was still taking his time processing everything you told him, rightfully so. The two of you were sent home with congratulations and several pictures of your growing bean. It had felt too surreal, and overwhelming.

All that happened three days ago, now you and Kyle were just entering your apartment after buying some pregnancy essentials for you when a noise from the kitchen alerted you of an intruder. You reached for your sheathed knives, usually strapped to your thighs, out of reflex before Kyle stopped you, rushing forward with the bat you normally kept by the front door.

“Fuck man, I could killed you!” Kyle’s alarmed voice steadied your racing heart after realizing it was someone he knew. You slowly made your way to the kitchen, their muffled voices getting clear the further you walked down te hallway. One being Kyle’s and the other you now recognized to be Guy Gardner, who you haven’t actually met but have seen through videos either of your boys have shown you.

“You’re brave for knocking up Batman’s long lost daughter,” Guy pointed to the ultrasound photo pinned on the fridge. “I don’t envy you one bit man. And you must be the lovely wife. Guy Gardner, great to finally meet the mysterious lady Rayner’s been hiding from me.”

“How’d you know we’re married?” Kyle looked alarmed and confused.

“Well, you do have your wedding pictures laying ‘round the place.” He pointed out to the living room where the photos had been conveniently placed on the coffee table.

With a sigh and shake of your head, you held out your hand to Guy. “Y/N Rayner, pleased to finally meet this doofus’ best friend he speaks highly of.”

Taglist:

@esposadomd

#kyleraynermybeloved #kyle rayner #kyle rayner fics #kyle rayner x reader #kyle rayner x batsis!reader #One Of A Kind series #kyleraynermybeloved one of a kind #pregnant reader

[sketchy-sketches]

Jurassic Park 3 AU

This is my JP3 AU, I am a novice writer so be kind but constructive criticism is appreciated. <3

Chapter 1: Montana Dig Site

In the foothills of Montana, Dr. Alan Grant hunches over to examine a recently uncovered fossil, the hot midday Montana sun beating down on him. He lightly traces the femur bone of the creature, brushing away the burning sand surrounding the bone, noticing a fracture in it.

 “Billy,” Grant said. “ it was injured. It most likely died in a fight with another dinosaur, or it was left by its pack to die because of its wound. A fracture like this would make it unable to walk.”

Billy looked up from his clipboard and bent down to look for himself. Billy Brennen was a young fit man, standing about five and a half feet tall, with short hair. He took the back of his pencil to point out another break in the animal's vertebrae. 

“I think it could do less than walk, I don't think it could move.” Billy studied its ribs and noticed tiny marks on the ribs.

“It was alive when the scavengers got to it. But it couldn't move. I've seen these marks on other fossils, but these ones are smaller and more careful, meaning that the scavengers were wary of the situation.”

“And that's why we keep you here Billy,” Alan said with a laugh. He stood up with a grunt, with his age it was deserved, being a nearly 60-year-old man. “Vicious creatures,'' Alan said under his breath.

“Velociraptor?” billy asked

“You can debunk that it was eaten alive but you can't identify the creature with confidence? Kids these days.” Alan chuckled as he spoke. “You will get there one day. But at least you got it right, have confidence Billy." Alan began to walk away, still lecturing Billy about how he is smarter than he thinks. Billy wrote down all of the notes they made on his clipboard. Smiling at the fact that he got it right. He looked up to Alan, like the father that he never had growing up. Billy had graduated top of his class in paleontology from Harvard University. He was a smart man with a child-like love for these creatures, but it's not like everyone in the dig didn't have the same love for them. Billy is simply intrigued by these giant creatures because they were so different from modern animals, yet they weren't, they have so many similarities to modern birds and reptiles. It's amazing how life changes to its surroundings, life is truly one of the most powerful forces, because no matter what, it finds a way to keep living. He bent back down to continue to study the raptor, noting things like size, estimated age, and what fossils are missing from the animal.

Alan walked into his tent, setting down his tools, and brushed the dust off his hands. He sat in his desk chair and studied his fossil records. He looked at the newest discovery, the raptor. He compared it to the ones he encountered so long ago. He knew how dangerous they were, but they are so different from what they would have been in reality, Ingens monsters only looked like dinosaurs, though they were far too reptilian compared to recent discoveries. That is the issue with bringing back and trying to recreate extinct animals we have never seen, we can never truly know everything about them, so we can never truly have them back. “Damnit Hammond” he cursed. 

Alan leaned back in his chair and sipped the coffee on his desk. He checked his watch, seven fourteen pm. Alan began to stand up and head to his bed to lie down. Billy abruptly burst through the entrance of the tent, speaking frantically at Grant. Billy made swift gestures with his hands and ran out of the tent. Grant, still confused by what just happened, was only able to make out “we found something amazing” and to follow him. Grant stood with another grunt and began speed walking out of the door. As Grant exited the tent, the cool dusk air hit his face and he walked towards Billy, rushing him into the tent.

Grant stepped into the lab tent, looking around and seeing all the scanners, 3D printers, and other technology. 

“Dr. Grant! Look at this!'' Billy exclaimed with excitement. Alan walked towards him, getting closer to the machine Billy was standing at. 

“Alan, we discovered something amazing about velociraptors, look at the screen” he studied the monitor, it showed a velociraptor skull and neck bones, adding 3D modeled muscles, then suddenly it stopped to show a highlighted area of the throat, then continuing to finish the tissue and feathers. 

“What is it highlighting?” Grant asked.

“It's a syrinx, they could vocalize, Alan”

“Like birds?”

“Maybe better”

“Incredible…”

“This is something that could be in so many species, Raptors, Triceratops, Procompsognathus, maybe even the Tyrannosaurus”

“different species would most likely have different capabilities for producing sounds, meaning the development of communication could be based on intelligence”

“Raptors being incredibly smart would be able to communicate well, while triceratops would essentially be an oversized rhino”

“This is amazing Billy, this information will fund our dig for at least 3 more years.”

Alan patted Billy on the shoulder and smiled. As he walked back to his tent to turn in for the night, Billy took out his phone and dialed a number. After two rings, someone on the other side answered. 

“It's me,” Billy said gravely, “I got something I think you are going to like.”

#tumblr fyp #i like dinosaurs #jurassic park #Jurassic AU #my au #dinosaurs #dinosaur au #horror #paleontology #novice writer #writers on tumblr #writing

[esta-elavaris]

It's 1:30am on the 9th Jan here, which means Catch the Wind ended a year ago today.

There's not much I can say that I haven't already said - eternal gratitude, hopes that I didn't somehow manage to peak from the age of 24 to the age of 26 with that one story, with an added dash of "where the hell did the year actually go???"

I was replying to a comment tonight, though, with something that I haven't yet said on here - that when I do finally stop writing James/Theodora stuff, it'll be more because I'm worried about treading the same old ground with them/having the thing go on for so long that I just can't feasibly manage to continue on without contradicting something I've already said, rather than having anything to do with no longer wanting to write them.

Of course, I still need to finish Fallen Through Time (very excited about the next few chapters!!), and I'm reasonably optimistic that I'll be able to squeeze one more flufftober out of them, but beyond that, I think things will become way more up in the air.

I'm dreading it, I don't want it to happen, but it's just sort of inevitable, and I'd rather leave them be consciously while I'm still happy with them, than continue to cling on just because I love them, and end up fucking it up, y'know?

Finally, though, I've said it before, I'll say it another billion times - thank you guys so much for the support you've shown this pairing, and my writing in general. It means the world to still regularly get comments about them that are so kind I cry (it happened multiple times this week alone!), and I'm never not absolutely giddy over the way this story found its audience, especially considering I assumed it would get 10 readers max back when I first wrote it.

#james/theodora #ctw

[revlyncox]

Love, Liberation, and New Visions: Wisdom from bell hooks

Love is more of a practice than a sentiment. This sermon was offered to The Unitarian Society in East Brunswick on February 11, 2024.

Love is an important practice for Unitarian Universalists. Indeed, love is at the center of the way UU values are described in the proposed revision to Article II of the UUA bylaws. As Valentine’s Day approaches, and we are bombarded with images of romantic love that may or may not be healthy, this is a good time to re-orient ourselves to our deepest values; we remind ourselves about what love means in concrete terms. 

A few years ago, the world lost one of its great sages who wrote about love. The author, feminist, poet, professor, and social activist known to her readers as bell hooks died in December of 2021 at the age of 69. She used her great-grandmother’s name as a pen name. She would write it in all lower case, and said that was so readers would focus on (quote) the “substance of books, not who I am.”

As an author and an academic, bell hooks was successful and influential. She taught at various universities such as Stanford, Yale, and City College of New York before returning home to Kentucky to join the faculty of Berea College in 2004, where she was a Distinguished Professor in Residence in Appalachian Studies. 

With over 30 published books on topics ranging from racism to pedagogy to a culture of place, there is a lot we can learn from bell hooks, yet in honor of the upcoming holiday and our exploration of love in the proposed Article II, concentrating on her book All About Love: New Visions seems the logical place to begin. Written in 1999 and published in 2000, this was her first in a series about love that also included “Communion,” “The Will to Change,” and “Salvation.” While the book All About Love does address romantic love, hooks makes the specific point that romance isn’t the only or the most important kind of love, and that all love is better understood as a practice rather than a sentiment. 

In practicing a love ethic, hooks said that love is best understood as a verb. Inspired by M. Scott Peck and The Road Less Traveled, hooks advocated for clear, operational definitions of love. She wrote, “To truly love, we must learn to mix various ingredients–care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, and trust, as well as honest and open communication” (From “Chapter One: Clarity: Give Love Words”). We might be surprised that, as a poet, hooks was less caught up in creating metaphors and images that described the inner experience of feeling affection than she was fierce in insisting that we can all learn how to love well. Yet, as a poet, she knew that words need to have meaning in the living world. 

Dr. Takiyah Nur Amin made the point in this week’s Braver/Wiser devotional newsletter that Unitarian Universalism is a lived faith. Our actions matter. She also talked about the theological importance of Black Unitarian Universalist history, because much of what our Black UU ancestors have to teach is written in their lives rather than in essays. She writes:

If you’re seeking sacred Black “text” in our tradition, you have to examine the way our Black ancestors lived. You have to seek out the Black folks who were in Unitarian and Universalist or UU congregations, and the work that they were doing in community—whether it was suffrage, or trying to educate Black children, or their working towards social action or civil access. Our “text” is embodied in the lives of people like Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Joseph Jordan, David Eaton, and countless others.

(Dr. Amin continues)

One of the things I love about this tradition is that our faith is covenantal and not confessional—meaning that to some degree, our tradition cares little about what you stand up and say you believe. The evidence of your Unitarian Universalism is embodied in the depth of your relationships: how do you live in relationship to self and other? (I don't just mean human other: to the plants, to the animals, to the stars…) The proof is in the pudding, for UUs. It’s not about what you have to say. How are you living?

I encourage you to read Dr. Amin’s whole reflection. How we live means how we show up for our values in the public square, and how we treat the people around us, and how we steward the resources with which we have been entrusted, and how we commit to growing as people. It’s all love. 

Here at TUS, one of the ways we practice love is by adhering to the right relations covenant. This document is on display in the hall, and I’ll read it to you:

Right Relations Covenant

As members and friends of this Unitarian Universalist congregation, we affirm that our community is founded on openness, trust, respect, and love. In our time together–in meetings and conversations and worship and work–we covenant with one another to freely explore our values and honor our diversity as a source of communal strength. Therefore, I will:

accept responsibility for my individual acts and interactions;

in all encounters, speak for myself, from my own experience;

allow others to speak for themselves;

listen with respect and resilience;

not criticize the views of others or attempt to pressure or coerce others;

not interrupt–except to indicate that I cannot hear;

participate within the time frames suggested by the facilitator;

communicate with kindness and clarity in service of justice and peace in our community

Love is one of the values named right in the first sentence of the Right Relations Covenant. Love is operationalized, it’s about the ways we behave, and the ways we demonstrate respect. One of the things I notice about this covenant is that it requires us to slow down. We allow others to speak for themselves; that takes time. We listen with respect and resilience; that takes time. Deep and healthy relationships require an investment of the gift of time. 

Love, in a community setting, asks us to communicate about our perspectives, needs and wants; and also asks us to recognize the perspectives, needs, and wants of others. With kindness and consideration, we understand that our own perspective does not equal a demand that all operations be geared toward making us comfortable at the expense of others’ ability to participate. Love calls us to show up in service to others, to express appreciation, to look carefully for the pieces that are missing that would help us create a place where all can, as bell hooks says, “live fully and well.” 

Love makes room for repair. One of the things that sets a covenant apart from a list of rules is that it stretches to accommodate our human-ness. People make mistakes. A covenant should be constructed to take this into account, and to invite people back into relationship as we acknowledge our mistakes and work toward making amends. In this morning’s story, bell hooks (in the voice of Girlpie) reminds us that “there is no all the time right. But all the time any hurt can be healed. All wrongs forgiven. And all the world made peace again.”

We come together in community from a variety of backgrounds, bringing all kinds of experiences and heavy emotions from other parts of our lives; of course we will sometimes make mistakes and have conflicts. Our brushes with misunderstanding, when we navigate them skillfully, can be the sandpaper that softens our sharp corners and helps us to smooth out the pathways for forward movement. 

This is sharply different from how many of us were raised. There are plenty of settings without room for forgiveness or repair. We might say that these are places without grace, though I know that can be a tricky word. There are families where perfection, or at least a convincing illusion of perfection, is expected at all times, and failure to produce that perfection results in isolation and rejection. There are cultural expectations on some of us to be right, and where being right is more important than being collaborative. 

Switching gears to a practice of love in which we can discuss our differences honestly is a profound paradigm shift for many people. It is disconcerting to be asked to acknowledge conflict or hurts if our experience is that these conversations lead only to punishment and rejection rather than to a deeper relationship that comes from mutual understanding. If our previous experience is that discomfort is a one-way ticket to exclusion, the discomfort necessary in hearing other perspectives, in admitting that we don’t know everything, in accepting responsibility–all of that discomfort is hard to tolerate if we have been taught that discomfort and danger are the same thing. The active, flexible, living practice of love is necessary to create the spaces where we can be bold, authentic, and caring. 

This brings me to another point raised in All About Love, which is that the authentic practice of love is congruent with liberation. The true practice of love cannot coexist with abuse or with systems of domination. In the contrast I made just now between the loving community and the settings where no mistakes are tolerated, one of the ingredients that gets in the way of love is fear. As hooks writes in Chapter Six:

“Fear is the primary force upholding structures of domination. It promotes the desire for separation, the desire not to be known. When we are taught that safety lies always with sameness, then difference, of any kind, will appear as a threat. When we choose to love we choose to move against fear–against alienation and separation. The choice to love is a choice to connect–to find ourselves in the other.”

As an antidote to fear, hooks calls us to choose to be known, to choose to be our whole selves and to embrace the practice of other people being their whole selves, different from us. This is what we need to cultivate hope and to overcome the nihilism of isolation, despair, and fear. She quotes Cornel West, who says:

“Nihilism is not overcome by arguments or analyses, it is tamed by love and care. Any disease of the soul must be conquered by a turning of one’s soul. This turning is done through one’s own affirmation of one’s worth–an affirmation fueled by the concern of others.” (Quoted in All About Love, Chapter Six)

Cornel West is also known for reminding us that “justice is what love looks like in public.” For both West and hooks, love is a practice in our personal relationships and in our societal structures. Listen to West here, talking about “affirmation of one’s worth.” This is Humanist language, ready to unleash the potential of the inherent worth and dignity of every person, which necessarily includes dismantling the structures that dehumanize. West and hooks agree that making that turn is fueled by active care and concern, by practices of nurture and affirmation and support. The project of caring for one another and the project of humanizing the spaces we inhabit and the project of cultivating justice and mercy in the public sphere are all the same project. They are all aspects of love. 

I want to back up a little bit and talk about liberation, because it’s not a framework that everyone is used to. Liberation is not single-issue based, and it is not about more powerful people making good things happen on behalf of less powerful people. Liberation is a vision for a different way of being. Putting this in love terms, bell hooks says, “A love ethic presupposes that everyone has the right to be free, to live fully and well.” 

Liberation requires an assumption of agency, particularly the agency of people who are most impacted by oppression. Black liberation theologians like James Cone and Latin American liberation theologians like Gustavo Gutiérrez are also illuminating here. In liberation theology movements, our deepest sources of hope and inspiration are not separate from the world, but are present with us in the struggle for liberation. Liberation means freedom from oppression, living into a world that practices the inherent worth and dignity of every person, moving toward economic justice and collective concern for collective well-being. 

Liberation is a vision in which all of us need all of us. Our thriving is connected. Liberation is not about benefactors or saviors, but about people acting together for the collective good, because none of us are truly self-sufficient. Put another way, liberation is about right relationship, at every scale of relationship. And so, full circle, liberation is about love. When we behave in our relationships in a way that brings about mutual care and shared thriving, that is the love in operational terms that bell hooks spoke of. 

Liberation is a vision, it is a practice we can create on a small scale, even as we acknowledge that the larger society is not yet free. According to bell hooks, systemic oppression, accepted in the larger culture, is a major obstacle to our practice of true love. In All About Love, she explores the obstacles of patriarchy; gender roles and expectations that prevent people from being honest with others and themselves; norms of systemic oppression that turn what could be mutually caring relationships into power struggles. In other writing, she explores how racism gets in the way of relationships and in the way of the feminist movement. Systems of oppression overlap and interlock. Every aspect of a worldview that diminishes the agency, dignity, and worth of some for the benefit of others gets in the way of the practice of love. And practicing love in defiance of those systems–being authentic and demonstrating care and cultivating courage in relationships–the practice of love helps dismantle oppression. 

We cannot practice a love ethic without letting go of racism, patriarchy, classism, wealth inequality, xenophobia, and other oppressions. “Awakening to love can happen only as we let go of our obsession with power and domination,” writes bell hooks. She goes on to say, “To bring a love ethic to every dimension of our lives, our society would need to embrace change.”

Embracing change is, of course, difficult. The pandemic has invited us into a period of profound change, and it’s hard. Our society has the opportunity to improve building requirements for clean air, to normalize masking, to increase access to paid sick leave and to quality health care. We know that no one person’s health is an isolated phenomenon; what happens to one of us affects all of us. Pretending that everything is back to normal is more tempting than making the societal changes we need to take care of each other. 

Out of love, we advocate as best we can in the public square, and we remain true to our capacity to change in the service of love in our own environments. As we as a congregation live into being a hybrid community–a place where people can remain connected even if their disabilities or their caregiving responsibilities make it hard to travel on Sundays–we are going to remember again that change is hard. Practicing welcome and inclusion is hard. Demonstrating our values in the way we do things, even if it’s not familiar or comfortable, is hard. Again, if you are used to comfort being the same as safety, it may not feel like love to do the things that are unfamiliar so that we can be inclusive and flexible. Love asks us to change so that all of us can live fully and well. 

Fear gets in the way of love, and practicing love gives us the courage to overcome fear. Choosing love means choosing authenticity, choosing the possibility of accountability and forgiveness, choosing collective wellbeing instead of power and domination, choosing mutual thriving instead of an ethic of control. Choosing love means choosing connection. It is not easy, and we are capable of doing hard things. Choosing love means we will not be doing hard things alone.

May it be so.

#unitarian universalism

[helloescapist]

Hello! I hope you're doing good and that studies aren't too stressful. I read "The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas" recently and loved it, so here's a request inspired by said book. Write it if you want, and if you have time, the last thing I want is to burden you lol

Demon Slayer request (AU, a prompt for you to run with, hurt/comfort) platonic muichiro x male!preteen!reader

Reader breaks his village's only rule and enters the mysterious forest surrounding it, despite the rumours of it being cursed. He meets Muichiro, the immortal guardian of the forest and the last of his kind, as his twin was killed by humans centuries ago.

Though sceptical and cold towards Reader at first, being a human and all, Muichiro grows fond of him as Reader continues to visit. Muichiro and Reader spend lots of time going on adventures and playing together in the forest, learning more about each others' cultures and worldviews. Muichiro is a fun playmate as he is very knowledgeable about the forest and its secrets, even introducing Reader to magic at one point. But then, Reader's little secret is exposed to the village and his friendship with Muichiro is put to the test.

Sorry for the length, got a bit carried away (but hey what else is new)

Full disclosure, this ask sent me back to when I was a child and playing pretend. Days of Ghibli films, and movies like Origin: Spirits of the Past, and because of this, I have gotten carried away with the plot. So, please accept part one of this ask, as there is at minimum, four parts. Whoops. It is also, 6AM when I wrote this, so if it's a little off forgive me.

Whispers of the Woods Part 1

Word Count: 1280

Setting: Muichiro x male!reader

Content Warning(s): fantasy AU, relationship is platonic, slow build

Summary: a gentle hand that guides you home

Cicadas vibrated against the trees, rustling the leaves and rolling upon the ground. The insects greeted the slip of the sunlight, as its lights crept away from the day. Disappeared amongst the trees that bordered the village. The distinct barriers placed erected from lobed wood and hammered into place. Aged from years of service, only the smallest of gaps offered glimpses of life outside of the village. The touch of dusk blossoming against the later hour, the distinct buzz of the insects revealing the warmth of the season. The stagnant of the night, offering heat to the pores of your skin. So small, and new to the world, little chubby fingers that grasped upon the edges of your family home’s veranda. Bright eyes that wandered the slips of the night sky as they peeked across your family home; your mother hard at work collecting the laundry from drying. The length of her kimono, the small frays that nit at the edge of the seams. Aged that claimed the wear of her fabric, all clues that you would not comprehend until it would be far too late.  The length of her hair pinned beneath a cloth as her fingers busied themselves with retrieving the laundry. The hustle of her work, and the assumption that her little one, you would stay in place as you awaited her return. Heedless of the wandering of small children, and the magic of fireflies.

              Their small lights, blinked upon the night sky. As though stars that threatened to fall from the skies, and dance upon your palms. Little hands that desperately reached for their glow, guided from the veranda on wobbly knees. Small and unaccustomed to wandering from your mother’s apron strings. Enthralled and curious as you waddled forward. Little bugs that danced within fingertip’s reach before fluttering just out of your grasp. Blissfully unaware of the landscape that slipped from familiarity, heedless of all of your mother’s warnings Giggled as the safety of your veranda gave way to the shades of trees. Cooed at the flutter of wings as the security of the village disappeared from your sight claimed by trees, and shrubs. Foliage that nicked at your jinbei all in the pursuit of fireflies.

              The damning realization as the fireflies slipped from the night and out of sight upon the echoes of hoos amongst the nights. Bellowed the depths of the nights. The crunch of wood, and skittering of creatures that roamed the unfamiliar terrain. The welp of tears that threatened the corner of your eyelashes. Unable to comprehend the noises that claimed your senses, and sent chills down your spine as you crouched close to the ground, hands clasped upon the fabrics as the sobs spilled from your lips.  Screaming out for your mother, desperate for her to find you, to retrieve you just as she had always done when you had wandered too far, pulled on the cat’s tail, or when the grannies of the village had discovered your round cherub cheeks. Your cries out of her reach, as were hers for yours. Only the rustle of fallen leaves that had submitted to the summer heat skittered across the ground. The growls of animals unseen, appraising easy pray as the snot ebbed from your nose as you found yourself bolting from the noises. The weight of your small body spirited from sight, fading further and further into the woods out of reach of the security of the village. Of your mother and your home. The tears and wallows, screaming for help, the desperate uncertainty of a toddler lost amongst the night as your legs trembled beneath you. Wobbled from leg to leg, fist clenched tight and your ankle snagged by a roots unturned by earth. The burrowing of bunnies revealed it to the surface before its venture to nab you from your dashing amongst the bushes.

              You could feel the cold dirt, the curl of the root across your ankle. Far too young to comprehend what had happened in your flight, or the natural state of the world. All you understood was the fear that coursed through your petite body, and how desperately you yearned for your mother’s embrace. Your cries falling upon the crickets, and rolled into yourself, the touch of mud scrapped against your cheek. Mud furrowed throughout your clothing, leaves that stuck through the odd ends of your hair, and the welp of tears as you struggled to breath. Crying out for your mother, who could not hear you. Only the hoots of distant owls to keep you company in your loneliness, and terror. “Ma-M-Maamaaa.” The ball of your small fists, fending off the tears that rolled off chubby cheeks, the snot that had long since betrayed you. Cooed only by the gentle hand that emerged from the darkness.

              “Sssh,” it whispered sweetly. Delicate in it’s voice, and careful with its speech. Crouched over you as it tended to the sobs that clung to your eyelashes. Tender in its regard to you. Soft and warm, the small touches of its voice gentle, as secure as the world you knew. Dreamy almost in an unfamiliar scent. Far different than you knew of your mother, or the days labor of your father. It did not smell of the laundry pulled from the line, nor did it seem reminiscent of the summer days, but though you were unable to place the smells, you welcomed its embrace. The warmth of its embrace as it tucked your small form into its shoulder.  The cup of your weight born upon its clavicle as the small touch of your nose burrowed into its neck. The last of your cries, heaved from your small chest, and blossomed out of your small framed, accompanied by the soothing pats upon your back as the footsteps fell across the soil.

Unbothered, and unafraid of its surroundings as it pressed past the roots in which you had tumbled. Cross the owls who had taunted your screams. The small risk of bravery, and the soothing touch of the hand that patted your back allowing you the opportunity to peek at the boy who had rescued you from the woods. His appearance, from what you could understand… no older than some of the other boys in the village your senior. The ones who were old enough to follow their fathers through the days works, abandoning their mother’s sides. Pale cheeks that caught amongst the glimpses of moonlight through the trees. Misty blue eyes that momentarily glance down at you, before shuffling your gaze back into the warmth of his shoulder, all too aware of the snot that rubbed across his kimono. Gentle, and soothing as the pad of his feet, and the sway of his steps. The intentional bounce that slowly rocked you to sleep upon his grasp.

              Only your mother’s cries to greet you in the night. The flutter of your own eyes, rubbed of the sleep from your eyes. Confused at your surroundings, all whispers of the forbidden forest, the outside world gone from your vision. Replaced by the comfort of your home. The villagers, all laughing upon your mother’s tears that formed in her eyes. Frightened that she had lost her child to the forest dwellers, the curse that had been uttered at bedtime stories only to discover her little boy curled up under the veranda just out of sight. All of which, you could not understand, only curiously tilt your head at the way her tears swallowed her normally joyful features, or how her voice registered as heavier than normal. Lacking its usual soft tone, soothed only at the delicate way you inquired if, perhaps you could see the boy with the sweet smell once again.

Quickly dismissed as the dream of a little boy.

#🍡tsuyospeaks #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kny x reader #muichiro tokito x reader #kny muichiro

[ecileh]

You (Dark!Azriel x his own delusions)

Canon-compliant reimagining of Azriel’s crush on Mor as a delusional nice guy stalker’s obsession. I wrote this a while ago after a silly joke about Azriel being like Joe Goldberg of You (book/netflix show about a stalker/serial killer who’s completely sure he’s just a nice guy) and always meant to give it another chapter or two to round out Az’s pre-ACOTAR backstory. But I reread it and felt like it was kinda alright as is. Intended as a one shot for now but may write the rest someday!

(Also note to Az lovers that this is really not serious, I usually write Azriel completely different and I was just having fun imagining him as an insane freak)

AO3 link

Rating: Mature/not graphic but it’s DARK and UNHINGED Word Count: 2.1k TW: unhinged stalker vibes, no smut just Azriel being insane, sexless but very horny, inspired by Joe Goldberg/You so that should give you an idea of what’s happening here, maybe a little dead dove Relationships: kind of Az/Mor but not really it’s 100% in his head, if anything this ended up giving repressed Az/Cassion vibes

You winnow into the war-camp with your bare arm linked through Rhys’s and you look around, shivering, unsure if you belong here. You don’t. I don’t either. You’re underdressed—a slinky, artful arrangement of glittering black fabric. It’s impossible to know if you’re wearing any undergarments, but I don’t think that you are. Where did you come from?

Your clothes are appropriate for the Hewn City, but you’re freezing in this war-camp, high in the Illyrian mountains. You must be Rhys’s cousin, the one who is Cassian’s age, which is two years younger than me and one year older than Rhys. You are classically beautiful, with golden curls and pleading brown eyes and pale skin that has never seen sun or snow or scars. Shadows, though, you’ve certainly seen in the Hewn City. Maybe you won’t balk from mine. But even as I think that, my shadows shrink away. Maybe they’re just giving you the space to shine.

Look at you, walking right toward me. I’m trembling, and I’d fly away just to show you the power and size of my wings. But I don’t want to fly away. I want to be here, watching the connection dawn on your face when Rhys introduces us. Azriel, you’ll say. I’ve heard so much about you.

You’ll giggle and twirl your golden hair as I say, Only good things, I hope.

You come closer. Your gown tucks between your legs when you walk and you are definitely not wearing any undergarments under that slip of a dress and you definitely wanted me to notice. I see there’s a darkness in your eyes.  It doesn’t quite mirror mine, but … maybe you don’t want good.

Scratch out my last line. Your eyes will smolder and you’ll bite your lip as I purr, Only bad things, I hope.

The bad things are what I’ll do to you, you’ll say before running a delicate finger along the waistband of my leathers. Then I’ll sweep you up into my arms and unfurl my wings and fly until we find a spot where no one will be able to hear us. Miles, if I’m right about how loud I’ll make you climax.

Calm down, Azriel. They don’t like it when a male smells aroused the first time you meet, I remind myself. I take a deep breath, taking in the scent of my brother-in-arms next to me. Cassian reeks like sweat and balls and blood and dirt. He really should bathe before dinner, especially since we have all the hot water we want in the cabin, but he grew up half-feral, like a kitten without a mother to teach it how to lick its asshole clean. Some days he’ll train the extra half-hour rather than fill the tub, and sometimes he’ll continue to drill after dinner until he’s too tired to bathe at all. He picked a terrible day to go without a scrub before dinner, what with your arrival, but it’s good news for me. There are many Illyrian females who make eyes at him, the perfect rogue and dashing Illyrian warrior, even if he’s as bastard-born as I am. But your palate is more refined than these brutish Illyrians. You’ve run away from your home and I can’t wait to run away from mine. You’ll understand.

I put my hands in my pockets so you don’t see the shaking or the scars, then tilt my chin up and smirk. It’s what Rhys does when he’s trying to look nonchalant, and he looks damn good doing it so he must be doing something right. I straighten, but Cassian is slouching so we look about the same height side by side. Thanks, brother. He knows, my wingman—he knows you are for me.

But then you sashay right past the pair of us, still clinging to Rhys’s arm, and you glance furtively around the camp, nearly empty with everyone else in the mess tent for dinner, as you accompany your cousin into the Lady’s cabin.

I glance at Cassian, and he shrugs, lifting his shoulder slightly to sniff his armpit. “Should I have rinsed? You don’t think the Lady will scold me since we have company?”

Rhys’s mother, the Lady of the Night Court, is like our foster-mother and used to make us wash before dinner and again before bed if we went back to the training ring, but now that we’re preparing in earnest for the Blood Rite she usually looks the other way when Cassian pushes himself every free minute of the day. She’s Illyrian through and through, and she understands that the rules in the war-camps are different from the rules in the two cities of the Night Court, where neither of us have ever gone but will someday serve at Rhys’s side.

You, however, are High Fae from the Hewn City, and you’ll care about that etiquette. You’ll notice that I’m clean and smell nice and have manners and that Cassian stinks like sweaty balls and looks like hell, and then you’ll surely choose me over him, unlike the Illyrian camp females who like their males brutish and smelly and foul-mouthed.

I smile and slap a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “If it were important, Rhys or the Lady would have given us a heads-up.” Cassian shrugs and follows me into the cabin.

We sit down at the table with Rhys and wait for him to explain because you’re nowhere to be seen, and neither is the Lady. The shadows whisper to me that she is giving you something warm to wear. You shivering, little thing, I could give you something warm, wrap my wings around you—

You come out of the Lady’s bedroom and I’ve changed my mind, because warm clothes means more layers for me to peel off. Even though I can’t see the bare skin of your arms and sides and legs anymore, I can imagine them with the way the warm Illyrian bodice and fur-trimmed skirts cling to your silhouette. Even better, I can imagine removing each piece one by one, slowly and with care.

The Lady smiles and shows you to a seat the good-smelling side of the table between me and Rhys, just as I’d hoped. The Lady takes the seat next to Cassian, then clears her throat and says, “Cassian, Azriel, you boys have heard us mention Rhys’s cousin. Morrigan is going to stay with us for a few weeks.”

Morrigan. A hard, consonant, ancient name. But your friends—Rhys—call you Mor.

Mor, a sweet sound I can’t get enough of. I need more Mor. Do you even have any other friends besides your cousin? I don’t think you’d be here on this cold, windy, unforgiving mountaintop if you did, Mor. I can see in your eyes and hear in the Lady’s voice that you’re hiding from something and we are the only ones who can save you.

That’s why you followed Rhys here. That’s why the Lady is keeping you here with us instead of sheltering you in Velaris, where the Lady was supposed to move next week, because she’s pregnant and the best Healers are in Velaris and an Illyrian war-camp is no place to give birth to a High Lord’s scion. But she’s changed her plans because she knows we—Rhys and me and Cassian too, I guess—are your protectors. She knows we—I—will keep you safe from whatever it is in the Hewn City that haunts your eyes.

I learn so much about you at dinner, Mor, and most of all, I learn how much you need a male like me: powerful, polite, protective. A strong male. A good male.

You’re quite possibly the most powerful and coveted female on this entire island, except maybe that monster in a High Fae body that the High Lord only tolerates for fear that she’ll waste the entire court, though she is only coveted by those with a death wish.

You’re running from an arranged marriage to some sadistic little teenaged tyrant, the eldest son of the High Lord of Autumn. The whole family has a reputation for torturing small animals and breeding females like livestock—the Lady of Autumn is already on her third or fourth pregnancy in fifteen years, practically unheard of for High Fae, and you swear you’ll never breed which is perfectly fine by me.

My childhood was so fucked up, the last thing I want is to witness someone else have a good one.

Your power-hungry father has traded you for an alliance as if a single court is all you are worth. Everyone here sees your worth is beyond measure and has vowed to do what we can to free you. The Lady is going to beseech her husband to let you take permanent refuge in Velaris. But my brothers and I know he will never listen to her. I notice that Rhys and Cassian both set their jaws and sit up a little straighter because they are ready to stand behind me as I slowly tear your fiancé and your father limb from limb to end this ridiculous engagement.

Once a glimmer of hope sparks in your eyes, Rhys teases and goads you. He knows you, knows that this is the best way to bring you out of the misery that this arranged marriage has caused you. Soon you’re goading him back. Little do you know that this is my and Cassian’s favorite subject. We usually keep it to the training ring and don’t mock Rhys like this at home out of respect for the Lady, but she sees how you start to glow as the jokes start rolling. Because Rhys laughs good-naturedly, so does she and so do you.

Cassian gets some good jabs in but his humor is crude and loud and sometimes surreal and absurdist, and Rhys is appropriately self-deprecating, but you, Mor, you’re more like me. My jokes are dry and wry and quiet and cutting, and though I have fewer of them, they mean more because they make you laugh that much harder than anyone else’s.

I can feel this chemistry between us growing. Like a bond.

At one point, mirthful tears streaming down your cheeks, you hold yourself together by placing a warm, dainty hand on my shoulder. Frankly, it’s a little forward of you, to make me imagine how that hand will feel on my cock or my wings. You are already marking me as your territory in front of Cassian, the only other male whom you might have deigned to touch in this camp but you chose me. I have to stop myself from leaning into your touch like a cat so I don’t come on too strong, but it’s the best feeling I’ve experienced since the first time I flew on my own.

As we clear the table I don’t even mind that you say you’re tired and want to go to sleep early because I can’t wait to learn what secrets the shadows in your room have to tell me.

Will you dream of me and touch yourself? Will you whisper my name in your sleep?

I wish I had known sooner that Rhys’s cousin Mor was you because I would have whispered to the many shadows of the Hewn City and learned everything there was to know before you even got here so that I could have catered to all of your tastes. You probably would have already been in my bed if that were the case, but I don’t mind playing this longer game with you.

Mor the truth speaker and Azriel the shadowsinger.

We’ll be each others’ first and only,  and when you’re this well-matched and immortal and powerful—and let’s face it, until Rhys inherits his title and the power along with it, we’re the most powerful beings in this entire Court besides the aforementioned she-monster and the High Lord himself—these things are worth waiting for. Mates.

I barely sleep in the living room where three cots have been set up in order to give you and the Lady each your own bedroom in the little cabin. I try to ignore my brothers’ snores and listen only to the whispers of my shadows as they relay every detail of your night to me. Like me, you’re restless, tossing and turning until your hand slips below the waistband of your pajamas. I listen—respectfully—to the little sounds you make, the way your breath evens out as you finally drift into fitful sleep. As for me, I keep watch all night, my shadows swirling through the corners of your room and around the camp, ensuring that I’m ready to fight if anyone comes.

But no one does. Rhys was right to bring you to the edge of the world, where I can watch over you.

#ecilehwrites #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #dark azriel #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #inspired by joe goldberg

[she-bear18]

Random Freta fanfic

Veta Lopis x Fred-104

Okay, first of all, ENGLISH ISNT MY FIRST LANGUAGE, I accept constructive criticism, but pls be kind :)

Secondly, this is my first time writing a Halo fanfiction, more specifically a Veta x Fred fanfic. There aren't enough of them out there, so I have to take the matter in my own hands !!

Thirdly, this is SHIT, no thoughts, no plot, warned you lol

MESSAGE 

Veta was still getting used to this new lifestyle. Missions back to back, little to no rest and endless paperwork. Sometimes, she longed for home back on Gao, her tiny appartment, her lovely neighbours, her remaining family...She wondered what happened to them, do they miss her ? Is her little cousin Arnie still hoping to become an investigator like her ? Does aunt Pattie still bake her famous pumpkin pie ? So many questions, no answers.  She shook her head refusing to dwell on the past, she had a report to write down, and Baby Dragon  wasn’t a very patient woman.  

She was seated in a room on a prowler (whose name she forgot as soon as her feet landed on the deck) that ONI kindly lent to her. It was small and dusty, its grey walls were tinted with some kind of whitish product that smelled like paint. There were only a desk and a chair in it, which was more than enough for Veta to write her report.  

Her ferrets were down the corridor organizing their gear and getting ready for their next assignement. A little smile crept on her lips at the thought of them. She grew pretty close to Ash and Olivia, bonding over some of their “non-classified” stories (which she found pretty terrifying considering their age). Mark was an another story. He was still very wary of her, and did’nt seem to accept her as a part of the team. Less than a few months ago, she suspected him to be a serial killer, so she understoood his reluctance towards her, but she hoped things would change for the sake of the team’s dynamic. 

She was chewing on the bottom of her pen, deep in thoughts, when her mind wandered on Blue Team. Several of her past missions involved both her Ferrets and Blue Team, it was always an honor to work alongside them.  

She continued to tap her report on her borrowed laptop when Fred’s face suddenly popped in her mind. She blushed, they grew pretty close during their short time together.    

She dared to say she missed him.   

This wasn’t an inappropriate thought...was it ? He was one of the only constant thing in her life at the moment, except for her Ferrets. They came from different worlds, and very opposite upbringings : she grew up on an insurrectionist planet who longed for its freedom, while Fred is the ultimate representation of the UNSC authority. Never in her life would she have dreamed of becoming friend with a UNSC thug. But there she was, missing him and his dry witted humor, and wondering if he was safe. 

She grabbed her commpad, oppened a private channel and wrote the following message : 

Dear Lieutenant, 

 I sincerely hope that you are having “fun” on your current classified adventure. On my part, the Ferrets are doing good. I was thinking about you lately, I dare to say I miss you.

I've got a lot to tell you, don’t go MIA until then.  

Take care, 

Inspector Lopis 

#halo shitpost #halo divine wind #halo last light #halo retribution #halo #veta lopis #fred-104 #miomio's shitty fanfic #fred x veta #freta ? lol #the party ended years ago but im still here XD #veta lopis x fred 104 #halo novels #halo ferrets #mark-g313 #ash-g099 #olivia-g291

[tjerra14]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by @foibles-fables, thank you so much, buddy! Tagging @philliam-writes and anyone else who wants to do this!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 26.

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 126,430.

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently Horizon, mostly. I still have some Dragon Age fics lounging about my WIP folders and I do plan to continue them some day, but who knows when that day will come. Probably the same day DA4 releases. Which, at this point, might just be never. You know how it is.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? All Horizon ones: In You, All Things; Inertia; Unfold Your Empty Space; Plasticity and Linger.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I do my best to respond to them, because I just feel it's a nice way of interacting with my readers, and expressing my gratitude for them taking the time to read my fics. However, sometimes I get a little overwhelmed, or life just drains me of all energy until I straight up forget that I still have some unanswered comments waiting for me, so if you left a comment I never replied to, have my deepest apologies and the reassurance that I will get to them. One day. Very likely before DA4 releases.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Hmm, that's a good question. I usually make a point of ending on a more hopeful note, even if it's sometimes turning it around with literally the last sentence, so... Homecoming, maybe? Although that one is mostly just sad.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Bit of a tie between Unfold Your Empty Space and In All Its Splendour here, but given I like to put Aloy and Ikrie into situations and Splendour is a special one for me, I'm leaning towards the latter. It's actual fluff! For once!

8. Do you get hate on fics? No, at least not that I know of. Gonna chew off the ankles of anyone spreading hate on fics, be it mine or other people's, like a crazed chihuahua though, if I ever come across it.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes, and no. I tend to tiptoe the line with implied sexual content (sometimes it's heavily implied), but I have considered writing primarily smut before (and technically done it? For Dragon Age??) and will probably do it one of these days. Expect many more music metaphors. And hands. So many hands. I'm sorry.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? No. I'm struggling to come up with scenarios for even canon or canon-adjacent things, I simply can't fathom to throw multiple things together and somehow make them work. I'm in awe of everyone who can, though.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? I don't think so. (Once again, chihuahua bites--)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Not in the sense of this question. I did translate my own writing a few years ago, since I started writing All Things Desolate And Forgotten as well as some parts of A New Beginning in German (even going as far as translating parts of the Chant of Light for myself since I didn't feel the official German translation kept the flow and melody of it), but quickly came to realise that Dragon Age and German just won't work for me, so I switched to English and stuck to it ever since.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Not in earnest, but there was a fun joke project @philliam-writes and me discussed over a bottle of wine or two years ago. Still thinking about disaster Trevelyans with a side of power couple Eleanor/Imira sometimes.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship? Aloy/Ikrie. What can I say. They have seized my heart and refused to let it go ever since. Beta/Milu is a close contender, though.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will? Realistically speaking, A Little Faith. I keep telling myself I will work on it again, but right as I was getting back into it, Horizon came along and demanded all my writing juice. I suppose only time will tell.

16. What are your writing strengths? Characterisation and evocative language. I like to think I'm fairly good at portraying the emotions and atmosphere of a scene.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Anything action. Fight scenes especially are the bane of my existence. Choreographing things? Horror. Then turning said imagined choreography into words that make it understandable and real for a reader? Torture.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? Neat, if it serves a purpose and is done well. Wouldn't overdo it though, because it might take away from the effect.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Dragon Age. I used to write original fiction only and looked down on fanfiction writers for most of my teen years because they "didn't do the entire work", but hitting a hard block, getting into gaming properly at around the same time and then realising there were stories I wanted and was able to tell within the setting presented within those games quickly turned those sentiments around. Absolutely for the better. I'm very glad to have started writing fanfic and was able to meet so many lovely people through it.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written? There are many fics very dear to my heart so this is hard to decide, but I think the circumstances surrounding its creation ultimately push Reprise to the top.

#this was fun! #my fingers are itching to get back into writing again #but i was hit unexpectedly hard #by this minor--checks notes--knee surgery thing #but hey! one of these days #writing #tag game

[drac-onion]

Finished P5R

Bunch of words under the cut, honestly I'm just ranting. Figured I'd spare your timelines of a massive wall of text.

Real talk, though. I cried for like 2 hours. From 2/2 all the way to the end. I would cry for a little while, and then stop for a bit. Then I would get to a cutscene or something and the waterworks would start back up again.

Man, I just...6 years ago, I played the original Persona 5. I finished it on May 27th, 2017, a little over a month after it released. I'm kind of impressed as to how I was able to marathon the whole thing in a month while balancing college and work (although I didn't have a whole lot of time dedicated to either at the time, so whatever).

It took me nearly three years to get around to finishing Royal. I got it on launch on PS4, played it for two weeks solid, and then...sort of fell off. I blame quarantine and going a little hard in the paint on playing it every day since I had nothing else better to do, but that doesn't really matter. I was also dealing with quite a bit on my plate at the time. From my car dying (and it being entirely my fault), to losing my job, to...well, I'm not going to make this about that. I could, but I'd be here for ages if I went over everything that's happened in my life.

I just want to say how special this game is to me. The characters, the story, the music, everything just sticks with me. Even after all this time. Even after I dropped the game for three years and picked it back up on PC after transferring my save (worth the money I spent on getting my saves decrypted, if I'm honest), I never stopped loving it. I just...had some other stuff going on. Between Royal coming out and now, since I've finished it, so much has happened. It's wild to think about how much life can change in three years. Hell, how much life can change in the 6 and a half years since I finished the original. So much has happened.

Perhaps it's a little "cringe" to think so fondly of a piece of media like this (enough to shed tears). A piece of fiction. Something, at its very core, not real. Fake. Made up. But there is something about it that's real, and I can't even put it into words. But, you're just going to have to take my word for it. If you know, then you know. If that makes me cringe, then so be it. I think any piece of media can have a message, and I've always found the messages in the games I enjoy motivating. "Time never waits, so find your own meaning to life's struggle, with your heart as your guide", "Be true to yourself, no matter how painful it may be", "Stick to your values, no matter how tough things are, and change the world for the better in your own way", "Once you're at rock bottom, the only way to go is up". I wish I could apply some of these messages in my own life. I suppose the only thing stopping me is me, right? That's how that works.

God, I can feel myself wanting to cry again, but I just don't have any more tears. I think this was the emotional release I've been looking for during the last couple months. Things aren't so good for me right now, and they're about to get a lot worse now that the holidays are coming up. I...don't like this time of year, to put it simply. This will likely come up in my writing in one form or another. (Write what you know, I guess?)

Anyway, I had more stuff I wrote here, but I got waaaaaayyyy off track and into some personal places, so I'll stop myself here.

Persona, as a series, has always been so special to me. I hope that the series continues to grow in the best possible way. Can't wait to cry like a bitch when I eventually finish Persona 3 Reload!

Aaaaahhh...yeah, that one is gonna be rough, even when I know it's coming. Yep.

Well...all that said...my journey with The Phantom Thieves of Hearts isn't over quite yet...I get to ride out yet another journey with these guys...not to mention P5T coming out in around a month. I'm glad to be able to spend more time with these characters. Now, then...

#persona 5 #persona 5 royal #rambles

[darklingichor]

Little House in the Big Woods; Farmer Boy, by Laura Ingllas Wilder

So I read the series in reverse, but I figured it would be kind of hard to write about them that way if I group them together, so I'm going to write these in chronological order.

Big Woods as a story is very sweet. It really embodies the coziness that everyone talks about, really more so than any other book besides Farmer Boy.

Is all childhood memories. Ma making butter, and roasting pig's tail, Pa playing his fiddle and telling stories, holidays and celebrations with family.

Laura at the age of four and five is pretty carefree, as it should be.

It's odd, reading kids books when you're an adult, you get subtext that you probably wouldn't have gotten as a kid.

This happens more and more as the books go on, but in this one, I got something that I don't know was the intent or if I'm reading too much into it.

Big Woods starts out like a fairy tale, and it continues with that tone, and it makes me wonder if Wilder didn't, in some way, think back on that time as ideal because there really is a sense of safety as you follow Laura through the chores and games, and squabbles. The feel is carefree in a way that is mostly lost when the family goes west. I don't know how much kids will get when they read them, but I was always aware of the danger that the Ingallses faced. From Little House on the Prairie, forward, it is under the surface if not actively present. Big Woods, had the bear, but everything is very secure.

The ending is probably one of the most elegant pieces of writing that wasn't about nature, in the whole series.

"She thought to herself, 'This is now.' She was glad that the cozy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago."

Farmer Boy, was written as a companion piece to Big Woods, according to Prarie Fires and the podcast. I cannot express how adorable I think that is.

This book follows a year in the life of nine year old Almanzo Wilder, near Malone, New York. It is even cozier than Big Woods. There are so many descriptions of food, I found myself getting hungry when reading it, and that usually doesn't happen to me. Big Woods, there was more to it, Almanzo is old enough to know something of his own mind, to get into scrapes and to interact with others more than Laura who was only five in the first book.

Plus, because the real Laura was working off of things told to her by her husband, a lot of the book is probably more fiction and has a clearer story arch, at least to me.

It was really interesting to me watching Almanzo learn the farming trade and all the various skills needed to go along with it, and just how much he enjoyed it. I think my favorite parts were when Almanzo was allowed to stay home from school and help out on the farm from threshing wheat, hauling timber, training young oxen, whatever, Almanzo was eager to learn.

Something that caught my attention near the end.

There's this point where a wagon maker in town asks Almanzo's father to apprentice Almanzo.

His father talks to his mother about it, and his mother is very upset, and goes on a rant about how if he did this, Almanzo would never be free, and would always be dependent on others for his living.

Now, there is this odd idea in the LH Fandom (community? It's huge, I don't know) that Laura and Almanzo's daughter Rose actually wrote the books. Honestly, and I will come back this in another ramble, if you read Pioneer Girl and you read Rose's writing, this is obviously not the case (IMO). But we do know, that Rose, was involved in editing her mother's books, and Laura did allow Rose to add things. Both mother and daughter's writing have the thread of being free and independent, but the tone is very different between the two.

This section feels like an addition made by Rose. She was a staunch Libritarian and her writing in its vein usually has a feel of righteous anger or frustration, telling the reader what's what.

Laura's shows the reader how one would do this, and is much quieter

This speech by Almanzo's mother is very out of character for the busy sweet natured woman in the rest of the book, and right after this tirade the tone goes back to normal. Almost as if it can be lifted out completely.

It was interesting to compare it to the rest of the book.

All in all, I enjoyed these two.

#Book #books #book blogging 2023 #Little House in the Big Woods #Farmer Boy #laura ingllas wilder

[alovelyburn]

Rambles about the Conviction Arc Part 3

Well, I wasn’t going to get back to this until next week but its probably my favorite thing to do right now, so nevermind that.

Rambles about the Conviction Arc Part 3

The Lost Children Arc is interesting becase it revisits and reiterates so many of the ideas from the Black Swordsman and Golden Age arc - in that sense its very much a continuation of those arcs. And I know that sounds obvious but what I mean is that this arc was kind of written to be Of A Vibe with the previous two whereas from this point forward you start seeing Miura branch into different directions and incorporate more high fantasy elements, etc. Its a slow roll and doesn’t really fully get going for a while, but I do feel like there’s a noticeable switch, and in fairness Miura did say he specifically wrote Lost Children to be similar to the BSM arc in order to reorient readers with the “present” day.

Anyway, he also liked to make people question things, right? Like the idea that the elves kill and eat humans and maybe that’s fine since they aren’t human anymore kind of echoes back to the Eclipse, and Jill’s reaction - how easily she accepts that maybe she should just become a cannibal elf too because it’ll keep her away from the things that hurt her - is an immediate insight into what creates Apostles and Godhand in the end, really.

Even moreso because the playfulness of the pseudo-apostle “elves” is juxtaposed with images of Jill’s sexual abuse and her fear of becoming a monster, herself. In comparison to the cruelty of her home life, the playfulness of the elves seems idyllic, but of course....

Miura undercuts the suggestion that the pseudo-elves are any better than humans by revealing their destructiveness and cruelty... but then...

Immediately undercuts that by noting that only humans are that cruel. Humans and monsters, even adding a sequence of a pseudo-elf raping another one - a parallel with both Jill’s experience and the events of the Eclipse. It just reminds the reader, or at least me, that the cruelty that manifests in Apostles and Pseudo-Apostles is really a manifestation of their humanity as well - the darkness that flows through humanity that gave rise to the Idea of Evil, and that surges through a person post-Sacrifice. Is it exaggerated? ...maybe? Or maybe it’s just unleashed, because some of the worst things done in Berserk are done by humans.

This also applies to Guts, whose darkest moments make him more of a monster than the monsters he kills.

All this is putting aside that Apostles are human, too.

It’s been a while but I seem to remember last time around I was scratching my head about whether or not all Apostles can create pseudo apostles and, for those who can, whether the forms they create are chosen by them. It does seem they are to some degree since Rosine suggests that she’ll make Jill especially beautiful and strong. But at the same time, all oif her transformations are insectoid in some way so I assume the transformation has to reflect the creator in some way.

I wish we knew a bit more about the specifics of the Hawk of Light/Hawk of Darkness prophecy. I think the general assumption is that it’s not dissimilar to the Christ/Antichrist concept within the text of the Holy See, but of course in realty they’re both the same person.

Anyway, the way the Rosine and Guts fight plays out reminds me a great deal of Akira and Sirene’s fight - not just because they both have headwings, either. The way she commands the space at first, the conflict between humans and demons and then of course...

Ultimately the way she takes on a larger and more formidable form - albeit in her case sans the merging with another demon.

I guess there was a discussion some time ago on Reddit (I just heard about it, I don’t read the Berserk Reddit lmao) where people were insisting that Berserk is “based on” Susano Oh rather than Devilman -- which as far as far as I can tell is because they prefer the idea that it was inspired by a story where the main character is driven to violence because of an assault committed on his love interest and where the villains are a shadowy cabal seeking to rule the world. If it were “based on” Devilman then it would imply that Apostles are more complicated than being pure evil and that Griffith is more complicated than being a sociopath trying to take over the world.

 ...uh anyway that was a sidenote but Miura did specifically name Devilman as the Go Nagai work that influenced him.

I bring this up just because rereading after a while - and just after rereading Devilman itself - just makes the influences pop out even more than they already did. the beats behind Sirene and Rosine’s battles are quite similar, right down to her having lesser demon flunkies. Even the names use the same sounds for the most part.

Anyway it’s interesting watching Guts’ strength develop over time, too, as he turns from the guy who couldnt defeat Zodd even with Griffith’s help, to the guy who takes down Wyald but almost dies in the process, allt hew ay to the guy who could match swords with Zodd without taking any blows on the Hill of Swords and beyond. there’s a certain human fragility to him in these early days because he keeps walking right up to the edge of being violently killed, whereas nowadays the biggest issue he has is the armor not eating him alive.

It’s also interesting to see his personality develop. I mean, even in the Black Swordsman arc there were hints that he wasn’t nearly as edgy as he liked to pretend but after the Golden Age it’s impossible to deny... and having him sort of subconsciously hold back even if it’s just for Jill’s sake makes sense.

Miura once said that he liked the idea that monsters are monsters because they’re sad. It’s relevant because that’s just built right into the worldbuilding. It’s hard to hate Rosine, really - she did a lot of awful stuff, no lie, but this desire to create a community around herself, the obsessive want to bring her only friend into that community, really just speaks to her bone-deep loneliness and despair. The loss of her humanity affects its expression, but honestly its more of an exaggeration of human tendencies than something wholly divorced from humanity’ nature.

I wish every apostle and every godhand had an origin sequence like this. Just all of them. I know that aside from Rosine, Ganishka and the Slug Count have them, but man. There’s nothing that drives that ‘it could have been anyone’ feeling like an Apostle origin story.

Still, in the end, they’re all the same story in a way. Even the Godhand, ultimately, made the choice because they wanted everything to go away. I have seen some people say that Apostles are inherently evil because of their demon-esque status and because of the Sacrifice but I think that really misses the point. Apostles are as human as humans are - and their destructive actions are routinely paralleled with human acts. “Only humans can enjoy killing this much. humans or monsters,” right?

I think Apostles are kind of unbound - a lot of their “id” comes out, and I imagine some of them fall farther than others away from their original personality and goals, but their basic nature remains intact. The Slug Count became more extreme, but he was ALREADY an extremist prone to hunting people for having differently beliefs than he did. Rosine is still searching for someplace to belong. Locus is still a knight. So it’s more like tweaks than complete changes.

There’s another similarity with Sirene, in fact - they both die from violence but in a state of peace, believing that they’re okay.

And there’s the Casca moment.

Miura really went out of his way to draw a lot of parallels between Guts and Griffith - their personalities, their priorities, their charisma. The point of what people call the RPG party, for example, is to showcase the parts of him that are like Griffith - kind of drawing people into his footsteps effortlessly. It’s something that’s been hinted about since the Golden Age.

That being the case, even though there are similarities to the Griffith and Casca situation here, and honestly Griffith would probably have just told her to come if she wants and stay if she wants, I think its not wholly accurate to say they’re in the same situation. Griffith didn’t have demons and spirits stalking him all night after all.

That’s not to say that I think Guts would have wanted to carry her around, because I don’t. At this point in his life, he hasn’t come to a place where he’s willing to carry kids around with him. But I do think he’s also aware that someone like Jill can’t survive following him around.

But, you know, he also recognizes the difficult situation she’s in. As he would. After all, he had an abusive father who took his bitterness over a battle wound out on him, too.

It’s not really an ideal ending for her, is it? It’s more bittersweet. Her problems werent solved, and she wasn’t able to leave them behind, though she did gain some tools that she may need to endure them, or even improve them to some degree. The way the panels on the latter image merge the sun into her head, and her hair into the clouds is really interesting, especially in the context of what she’s saying - the acknowledgment of the world’s cruelty and the trauma she’s endured mixed with the ability to see things more clearly now that she’s been tempered by the fire.

Even though she can’t go with Guts, which was probably the better decision for her will-being, I like that he acknowledges her difficulties, her shitty homelife, as a form of battle too and, despite the fact that he didn’t take her on as a follower the way Griffith did with Casca...

...he is ultimately able to give her the strength to fight her own battles, too.

It’s one of the things I really love about Berserk. You don’t always get happy endings... but that doesn’t mean that you have to curl up and die. Life, like people and apostles and everything really is a mixture of things, and all you can really do is navigate it as best you can, even when it’s a struggle, and try to claw your way to a better place than you were in the day before.

I feel like I’m less interesting than usual here, but in fairness to me I don’t feel very well. In closing, though, adapt Lost Children Anime Industry you cowards! Put shorts on the elves it’ll be fine.

#berserk #ariel talks about berserk #rambles about berserk #berserk meta

[beneaththetangles]

Ya Boy Kongming Ep. 9 & the Adult I Aspire to Be

Kongming is more than just a great tactician with a charmingly demure manner and surprisingly decent rapping skills. He’s also the kind of adult I aspire to be, and one I think that all of us—as we hand in our membership cards to “the young generation” (ahem, as we age)—can stand to learn a thing or two from. This is because Kongming models the kind of servant leadership and honor for the youth that we see too little of in our world. He does what all of us should do, as we grow in skill, experience and expertise: Kongming invests in the next generation. And in doing so, he’s going a long way toward building the kind of inter-generational relationships that are so easily lost in an age of rapid change, instant gratification, and a media culture that seems more often to emphasize the irreconcilable differences between generations than partnership among them.

In other words, Kongming offers us nothing short of a blueprint for forging multi-generational legacy, something that lies at the heart of the gospel.

Kongming died in the mid-200s, and materializes (seemingly from a shooting star) in Shibuya 1800 years later, younger than when he died, but still likely in his 30s or early 40s. Though his hair betrays no grey as of yet, he is no youth. If anything makes this plain, it’s his distinct distaste for the club scene and EDM music, which he takes to be confirmation that he’s woken up in hell. At least, until he hears Eiko singing.

This is to say, Kongming awakens to find himself an alien in a world he doesn’t recognize.

How many of us can relate to that, I wonder? Do you remember kitchen phones attached to the wall? The Commodor 64s at school being the cutting edge in modern technology? Having a pen pal to whom you wrote letters on paper, putting them in envelopes with a stamp and posting them through a red or blue metal box on the street corner, in hopes of receiving a reply in a month or so? I do. Sometimes I marvel at how much the world has changed in my lifetime—technology, language, worldviews—and how much I’m lagging behind. I even catch myself saying occasionally, “In my day, …” as if it’s not “my day” any longer, though it was just a moment ago.

This is where resentment can creep in. When we realize that the world that was seemingly defined by us and our peers now belongs to someone else, to the next generation who are shaping the trends, skyrocketing to fame, wowing the world with their precociousness, their activism and innovation. It’s easy to start to see them as, well, “them”, as some Other. And it’s easy to start complaining about a generation that doesn’t appreciate the advantages and opportunities they enjoy and which “we” didn’t have.

Kongming on the club scene. Mood.

When Kongming arrives in Shibuya, in a place that seems like him to be hell in its disorienting noise and unfamiliarity, he would be well excused to complain. To criticize the garishness and crudity of the world he saw around him; the rudeness of the youths who mob him and chug tequila down his throat. He’d be well excused maybe even to start ordering people around, as he must have been in a position to do in his previous life, having been the top advisor to a king.

He doesn’t do any of this though. Instead, amid all the noise and chaos, he remains open and humble, and because of this, he hears beauty and potential and heart in the midst of the alienness. He hears a single voice ringing true above the turmoil of the club: he hears Eiko.

What follows from this moment early in episode 1, all the way up to now with episode 9, is the story of a man who chooses not to try to recapture his former glory or recreate the world he used to live in, but instead to make it his life’s work to see the next generation step into its full potential and continue to change the world, taking it even further from the world he knew. Kongming wants to see Eiko and Kabetaijin (and their fans and supporting crew) strive toward what he and his generation were never able to achieve. He wants to see them step into the glory that eluded him.

To do this, he starts listening to EDM, and more to the point, listening for the beauty he can find amid the “inscrutable tootle” that he first takes it to be. He learns about the music industry, modern technology, social media, and dropping rhymes. He works a menial job to supplement the “war coffers”, as he calls them, taking his finely honed tea serving skills (truly an elite art form in the Three Kingdoms-era China from which he hails) and putting them to use mixing drinks in a club. He quite literally serves.

Kongming does not, however, adopt streetwear or change his refined manner of speaking—these things are part of who he is and he’s not trying to “fit in” with the youth, be relevant, or pose in some way to gain their approval. No, he doesn’t change who he is. But he does broaden his horizons and engage with the changed world he finds himself in, discovering beauty in unexpected places and seeking out new ways to put his wisdom to work.

He does all this for the sake of supporting Eiko and her dream to become a professional singer. He does it also to get Kabetaijin over his gut-wrenching anxiety and back onto the stage in front of the microphone that brings him to life. And for the dj and bespectacled super-fan in the background too, whose skills he recognizes, and for whom he makes a place on his team, in his community. (Can’t wait til he meets Nanami and enfolds her into the merry band as well!)

Kongming breathes purpose and hope into each of these young people, coming alongside them and equipping them for the journey ahead.

At times this means confronting and challenging them, particularly with Kabetaijin; at others, simply setting them up for opportunities they could not or would not have sought out for themselves, as is more often the case with Eiko. Kongming opens doors and pushes them through with a motivating word and a nudge to the backside. Most importantly, he sets them up to fight their own battles, as with Eiko and the recording studio dude (or pudding geezer, as she calls him), or Kabetaijin and himself in the rap battle. Kongming is there to advise them along the way, and to celebrate them when they surprise themselves with their ability to stand tall and do what they thought was beyond them.

Kongming is, in other words, an elder to them.

Part of what this entails is adapting his own dream—to unite the world—so that it complements the dreams of the next generation, undergirding and facilitating them. So rather than prioritizing his own agenda, Kongming seeks to ensure that Eiko becomes the singer she wants to be. In so doing, he will achieve his dream of uniting the world—through her music rather than military conquest.

In other words, Kongming recognizes that it’s not a zero sum game: this is not old world vs new world; his generation vs the next generation. Instead, he understands that the two work together; that he, with his superior skill and experience, must partner together with others, even those who are relatively inexperienced and have not yet stepped into their full potential in the way that he himself has done. The youth need him, and he, they. Together, they will shape the world into the kind of place where dreams come true.

This dynamic is a two-way street though, and hinges on active participation from the younger generation too. Kongming takes the lead in reaching out and making the offer, but Eiko, Kabetaijin and the others must grasp his hand and accept.

Eiko does this very early on. Moved by Kongming’s kind words about her singing, and no doubt also by his childlike wonder at the new world and the vulnerability he shows as he quietly mourns all he’s lost, Eiko’s heart is softened toward the older man, and she opens up to him in a way she rarely does, according to Owner. And she continues to do so, as she learns to trust him more and more.  

Kabetaijin follows a different path, but likewise learns to respect Kongming through their unusual encounters, first, in the laundromat and ultimately, on the stage. In the midst of his resentment and fear at being duped into a rap battle, Kabetaijin recognizes the heart behind it, and the truth that Kongming was setting him up for success and not failure.

Trust. Respect. Acceptance and appreciation. These are the things the youth offer in return to Kongming.

Not so though with the villain who finally appears in episode 9.

The villainous Karasawa

Until now, the “bad guys” in Ya Boy Kongming have been more obstacles in the great tactician’s stratagems, than true opponents. But episode 9 sets up music producer Toshihiko Karasawa as a genuine villain, in that he is the opposite of Kongming in the area that matters most: his relationship with the young people under his care, the girl band Azalea.

In short, Karasawa exploits them. He seeks to control them, choreographing their every move from what they wear and what they sing, to when and where they perform, even banning Nanami, the lead singer, from busking. He promises to make them stars and have them singing in stadiums within two years, yes, but only on his own terms. And those terms are pleasing others, namely him. It is a lesson he claims to have learned himself, and now he is forcing it onto Nanami and her friends. Karasawa does not partner with them and their dream, but rather co-opts them into serving his own vision and priorities. As a result, it is an abusive relationship.

Karasawa doesn’t mince his words with Azalea.

But even this relationship is a two-way street. And the sad reality is that Nanami and her friends are in part responsible for landing themselves under such tyranny. In a moment of discouragement, Nanami wanted a quick fix, a surefire way to fame and fortune, to market their music. And she viewed this man, with his expertise, connections, and financial resources, as the way to achieve it. She approached him in an instrumentalist way, seeking to get what she could from him. Trust and respect, acceptance and appreciation had nothing to do with it. Instead, this was a transactional relationship.

And so the battle lines between the two generations here were drawn.

Too often, our society falls into this tendency to decamp along generational lines. It happens in the world and in the church too—ironically, often over music. We don’t understand each other and the respective worlds that we come from. We see each other as obstacles, tools, or at best, something to be tolerated or perhaps addressed politely, but not really permitted to be a part of our lives and dreams in a meaningful way. We each stick to our own priorities, our own way of understanding the world, our own goals for what that world should look like.

This is why we have so much to learn from Kongming: because he doesn’t fall into this destructive cycle.

Kongming’s words are the opposite spirit of Karasawa’s. Kongming calls out the gold.

As an elder, as someone from an older generation, Kongming has the advantage in his relationship with the youths. It’s never an equal balance of power between the generations, you see. But Kongming uses his advantages—superior experience, skill, expertise—to enable the young people in his care to grow in experience, skill and expertise themselves, and realize their full potential.

In this, he’s like Moses with Joshua, Paul with Timothy, Naomi with Ruth, or Jesus with the disciples. All these mature adults took youths who were at a loose end under their wing, investing time, effort and insight into seeing them mature and become adults who would carry their legacy (that of Moses, Paul, Jesus and Naomi) beyond what they themselves could do. Moses was never able to realize his dream of leading Israel to the promised land, but his apprentice Joshua did. David never got to fulfill his dream of building a temple for God, but he prepared the way, and his son Solomon did. Jesus never had the chance to preach the gospel to the whole world, but his disciples did. God thinks and plans and acts across generations, spanning tens, hundreds and even thousands of years.

We can’t do the same exactly, but we can position ourselves more readily to pass the baton—and to receive it well also.

Like Kongming, we can be on the lookout for the beauty that persists in a rapidly changing world, rather than constantly mourning the loss of what was more familiar to us. And we can be on the lookout for the young people whose dreams and maturation we can invest in and partner with, that in so doing, we might see all our dreams come true.

So the next time the style of worship music changes, or a bizarre new trend sweeps up the younger generation, let’s be like Kongming. Let’s be elders who realize that this isn’t a zero sum game, and who refuse to draw battle lines between the generations. Let’s listen for that beautiful voice that rises above the alien, ear-splitting din of a place we may rather not be in, and invest in that instead, so that our legacy might be found in what we did for and with those who came up after us.

As Paul enjoins us repeatedly, “Fathers, do not provoke your children, lest they become discouraged.” Colossians 3:21 (see also Ephesians 6:4) Or more fulsomely,

“Fathers, do not provoke or irritate or exasperate your children [with demands that are trivial or unreasonable or humiliating or abusive; nor by favoritism or indifference; treat them tenderly with lovingkindness], so they will not lose heart and become discouraged or unmotivated [with their spirits broken].”

Col. 3:21, Amplified Translation

These are words to live by as we leave our youth behind and become the “Fathers” and “Mothers”, the elders of this world. Let’s age well, my friends!

=====

Ya Boy Kongming can be streamed on HiDIVE. And it’s totally awesome. (Yes, I grew up in the 90s, dude.)

#Anime #Christianity #Paripi Koumei #Ya Boy Kongming #Zhuge Kongming #Maturity #Articles #Author: Claire

[lovejustforaday]

2023 Year End List - #12

Calla - Ntski

Main Genres: Glitch Pop, Art Pop

A decent sampling of: Neo-Psychedelia, New Age, Alternative R&B, Trip Hop

It's always a real pleasure when a lesser-known artist you've been following for a while happens to drop a new record. Being a part of a smaller following makes the occasion feel a little more special, unspoiled by the discourse and expectations held among fans during a regular album roll out for a much bigger artist.

A big part of the reason why I even started this blog was so that I could recommend stuff to my friends (and denizens of the internet) that I didn't think they'd normally come across. Ntski happens to be one of those hidden gems.

Not to be confused with Mitski who I wrote about a few entries back, Ntski is a Kyoto-based Japanese electronic artist and producer that I came across about two years ago via the interwebz (do people still say that?). Her debut LP Orca ended up being one of my favourite albums of 2021, and you can peruse my blog's archives to check out the review I wrote on that one.

In that review, I described Ntski as being tangentially part of a crowd of female artists to come out of the more artsy side of the 2010s alternative R&B explosion. Essentially, If you treally enjoy the works of artists like FKA Twigs, Kelela, and Caroline Polachek, then Ntski is probably also right up your alley.

What makes Ntski special is her appreciation for abstraction, and the combination of the aesthetics of pure simplicity with sound textures that are quite complex. She sings in a very meditative tone, guiding the listener through galleries of metamorphic sound exhibits. Her music works to soothe the soul in gradual waves, eroding rugged exteriors to reveal smooth inner cores. She also has a playful sense of humour and sometimes embraces nonsense lyricism that really evokes a child's imagination.

While Orca was strongly based in R&B rhythms and featured a more involved production style, Ntski's latest offering Calla is more sparse, with a sound rooted in serene, natural soundscapes that are accompanied by glitchy, languid, and faltering electronics that serve to peel away layers of reality to reveal the soft, ethereal membrane of its inner-universe. It's not a huge departure from her established sound - just slightly more formless, with emphasis on the sustained spaces between notes and the continuously evolving ebb and flow of the record's pulse.

"If" is simply unreal. Neo-psycedelic glitch pop that sounds like its being stretched like silly putty and sucked into an endless vortex, but in the least non-violent possible version of that description. In fact, it's actually quite pleasing to the mind, like a full-on aural head massage. Everything in the surrounding area melting into a glowing yellow wax. Trees drooping back into the earth. The true sensation of letting go.

"Field of Flowers" is a more beat-driven trip hop-y track, with something really ominous looming in the background. The lyrics evoke the imagery of the song title contrasted with phantom screams and the sense of danger if one is to remain. A sort of perverse paradise that cannot be stabilized. The shift in atmospheres on this track is palpable, like changes in perspective that occurs when intrusive thoughts enter into a peaceful headspace and begin to wreak havoc.

On the poppier side of things, "Aloha" offers light-hearted, sputtering electronic majesty, painting a colourful vignette full of tranquility and familiar cradling warmth. The song is a treasured celebration of a mother-daughter bond from the mother's voice, made all the more bittersweet because of Ntski's own mother's passing last year. A beautiful ode to the most fond and remarkable kind of relationship.

The closer "Sayonara" is an exquisite send off. The dawning light captured through the lens of tiny misty globes of morning dew, with every streak of light shining through like little memories of the past being filtered through the realities of the present. The raw essence of that Dr Seuss quote: “Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened”. This piece is most likely also about the artist's mother, which is something powerful and sacred, but at the risk of making it about something it's potentially not, I will just say that, in true Ntski fashion, it feels part of something more abstract and greater than all of us, like a great shift in the resonance of the universe.

Admittedly, some of the contents of this record are too abstract on the surface and don't quite reach me as a listener. But I think this record rewards patience, and I wouldn't be surprised at all if this one grows and grows on me in the future. I'll check back in a year's time and see if this is still only sitting at #12.

For now, what I will say is that this record is a decisive step forward in quality from Ntski's already very solid debut. Calla is strange and beautiful and relaxing and mind-expanding all at once. If you're a fan of any of those adjectives, then do yourself a favour and check this one out.

8/10

Highlights: "Sayonara", "If", "Aloha", "Milk White Seed", "Field of Flowers", "Michi"

#Ntski #calla #art pop #glitch pop #2023 #aoty #album review #music review #list #year end list

[jaybirdiewrites]

A Twisted Tale

(Or a Sleeping Kingdom of Thorns and Flowers)

Hi! I wrote this a while ago and just got around to editing it, but this is the first little bit of an original story I’ve been trying to work on for a while now! Please let me know if you like it, because I’m not sure if I’ll continue!

This story is one you know, or at least thought you did. 

I’m not quite sure if I know it either, but i’ll do my best to share it with you the way I learned it, and however you interpret it is up to you. This is the story of a Sleeping Beauty, and how her tale was never quite her own.

I’ll tell you that this story is by no means, one with a happy ending. Parts of it are happy, yes, but the end is one that you never quite wanted to know.

Not long enough ago, in a land disturbingly close by, there lived two girls. They were happy, once, but slowly that happiness crumbled, and gave way to a type of sadness only aquired by loosing loved ones. 

One girl was a princess of a kingdom cursed to one day die of a sickness so horrible, no one would survive, and one was a little servant girl, hidden in the walls of the very castle the princess was trapped in.

And yet, for years they never knew of eachother, until one fateful day.

The princess had fallen ill. Not a single person knew what befell her, but the sickness was cruel. It was a slow sickness, first starting in her chest, and then spreading to every inch of her body, leaving her mind last, so that she may feel all of the pain that the sickness inflicted upon her.

The servant girl, who had always watched the princess, for she had grown up in the castle wanting to play with her—held back only by her mother’s words of caution—cried with the princess, though they were in vastly different circumstances. One waiting for death on a bed of laces and silks, and one curled up on a thin cot with a flower bag pillow, crying for the looming death of a friend she had never met. 

Slowly, over the long months, the princess fell asleep, and much of the castle with her.

The sickness that had taken the princess moves through the kingdom, an irreversible plague that seemingly could not be fixed by any human, fairy, or enchantress, be them good or evil.

The kingdom gained a reputation for the sickness, and as more and more people fell ill, trades from other kingdoms did too. 

With no one to tend to them, the crops slowly died, and the vines previously decorating the walls of the castle overtook the kingdom, their leaves turning prickly, a once beautiful thing became twisted and evil.

Everyone in the kingdom fell ill, but the little servant girl alone remained. 

She spent her days tending to the princess, as her mother and father had died long ago of age, and the castle guards had never been so kind to her as a little one.

Slowly, the world forgot about the kingdom, and as the years passed, the servant girl grew her skills. 

She cleared out the vines and crops, planting new seeds scavenged from the soil, and grew everything from food to flowers. The servant girl cleaned the kingdom, fixed the carriages and befriended the animals, who were no longer fearful of humans, having not seen one but her in so long.

In the kingdom, no one aged, and the sleeping kingdom remained as such for many years. Still and silent except for the animals, and even those seemed quieter, like they knew that no longer was anyone there to hear them sing.

One day, as the servant girl was tending to the garden she had so carefully crafted, she spotted a new flower, one not planted nor known to the girl, though she had read all of the garden books in the kingdom. 

Curiously, the girl plucked the flower from the ground, and just barely a foot away popped up another, its flower bud blooming into a beautiful pink flower before falling down into a pose the servant girl could only describe as sleeping.

Slowly but surely, the pink flower spread through the kingdom, and wherever it was, the air seemed to buzz with life, the birds sang louder, and the grass grew a brighter green than ever before.

The servant girl picked three of these flowers every day, one for every month the princess had been sick for, and every day, she replaced the flowers, placing them in the princesses hands, neatly folded over her chest, so that her sleep might be just as happy and beautiful as the life that lived around these flowers. 

Another year passed, and the servant girl was replacing the flowers when she slipped, the stem of the flower, sharp as a spindle, pricked her finger, and a single drop of blood fell down, turning one of the pink sleeping flowers a bright red.

After that, the servant girl slowly became more beautiful with her kingdom. Though she still did not age, the girls face grew slender, her face somehow still warm and inviting. 

With her beauty, the Servant girl grew in grace, and in power, and she approached the 100th day of the kingdom— now hers by everything but law, however trivial the laws of the sleeping kingdom may be.

It was on the 100th day that the Servant girl decided to try on one of the Princesses' dresses. 

The dress she had tried on was a nice pink color, simple enough to look right on the Servant girl, with her hair in a long braid, but extravagant enough that the Servant girl felt like a princess as she walked through the kingdom, to the first flower that had grown, now surrounded by a garden of reds and yellows and whites and greens. 

That same day, as the clock struck noon and the Servant girl was replacing the Princesses flowers, the Sleeping Kingdom slept no more.

#Fantasy #writers on tumblr #original story #Fairytale