#woe upon ye for a hundred generations

[thehidn]

Mosquitos are God's answer to the South

#a plague upon your houses #woe upon ye for a hundred generations #the planter class must burn #imtchy

[heyclickadee]

Okay! Thoughts on “Retrieval.” This was so much easier to get through.

1. Oh hey! It’s not a big heavy emotional episode that speaks to my soul THANK GOD

2. Seriously, it was kind of nice to get a break. This season seems to be following the same general pattern of season one where episodes 7, 8, and 9 are heavy hitters, while episode 10 serves as a bit of a breather.

3. That said…this…is probably my least favorite episode of the season. I don’t dislike it, I don’t even think it’s a bad episode, but I personally found it a little clumsy, and every other episode of the season has been so good that this one falls a little flat by comparison. Especially on the heels of the last three. Now, that said, there are so many little moments in this I adore, even if I think the whole is a little clunky.

4. *don’t check tbbtwitter DON’t check tbbtwitter don’t do it don’t check tbbtwitter don’t oh shoot why did I check tbbtwitter WhhHhhYyyyyYyyyyyyyyyy*

5. Okay, I get the frustration that things aren’t moving fast enough more than I usually do. I don’t one-hundred percent agree, but I get it. I get wanting more Crosshair, wanting more for Hunter and Wrecker, and wondering where, exactly, the season is going. But I also have a general rule of not criticizing a show until for not doing something I want it to do until the show is completely done, because nine times out of ten the show either ends up doing it OR ends up doing something other than what I expected that ends up being better anyways. Now, that’s my rule, and it doesn’t have to be anyone else’s, but I’m going to sit over here and wait to see what happens. And enjoy what we’re getting now in the meantime. Because whatever criticisms I have, and I do have some, there’s some good stuff here.

6. I loved the fact that the gang isn’t just waiting for Cid to come get them. It shows that they don’t trust her enough to expect that she will help them out, and they’re taking proactive measures to get themselves out of this situation now while they’re all still pretty able and not actively starving to death instead of waiting for her to inevitably not come through for them and having to figure something out then.

7. Wrecker really said it was his turn to be extra testy towards everyone this time around, didn’t he?

8. Really, though, Wrecker’s not having a good time here. He’s missing Echo and Crosshair and the marauder got stolen and they’re stranded and on top of everything else it’s hot and he’s hungry and you know what? Be as irritated as you want, my guy. And you know things are bad when he starts saying things like, “Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” to Omega.

9. Wrecker watching that piece fall off the bike, staring at it, and then Giving Up because Woe Be Upon Him was a Mood.

10. There’s the parallel between Rampart interrupted Crosshair every time he tries to eat and Mokko using food as a way to control the kids in the mine, yes, but there’s also an uncomfortable semi-parallel between that and Cid NOT sending immediate help when she knew the gang didn’t have enough food to last even a few days. It’s that whole “gotta way to live, gotta work to eat, gotta put yourself in abusive and exploitative situations to work” trap.

11. Wrecker really rolled for intimidation on a fifteen year old. He actually rolled a 5, but he’s got a +30 modifier, so it doesn’t matter. (I will admit that I don’t know how modifiers work).

12. Actually, Wrecker going around growling at everything in general and Benni in particular because he’s hangry, agitated, and just trying to move things along as fast as possible made me realize that Wrecker actually doesn’t capitalize on how physically intimidating he is all that often. Yeah, he’s big, loud, and over the top, but he almost never throws his weight around to make himself seem scary. If anything he spends a lot of the time doing the exact opposite.

13. Gonky, coming in at the clutch!

14. “That’s our defective power droid.” I love how protective they are of Gonky! He’s like the beloved family dog who really just kind of sleeps all the time, but everyone loves him all the same.

15. Hunter: *dives face first into the void*

Somewhere in the back of my mind, as though from a great distance: HE’S SO HOOOOOT!! AND RESPECTFUUUULLLL!!!

16. Seriously, who gave him the right—

17. I really liked Omega seeing first hand how bad things for those kids were, and how Mokko pitted them against each other. Omega pointing out that the way Mokko treated them all was wrong was probably the first time Benni ever really heard something like that. It’s hard to see how abusive a situation is from the inside. *cough cough Cid cough cough the Empire*

18. This was actually a really good episode for Omega in general. She’s seeing more of the galaxy outside Kamino, seeing how the galaxy isn’t divided into “The Empire” and “Everyone Else,” bonding with people outside the batch, learning about other people’s perspectives and concepts of home, and trying to make things better with small acts of kindness. Like giving Benni her ration bar. She doesn’t know how soon it is before she’s going to eat next because who knows if they will, in fact, get out of there, but she still hands it over completely unprompted, because she knows this kid is starving. And even though getting access to Mokko’s profit records wasn’t her goal, she does take the time to look through them and point out that the math definitely isn’t mathing with how poor the mine is supposed to be.

19. I was a little bit annoyed that Hunter didn’t immediately step in and help those kids, but that, “We’re not engaging. These kids have it bad enough as it is,” does a lot to explain why. He doesn’t have all the information that Omega ends up having about the mine’s profits at this point, so he thinks the mind really is poor. He doesn’t have the means to take care of all of these kids if he, for example, tried to shuttle them off-world or anywhere to take them if he did—the kids would still be stuck with nothing. And it’s not as though the team can’t really use their normal skill set to, say, overthrow Mokko. One missed shot from anyone would destroy the entire mine and leave the minor miners with even less at best, and kill everyone inside at worst. He’s not backing away from helping because he doesn’t care, he’s backing away because he doesn’t want to make things worse. It’s not handled as deftly as the bad batch usually handles things like this, but I do appreciate that it’s there.

20. Season two has been focusing on Omega’s relationship with Echo and Tech more than it’s been focusing on her relationship with Hunter, but, even though I do miss their talks, there’s absolutely been growth here. The guys have equipped Omega to be able to handle herself and Hunter has complete faith in her to do so. Can you imagine season one Hunter watching Omega throw herself off the end of a walkway and into a pit of fiery death without screaming at her to stop and having all the heart attacks at once? Or early season two Hunter? No. But here, he knows she’s going to be able to make the leap and she knows that he’ll catch her. They don’t even have to talk that plan out, they’re that in sync.

21. Oh hey, look at the way Tech is checking on Omega and talking things out with her since their heart to heart last episode! I love the growth in their relationship!

22. All right, I know Tech’s line about how there are others like them in the galaxy and how that’s something is getting ripped apart in some circle somewhere, but…while I do think the line is a little clumsy in this particular context, since the batch didn’t go in with the intention of freeing the kids in this mine, I think it’s being misunderstood. I don’t think Tech is saying that they’re big damn heroes or anything like that. I think he’s saying that they’re helpers. Because for a group of people that really just wants to lay low and live a bit selfishly, they go out of their way to help out. A lot.

They’re not battling it out with the empire, they’re not taking on that big fight, but they do just a little bit of good almost everywhere they go. Hunter wasn’t able to save Caleb, for example, but doing what he could did Caleb the chance to get away. They don’t follow orders on Onderon, which allows Saw to get away and fight another day, too. Echo gets a bunch of droids away from what seems to be another abusive work environment, they go to Saleucami looking for a place to lay low and end up helping the Lawquanes escape, they intentionally flub a job for Cid to hand important intel over to people they know will use it to fight the empire, they save Hera’s parents, they save Gregor, Tech helps one of the few surviving Serennian’s get access to his people’s history, they help Cid out of real mafia level trouble more than once for no other reason than that it’s the right thing to do (and to keep Omega from being sad), the immediately drop a job when they realize a kid is being trafficked and then help defend that kid’s home, they take a huge risk to help Rex with an important mission (this did backfire but it wasn’t on them), and, no, they didn’t come to this mine with the intention to help the kids out but the still did give those kids the means and information to help themselves (tightening this episode up a bit could have made that more clear and made that line feel less off, but it is absolutely there).

That’s what Tech’s saying; they help people out, and at the least try their best to not make things worse, and they’re not alone. And in a galaxy full of Ramparts and Mokko’s, that does count for something.

23. Tech and Wrecker could’ve shot those droids on the bridge at any time. They didn’t, however, because taking out the droids before the kids all turned on Makko would have meant probably having to stun the kids, too. And normally they’d probably okay with that, but they are standing over a molten chasm of death, and it wasn’t worth taking the risk of a kid falling.

24. *flashbacks to exactly this time in season one when half of tbbtwitter got pissed at the Raxus episode for almost the same reasons and declared they were giving up on the show because it wasn’t moving fast enough I get it I do but I swear to god*

25. Makko’s death was underwhelming; I’m glad Tech pointed out the parallel between how Makko controlled the miners and how the Empire controls everything, even though I’m not sure how he knew what Makko was doing unless Benni just casually told them what was happening thinking that it’s totally normal in a scene I would have liked to have seen; and there was something just a little it clunky about how the batch ended up helping out here. Those are my criticisms. But it’s not a bad episode by any stretch.

26. This is still my least favorite episode of the season, but I’ve talked myself into liking it more.

27. I think this technically counts as a successful mission. They got what they came for (the ipsium) and they’re headed back in one piece. Reeaaaaal curious how the next time they see Cid is going to go, though. I sort of have a theory that she maybe wanted them to get stranded. I don’t think Cid is evil, and she does have a genuine soft spot for Omega, but I could see Cid selling them out because she got herself in way too over her head and needed a way out.

28. Wrecker and Lula!! 🥺

29. Was…that Crosshair’s weapons kit on the cart at the end? I need to go rewatch “Replacements.”

30. Yeah, so we’re, like…definitely getting a season three, aren’t we? That’s not exactly a question—I really mean that episodes like this that make the story take it’s time to go places really makes it feel like at least three seasons are in the bag.

31. I forgot to mention that I liked the fact that both Tech and Wrecker were fixing the bike and the ship. It’s low key, but I always love seeing more of Wrecker’s mechanical/technical skill.

#the bad batch #tbb spoilers #tbbspoilers #the bad batch spoilers #the bad batch season two

[pamphletstoinspire]

Commentary on the Holy Gospel of Jesus Christ according to St. Mark – Chapter 14

St. Mark, the disciple and interpreter of St. Peter (as noted by St. Jerome.) according to what he heard from St. Peter himself, wrote at Rome a brief Gospel at the request of the Brethren (fellow Christians), about ten years after our Lord's Ascension; which when St. Peter had heard, he approved of it, and with his authority he published it to the Church to be read. Baronius and others maintain, that the original was written in Latin: but the more general opinion is that the Evangelist wrote it in Greek.

First, Mary Magdalen pours precious ointment upon Christ’s head; hence Judas, murmuring, plots with the Jews and the high priests to betray Christ for a price. Second (v. 12), Christ celebrates the supper of the Paschal lamb, in which He institutes the Eucharist; He also predicts that the Apostles will be scandalized and flee that same night, and that Peter will deny Him three times. Third (v. 32), in the garden He prays three times, is arrested, and when the Apostles flee, He alone is bound and led to Caiphas, where He is falsely accused, condemned as guilty of death, spat upon, buffeted, and denied.

Now the feast of the Pasch, and of the Azymes was after two days; and the chief priests and the scribes sought how they might by some wile lay hold on him, and kill him. 2 But they said: Not on the festival day, lest there should be a tumult among the people. 3 And when he was in Bethania, in the house of Simon the leper, and was at meat, there came a woman having an alabaster box of ointment of precious spikenard: and breaking the alabaster box, she poured it out upon his head. 4 Now there were some that had indignation within themselves, and said: Why was this waste of the ointment made? 5 For this ointment might have been sold for more than three hundred pence, and given to the poor. And they murmured against her. 6 But Jesus said: Let her alone, why do you molest her? She hath wrought a good work upon me. 7 For the poor you have always with you: and whensoever you will, you may do them good: but me you have not always. 8 She hath done what she could: she is come beforehand to anoint my body for burial. 9 Amen, I say to you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, that also which she hath done, shall be told for a memorial of her. 10 And Judas Iscariot, one of the twelve, went to the chief priests, to betray him to them. 11 Who hearing it were glad; and they promised him they would give him money. And he sought how he might conveniently betray him. 12 Now on the first day of the unleavened bread, when they sacrificed the Pasch, the disciples say to him: Whither wilt thou that we go, and prepare for thee to eat the Pasch? 13 And he sendeth two of his disciples, and saith to them: Go ye into the city; and there shall meet you a man carrying a pitcher of water, follow him; 14 And whithersoever he shall go in, say to the master of the house, The master saith, Where is my refectory, where I may eat the Pasch with my disciples? 15 And he will show you a large dining room furnished; and there prepare ye for us. 16 And his disciples went their way, and came into the city; and they found as he had told them, and they prepared the Pasch. 17 And when evening was come, he cometh with the twelve. 18 And when they were at table and eating, Jesus saith: Amen I say to you, one of you that eateth with me shall betray me. 19 But they began to be sorrowful, and to say to him one by one: Is it I? 20 Who saith to them: One of the twelve, who dippeth with me his hand in the dish.

21 And the Son of man indeed goeth, as it is written of him: but woe to that man by whom the Son of man shall be betrayed. It were better for him, if that man had not been born. 22 And whilst they were eating, Jesus took bread; and blessing, broke, and gave to them, and said: Take ye. This is my body. 23 And having taken the chalice, giving thanks, he gave it to them. And they all drank of it. 24 And he said to them: This is my blood of the New Testament, which shall be shed for many. 25 Amen I say to you, that I will drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until that day when I shall drink it new in the kingdom of God. 26 And when they had said an hymn, they went forth to the Mount of Olives. 27 And Jesus saith to them: You will all be scandalized in my regard this night; for it is written, I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep shall be dispersed. 28 But after I shall be risen again, I will go before you into Galilee. 29 But Peter saith to him: Although all shall be scandalized in thee, yet not I. 30 And Jesus saith to him: Amen I say to thee, today, even in this night, before the cock crow twice, thou shall deny me thrice. 31 But he spoke the more vehemently: Although I should die together with thee, I will not deny thee. And in like manner also said they all. 32 And they came to a farm called Gethsemani. And he saith to his disciples: Sit you here, while I pray. 33 And he taketh Peter and James and John with him; and he began to fear and to be heavy. 34 And he saith to them: My soul is sorrowful even unto death; stay you here, and watch. 35 And when he was gone forward a little, he fell flat on the ground; and he prayed, that if it might be, the hour might pass from him. 36 And he saith: Abba, Father, all things are possible to thee: remove this chalice from me; but not what I will, but what thou wilt. 37 And he cometh, and findeth them sleeping. And he saith to Peter: Simon, sleepest thou? Couldst thou not watch one hour? 38 Watch ye, and pray that you enter not into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. 39 A going away again, he prayed, saying the same words. 40 And when he returned, he found them again asleep, (for their eyes were heavy,) and they knew not what to answer him. 41 And he cometh the third time, and saith to them: Sleep ye now, and take your rest. It is enough: the hour is come: behold the Son of man shall be betrayed into the hands of sinners. 42 Rise up, let us go. Behold, he that will betray me is at hand. 43 And while he was yet speaking, cometh Judas Iscariot, one of the twelve: and with him a great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests and the scribes and the ancients. 44 And he that betrayed him, had given them a sign, saying: Whomsoever I shall kiss, that is he; lay hold on him, and lead him away carefully. 45 And when he was come, immediately going up to him, he saith: Hail, Rabbi; and he kissed him. 46 But they laid hands on him, and held him. 47 An one of them that stood by, drawing a sword, struck a servant of the chief priest, and cut off his ear. 48 And Jesus answering, said to them: Are you come out as to a robber, with swords and staves to apprehend me? 49 I was daily with you in the temple teaching, and you did not lay hands on me. But that the scriptures may be fulfilled. 50 Then his disciples leaving him, all fled away. 51 And a certain young man followed him, having a linen cloth cast about his naked body; and they laid hold on him. 52 But he, casting off the linen cloth, fled from them naked.

53 And they brought Jesus to the high priest; and all the priests and the scribes and the ancients assembled together. 54 And Peter followed him from afar off, even into the court of the high priest; and he sat with the servants at the fire, and warmed himself. 55 And the chief priests and all the council sought for evidence against Jesus, that they might put him to death, and found none. 56 For many bore false witness against him, and their evidences were not agreeing. 57 And some rising up, bore false witness against him, saying: 58 We heard him say, I will destroy this temple made with hands, and within three days I will build another not made with hands. 59 And their witness did not agree. 60 And the high priest rising up in the midst, asked Jesus, saying: Answerest thou nothing to the things that are laid to thy charge by these men? 61 But he held his peace, and answered nothing. Again the high priest asked him, and said to him: Art thou the Christ the Son of the blessed God? 62 And Jesus said to him: I am. And you shall see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of the power of God, and coming with the clouds of heaven. 63 Then the high priest rending his garments, saith: What need we any further witnesses? 64 You have heard the blasphemy. What think you? Who all condemned him to be guilty of death. 65 And some began to spit on him, and to cover his face, and to buffet him, and to say unto him: Prophesy: and the servants struck him with the palms of their hands. 66 Now when Peter was in the court below, there cometh one of the maidservants of the high priest. 67 And when she had seen Peter warming himself, looking on him she saith: Thou also wast with Jesus of Nazareth. 68 But he denied, saying: I neither know nor understand what thou sayest. And he went forth before the court; and the cock crew. 69 And again a maidservant seeing him, began to say to the standers by: This is one of them. 70 But he denied again. And after a while they that stood by said again to Peter: Surely thou art one of them; for thou art also a Galilean. 71 But he began to curse and to swear, saying; I know not this man of whom you speak. 72 And immediately the cock crew again. And Peter remembered the word that Jesus had said unto him: Before the cock crow twice, thou shalt thrice deny me. And he began to weep.

Commentary: Saint Mark - Chapter 14

Verse 3. A woman having an alabaster box of ointment of precious spikenard. “Nard,” says Pliny (lib. 12 cap. 12), “ is a shrub which has a heavy, thick root which is nevertheless short, black, and easily broken, however bulky. It has a strong smell, like cypress, and a pungent taste. The leaf is small and thick, and the tops unfold into ears, so that spikenard is noted for being doubly endowed with both leaves and ears.” From the leaves of nard ointment is made that ointment which is called foliated; but that made from the ears or spikes is called spiked, and this is superior to the foliated, because it has more substance and marrow, so to speak. Galen and the pharmacists following him call this kind spikenard. Hence Bede says, “Nard is an aromatic shrub, smelling like cypress, etc.”

Instead of nardus spicatus (Vulgate), the Syriac has “nardus capitalis,” i.e., chief, excellent, principal, for spikenard is superior to the foliated, as I have observed. The Greek has πιστικῆς, which the Vulgate of John 12:3 translates pistici. Pisticus is the same as spiked, as I shall show at that passage. Hence the Arabic translates that verse, of the best.

Verse 5. Three hundred pence. A penny or denarius is worth a Roman Julios or a Spanish reale. Therefore, three hundred denarii amounted to thirty Roman gold pieces, which is the equivalent of seventy-five Belgian florins. Thus the miserable, impious Judas sold Christ for thirty pieces of silver; this means that for the thirty gold pieces which he accounted as lost in the anointing of Christ, he received thirty silver pieces (i.e., seven and a half Belgian florins) for betraying Him. Therefore, Mary Magdalen was more generous in anointing Christ than Judas in betraying Him. See here how vile and sordid avarice is. About this Victor of Antioch says, “When the disciples remark that that ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred pence, it is left to us to divine how much work that woman had expended in preparing that ointment, and consequently how great a love for Christ and a willingness to serve Him she declared thereby.”

Verse 8. For the burial. Syriac, as though for the burial. Arabic, to lay Me to rest.

Verse 11. They were glad. “Not only that they were about to apprehend Him without tumult, being opportunely betrayed by Judas, but also because He was beginning to be hated by His own disciples,” says Euthymius.

Verse 13. There shall meet you. “Note the majesty of His divinity,” says S. Ambrose (in Luc. cap. 22 v. 8). “He is speaking with His disciples, and yet He knows what is about to happen elsewhere.”

Verse 14. Where is My refectory? That is, the place of My refreshment, or the room where I may refresh Myself with My disciples, and partake of the lamb. The Greek is κατάλυµα, or inn; Syriac, place of dwelling; Arabic, place in which I may eat the Passover.

Verse 15. Furnished. Provided with tables, couches, or beds and tapestry, decorated also with leaves and flowers, and all other requisites, prepared for celebrating the Passover, so that nothing might be lacking for the roasting, sacrificing and eating of the lamb. The Greek, Syriac, and Arabic add ἕτοιµον, i.e., prepared. For God had put it into the heart of the master of the house to prepare the supper-room for the sake of Christ, that He might find a place well adorned for the celebration of the Passover, that as soon as evening came there might be no delay, but that the lamb might be roasted and eaten, and all the other things accomplished which were to be done by Christ.

Verse 18. One of you . . . shall betray me. Syriac, one of you that eateth with Me, he shall betray Me.

Verse 23. Giving thanks. Syriac, He gave thanks and blessed.

And they all drank of it. Namely, after Christ had consecrated the chalice, saying, This is My blood, as it follows. There is, therefore, a prolepsis, or anticipation, which Mark makes use of to show that the disciples fulfilled the command of Christ. Drink ye all of this, as in Matthew 26:27.

Verse 33. He began to fear and to be heavy. Greek, ἐκθαµβεῖσθαι καὶ ἀδηµονεῖν, i.e., to be affrighted and sore distressed. Arabic, to be very sorrowful and afraid.

Verse 36. Abba Father. In Greek, ἀββᾶ ὁ πατὴρ, where father is in the nominative, so that Mark interprets the Syriac word Abba by the Greek, πατὴρ. As if to say, “Abba, which in Greek is πατὴρ.” Or rather the nominative ὀ πατὴρ is put for the vocative ὦ πατὴρ. For by a mark of affection, with the deepest feeling of the heart, Christ repeated the word Abba, or Father. Hence the Syriac has Abba Abi, i.e., Father, My Father. The Arabic has O Father. Indeed, S. Augustine (lib. 3 de Consensu Evang. cap. 4) thinks that Christ used both the Greek and the Syriac word here; and that He spoke precisely as Mark has it namely, ἀββᾶ ὁ πατὴρ. For so the Apostle speaks, Whereby we cry, Abba Father (Rom. 8:15, cf. Galat. 4:6). “We must think,” says S. Augustine, “that the Lord said ‘Abba Father’ to intimate the mystery of His Church, which was to be gathered out of Jews and gentiles.” And the Scholiast in S. Jerome says, “He speaks in Hebrew and Greek, because there is no distinction between Jew and Greek.”

Verse 38. The spirit indeed is willing. Syriac, willing and prompt.

Verse 41. The hour is come. Syriac, the end (i.e., of My life) has arrived, and the hour is come. Arabic, the end is present, and the hour is come.

Verse 44. Carefully. In Greek, ἀσφαλῶς, i.e., securely, safely, surely. Arabic, Fear ye concerning Him, that is, lest He slip away out of your hands, as He has done upon other occasions.

Verse 47. One of them. Namely, Peter. “Mark does not mention Peter’s name,” says Theophylact, “that he may not seem to praise his teacher, Peter, for his greater zeal for Christ.”

Verse 51. And a certain young man followed him, having a linen cloth cast about his naked body. And they laid hold on him. That is, he was clothed (amictus) with a linen or a cloth made of linen over his naked body. It is plain, from the word amictus, that this piece of linen was a kind of linen garment, fitting the body, but so that it might easily be put on and off the back like a tunic. This is also clear from Pollux, who calls the linen cloth περιβόλαιον, i.e., a covering, a cloak, a garment, a mantle, a little cover. You will ask who this young man was? S. Epiphanius (hæres. 78) and S. Jerome (or whoever the author is) commenting on Psalm 37, think that he was James the Lord’s brother.

Second, Bede and the Gloss (in loco), S. Chrysostom (in Ps. 13), S. Ambrose (in ps. 36), S. Gregory (14. Moral. cap. 23), and Baronius think it was S. John; for he was a youth, and the youngest of the Apostles. But that it was neither John nor James, nor any of the Apostles, is plain from the fact that Mark has just before said, in verse 50, then His disciples (the Apostles), leaving Him, all fled away.

Third, Theophylact, Euthymius, and Victor think that this young man was some one from the house of John or Mark, in which Christ had eaten the Passover.

Fourth, and more probably, Cajetan (in Jentaculis) and others conjecture that this young man was a member or servant of a house adjacent to the garden where Christ prayed and was arrested, who, awakened by the noise made by the guards who were apprehending Christ as they passed by, rose up from his bed, and ran to see what was being done. That he was a favorer or disciple of Christ appears from what Mark says, he followed Him. Hence also the officers laid hold on him, i.e., they wished to hold him by seizing his garment. The Hebrew active verbs often signify commencement and effort, not a completed act. For the following verse says:

Verse 52. But he, casting off the linen cloth, fled from them naked. “As Joseph,” says the Scholiast in S. Jerome, “left his garment in the hand of his immodest mistress, and fled from her naked” (cf. Genesis 39:12).

Mark adds this incident in order to make it plain, from this hasty and violent flight of the young man, how great was the trepidation about Christ, how no one had dared to remain by Christ, and how intense was the hatred and fury of the Jews against Christ, who even tried to seize a stranger who was following Him. Hence it is evident that far more would they have seized the Apostles, if they had not immediately fled away.

Verse 70. For thou art also a Galilean. That is, by speaking in the idiom of the Galileans thou showest thyself to be a Galilean. Hence the Greek and Syriac add, And your speech is the same as the speech of Galileans. Arabic, And thy speech is similar to their speech.

Verse 72. And he began to weep. Greek, ἐπιβαλὼν ἔκλαιεν, which means literally, adding he was weeping, which you may translate, first, he began to weep; second, he added to weep, i.e., “he began to weep very violently,” says Theophylact. The Arabic is, and he betook himself to tears, not in the court before the Jews, that he might not betray himself to them, but when he was alone, having gone out of it, as is evident from Matthew 26:75.

For more stories, please visit our website:

#gospel of mark #st mark

[blairingm]

For the ask game: 1,2,5,11,51,73 Mikey, 78

TMNT: Into the Night

DO A LITTLE FLIPPY

1. Where is your au/iteration set?

NYC BABYYYYY!! the city is my home so i obvi wanna keep reppin it. events still mainly take place in manhattan (probably the LES which means nothing to most people) but fun fact! i want the turtles to lowkey rep each borough

leo-manhattan

donnie-brooklyn

raph-da bronx

mikey-queens

2. Do the turtles live in the sewers?

yuuup yupyupyup. ive always really liked the sewers as a setting. something abt living under a world youre not allowed to be a part of. theyll probably have a squatters arc at some point tho

5. What is the origin of the mutagen?

Draxum who is hired as Krangs lead scientist on the mutation project. theyre both aliens from dimension x. running joke where drax gets really mad when he hears the turtles calling it some goddamned “ooze”

11. Who is the main villain?

ooh tricky one. probably the pantheons? the turtles end up going thru nemesis’ in arcs like its monster of the week. first the purple dragons, then the foot and krang, theeen the pantheons.

the pantheons consist of rat king, kitsune, big mama, and some redacted fourth that i havent come up with yet. only four and theyll represent the four heavenly gods loosely teehee

51. Was Splinter born a rat or a human?

human! he was originally born hundreds of years in the past, and bound his soul to the shredders, so that when this great evil rose again, he too would be reborn in order to defeat it. but you know. woe. rat be upon ye. AND TO BE CLEAR HE WASNT REBORN AS A RAT. he did get mutated.

73. What interests does Mikey have?

skateboarding, comics, games, cooking—typical mikey stuff. but hed be REALLY into human popculture in general. probably knows everything abt the kardashians and his brothers are like why……

77. What character do you relate to the most?

leo 😷😷😷😷 no comment.

#tmntitn #my tmnt iteration #answered #🧀

[dokoni-mo]

She Truly Was || Muzan Kibustsuji x F!Reader

Summary: Enmu helps Muzan remember you.

SFW // Fluff with small amounts of Angst

Word Count: 4626

WARNINGS: *slight Mugen Train spoilers*, slight mentions of implied sexual activity, obsessive(?) behavior, Muzan is soft for one person only, some angst, mentions of injury, mentions of blood, I also barely proofread this lol

A/N: I've had this in my head for a while and decided to write it down. This is largely just a compilation of scenarios I made in my head to fall asleep at night when I was stressing over exams and stuff, all loosely thrown together with a plot. This is my first time writing for demon slayer, so please be patient! I also am basing a lot of my info about the characters on s1 of the anime, some of the manga, and the wiki. I apologize if something isn't accurate. tldr; I just think he's neat.

~~

Despite having lived through thousands of years with hundreds of stormy nights in the midst, Muzan Kibutsuji never learned to appreciate them.

Something about nights like those in Japan just never sat right with the demon. It wasn't that they were too dreary, not at all. Life as a demon was plenty dreary. On the other hand, it wasn't that they were to lively either. No one ever went out on stormy nights; demon or not. Perhaps it was just because the rain was another reminder of the singularity that was being a demon. The poignant pitter patter just seemed to have a way of whispering to whoever heard it, telling them the most unpleasant yet quiet truths of their lives.

After Muzan's bloody meeting with the lower moons, he had told Enmu his task Muzan had planned for the pitiful, weaker demon. Although he had doubts that Enmu could hear him over the sound of the weaker demon's screams of pain from the blood he gave, Muzan was pleasantly surprised when Enmu understood the orders the first time around. Seeing as though it would cause trouble if the lower moon started to go around bragging about his newfound power and job, Muzan decided it would be best to keep a crimson eye on the demon.

This is what led to the scene before Muzan now.

Muzan had taken Enmu back to one of his many properties scattered across Japan, this one being tucked away in a lush, quiet forest in the middle of seemingly nowhere. The lower moon had not said a word throughout the entire journey there, and still refused to say anything now. Most likely out of fear.

Although it had been a long day of wrangling the lesser worms he called pawns (or "moons" if he was generous), Muzan did not want to show any weakness towards Enmu by resting. To busy himself, Muzan decided to do the tedious work the humans have him do in the job he took to please his human wife.

That insufferable woman.

With his bowler hat placed on his desk, Muzan had taken a seat in his large, leather chair, ordering Enmu to stand at the edge of the desk and face the opposite way. And, for extra edge, he was not to say or do anything.

It had been about two hours since then. The room was filled with only the sounds of Muzan's writing and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Although he ordered it to be that way, Muzan was already sick of it.

Peering his red eyes up from the papers scrawled below him, Muzan fixated his bone-chilling gaze upon the back of Enmu's head. Muzan could see the corners of the lower moon's mouth turned upwards as he faced the wall, presenting himself with an expression of dumb content.

Freak.

Enmu was definately a curious specimen. So eager to die, yet so eager to please Muzan. The demon lord would have been confused if he were not who he was.

Perhaps it was his own boredom setting in, perhaps it was because he wanted to feed his already gargantuan ego, or perhaps it was just because he was tired, Muzan decided to speak up.

"Tell me," Muzan said, his deep, smooth voice making Enmu perk up slightly, "Why is it that are you so loyal to me?"

Enmu took this as an opportunity to finally move, but not without some caution. The lower demon only turned his neck towards Muzan, along with a tilt of his shoulder. Muzan noted the disobedience of orders, but decided to let it slide this time.

The rain must have told him to be generous that night.

"Why, Master Kibustsuji," Enmu said, a faint blush adorning his cheeks, "It is because I am so delighted to be in your presence, and have my power be of service to you."

The demon lord felt his jaw clench at this, his red eyes peering up at the lower moon from under his abyssal lashes. Although Enmu had an... odd, way of putting things, Muzan always did like it when someone stroked his ego, even if all they ever said was the same banter over and over again. He was nearly perfection, afterall.

Muzan sat quietly and pondered Enmu's response for a second, before formulating his own.

"Your power, as you put it," Muzan said, his voice firm, "What is it?"

Enmu's grin widened, "Dream Manipulation, Master. I can enter, manipulate, or control anyone's dreams however I want to. I can use it to kill from the inside, eating a person spirit first and body second. I can also put people to sleep."

Muzan wasn't necessarily impressed by this, but he wasn't disappointed either. An ordinary power, really. Nothing that could ever rival his own.

However...

Muzan's gaze flickered down to the surface of his desk. A flicker of a long lost yet not forgotten feeling bubbled deep inside of his being. A mere spark of light, really, a piece of warmth he felt from long ago, lost to the wayside by the vestiges of time.

It was something Muzan thought he would never experience again.

Dream manipulation, huh?

It might be worth a try.

Muzan looked back up to Enmu, sharpening his gaze, "Tell me, are you able to give... pleasant dreams?"

Enmu was surprised to hear this come from Muzan to say the absolute least. He took this as another opportunity to disobey orders and turn to Muzan again, this time fully and whole-heartedly. The lower moon looked right into those blood red eyes, looking for any sign of a rare flicker of humor or joking.

Muzan's gaze was serious, poised as ever.

Muzan was being for real.

Taking a pause to swallow, Enmu allowed his soft smirk to return to his gray, pale face.

"Why," the lower moon retorted, "I can, Master, yes."

Muzan eyed the lesser demon for a good second at his response.

This move was risky. It could damage his image. Yet, if he was to do this with any of his pawns, he would do it with Enmu. Enmu seemed to have no intent on harming Muzan or his image in any way; he was far too loyal for that.

Besides, if someone were to question the might of Muzan, he could just prove them wrong.

Muzan leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers together, wrapping them around his knee. His icy gaze still on Enmu, he spoke again.

"I wish to see a pleasant dream."

Muzan nearly rolled his eyes when he saw just how wide Enmu's grin had gotten and just how flushed his face got.

It was repulsive.

But, if it meant what Muzan thought it would mean...

It was worth stomaching.

After a breif moment used to compose himself, Enmu's smile faded to normal again. He pulled up the sleeves to his coat.

"I will give you a dream where you will experience the happiest days of your life over again, Master Kibutsuji," the lower moon stated, "Is this to your liking or would you prefer something else?"

"No," Muzan stated flatly, "That is fine."

Perfect, even.

Enmu smiled widely one last time, holding out his arm and pointing it at the demon lord.

"Sweet dreams, my lord." Was the last thing Muzan heard before falling into a deep, deep sleep.

~~

"Muzan..."

Despite his blood demon art being so much weaker than his, Muzan wasn't quite ready for just how Enmu put him into a dream like that. Muzan's headache had grown ten-fold now, and he could feel that his face was scrunched.

"Muzan..."

Slowly but surely regaining his full consciousness, Muzan could first feel that he was in different clothes than what he had been wearing before. These ones were lighter, softer, and much more airy than his normal suit. Squinting open his crimson eyes, he saw that he was in what appeared to be a long, dark, flowing kimono.

The second thing Muzan could feel was that it was rather cool where he was, and that he appeared to be lying on the ground. Sifting his weight slowly, he could then feel that his head was lain upon what felt like two soft, plush pillows firmly squished together.

The third thing, however, took him a little longer to discern quite that it was. At first, he thought it was a pair of chopsticks running across his scalp over and over again. Upon, further thought, however, Muzan was further snapped back into awareness.

Those were not chopsticks.

Those were fingers.

All too familiar fingers.

"Muzan..!"

Muzan felt a stir deep down inside of him. He recognized this feeling, this touch, this warmth. It had been so, so long since he had felt like this. How long was it again? It had to be an eternity ago. An eternity wrapped within all time time in the world.

Muzan was speechless. Muzan couldn't move. Muzan was struck from deep within, and nothing in the world could ever compare to its blow.

"Muzan!"

Although the calling of the demon's lord name had been going on for some time now, he was just now able to respond.

Tilting his chin upwards towards the voice's source, Muzan nearly fell to bits right then and there. If he was someone else, he would have wept deep, earnest tears at the very sight of the being above him. For everything and nothing surrounded him as he studied the bright, radiant face above him, and nothing else seemed to exist other than that smile.

Other than her.

Her.

Oh, her, her, her.

His beloved. His sun, moon and stars. The ground beneath his feet and the air around him. His joy and love, his woes and sorrow. His fears and excitement. His warmth and his cold.

You.

You were really here.

"I was wondering if you were ever gonna wake up," you said, a faint laugh behind your voice, "You were out for so long!"

This scene was all too familiar to Muzan. He had replayed it in his head countless times, as if it were the only record left in the world.

He knew what this day was, and he knew all of your lines.

How could he ever forget?

Every moment he had ever spent with you had been a blessing.

Right now, his head was cradled in your lap, your soft, delicate fingers combing through his hair oh so gently as he had slept. It was deep into the night, and ordinarily Muzan would not be sleeping at this time. However, your touch was just so relaxing to him.

Everything about you was.

Today, you and him had spent the night wandering through the garden of your home together, chatting about anything and everything. It was only about two months into your relationship with Muzan. Muzan had first come to your home with the intention of eating everyone within the residence, but once he saw your face, watched you, saw your heart, your spirit, your you, he just couldn't.

He just...

couldn't.

You were human, yes.

But Muzan didn't care.

He was in love with you.

Muzan had yet to tell you the truth about him, however.

But that could come later.

"Muzan, are you alright?" He heard your voice echo again, snapping him out of his trance. He saw your face painted with worry, making his own features soften.

His darling angel. If only you knew just how much it pained him to see you with anything other than a smile.

Muzan reached his hand upwards, steadily maneuvering his fingers to brush your hair behind your ear and cup your warm cheek. He was shocked at how real you felt, shocked at just how similar it felt to all those years ago.

Perhaps Muzan had to give Enmu a reward.

The demon lord caressed your cheek gingerly with his cold, calloused thumb, savoring in just how warm your flesh was compared to his. For the first time in what felt like eons, Muzan felt a smile adorn his handsome features. Not one put on just to appease the humans around him, but genuine. The type of smile only you got to see.

Only you.

"I'm more than alright, my darling." He responded, his voice soft and warm, without the normal venom he gives to his subordinates. A voice reserved restrictively for you.

Finally, you let a soft grin come over your heavenly face again, making all seven of Muzan's hearts swell.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," you said, "But it's about to be dawn soon. I don't want you to get a burn, so let's go in the house again, okay?"

Ah yes, the lie Muzan told you. He, of course, couldn't be with you in the sunlight (as much as he wanted to). So he had told you that he had a rare disorder that made him extra prone to sunburns and heatstroke.

Just something to keep you safe from the truth.

His soft smile still adorning his features, Muzan gave you a nod as he slid his head off of your lap. Since you were on your knees, you were quicker to stand than him. Brushing off your kimono quickly, you offered one of your hands to Muzan to help him stand, of which he gladly took. He had long since forgotted just how perfectly your hand fit into his, along with how radiant your kimono made you look.

Once he was back on his feet, Muzan couldn't help but to hold your arms, holding you a few feet away from him to simply admire you for a moment, his crimson eyes doing laps around your face and body.

You were perfect to him.

Every single thing about you was without flaw in his eyes. Not one curve of your body was too shallow or too wide. Not one strand of your hair was misplaced or without poise. Not one feature on your face took away from your radiant beauty. And you had not one bad bone inside of your body.

Muzan was never one to believe in angels.

However, if anyone in any part of the world were to tell him that you were one of them, straight from the heavens themselves,

He would believe them.

~~

As soon as Muzan stepped through the door, his hand in your own, the scene before him changed in one giant, peaceful flash of white light.

Before him now was no longer the house that he had shared with you all those years ago. Now, in its place, was a beautiful, lush springtime garden, all dredged under the cover of the night. It was not devoid of light, however. There were a few lanterns afloat in the water of the stream, as well as some within the structure of the small bridge that went over top of it. Flowers adorned every nook and cranny of the space, and the occasional insect or bird would make a brief appearance.

A small slice of paradise, just for you and Muzan Kibutsuji.

Fearing that you were no longer by his side, Muzan turned his head. His fears were quickly subsided when he saw you there next to him. Your delicate hands were placed on the railing of the bridge, and your eyes were fixated on the calm water below, almost as if it were a window into the heavens above. There was a small smile plastered on your face, and the delicate lights illuminated each of your features so perfectly.

Muzan knew this night.

This was the night he told you the truth.

The truth about him, about his "condition", about where he went for days on end, about why he couldn't walk with you in the sun, about everything.

This was the one night Muzan had ever felt fear.

"Is it really true, Muzan?" You asked, your gaze still fixated on the water below, "Are you really a demon?"

Muzan felt his lips part in small surprise. Even though he had replayed this night time and time again in his mind, it felt as if this were all happening for the first time over again.

Enmu really was good at this.

Muzan wet his lips before responding, setting his gaze on your precious, beautiful face and refusing to move it, "Yes, my love. It is true. I would not lie to you about this, I..."

A pause to collect this thoughts, before he could continue, "I kept it from you to protect you, (Y/N). I did not want any harm to come to you. My darling, I... I love you. My love for you knows no bounds. You are the stars that shine at night, and you are the shining moon above. Each time I look upon you, all I can stand to think of is how deep my love for you runs. I... I need you, (Y/N). I do not wish for you to be frightened of me, my angel. I would never, not ever harm you, nor let any harm come to you."

You still weren't looking at Muzan, yet your smile had yet to falter. Muzan felt a bubble of nervousness in his gut. Although he knew your response to his words already, even thinking of this moment never failed to make his stomach churn. He hoped his words to you were enough. He doubted that he had ever said anything more truthful in his entire life.

After a long pause of silence between the two of you, you closed your eyes and widened your smile. Then, you opened your eyes again, finally turning to face your lover. You looked Muzan right in the eyes, seemingly unfazed that you were standing so dangerously close to the most powerful being alive.

You were so brave.

Your heart was so big.

Muzan felt so overwhelmed.

"Muzan," you said, your cheeks dusting a light pink.

What you said next to him, Muzan could never get out of his head, never forget. No matter how much he tried, he would never not ever forget your words in that moment.

Within that one short, simple phrase, the king of demons fell in love all over again.

"I've always known."

~~

Another flash within his crimson eyes, and the scene had changed again. Nighttime again, of course, but this time within the confines of the bedroom you and Muzan shared. Both you and Muzan were nude, sans the blanket that covered the lower half of your forms. Muzan was on his back, one strong arm wrapped around you, the other cradling the back of his head. Your legs were intertwined with his, and your hair and hands were sprawled out on top of his lean, muscular chest.

Muzan knew this night as well.

It was his most loved night with you, but also his most dreaded.

How cruel fate was.

Stroking your back with the tips of his fingers, Muzan stared up at the ceiling above the two of you. Your body was flush against his, and as warm as ever. He wondered to himself if he was making you cold. If he was, you didn't seem to mind.

After a long period of savoring the silence between you and him, you softly snorted out a cute, soft giggle. This made Muzan angle his chin downward to look at the top of your head.

"What is it?" He questioned.

You giggled again, tilting your head up to look at him. Smiling, you turned your body to lay on top of the demon king, your breasts smushing against his own. Instinctively, Muzan laid his hands on your hips, rubbing small circles into them as he held you in place.

"I just find it funny that even though you profess to have so much stamina, you get tired after only two rounds." You explained to him, a playful mischievousness in your tone and eyes.

Muzan breathed out a smile, reaching up a clawed hand to brush your hair out of your face.

"As I recall it, you were the one complaining it was too much." He quipped back.

You snorted, "As if that ever stopped you before."

The demon let out a soft chuckle, leaning forward to give you a kiss on the forehead. Muzan couldn't remember ever laughing so genuinely before you came along. You truly were the light of his life. You filled his days with the sunlight he had long since forgotten, as well with the warmth no other demon could ever have.

He loved you.

He loved you he loved you he loved you.

And he still did.

He watched as you dropped your gaze to his chest, running your fingers along the flesh.

"Muzan..." you said, your voice more serious than before, "I've been thinking a lot lately..."

The demon king hummed, brushing more hair from your face.

"What has been on your mind, my love?" He asked.

You paused for a second before continuing on. Muzan could practically see the gears turning in your head.

"Well, I... I'm not getting any younger, you know, and I've been thinking. I... I really love you, Muzan. You're the only person I can imagine myself being with for the rest of my life. The other day, I was in town, and I saw the cutest family ever with a husband and a wife and two adorable little children, and it made me think..."

You looked up at him again, giving him a soft smile.

"What if we were to have a family of our own?"

Muzan could feel the same sense of joy, love, and pride in his chest as he did this same moment all those years ago. In this moment, he had never felt closer to you before, nor could you recall ever looking more beautiful.

He wanted nothing more than to be a family with you for the rest of eternity.

"Darling, you know what that would mean, correct?" He questioned you. He had told you long before that demons could only have offspring with other demons, for a demon baby would eat its human mother from the inside and kill her. It was gruesome, and had originally made you cringe at the thought. Muzan had thought your reaction was quite cute.

"Yes, yes, I know," you answered, "and I'd be ready for it. Even if I'm a demon, and even if I can never go out in the sun again or live normally ever again, I'd be happy knowing I got to be with you and our baby for the rest of time."

Muzan gave you a smile in return, his long, white fangs flashing in the light of the night. Leaning forward, he kissed you upon your soft, warms lips, gently pulling you closer to him.

This was one of the thousands of reasons why he loved you.

You were always so sweet, so kind and optimistic. He would admit, he did have a soft spot for you and you alone. But he didn't care. You were worth it. You were worth every single piece of money on planet earth. You were worth the sun the moon and the stars, and all the planets here and beyond. You were worth any injury, any heartache, and any trial or tribulation in the world.

The king of the demons unquestionably, unfathomably, undeniably, adored you.

Pulling gently away from the kiss, Muzan looked deep into your eyes, right past your pupils and looked right into your soul, your very being.

"I would want nothing more, my sunlight."

If Muzan could turn back the hands of time, he would have kept you here with him for the rest of everything and beyond.

For he did not know then that was the last kiss you and him would share.

~~

Another flash, and Muzan was no longer greeted with a visage of the past. Much to his dismay, the demon was now greeted with the sight of his office, with a smiling Enmu creepily watching him from across his desk.

What a fucking freakshow.

Taking in a breath of air through his nose, Muzan sat up tall in his chair again, rubbing the bridge of his nose with this thumb and pointer finger.

You were gone again. You were again nothing up a memory, a whisper of a time from the past.

Muzan could hardly bare it.

He had felt you, held you near him.

And just as fast as you came back, you were gone again.

This was a pain almost too hard to bear.

How long was he asleep for? Muzan really didn't care how long it was.

No amount of time with you was enough.

"Did you have the pleasant dream you wished for, Master?" Enmu asked the demon king. The lesser moon was lucky Muzan was in a somewhat good mood that day.

"Yes." Muzan replied simply, closing his eyes to rub them with his thumb, "Excellent work."

Enmu's smile widened at this, his cheeks turning pink again.

"Why, thank you, Master." He responded, his excitement prevalent in his voice.

Enmu really was a special one.

After composing himself again, Muzan scooted his chair forward up to his desk, fixing his gaze back onto his work sprawled out below.

Muzan just wanted to be alone again after that. He had been alone for years now, but he wanted Enmu out of the room. Although he could have easily ordered it to be so, he again did not want to show any weakness to the lower moon.

Christ on a bike. Muzan was so fucking stubborn.

He remembered all the times you nagged him for it.

Oh, what he would give to have you nag him one last time.

After a long bout of silence, the lesser demon decided to speak up again. He turned his head over his shoulder again to Muzan, trying to sound as naieve and innocent as possible.

"Master," Enmu said, "Where is she now?"

Muzan stopped his movements and glared up at Enmu with a venomous glare. How dare he even refer to you. You were so far above him, how dare Enmu even think to invoke your name.

Though Muzan wanted to kill the other demon right on the spot, he decided against it. He still wanted to see how Enmu would do on his mission. Also, Muzan had to admit that he did feel lighter and more generous after his dream with you. And he supposed it was fair that Enmu had his questions.

Feeling nice, Muzan decided to entertain Enmu's question.

Shifting his gaze back to the papers below, Muzan replied.

"Gone." he said, "The night she asked about a family was the last night I saw her alive. The next day, a group of slayers found her and our house. They knew who she was and that she was human, but killed her anyway. All in attempt to get to me. I found her in a pool of her own blood, limp and cold. The slayers died that same night."

Enmu's smile faded at this, his face taking on a look of shock. Closing his lips into a tight line, Enmu looked away, out of a quiet unconscious respect. Everything made so much more sense to Enmu now. Why the demon king was the way he was, his hatred for slayers, his cold-hearted, murderous nature.

It all clicked into place.

"I... I am sorry for your loss, Master." He said, his voice quieter than normal, "She seemed like a lovely woman."

Muzan peered up at the back of Enmu's head. Through his thick, black lashes.

"Yes..." Muzan said.

"She truly was."

#demon slayer #kny fanfic #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #kimestsu no yaiba #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer x you #demon slayer x reader #muzan kibutsuji #muzan kibutsuji x reader

[honourablejester]

An origin story for a Fathomless Warlock

And/or a potential encounter with a society (not quite a cult) of kraken priests, depending. With the lighthouse keeper background I came up with, because I can come up with pretty much endless stories about lighthouses and the weirdos who live in them.

The Kraken Brides of Ketan Point Lighthouse

Ketan Point Lighthouse is an ancient tower of green stone on a desolate, battered stretch of coastline. A narrow, stony road winds through the woods and up the cliffs from the nearest village, some fifteen miles inland. Ketan Point is only ever resupplied by land. Only the bravest and most foolhardy venture out onto the waters beyond the Point. Fishing boats and small vessels are rarely seen, and even the mightier shipping of the great trade routes give Ketan Point a wide, wide berth.

The reason for this lies three miles offshore beyond the Point, where the turbulent currents of Ketan Point become the ravenous, swirling waters of the Karybdis Maelstrom, a vast, monstrous whirlpool that seizes anything that sails into it and plunges it down into black, abyssal depths.

On its own, the maelstrom would be more than enough to deter shipping, but it isn’t alone. Something lives in its black, crushing depths, an ancient, titanic deterrent all its own.

Karybdis himself, for whom the maelstrom is named. The Kraken of Ketan Point.

And it was for Karybdis that a lighthouse was built over a stretch of water all but empty of ships. The light warns no one away. Other, smaller lighthouses further up the coast perform that role, warning ships that they need to head further out to sea well before the maelstrom or the kraken become a potential danger. Ketan Point, a bare few miles away, was built for a different purpose.

The green stone tower, with its great beacon at its summit, houses the Kraken’s Bride.

Karybdis is beyond ancient, a fearsome creature of legend. Once upon a time, it’s said, generations of elves ago, he was a fiercer, tempestuous, much more wrathful force. Not content with the maelstrom, he roamed for leagues upon leagues, the length and breadth of the coast, shattering ships to flinders, and visiting vengeance upon the great sea ports for even the slightest of insults. The stories of him were many. Some said he had been wounded once, in some titanic battle of gods, and that the wound had driven him mad, made him little but wrath given flesh. Others said simply that he was a raw force of evil, lashing out at all around him.

But there was more to the great kraken than that. Mad he may have been, but not stupid, nor simple either. No one knows the reason for the bargain he one day proposed, out of the blue. Whether it was survival instinct, to stave off war before some god or state found a champion fit to wound him again, or … something else. Some desire of his own, more important than destruction. Loneliness, perhaps. Maybe, at the base of it, just simple loneliness.

Whatever it was, the kraken came one day to each of the great ports that he had threatened and vented his wrath upon, and reached out his thunderous thoughts in the language of gods to all who would listen and attempt to understand. A bargain, he offered. A stay of his hand. Well, tentacle. A cease of his violence against their ports and their ships, if they would give into to his keeping something of their own in return. A companion, to keep him company in his thoughts. A sacrifice, who would spend their lives with him.

A lighthouse was built, a beacon tower to lift them towards his presence, a green bastion on the cliffs above his maelstrom. So began the Kraken Brides of Ketan Point.

It is a softer duty now, at least somewhat. Time and companionship have … if not quite softened, at least cooled the great kraken over time. He does not demand a life in its entirety now. Or, perhaps, he merely appreciates a little diversity in his companions. A little worldliness, a little depth of experience and thought. Male or female, it doesn’t matter to him, nor race nor creed. Only strength of mind, and the ability to hold his interest. He asks not a lifetime, so that they might have something outside of himself to share with him, when the time comes. To be a Kraken Bride, the Lighthouse Keeper of Ketan Point, is perhaps no longer such an onerous and monstrous position.

Ten years. Karybdis asks ten years of any prospective Keeper. To give ten years of their life to his company, to share his thoughts as he lies dreaming beneath the maelstrom, to speak with him, play him music, tell him stories. Debate with him, engage with him. Remind him of the value of the world. Meet him, in the flesh, and stand fearless or at least unbowed before his form when he rises above the lighthouse tower every new moon, in the light of the beacon beam, to greet his Keepers in person.

Ten years, as his companion. And then ten more, to seek out a replacement for him.

The Keepers are a lineage, now, chosen by alternating predecessors. While one Keeper serves their time, their predecessor will seek out and choose their successor. It takes a certain sort of personality to hold up to Karybdis. Someone curious, practical. Not to prone to fear where none is warranted. Robust in personality, and willing to argue with monsters. Someone with stories to tell. The Keepers know what to look for, and trust no one else to choose wisely enough. Too many in the world beyond the tower have forgotten what Karybdis once was, and might take their task too lightly.

While they walk the world, seeking out successors on his behalf, they carry his power within them. Karybdis looks after his Brides, for their twenty years, and sometimes even after. There are some who have been Brides for him several times, Keepers of long-lived races who have returned to him for twenty years in every hundred, or two hundred, when they have something new to share with him. He reaches out his power to all of them.

And they reach out to each other, too. Kraken Brides of Karybdis rarely forget where they have come from. Who chose them, and who they chose, and who they went to for aid while seeking them. One Keeper of Ketan Point will always know another, and almost always aid them.

It takes a certain sort of personality, after all, to hold up to a kraken for years on end, in the cause of keeping a world safe from his wrath, and he himself safe from his emptiness.

Because it must not be forgotten. Time and companionship may have softened and cooled him, but Karybdis is still a kraken. An ancient, wounded, maddened remnant of all the long-ago wars of gods. His wrath may be deterred, staved off by his bargain, but it is not gone. Woe betide any who would break their bargain with him, and any who would poison or sabotage the mission of his Keepers. Should a Bride betray him, abandon their ten years before they are up, refuse to choose a successor, or choose a successor only to poison or wound him, then all others who survive must have no choice but to hunt them down, and stand willing to replace them the moment they know the betrayal. The moment Karybdis believes that his bargain is no longer being upheld is the moment he returns to the wrathful monstrosity he once was, and all who live upon his coastline reap the reward of it. His Brides, the Keepers of Ketan Point, must have this ever and always in their minds.

On their shoulders rests the safety of every city that touches the sea.

(Notes: Yes, Karybdis is a reference to Charybdis of ‘between Scylla and Charybdis’ fame, and ‘Ketan’ Point is a reference to Cetus. Because I watched Clash of the Titans young, and yes I know krakens aren’t Greek, but in a D&D context they definitely work with the reference. Also, I really like Fathomless Warlocks. And kraken cults. And lighthouses. So, you know? Have a broadly good-aligned society-slash-cult of fathomless warlocks with a ancient, lonely, extraordinarily cranky kraken patron?)

#d&d #homebrew #warlocks #krakens #factions #worldbuilding #origin stories

[seasonsofeverlark]

Oktoberfest Effect

Author: @alliswell21​

Prompt: Town boys (drunk?) dare each other to venture into woods (Halloween night? [Oktoberfest]). Katniss saves Peeta (from peacekeepers? storm?) by pulling him into a cave for the night. (Drunk Peeta talks too much and is cuddly?) [submitted by @567inpanem​] 

Rating: Teen (for drunkenness)

Author’s Note: Thank you to @mandelion82 for lending me her beta services, and being a generally awesome cheerleader! Thank you @567inpanem for the prompt, I hope it brings you joy! Thank y’all for reading! 

Oktoberfest, originally from Munich, Germany, is a two week folkloric festival, celebrated between the third Sunday of September and the first Sunday of October. Copious amounts of beer get served worldwide to celebrate Oktoberfest…👀this fic doesn’t reflected the cultural richness of the festival and or what it represents!👀

Tags: In Panem AU; No Games AU; Not representative of Oktoberfest; Drunken Shenanigans; Thunder storms; Snarky!Everlark; Humor; Blink-and-you-Miss-it fluff. One Shot.

———————

Oktoberfest is one of my least favorite festivals in the small repertory of celebrations my District is allowed. 

It’s usually held in the beginning of October, after the first showers of Fall, and tends to last all day long, severely cutting into my hunting time in the woods, which comprises the bulk of my family’s livelihood. My mother is a healer, but people used to struggle to pay for her services back in the day, so she stopped charging anyone; people gave her what they could: rations, produce from their squalid gardens, old clothes and such. You’d think people would pay with coins, now that things have improved for common folks, but some habits die hard.

It’s probably the same reason we keep observing a holiday that’s real meaning has been lost to Panem since before the Dark Days; people just know that at some point, Oktoberfest was celebrated around this time, and people ate and drank ale by the bucketfuls, so that’s what they do today. 

By the same token, it’s the most popular festivity in District 12, since it’s the only day of the year in which drinking is sanctioned and even encouraged by the higher-ups of government. Trains come carrying ale, spiked ciders, and even hard liquor for the celebration. People like Ms. Ripper, who sells moonshine and white liquor in our black market, better known as The Hob, have free range to sell their wares openly, without suffering repercussions. 

The meek, dull denizens of District 12 drink the spirits by the gallons, just for the one day, and pass out in the most unseemly places around town, like savages. If something had become clear to me with the passing years, it’s that people tend to enjoy drunkenness to soothe their woes away, so it’s natural everyone embraces Oktoberfest.

But, as with everything, things aren’t as bleak as I tend to see them myself.

“Katniss!” My sister, Prim, calls breathlessly from the maypole circle, beckoning me over with one hand, while holding a bright, yellow ribbon in her other, “There still are a few ribbons left!” She shouts excitedly, her meaning plain: she wants me to join in the festivities.

Normally I’d shy away from any and all activities that would have me interacting directly with the townsfolk. It’s nothing personal against them, I’m just not used to being touched by anyone, except for my family, and weaving ribbons around the maypole practically ensures I’d be brushing up against any number of strangers …but, there are worse games to play, and I could never deny my sister anything, not even this. 

I make my way to Prim and reluctantly snatch up a pale blue ribbon from the ground. My sister’s smile is so bright I almost relax when the music starts, and the dancers take to moving in and out around the pole. 

It isn’t as bad as I was dreading it to be. The music is lively; the fiddler follows the dancers while the rest of the band plays on the makeshift stage a few feet away, and the pole is relatively short and moderately wide, so we make quick work of braiding a pretty pattern in one go. Also, people are at a respectable distance from one another, and most everyone feels as awkward around me as I feel around them, so they just give a wide berth when they pass me by.

Prim and I are laughing when the song comes to an end, and we take a minute to admire the pole’s multicolored design. 

There’s a line of smiling people waiting in the fringes to take the ribbons the opposite direction to unravel them and weave them together again. 

I pull Prim into a hug and kiss her blonde head, fondly. “Let’s give somebody else a turn, Little Duck.” Prim narrows her eyes just a smidge; she’s almost 16 and doesn’t appreciate the nickname as much anymore. “Let’s put some warm apple cider into you, yes?” 

Joy returns to her baby blues immediately. “Yes! We should go find Mother as well!” she says excitedly. 

“Let’s go then!” 

After finding our mother in the crowd, and haggling over three cups of cider and one bag of boiled peanuts, our mother suggests we go home early, before the party gets rowdy. 

An unfortunate byproduct of Oktoberfest with all the unchecked drinking is men get loud, bold and stupid. Better to clear out before that happens, because while crimes aren’t tolerated— under the influence or sober—people tend to get belligerent when alcohol is involved. 

President Snow died years ago, when I was Prim’s age. Many things changed drastically, like the abolishment of the Hunger Games, and a slightly better salary for miners, but the seemingly tolerant new government of Panem gives men a strange leave to criticize the Capitol while drunk…which technically, is still a crime in today’s Panem, just not as mortally dangerous anymore. Still, women try to haul their spouses home before they can say something incriminating and land themselves in prison.

Nothing can be done about the youngsters, though. 

With women trying to keep a leash and muzzle over the men, the teenagers have unhindered access to alcohol and close to no supervision; although spirits are supposedly only served to people 17 and older, I wouldn’t put it past the vendors to look the other way if a group of merchant kids pass a few extra coins across the table, when nobody is watching. 

If grown up men are loud, bold and stupid while drunk, teen and young adult men are even worse, and that’s without a gaggle of equally intoxicated girls egging them on.

This year— as in every Oktoberfest— the electric fence surrounding the district lays dormant and harmless, lest one of the hundreds of inebriated fools roaming the meadow fall into the wires and fry themselves upon accident.

Not that the Capitol cares if a few malnourished— probably discontented— miners fall dead during a district festival; people in 12 used to keel over from starvation all the time back under Snow’s regime, but those deaths were usually chalked up to any number of unrelated causes: pneumonia, heart weakness, black lung disease…anything, except starvation. But dying electrocuted on the very fence that’s supposed to keep us safe in our little district is unthinkable! The fence is there to keep dangerous beasts— and nutritious game alike— away from us.

District 12 remains that enduring jewel of Panem, where you can starve in safety! All we need is to drink the memory of our empty pantries away for another year, and everyone is happy. I sigh. At least they did away with the Hunger Games; now we have singing contests and trivia challenges playing on national television instead of the blood shed of innocent teenagers, which is certainly an improvement. Somehow it’s still not a fair bargain, but district folk will never complain about this particular trade; our children are safe, and we get to watch Capitol people make fools of themselves in front of everyone.

Mother, Prim and I make it home early enough to make a quick supper of roasted potatoes, salted fish and the last of the bakery bread I traded for this week. I make a mental note to bring down a couple squirrels to trade with the baker for more bread. The man is one of the few I can regularly count on to trade fairly with, so I always save him the best of my squirrels. 

By the time dinner is being cleared off the table, I can hear the murmur of families returning home from the meadow. A surge of nervous energy takes over me. I start bouncing my leg restlessly, peeking at the old clock hanging on the wall. 

“Are you going out again?” asks my mother. Her tone is light and her eyes focused on the heap of plates and forks she’s balancing in her hands. I know better than to believe she’s alright with me leaving again. 

“For a while,” I answer. 

“You could get stuck out there!” says Prim, clearly displeased. 

“I’ve been working on a shelter, just in case. I’ll be back before dawn if I can help it,” I say, brokering no arguments.

“Be careful,” Prim mumbles, her blue eyes pleading.

I stand up from my chair and plant a kiss on the crown of her blonde head. “I promise. Now, go make sure Lady is secured before I leave. I don’t want anyone getting any ideas seeing a goat loose out there.” Not that anyone would cross me knowingly, but people get a lot dumber while drunk. 

The sun set on the horizon long ago, but all my years sneaking around urge me to blend instantly with the river of dark-haired children trailing their dark-haired mothers and fathers all over The Seam. It certainly is an entertaining sight; the children are immensely happier than their parents, of course, bouncing and giggling, carrying in their spindly arms their Oktoberfest bounty of apples and freshly picked ears of corn stuffed into old burlap sacks, prizes given to them by the Capitol for every one of those silly games they played at the festival. At least they know supper won’t consist of tesserae bread tonight.

Reaching the fence will be trickier now that the meadow is crawling with blond merchants and peacekeepers patrolling the perimeter of the fence ‘for our safety’. A few miners remain, helping with the cleanup process to earn some extra money, but they are so few I can’t use our physical similarities to hide in plain sight. The merchants, meandering around the meadow, throwing nervous glances at the fence every so often, pretending they don’t care the thing is off, certainly hinders my ability to sneak around. 

I wasn’t the only person who ventured outside the fence by any means. Historically, people have snuck under the barbed wire links in the past to steal apples and berries, when the hunger pains were scarier than the bears and wild dogs roaming the woods; necessity is a great incentive, it either makes you very brave or very reckless…but the few merchants still hanging out here only linger ‘cause an alcohol-fueled thrill holds them captive. Tomorrow, when they’re home nursing a head-splitting hangover, they’ll go back to cowering at the sight of the fence. 

There’s a group of towheaded youngsters, singing obnoxiously, near the edge of the meadow. 

I roll my eyes and try to ignore them for the time being. Meanwhile, I skirt around the maypole, pretending I’m admiring the workers’ effort, pulling the pole out of the ground to haul it into storage until next year. It’s a massive effort, but all I can do is lament how now there’s gonna be a soft spot in the ground for a while there, even after they fill it back with dirt and rocks. 

I curse darkly under my breath when I startle at the sight of two peacekeepers passing by the merchant boys.

The singing stops while the townies nod politely at the albino buzzards. The boys stare at the peacekeepers until they disappear at a bend behind a big, tall retention wall where the fence stops into a jagged corner, and then the young merchants do something very peculiar…they start a round of ‘Row Your Boat’, holding up their fingers in some sort of countdown. Their voices are so shrill and out of tune, everyone around covers their ears and looks the opposite way.

I cock my head, studying the boys. They’re clearly intoxicated: red noses and ears, laughing at nonsense, and the biggest telltale, a bottle of white liquor passing around their misshapen circle. I realize, they’re not all teenagers. A few of them I recognize from my days in school, and I know for a fact two of them are married, and at least one of them has a child on the way already. 

I roll my eyes at their childish behavior. 

The peacekeepers appear again in the distance, and the singers stop their song abruptly. One of the older guys lifts his fingers up, showing all ten digits; he closes his fists quickly and opens them again, now showing seven fingers. They all giggle like lunatics, and I lose interest in them.

I round the cleaning crew closest to the fence, but suddenly, one of the townies stands up and starts calling at the top of his lungs, startling me.

“Hey, you! The girl with the braid!”

I whip around, because I’m 99% sure he’s talking to me! I’ve worn my dark, Seam hair in a single braid down my back for the last 8 years or so; it’s practical, really, to keep it that way. But that’s besides the point.

I wear my fiercest scowl on my face, and I get an uncomfortable jolt to the stomach when I realize I know this guy, the one waving at me while his companions guffaw around him, still intoning their childish ditty. 

Peeta Mellark, the baker’s youngest son, a boy I owe the biggest debt of my entire life, and for the first time since I can remember, he’s meeting my gaze without wavering. 

Debt or not, I have half a mind to stomp his way, grab him by the collar and shove him into the nearest tree in retaliation. My mouth opens to ask him what his problem is, when out of nowhere a pair of peacekeepers pop up from behind the retention wall, walking in the opposite direction of the previous set of guards. 

“Did you know it takes about a minute and a half to sing ‘Row Your Boat’ seventeen times?” Peeta Mellark chuckles, pink cheeks and nose, tilting his head towards the fence, and then his blue, sparkly eyes flit to the peacekeepers passing by; all the boys stop singing and nod at them in greeting. “Then, it takes like five minutes to sing something else, until we go back to Row Your Boat!” 

These guards must’ve crossed the other ones at some point while out of sight without me noticing. If I hadn’t been distracted by Peeta calling out to me, I would’ve run right into them on my way to the fence, if not flat out caught red-handed crossing into the woods, and how would I explain myself then?! Everyone in District 12 knows of my poaching proclivities, peacekeepers included, but that doesn’t mean I should go flaunting around my intention to trespass. Panem is still not completely free and whether people should have the right to escape into the woods for sustenance is still a murky topic…I’m not too keen on finding out if hunting is still a punishable crime by today’s parameters.

I turn my eyes back to Peeta, but he’s already singing and joking with his buddies, and although he seems to be invested in whatever shenanigans they’re doing, I’m not too sure he’s oblivious to me.  After all, he had to be watching me pretty closely to accurately guess I was close to being discovered. 

I huff. My debt to Peeta just increased, and I have no idea how to start paying him back for it. 

The peacekeepers are again out of sight; the merchants are singing again, and like before, people look away from their ruckus. There’s one boy with his fingers up…counting. 

Peeta’s watching me; he lifts 4 fingers offhandedly and turns to face his friends. 

Clever!

It’s a code, I gather. 

They’re timing the passing of the peacekeepers into the ‘blind spot’ with one song, then start a different one to predict when the keepers will be back on the retention wall.

I shake my head to clear off the hint of a smile taking over my face. The silly drunks aren’t as stupid as I thought, I guess. 

I make sure no one is looking my way; I also check the kid counting how many boats they’ve rowed, and leap closer to the spot I know there’s a loose link. I only have ten rows before the peacekeepers come back, so I make quick work out of the wires and slip to the other side fast. 

The drunk boys break into hoots and cheers once I’m in the woods, and despite myself, I look in their direction just to make sure nobody saw me scurrying out. I’m partially hidden by a tree, and should be safe now.

The cheering isn’t because I slipped out of the districteffectively; the boys are either harshly ruffling Peeta’s hair, or slapping him on the back. They’re all laughing and crowing something I can’t make out, but soon I see the glint of white uniforms out of the corner of my eyes, and hide deeper into the woods. 

I decide to check on my snares around here and head home right away. This was perhaps the worst entrance I’ve made into the woods, and too many know I’m out here as it is, but, if the townies are gonna act as a siren of sorts, better to use their system to my advantage. 

Then…I need to figure out how to finally speak to Peeta Mellark and start getting my ledger even with him. 

It’s completely dark by the time I reach my snares. I look at the sky and scowl. The stars are obscured, and the moon has a hazy ring around it. Clouds are rolling in too fast for my liking. Rain is coming, soon. So I make haste and run my fingers along the first wire I find. 

My snare wields two rabbits, and I bag them without resetting the traps. I figure one of these will be enough to hold my family over for a couple of days. I can make some coins out of the second rabbit, which should be enough until Oktoberfest has died down and business resumes as normal. It’s a good plan if I say so myself.

A peal of thunder breaks in the distance, and I grunt lowly. This night keeps getting worse by the minute; it’s good that I’m almost back to my entry point. I head back to the fence, where I can still hear the faint howls of laughter of the merchant boys. 

I’m 30 yards from the fence when another clap of thunder roars overhead, loud enough to reverberate in my bones; people beyond the fence shriek. I’ve only taken a step forward when lightning strikes, and I know the storm is hot on my heels. 

The chanting of the merchants is getting louder. I never thought I’d think this, but it’s a relief, knowing I can count on them to distract the patrols while I sneak back into the district. 

They’re egging and heckling each other like a bunch of rowdy hoodlums. 

“Go on! Ten coins says you won’t last a second!” 

“I say fifteen, if he brings back proof he was there!” 

Somebody belches loudly, making the rest giggle like school kids. 

I roll my eyes and try to concentrate on finding my loose wire in the distance. I’m only a few feet away from the fence, but it’s dark and windy. 

“Seeriouslee, though,” hiccups another, mispronouncing his words. “Gwhat should he…” hiccup, “bring?” Hiccup.

“Don’t know. A berry maybe,” 

“Or a bear bite!” cackles another. They all laugh boisterously. 

I wonder what they’re up to now. The fools! Don’t they know they should be running home for cover? The first raindrops are already falling. 

“Fine! Okay…I’ll do it! But I wanna see all that money now!” slurs a voice I recognize, because I heard it calling me less than twenty minutes ago. “Pay up!”

No! Not him! I think, feeling my stomach drop. Whatever it is they’re doing, doesn’t sound very smart. 

“Dis it?!” Peeta Mellark groans, “I’m taking all your money, so I can buy me a hen house! Dis not even ‘nough to buy me chicken feed!”

I hear grumbling nearby, and the clicking of metal, suspiciously similar to how coins sound falling on each other. I assume they’re shedding the rest of their money for Peeta to see. 

“‘Kay…‘Kay…better now. Okay. Imma go now. Hold me money, Rye…and don’t spend any of it! I counted it… it’s me money! Don’t steal it, or I tell Lavender you were smooching girls a week before you got married!” 

“Don’t you dare!”

“Don’t steal me money!”

“Fine!”

“Fine! And don’t tell father ‘bout dis either!”

Somebody yells, “Mellark, stop stalling!”

“Yeah! Get—“ hiccup, “on with it al—“ hiccup, “…ready!”

“Goin’, I’m goin’!” I hear a few murmurs.

I swear, Peeta Mellark! If you set foot in my woods, I’ll shoot you in the toes! 

I’m close enough to the fence to see a few lights flicking close by, but then another thunder drums, with a lightning to boot, and the rain droplets fall heavier. 

“Wait! White helmets!” hisses someone, and even I drop to the ground to hide. 

“Evenin,’ officers!” says Peeta. 

I can picture him in my mind’s eye, smiling the same way he used to in school when covering for one of his friends to the teachers. 

“Evening? It’s almost nine o’clock, boys!” says a woman. I’m not quite familiar with her voice, but I can surmise she’s one of the peacekeepers on patrol. “Curfew starts in 30 minutes, and a storm’s on its way. I suggest you all head to your houses.” 

“Yeah, we will finish pickin’ up our garbage and head right home, officer!” says Peeta, all polite and pleasant like. 

“Very well. You better clear out by the time we return, or we’ll have you spend the night in a cozy cell at the Justice Building,” says a gruff male voice, most likely the second peacekeeper. “Now, get on with the cleaning, gentlemen.” 

There’s a chorus of voices murmuring stuff like “Right away, sir!” and “Of course, officer.” A lot of movement and hushed conversations go on for a minute or so while I lay on my stomach like an idiot. 

I can only assume the peacekeepers are out of earshot when Peeta exclaims happily, “Aight! I’m goin’ in!” 

The others start fussing and protesting, talking over each other frantically: “You can’t go in!”, “Are you crazy?! You heard them, there’s a storm coming!”, “Stop being a damned hero, Mellark! You already showed us up, by speaking to Everdeen!” 

Peeta calls out, “Guys! Shut up! She’s the reason I wanna go in there! She ain’t back yet!” 

I frown. 

“Everdeen? Dude, she’s probably stalking a deer or somethin’…she’s fine!” says who I believe is his brother. 

“Well…but what if she needs help? Shouldn’t some’ne go get ‘er?” He sounds concerned and strangely hopeful. 

My stomach does a strange little flip at Peeta’s words, and then I have to shake my head to stop myself from being grateful for his concern. Outside of my family, Peeta Mellark seems to be the only person in this entire district who cares about me. 

“No! That girl’s half feral! All them wild things in the woods are probably more afraid of her than we are!” says Peeta’s brother. 

I find myself nodding in agreement, but scowling at the same time, because I’m not feral! I just hunt and enjoy the respect— bordering on fear— people have for me. 

It doesn’t matter, though! Right now I feel almost as silly as they sound, and I just want them to take Peeta home, so I can climb back into the district and go home myself.

“I’m still goin’ in!” I realize Peeta is looking for the spot I used to come into the woods, and I hear muttering and hissing trying to dissuade him from coming in, but he’s already pulling the wire the same way I did, and a moment later, he’s wiggling his broad frame under the fence like an inchworm rolling on salt. 

“No!” I huff under my breath, scrambling to get up, to push him back in the other direction, but then somebody is whispering harshly. 

“White helmets!” 

I’m not even surprised to hear Peeta’s so-called friends run away then. Coward merchants the lot of them!

A thunder booms above us, and I see Peeta struggling to pull through under the flash of the lightning that follows. It’s a miracle the peacekeepers haven’t seen him, splashing in the muddy pool forming rapidly under his body. 

“Ugh!” I finally find my feet and practically throw myself on top of his arms, to pull him in. 

Peeta shrieks, startled by my sudden appearance, so I slap a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. 

“Hush! Or they’ll find us!” 

I pull him further out from under the wire. He seems to realize what I’m trying to do and relaxes his muscles, letting me guide him forward while propelling himself with the toe of his boots. 

There’s a bush just two feet away from us. I drag him with me on all fours and crouch behind it until the peacekeepers’ flashlights disappear. 

“Hi!” says Peeta.

“Shush!” 

“Sorry!” he whispers…loudly.

“Quiet!” I hiss, bringing a finger to my mouth, as if I was dealing with a toddler instead of a 20-year-old man. 

“‘Kay,” he responds, this time in an actual whisper. 

I still roll my eyes at him. 

Thunder and lightning and cold, stabbing rain fall from the sky unrelenting. 

“Listen, we can’t stay here too long; we need to crawl back into the district!” I tell him, peeking from behind our hiding spot to make sure we are alone. I can’t see very far ahead, but it’s obvious the meadow is empty now. 

“What?!” he calls loudly. 

“For goodness sakes!” I mutter in frustration. “We need to crawl back into the district, or we’re gonna drown out here!” I’m having to yell so he can hear me over the rain.

“Oh! O-kay!” he says, smiling beguilingly at me. “I came to get you!” he yells. 

I look at him, trying to convey all the annoyance I’m feeling towards him right now with just my facial expression, but I guess the moonlight is so minimal he can’t see me, because all he does is smile back at me.

“You’re welcome!” he yells after a second in a self-satisfied tone.

“For what?” I snap.

“For rescuing you, of course!” 

I stare at him, dumbfounded. “Rescuing— you…  what?!” I screech.

More thunder and lighting make it impossible to keep doing this where we are. And thanks to the storm, it’s too risky trying to crawl under the fence, too. Negotiating Peeta’s humongous body back under the railings in these conditions is just calling for trouble; we’ll either get found by the peacekeepers— if they’re still patrolling— or get hit by lightning; after all, the fence is meant to conduct electricity and fry whatever touches it. 

I’m lost in my head, thinking about our options at this point, when a bright flash cracks overhead, so strong, it makes everything look like it’s day time, and I fall back on my butt for how close Peeta’s face is to mine. 

“What are you doing?” I rasp.

“Wow! Has anyone ever told you, you have freckles over the bridge of your nose?” He asks, placing his two paw-like hands on my shoulders, pulling me back onto my haunches. “From close up, your face is as pretty as the night sky with all its coteslations!” 

“Hmm…no—nobody’s ever said…” I huff. “Come on. We can’t stay here.” I tell him, pulling him by the hem of his coat’s sleeve. “I think you meant ‘constellations’ by the way. Alcohol really messes up your speech, you know.” 

I think he says something, but I’m not sure, since the storm is swallowing up all the sounds around us. 

The going is slow, because we have to wait for lightning to illuminate our way, and once, I realized we were straying onto a different path from the place I have in mind. Plus, I have to keep trying to untangle myself from Peeta’s grasp, so I can feel around the way with my feet. Peeta talks too much…nonstop, and I think it’s mostly the alcohol talking, but ugh! Would it kill him to just be quiet for a second?!

He’s awfully clingy for such a big man. I mean, he’s grown a few inches since we were in school, and he used to be stocky and broad-shouldered, even as a teenager, on account of him being wrestling champion two years in a row, plus having to handle those heavy trays in the bakery and whatnot. 

I forgot where I was going with this?

Anyway, I hope the alcohol clears his system soon. He seems like an overgrown puppy at times, the way he trails after me and touches the end of my braid, which I guess he might be using as some kind of leash or rope to tether himself to me. Surprisingly, I don’t find it as annoying as I should. In fact, I find the warmth of his fingers… reassuring. 

“Stop!” I tell him, when I hear rustling nearby I know isn’t from the rain. 

A wild dog jumps in front of us, and I curse loudly. I should’ve grabbed my bow on our way out here, but I didn’t want Peeta to see my hiding spot; not that he’ll remember how to get to it, but he was able to find my loose chain in the fence, so…

I think the dog is coming after us. But before I can tell Peeta to run, he pulls me flush with his chest and somehow lifts me over his head like I weigh nothing. The dog is momentarily confused, and I take the chance to chuck one of my rabbits past it. The dumb animal looks at us curiously, but after a second, loses interest and goes for the easier, smaller prey.

I just got reminded of how strong Peeta is. 

“Thank you!” I call out when he lowers me back to his chest. “You can let go of me now. The dog’s gone, but there might be more around.” 

Peeta nods. His blue eyes are wide and alarmed, his cheeks, ruddy with booze just a few minutes ago, are drained of color. “Alright!” he gasps, clearly shaken.

I grab his arm and squeeze, leading him away from the spot. 

It’s times like these when I miss my old hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne; for starters, he would’ve had a bow on him…he would’ve shot and killed the dog. He would’ve had my back… but Peeta had my back this time, and he surely is no seasoned hunter, not even an outdoorsman, yet it was his quick thinking and sheer brute strength that saved my hide.

It’s also the reason Gale and I broke our partnership to begin with. Given the chance, he would’ve left Peeta stranded out here, instead of finding him shelter. But that’s his style, not mine, and Peeta has shown his worth twice tonight, inebriated as he is. 

I release a sigh of relief when I see the opening of a burrow on the side of a small hill. It’s not truly a cave; it’s much too shallow to be called that, but, I found it about a year ago, and have been carving it out little by little for these kinds of emergencies, when I need shelter on the run, and the concrete little shack by the lake is too far, and I want to stay close to the fence, anyway. 

“Oooh! Is this a cave? Is it abandoned? We ain’t gonna walk into some bear den or somethin’?” Peeta asks, bumping into my back when I stop to remove a few branches from the entrance of my little hiding spot. 

“Get in!” I command him, and he obeys at once. 

I take a few minutes to rearrange the branches at the mouth of the cave, just to keep the water from splashing inside, although we are soaked through our jackets. 

“Sit,” I tell him, bumping into him again when I turn to feel round the wall of the cave for my provisions. The little hollow is only 5 ft wide by 6 feet deep, so there isn’t much room to wiggle for two people even if we were both my size. 

Peeta has to hunch down as it is.

He’s quiet for the time being. My fingers touch the cool glass of the oil lamp I was feeling for, and right next to it, is a box of matches. I can finally breathe! 

I make quick work of the lamp, and we are finally in better shape than we were a moment ago. Peeta blinks owlishly at the lamp, and I can tell he’s surprised, but blinded by the sudden light. 

“Where are we?” Peeta asks in awe.

“It’s my emergency shelter,” I tell him, kicking a log from the back of the cave towards him. “Here, you don’t have to sit on the ground.” I tell him, watching him sitting almost directly in front of the entrance with his legs crossed.

“You have a shelter out here? I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you were a genius!” 

My cheeks heat up for some reason. “Nah. It’s just common sense. Too many experiences out there without one. Whatever. Intelligence has nothing to do with this, really.” 

“So…do animals come in here?” he asks, turning his head around to study the place, not as nervously as before.

“No. It’s too small for a big animal’s den, and too big for a small critter’s burrow. It’s ‘me’ size because I’ve been digging it out little by little, and putting stuff in it for when I find myself in the same predicament we are in right now.” 

Peeta shifts to his knees and slowly stands up, hunching a smidge, ‘cause the cave ceiling is too low for him. He lumbers to the log I offered him earlier and sits on it heavily. 

“This place is great!” he states, looking at the crude shelving carved into the dirt where I keep the lamp, matches, a couple of cans of food I’ve agonized about leaving here because it feels like a waste, and things like spare arrowheads and fletchings; things that’d be useful in a pinch. 

I have a knife hidden inside the very log Peeta’s sitting on, but I’m not about to divulge that secret. It’s my last line of defense, and since I don’t have my bow on me, I feel safer knowing there’s at least one weapon in the cave I can count on. I need to bring a bow here at some point; I just haven’t found a good way to camouflage…yet.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. 

“Um, you can sit here,” says Peeta after a long moment passes in silence. “Plenty of room!” He motions to the log, scooting to free up some space.

It looks ridiculous, because there truly isn’t any room left on that log for me to sit. Peeta looks like a smushed rag-doll, sitting on a match box, and all the room he’s leaving next to him, is only big enough to accommodate a toothpick. 

“It’s okay,” I tell him, with a reluctant smile. “I’ll stand for now.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, biting his lip guiltily. 

“Yeah. Let me be a generous host.”

His face falls. “I’m sorry,” he rushes to say. “You wouldn’t have to be playing host in your lovely cave if it wasn’t for me. Sorry I was so stupid,” he says sheepishly, “I should’ve known you had it under control before I tried coming in after you.”

“Oh…it’s alright. It was…touching. All those things you said back there.” My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. 

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” he says, sounding almost sober. 

Another long minute goes by in silence. “Was that a wolf out there?” he asks suddenly. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought about kicking it, but I was afraid it would mangle up my leg, and then I’d get blood poisoned and since medicine is hard to come by, I probably would’ve lost my leg, and I’m not sure I’d be able to master a fake one…unless it was like a Capitol grade thing with robotic nerve connectors and the such… I read some man in District 3 figured out how to make prosthetics that you can control with a chip implanted in your brain!” 

I find myself laughing at his nonsense. And he seems to enjoy my laugh, because he keeps saying outrageous things, I can’t tell if he’s just making them up on the fly, or if he really read about them somewhere. 

I slide against the wall after a while, until I’m crouching close to the wet floor. Our clothes cling to our bodies, but most of the water has leaked off of us already, which is good, since I can’t light a fire inside the cave. 

“Are you hungry?” I ask him, interrupting his musings about how chewing gum is inherently evil, since we don’t have dentistry accessible in the districts. The boy really talks too much!

Peeta cranes his neck to glare at my game bag, which I recently placed by my feet. 

“What do you have there?” He asks, interested. 

“A rabbit. But we can’t eat that raw. We’d get sick with fever if we try. I wouldn’t recommend it,” I tell him. “But I have canned fruit we can share,” I offer. 

He makes an agreeing noise at the back of his throat. “I could eat.” 

“Fine. Um…close your eyes for a second. And don’t peek!” I chide. 

As with everything else I’ve commanded today, Peeta obeys without questioning, and soon I’m darting my hand into the end of the log, retrieving my knife. 

“Open your eyes,” I say. 

“Where did you get that from?!” he screeches, staring open-mouthed at my knife. 

“Secret compartment,” I deadpan.

“Well…I hope you’re not planning on stabbing me with that thing. That blade is bound to be dull now that you hacked into that can with it.”

“What does it matter if the blade’s dull?” I ask, exasperated.

“It’ll tear up my skin if you try stabbing me with it!” Peeta answers, arms moving in exaggerated arches,  “I much rather get a clean cut through, thank you very much!” 

What’s wrong with this boy?! He’s acting like discussing his own potential stabbing is an everyday thing.

“For your information, I’m pretty adept at sharpening things! And…Eww! Gross! Why would I wanna stab you?” I shudder. “I’m sorry, but I don’t do wounds, and I don’t do blood.” I pull a face, shivering.

“You kill things for a living!” He rolls his eyes in disbelief. “Why, the inside of your bag is covered in dried blood from those bunnies right now!”

“Animals! I hunt animals! I don’t do people’s blood and stuff…gross!”

“You’re kinda squeamish for such a lethal thing, aren’t ya?”

“Shut up and eat your pears!” I shove the open can into his hands, and he stares suspiciously at me for a minute before digging in.

Peeta moves over a few more inches, and the toothpick space widens to a Katniss’-rearside-size spot. This time, I take his offer gratefully and sit down next to him. He passes the can to me when he’s done. 

“You know…this is the first time we’ve done something normal together,” he says, pensive.

“It’s the first time we’ve done anything together, Peeta, period!” 

Peeta gasps, and there’s silence for a second. “You’re amazing!” He says, staring and blinking at me while I chew, as if I truly was some extraordinary sight to behold.

I scowl. “Why? Because I fed you canned food in a torrential storm in the middle of the woods?” I didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic. 

“Yeah…” he says dreamily, then scowls, then shakes his head. “Nah! You’re just…amazing! Even my mother says that you’re a survivor and the only thing District 12 has of worth…a better version of Haymitch Abernathy!”

Haymitch Abernathy is District 12’s one, and only living, Hunger Games Victor. He’s also a grumpy hermit, and a drunk, and the richest person in the district. Like me, he was born in the miners’ sector, nicknamed the Seam. People say Haymitch used to be smart as a whip, and a looker too, but now he’s just a paunchy, middle aged man, with anger issues. 

“Well, that’s not much of a compliment, is it?” I wrinkle my nose.

Peeta laughs, brushing his shoulder against mine…but that’s to be expected, he’s a giant after all, and the cave is practically a tall dresser. 

“No, I guess it’s not. But father always gushes about your squirrels. Says you never hit the pelt. You always shoot them right through the eye!” 

“Well, anyone can do that with enough practice.” I shrug.

Peeta snorts, and his knee presses against mine. “I wish I could do even half of the stuff you do. You’re an amazing hunter, and smart, and so pretty, and you can bring down deer, and the way you are with your sister…well, my big brothers have never been doting with me as you are with Primrose.” He sighs, looking at the flickering flame of the oil lamp. “You are something else!” 

“I— that’s not…” I’m frustrated and embarrassed, so I snap, “I wouldn’t have been able to do, or be, any of those things without your help, so…there!”

He scoots closer to me. His body is strangely warm, even under the layers of wet clothes. There’s bewilderment in his blue eyes, and for some reason, I can’t look away from the way his hair is all matted to his forehead. He looks boyish. Kinda cute. 

“What do you mean?” He asks in a small voice. 

I chuff. “Well, it was like today,” I start, leaning back, averting my eyes. He smells of spirits, but weirdly enough, I’m not repulsed by the scent. “You called out to me in the meadow, and I was about to rip you a new one, but then I realized you were trying to help me. Then, you save me from a wild dog, by doing something as simple as lifting me over your head, like I weighed nothing.” I feel small, all of eleven years old, and the fact that I’m wet to the bone and cold to the marrow doesn’t help my case. My voice comes out tiny, “You fed me when we were kids. I’ve never been able to even thank you for that!” I purse my lips to keep them from trembling, and blink some 28 times to keep from crying. 

Peeta sidles up against me. “Oh, Katniss,” he says low and reverently. I realize with a jolt, that it’s the first time he’s said my name. “You’re talking about the bread when we were kids?” His eyes glass over. “You can let that go now… after saving my ass tonight from the storm and the peacekeepers, I think you can count us even.” 

“How can you say that?” I demand, “You keep saving me, and I don’t know why?!”

“Really?” he asks, cocking his head sideways, scrunching his face, and shutting one eye like he can’t quite see me clearly with both eyes open; his tone isn’t malicious, just surprised. “You know why…at least, I think you should,” he says, shrugging and leaning closer. “I thought you’d notice how all of my friends were roasting me because I finally said something to you, and all I said was something lame about Row Your Boat.” He chuckles. “Fifteen years I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to talk to you, and when I finally do, I call you ‘ Hey, girl with the braid’ like an idiot!” He practically leans into me.  

“Fifteen years?” I ask, bewildered. 

“Yeah…” he trails off, his ears turning cherry red. “I seem to have harbored a crush on you since the first day of school, when we were five.” He slumps back against the wall, and suddenly I wish he was still draped over me, warming me up. 

“Really?” I ask, because this story seems far-fetched. 

“Oh yes! It’s a whole thing! Me being a goner from the moment I heard you singing that very first day…remind me to tell you all the gory details some day.” 

“You betcha,” I say, amused. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a dork, but hey! At least imma buy me some chickens to sell eggs, and save, to buy my father’s bakery one day, and then I’m gonna ask you out on a date or somethin’.”

“Uh— what? Really?!” I chuckle. 

Peeta yawns. “Yeah, Imma take you somewhere nice for a picnic, like Victor’s Village or something, and I’m gonna bring good bread this time! None of that burnt, soggy crap I threw at you when we were kids, but real, freshly baked bread. With butter. And probably canned pears, ‘cause those are my favorites now!”

“Okay,” I tell him, not completely sure why I’m agreeing to this. After all, I decided a long time ago I was never getting married or having any children, at least, not as long as the Hunger Games loomed over me; I won’t be stringing Peeta along either. Gale accused me of doing just that once, which I don’t think I did? The accusation still stung. 

Right now, it feels nice to think I could go on a date with this crazy merchant boy; and who knows?! 

“Buttered bread sounds nice,” I say, sinking next to him. 

“This is nice!” Says Peeta, sleepily, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Yeah…it is,” I agree, realizing just how steady and warm his arms are, even encased in wet clothing.

“Will you go out on a picnic with me, then?” He asks hopefully, yawning again. His eyes drooping with sleep. 

“I think I might,” I tell him. I haven’t felt this safe in anyone’s embrace since my father died when I was 11 and I stopped trusting my mother. “I think I will,”

I’m beginning to think that the alcohol fumes clinging to Peeta have gone to my head, and left me as simple minded as all the intoxicated people back home, maybe I have it wrong, and Oktoberfest does have its charm, because despite myself, it feels right to indulge in that fantasy tonight. After all, Peeta was the only person in the district back then, that cared enough about me and my family dying of hunger, to do anything about it. He gave me bread he purposely burned for me, all he gained was a bruised eye from his mother, and my inability to repay his kindness, for his generous gesture. 

“Good! Just a heads up, though, I’ll prolly propose to you at that picnic, ” he says. His eyes are already closed, and I roll mine in response. “What you think my odds are of you saying yes?” He snuggles up to me, his head falls onto my shoulder. 

“The odds might be in your favor,” I tell him softly; I’m not so sure I say that to humor him, though. I am really tired, and sleeping in his arms does sound like a luxury right now, so I’m gonna blame it on the ‘Oktoberfest effect’ in the morning. Plead sleep depravation insanity or something. “Night, Peeta,”

He mumbles a response, which turns into a slow snore. 

I close my eyes, smiling. 

I’ll indulge in the drunken ramblings of Peeta tonight. Tomorrow is a new day, and if the saying is right, the sun shines brightest after a storm…maybe it’s time I bask in the rays. 

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #autumn 2020 #alliswell21 #submission #autumn #prompt

[dog-day-morning]

WRONG MESSIAH WRONG PEOPLE Acts 1:1-14 Israel is run by gentiles who are not Israelite by blood. They call themselves Jews by declaration not by lineage. Jews are in the midst of casting out God's chosen people from Israel for fear of the prophetic word that states these Edomite gentiles, along with an admixture of the people of Alkebulan’s (Israel), whose DNA the Father anointed has blessed them will bow down, and worship at our feet. They fear the truth knowing we’ve determined the lies they’ve told us were intended to hide our identity from us, and the world out of hatred. The Jewish holocaust lasted for 4yrs whereas the curses of Deuteronomy have lasted 400yrs, and counting. No other tribe of people has suffered like the Israelites according to the curses, and accounts in Deuteronomy 28 save a peculiar people. And it shall come to pass, that as the Lord rejoiced over you to do you good, and to multiply you; so the Lord will rejoice over you to destroy you, and to bring you to nought; and ye shall be plucked from off the land whither thou goest to possess it. And the Lord shall scatter thee among all people, from the one end of the earth even unto the other; and there thou shalt serve other gods, which neither thou nor thy fathers have known, even wood and stone. This is why I don't worship other religious faiths or religions. I'm cautious when it comes to Christianity knowing the deviltry of man, and the depths he will go, and has in order to maintain his stranglehold on us as a people. What allows a person to never be held accountable for their sins on Earth, but makes a race or tribe of people the burden bearer for all of Earth's iniquity? The devil is an accuser whose minions are fearful of the word manifesting in this generation. What we see on display isn't just a show of rebellion, but a fear of an arrogant people losing their position in the Earth which was only meant to be temporary, but in truth it wasn't meant to be at all. If 5 Black males congregate on a street corner it puts fear, spite, and hatred in the hearts of the so-called fragile psyche of those who want to control us. They call the Police in the hope of getting innocent people arrested or murdered. But 200 members of the proud boys can march through Urban Philadelphia in a show of defiance with Police protection, and nobody confronts them except a different breed of Black, Brown, and white people who are not like their fathers of old who relish in the thought of sending Jethro back to the woods with the rest of the hood boogers. The Jewish cabal worships Satan in the literal sense. They are the Devils cronies who know their time is up. Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time. They understand that the God of our fathers isn't playing games. If you ascribe this to my person as I’ve done in theory, how can God's 2 faithful witnesses see the Son of God and His Father if their hearts hadn't been tried like some of you? Revelation 11:3-13 3 And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth. 4 These are the two olive trees, and the two candlesticks standing before the God of the earth. 5 And if any man will hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and devoureth their enemies: and if any man will hurt them, he must in this manner be killed. 6 These have power to shut heaven, that it rain not in the days of their prophecy: and have power over waters to turn them to blood, and to smite the earth with all plagues, as often as they will. 7 And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them. 8 And their dead bodies shall lie in the street of the great city, which spiritually is called Sodom and Egypt, where also our Lord was crucified. 9 And they of the

people and kindreds and tongues and nations shall see their dead bodies three days and an half, and shall not suffer their dead bodies to be put in graves. 10 And they that dwell upon the earth shall rejoice over them, and make merry, and shall send gifts one to another; because these two prophets tormented them that dwelt on the earth. 11 And after three days and an half the spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them. 12 And they heard a great voice from heaven saying unto them, Come up hither. And they ascended up to heaven in a cloud; and their enemies beheld them. 13 And the same hour was there a great earthquake, and the tenth part of the city fell, and in the earthquake were slain of men seven thousand: and the remnant were affrighted, and gave glory to the God of heaven. The God of Israel has decreed this. The Jews in Israel will suffer a harsh penalty for their crimes against the Nigerian, Igbo Israelites, the Ethiopian Beta Israelites, the Ugandan Abayudaya, and other sects of Israelite people including the American tribal people of Ghana Africa (Judah), Gad (Native American), Reuben (Aboriginal Australian), and Issachar (Mexican South American descendants.) They are deporting the Yisraelites in Alkebulan out of Yisrael as though this can inundate God's plan. You’re bringing God to a higher and greater glory, fulfilling the promises He made to His people in this day for this generation. Joshua 24:13 13 And I have given you a land for which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built not, and ye dwell in them; of the vineyards and olive yards which ye planted not do ye eat. It’s a shame to construct a global economy only to be denied the American dream; it's a nightmare. For those that cater to the State of Israel like some Congressmen, and women who are Edomite Jews that are not willing to put in place a reparations plan for the ADOS, FBA, and all indigenous people of North America based on the Western Nations financing of the temporary inhabitants of Israel is an injustice to humanity. Our oppressor isn’t going to give up his throne or authority willingly, he’s drunk with it. Look to God to deliver us not man, especially those who historically have shown their extreme distaste and revulsion for us. God tells us: If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land. God foreknew, He's all knowing, and all seeing. If one of them were to cosign a reparations bill for Black people they would’ve been found dead inside their congressional office within days or maybe hours. When your own people who look as you do, but think according to their massa’s will, in order to live a season of sin with the wicked advocating for the gentiles who live off our promised inheritance, and this nonphysical, hidden, unseen, but shrewd, devious bit of craft called white privilege, that Black people who believe in Yeshua spiritually call favor with God. What this microwave generation has asserted, and addressed as privilege in actuality is sinister, and diabolical. It's a Janus-like, double minded, spirit of torment that has caused a lot of agony to a people they refuse to relinquish that will bring a harsh judgment to them and the Earth, and yes, I’m paying my price. The people of Canaan were destroyed after having knowledge of the true living God. The Father isn't one who relishes in the spilling of innocent blood. He will always send you a warning before calamity comes to your doorstep. He's been doing it for the last 2,000 years. Like the Egyptians they refused to believe in the God the Israelites praised, and worshipped thinking He finds favor in them who shed innocent blood. This is the situation we find the Earth in once more with the Israelites who this time are being forced out of their homeland waiting for a deliverer. The people that lived in Canaan were not ignorant of

the God of Israel. Many times the impression is given that God ordered the Israelites to swoop in and destroy innocent people. But these people were neither innocent nor ignorant. They had heard about the God of Israel; it was they who rejected Him. When the 2 spies were sent to spy out the Land of Promise they were told by Rahab the prostitute: Joshua 2:9-11 9 And she said unto the men, I know that the Lord hath given you the land, and that your terror is fallen upon us, and that all the inhabitants of the land faint because of you. 10 For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red sea for you, when ye came out of Egypt; and what ye did unto the two kings of the Amorites, that were on the other side Jordan, Sihon and Og, whom ye utterly destroyed. 11 And as soon as we had heard these things, our hearts did melt, neither did there remain any more courage in any man, because of you: for the Lord your God, he is God in heaven above, and in earth beneath. They had heard of the true God but had rejected Him. Consequently, their entire society acted in a sinful way. The Apostle Paul spoke of these people: Though they knew God they refused to believe let alone acknowledge Him as the true living God. The Father let their minds become reprobate following their flesh. What comes good of the flesh people? Nothing. They were shapen in iniquity, and in sin did their mothers conceive them. Israel is the biggest Nation on Earth that supports the Trans community being led by a morbidly, corrupted government overrun with rampant homosexuality, and like Amerikkka they endorse pedophilia. Of all the Nations on the Earth, Israel ranks number one in unnatural sex, and relations more so than the United States of Amerikkka, and Amerikkka’s European counterparts. When Jews here in the states get arrested for unlawful sexual acts committed against children those who have convenient connections are able to seek refuge, and fly to Israel fleeing prosecution. Oftentimes this is warranted, by US gov’t protection agencies who assist them in their transition back to Israel. Larry Nassar whose last name is Jewish, but they claim him not. The faith he was raised in makes him a Catholic which reeks of corruption, and entitlement that exceeds the realm of sexually deviant malfeasance executed by this religious sect that historically has gotten away with the most egregious sins committed against God's innocent ones. The FBIs handling of his high profile case was a case study in buffoonery, and an insane margin of flexibility that cannot be explained to a person of a simple mind. Hopefully this gov’t will learn which is doubtful. Pray that the payoff of a high monetary lawsuit will make the US government look at this flawed system, and send Goober Pyle back to law school or a police precinct to learn how to do his job. This is not privilege, it’s sin. Romans 1:21-25 21 Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. 22 Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, 23 And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and four footed beasts, and creeping things. 24 Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: 25 Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen. The inhabitants of Canaan were neither ignorant nor innocent victims of an angry God. They were committing these terrible sins being fully aware of the true and living God. Because they rejected Him, God judged them harshly. How do you explain the people of Israel, Amerikkka, Europe, and the rest of the West in this day and time? You can't without condemning them, and the rest of humanity which the Father had all authority to do. Instead, He sent His Son to die for Yisrael whom we rejected giving the

gentiles a pathway to His Kindome. Why do you refuse to accept His truth? Forgiving a jackass is like storing wine in old wineskins or plastic garbage bags. The messenger has made your hearts cold, and bitter towards the Father, and His Son Yeshua? Learn from us, and prepare for a New World in its natural order of things because this right here ain't it. Good evening people, Elohim 9/25/2021

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 16: Lucubration

Moen. Why did you give me this troll ass word. Why did this word, of all of them, give me Immense Emotions.

Have an Academic AU set 600 years after xiv. Do not perceive me.

To say that discovering what had happened to those closest to the Warrior of Light from the Seventh Astral Era, now some six hundred years past, was the culmination of Ciri’s life’s work was a gross overexaggeration, though it was the first project she had been approved for grant money to pursue out of graduate school. It was an interesting enough period in history that there was ample interest in the nitty gritty of it, though the obtuse nature of the way that era was chronicled had made it an intimidating one to approach.

Ciri didn’t know the concept of being intimidated by academic research, however, and had leapt into it headlong, eager to know what had become of the historic figures that had risen up in the wake of the Serella Arcbane of legend.

It had been fairly easy to reverse engineer her path of adventuring, and from there, Ciri had managed to discover so much more than she had thought she could in some case, in others, almost nothing. Which had ultimately led her travels to Ishgard, tucked away in one of the recently restored Scholasticate libraries, pouring over tomes and records by low lamplight to help with her migraine.

It was late enough that everyone else in the building had long since gone home, save for the janitorial staff. It was a common enough occurrence that Ciri made it a habit of buying the lot of them takeout while she was there. Half as a bribe to not kick her out, but mostly so she could continue her work unburdened with the worry that they hadn’t eaten enough in the day. 

There were reasons she was their favorite academic.

“Still here?” A dulcet voice asked from the doorway to the archives.

Emil. She didn’t even have to look up to know. She would know him anywhere.

“As ever.” She called back. “What on earth are you still doing here?”

“You should know me better than that by now.” With the echoing clack of his footsteps approaching her, she was spared being startled when he set a thermos on the table for her. “I couldn’t well enough just abandon my partner in crime.”

She spared him a plain look from over the tome she had been pouring over.

“You just don’t like going through that one street alone, do you?”

“Have you seen the way those dancers leer at me?” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I can’t tell whether they’re trying to lure me in to seduce me or put me to work.”

“The woes of bountiful beauty.” Ciri sighed, and snapped the book she had been reading shut.

She tossed it to the side of her in half disgust, along with the veritable mountain of other tomes that had proven to be just as uninformative.

“You would know far more than I.” He cooed around a saccharine smile, preening at the way she flushed at the compliment.

“You do this on purpose, I swear it.” She grumbled goodnaturedly.

Though Emile laughed, his eyes scanned the discarded tomes, pursing his lips. “Still having trouble finding him, then?”

“Technically.” She heaved a sigh, her back thumping against her chair as she took a moment to pout in a manner most unbecoming an academic. “I keep running into dead ends. He was a goddamn world leader, how does history lose someone like that?!”

There yet remained one final piece of the mystery she needed before her work was done. She could not leave it to be lost to the annals of history for no other reason than her lack of due diligence, that was for damn certain.

“Quite easily, I assure you.” He replied, and finally held up a bag of takeout he had brought up with him and set it on the table. “Take a break with me, rest your eyes.”

He set out a variety of containers, each more fragrant and savory than the last. Betraying her own neglect, Ciri’s stomach growled loud enough that he paused in divvying up food to arch a brow at her.

“When did you last eat?”

“...Monday…?” She said hesitantly once she had ticked back the hours. 

It was only Tuesday, right? That wasn’t so bad.

“Cirilla Anne Dubois! It’s Wednesday!” Sparing a glance at his watch, he grimaced and amended, “Thursday, by now! Eat!”

He set a large soup container in front of her to punctuate his command, and the scent of beef broth filled her senses. She had to swallow heavily from how her mouth watered.

“Udon…?” She asked hopefully.

“Of course. And a shared order of tempura.” He promised, laying out another container between them.

A ritual for them, to share meal and knowledge alike. Something that had carried over from their days in uni, and even before then. She had been glad for Emil’s constant, comforting presence throughout their travels and research. They could be doing nothing but laughing over a silly video on his tomephone, and sharing bits of food, and still, she would be the happiest woman in the world.

Emil somehow seemed to always know when she needed a break. The food had been exactly what she had needed, she realized the moment that the first bite had settled on her tongue. He had even brewed her tea, she realized when she popped the thermos open and sniffed at the delicate complex and slightly sweet aroma. 

Truly, these were the moments that made her work worthwhile.

“Review with me, like we always do. Something to break up the lucubration by lamplight, if you will.” Emil brought her back, the bright amber of his eyes comforting in the low lamplight. After he chewed around a mouthful of curry and rice, he continued, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Tell me of the other Alliance leaders, and how their stories ended.”

“But you know. You’ve been with me every step of this research trip.” Ciri whined after a long dreg of her tea.

“Sure, but isn’t it important to look again? To make sure you didn’t miss anything?” He encouraged. 

He had a point, even if Ciri didn’t want to admit it.

“Where to start…” She tapped her fingers on the table. “Lyse Hext and Hien Rijin formed a bridge between the Doman and Eorzean Alliances when they were wed, paved the way for current world politics in that regard, though they ultimately focused on adopting refugee children and rebuilding Doma and Ala Mhigo respectively. Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn adamantly refused to retire until she had found a suitable replacement.”

“Only for her First to ultimately convince her to do so that she might marry the love of her life.” Emil supplied, food all but abandoned to focus his attention solely on her.

“Y’Shtola Rhule, of all people.” Ciri snorted. ““The only woman to keep me honest. I would have no other.” It was so recorded she had said in her wedding vows.”

“Good for them.” He nodded.

“Raubahn Aldynn eventually retired from his position as General of the Ala Mhigan army, and had lived a content life as a hobbyist carpenter and full time grandfather to his son’s children.” She paused to chew on a mouthful of noodles. “For the life of me, I couldn’t confirm who Pipin Tarupin had settled down with, though there is some suggestion that it was eventually Nanamo Ul Namo, having all but disappeared upon successfully dissolving the sultanate of Ul’Dah.”

“It’d be a neat end to several loose threads.” Emil shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t blame popular theory for running with it.”

“I just hate that I don’t know— and I’d asked Kan-E-Senna in that interview, too, lest you wonder.”

Kan-E-Senna didn’t count as a reliable source of information on the whole, the crone. Eternally youthful and blessed by the Twelveswood, Ciri had squared her away with a simple interview. The Elder Seedeer had been a bit of a dead end for damn near everything but Merlwyb and Y’Shtola’s wedding, citing that she had simply not been very close with anyone else, preferring the company of the wood itself.

Ciri still couldn’t tell whether that was the truth, or she was just being an obtuse old bat having a laugh at a young academic’s expense.

“Dead ends, all, for what on earth happened to the last of them.”

She blew a curly bang out of her face with a frustrated huff. Infuriatingly, it sprang right back to where it had hung in her eyes. With an agitated grunt, she sat up and gathered all of her hair to hold back with a head scarf. Plucking a zucchini tempura piece from its container and popping it in her mouth, she went back to the tome she was pouring over when Emil arrived and flipped to the page she had been on. 

“I’ve solved what happened to all the rest. But what happened to him?” She hissed almost under her breath, the blunt end of her pen tapping against a specific portrait of a historic figure depicted in the text.

Inky hair swept over bright eyes, a young man barely in his thirties draped in gilded armor and blue finery. Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard during and after the Dragonsong War. Speculated beloved of the Warrior of Light. Aymeric de Borel. 

“I can’t figure out what happened to him after he retired.” Ciri frowned at the portrait of the handsome man. “He was barely thirty-seven, and was in good health, by all accounts. The Borel Manor is still in the family name, even centuries down the line, though none of them are of blood relatives.” She tapped her pen to her bottom lip in thought. “Family trees confirm he adopted his children, though he himself was also an adopted kid, so the Borel bloodline had already died out before he had even retired, in a manner of speaking.”

“But when did he adopt them? Did he have a spouse? And why— and how— in the ever loving fuck did he just vanish from all record?!”

“You keep thinking of him as a historical figure.” Emil noted patiently, setting down his chopsticks and reaching across the table to gently hold her hand. “Think of him as a person. What, considering all of the other people in Ell— the Warrior of Light’s life chose for themselves, what would you think he would want, above all else?”

“...You know something I don’t.” Ciri accused after a moment of scrutiny, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“A rarity, but just this once, yes.” He nodded. “Though for disclosure: I only came about the knowledge tonight.”

“Why not tell me sooner?”

“I wanted you to eat, my dear.”

There was something that struck her as deeply familiar about this moment. The dark brown of his skin was stark against the rolled up sleeves of his pale blue shirt, and yes, he was distractingly handsome all the time, and yes, they had always shared food and conversation before, but this…

Ciri had never been to Ishgard before her academic research. Not once. And yet, it felt as though she had been here, with him, having this conversation before.

It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment, his eyes were a peculiar kyanite blue.

Odd.

“Have you been down to the Vault’s archives?” At her nod, he smiled wider and pushed away from his seat, hand held out in offering. “Come, let me show you something you might have overlooked.”

“Bold of you to imply I’m not thorough in my work, Emil.” She pursed her lips, even as she accepted.

“I would never— I only mean that you didn’t know to look for this.”

His smile widened when she placed her hand in his. As if she would ever refuse him. As if she ever could.

The toe of her boot caught on the ankle of her opposite foot when she made to stand— ah, new boots, damn it all— and she braced for a fall. Emil, always happy to help, had easily braced and caught her before she had truly fallen, and helped right her on her own feet. 

“Falling for me at last, my dear?” He asked with a dazzling smile.

“Fuck’s sakes, you know I fluster easily.” Ciri sputtered around her blushing, though she did use the excuse of wobbly legs to press close to him for a moment. 

Ahh, they never did talk about what they were after that one college party…

“Come on, I promise it isn’t long— and we’ll be back to finish our food, lest you worry.” 

Hand in hand, Ciri and Emil made their way down, down, down the winding steps of the Congregation, deeper and deeper still into the Vault, past the chapel, beyond the stained glass windows, until they were again wrapped in nothing but lamplight. 

How was this so familiar? How did this feel like they had done this before?

“You’re being silly!” The low alto voice of a woman rang in her mind. Ciri almost tripped on the steps.

“And dramatic, lest you forget, but pray allow me this.” She would have almost swore it was Emil that had spoken, had the dialect not been so old. 

What was happening to her? What was in that Udon?

The Archivist waved them through with barely a glance at their badges— they had become familiar faces at that point— and popped a grape in his mouth distractedly, eyes never leaving the book in his hand. With a word of thanks, they continued on their way.

It was in the darkest corner of the archives, one of the last bookshelves, where Emil finally came to a stop. The hand not holding hers thumbed through the volumes until he found an unmarked tome of deepest black and pulled it from the shelf.

“Look at this.” He said quietly.

Ciri studied the cover a moment with trembling fingers. Unable to contain that strange ache in her chest, that sense of longing and...fear? Bracing herself she opened the book.

It was such a worn thing, it practically fell open all its own. She nearly dropped the thing for how her hands trembled. A thoughtful frown marred her face as she read the title, written in neat penmanship. 

“The Last Will and Testament of Aymeric de Borel?” Ciri whispered. “But...I don’t understand—”

“Read it.” Emil whispered, close enough she could feel his warmth, a welcome, gentle hand at the small of her back. “You will, I promise you.”

Its first entry was, perhaps, its most telling. The last piece of the puzzle. The end of her journey— and the beginning of something so much more personal, as she recalled a life she never lived.

"Today I am married to the love of my life. Today, Aymeric de Borel dies. In his place, Aymeric Arcbane will find a thousand different happily ever afters, both here and on the road, as long as her hand is in mine."

In different handwriting, a cheeky remark of, “A bit of a dramatic exit, given we’re only going on an adventure, but it’ll do.”

“He found them.” Emil said softly. When she looked up at him, his bright eyes bore into hers. “Every one of those happily ever afters. He found them all, every time, with her. This was all he ever wanted.”

Ciri remembered being a full fulm taller, broader in shoulder, lighter in skin that was heavy with scars, and having two different eye colors. She remembered feeling her shoulders pulled down with a weight she herself couldn’t fathom. She remembered fighting, over and over and over again.

For him. For his smile.

Her eyes swimming with tears, Ciri gently closed the book, and with the hand not cradling such a precious treasure to her chest, she reached out to him.

Of course she had already loved him. She always had. Of course he had loved her in kind. He had never stopped.

“That’s alright, then.” She said.

They left the Vault together again, for the first time in six hundred years, laughing just as brightly as they had before.

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxiv #Aymeric de Borel #Serella Arcbane #original characters #future au #plz do not perceive me I am in my Emotions

[peachyteabuck]

eye on the prize

summary: commission for astrid, who asked for chris evans x reader interview fluff.

pairing: chris evans x reader

words: 3,006

trigger warnings: RPF, slow burn, heavy flirtation, idiots in love, nondescript mentions of misogyny in the media as a business, a likely poorly reconstructed timeline (time fake and reality is a construct!)

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The hotel bed is large, big enough for four of you. The blankets are thick and the soft, the pillows a perfect balance of structured but plush. Sunbeams stream onto the mused sheets, warming your face. It’s nice, but only as nice as the calm before a major tropical storm can be. As your phone alarm blares next to you, you start to wonder if being caught in a category five hurricane would be better than press junkets.

A whole day talking to people about a movie you made months ago that you know jack shit about. Sometimes you have nightmares about giving a book report on a novel you’ve never even opened (you’re how old? And high school is still haunting you? Jesus, you need to go back to therapy) that cause you to break out in a cold sweat and kick all the covers from your bed and buy a bunch of stuff online to distract yourself from your racing heart and shaking hands.

Still, those are never as bad as interviewers asking about character arcs and plotlines and your relationship with actors you’ve barely (if ever) met and whatever else a normal interviewer would ask a normal interviewee when all you know is your character, the fact that she does shit with magic, and she’s Dr. Strange’s daughter. Anything other than that is anyone’s guess.

Your stylist and makeup artists are the ones to eventually drag you out of bed and plop you into hair and makeup after squeezing you into an incredibly tight pair of jeans and a non-controversial sweater. The forty-five minutes are a complete blur, but then again, nothing feels real until Sebastian hands you a large coffee in a travel cup that bares no logo or other kind of copywritten signifier – your knight in shining…cardboard? What are travel coffee cups even made of? Paper? Can paper even “shine?”

You’re nearly purring when the taste of caramel macchiato burns your tongue. “Ah. Thanks, Seb. I appreciate it.”

Sebastian shrugs, sipping at his own drink masquerading as generic brand. “No problem. I didn’t want you to bite an interviewer’s head off this morning. Or worse, mine.”

You play-hit him in the face and laugh with him, making small talk and trying to kill the time before the mind-numbingly long day really begins. You’re halfway through a rant about the woes of make up artists trying to put you in a full face of makeup to a man who barely has to put on concealer, the fucking asshat, when Chris makes an appearance.

“Hey, guys,” he’s is also drinking coffee from the unmarked travel cups. He looks you up and down before taking another sip. “You look really nice today.”

You blush, smoothing out your sweater – one of the color-blocked ones that sits at the intersection of casual, feminine, and not-intimidating. “Thanks, you too.”

Sebastian’s about to say something snarky when someone wearing a headset calls upon the three of you.

“Let’s get going, people!” she calls, ushering you into three barely-comfortable seats. You’re between Chris and Sebastian, the sheer mass of them making you feel approximately three feet tall. It doesn’t take much to forget how large they both are – even if Sebastian doesn’t weight two hundred pounds anymore and Chris was able to tone down his exercise regime since finishing Infinity War, you still feel like you’re sitting at the big-kid table for the first time.

The first interviewer is from some YouTube channel you only know because your fourteen-year-old niece gushes about them every family dinner. The woman who sits in front of you is young, cute. Dresses trendy, dark eye makeup and red lips.

She’s nice, too, along with being knowledgeable about the projects of each of you. She banters with Sebastian about his seven million movies before turning to you.  

The interviewer turns to you. “And you! You’re nominated for some pretty major awards!”

You smile wide, unable to help yourself. “Yeah, best actress and best original score.”

“That’s so cool,” Chris mumbles. You blush and pretend not to hear him as you speak again.

“It’s just super crazy,” you tell the interviewer. “Not even gonna lie. When I was younger, I would look at stars who like, cried when they found out they were nominated. Not even winning, just their name shows up on the ballot. But now I’m like, it’s me, two-time Grammy nominee! I was nominated for a Grammy, twice!”

Sebastian chimes in, laughing. “When we were at bunch together, I got there early and the caterer showed up and they were like, we’re here for the two-time Grammy nominee?”

“You had a brunch?” The interviewer asks.

You nod. “Yeah, I bunch of the Avengers cast and the cast from my last movie were in my hometown, which is super rare, so I hosted this giant brunch-”

“As one does,” Sebastian chimes in with a crooked smile.

You nearly hit him. “Yes! As I do! I wanted to see all my friends, whom I love, so I host a brunch. Sue me! Anyway…I hosted this brunch and invited a bunch of people over. Just a bunch of my favorite food from my favorite restaurants. Everyone I’d wanted to see for such a long time was there. It was amazing.”

The interviewer paints a faux frown across her face, looking at the man on your right. “Chris, you look very sad.”

“I didn’t get invited to the brunch,” Chris frowns. Unlike the woman in front of you, he looks genuinely sad. A twinge of pain bounces in your ribcage, and you rub his cardigan-clad back

“You were out doing Broadway shit!” you laugh. “You were halfway across the country!”

Chris continues to frown, staring at the printed-out pictures from the social medias of various guests. A few are from yours – you in a flowy sundress with your head thrown back laughing, a shot of you and a few of your friends from college drinking alcohol in the bright mid-afternoon sun. One you recognize from Sebastian’s Instagram, another from Hemsworth’s. A few from Twitter of a few of your non-movie-star friends. You look so happy in all of them, so beautiful in each shot. “I still wanted to be invited.”

You just roll your eyes. “Okay, call me when you’re in my region of the country and I’ll host a brunch,” You touch your forefinger to his nose. Chris blushes, profusely, in his cheeks and his ears. “just for you and me.”

You don’t hear much after that, too focused on Chris’ eyes meeting yours and his small smile. You’re taken aback by how sweet, tender he looks, and before you know it the interviewer is saying goodbye and the next one is taking her place.

It’s a man this time, a little older than the last one with artsy facial hair and a button hip. He mostly pays attention to the two men and soon your brain goes on battery-saver and you’re lost in your own thoughts.

Are hipsters still a thing? Is that what this guy is trying to be? Do hipsters even like Marvel? Is that too “mainstream for them?”

Eventually he asks a question about you, your recent entry into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, your music, your composing. You’d be happy to talk about your passions, of course you are, but the first genuine question of the interview is positing towards…not you. You’re about to tune everything out again, but then Chris speaks and you snap back to attention.

“It’s always interesting to meet people who bring something new to the art form, ya know? A huge part of acting is learning and evolving and all that, especially from other actors,” Chris avoids your gaze, and the gaze of everyone else, as he speaks. “If you stop learning, if you stop growing, what’s the point? Why would I do this job if I didn’t think it could change me for the better?”

There’s a moment of thick silence, the heavy weight of Chris’ introspective answer settling over the people in the room. It’s one of the things you lo-

It’s one of the things you enjoy most about Chris, how dedicated he is to acting as more than a job. It’s amazing, truly, how much he adores what he does. You could spend the rest of time with him, a plate of cheese, and a bottle of wine; listening to him talk about how he thinks of acting as an art, how that art can impact people and society, how actors have a responsibility to that art (that is, of course, after you mock him endlessly for Not Another Teen Movie and Fantastic Four).

You feel like a high schooler again, doodling your first and his last name in hearts in your math notebook with your favorite pink glitter pen. You’re an adult, why are you blushing red as a raspberry every time he says something smarter than a fast food order?!

The rest of the day goes down in a blur, the only time you start to care again when someone on the production staff calls for dinner (yeah, no lunch on press junket day. You can ask for a light snack, but you learned the hard way a full meal is “bad for your figure” and “makes you likely to burp on camera” and a bunch of other stuff you care very little about).

All three of you groan in happiness when you enter the room designated as craft, the thick smell of barbeque hitting you like a baseball bat. But a good baseball bat, though, like…one you ask to be hit with. Honestly, you have no idea what you’re talking about because you’re so hungry.

When you finally manage to scavenge food, Sebastian’s right behind you as you stare at a very delicious looking tray of pulled pork. Your plate is already full, but what if they take the food away? And then what if you get hungry later?

“You know he’s flirting with you, right?” he whispers as you watch the man in question scroll through Twitter on his phone. Chris is eating about the same thing you are, plus celery. You almost make a quip about it being “nature’s floss,” but then you realize that would be dumb because Sebastian definitely wouldn’t find it as funny as Chris would.  

You shrug, picking up a French fry from your plate. “Yeah, but you were, too.”

He scoffs into his second Americano of the morning. “Nah. Not like that. He likes you! He like likes you!”

“He does not-“

“And you like-like him!” He boops you on the nose and pinches your cheek like some sort of grandmother who hadn’t seen her fifteen-year-old son since he was five. “My little baby has a cruuuush!” he coos while making small kissy noises.

You’re about to bite back about how you’re not that much younger than him, but then the sound guy on the other side of the meat tray glares at the both of you. Looks like, while Chris couldn’t hear your bickering from the across the room, this dude definitely could – and he’s not very happy about it.

“Sorry,” you both mumble, shrinking away from the persecuting techie and his judgmental eyes.

Sebastian only talks again when you find an unpopulated corner, devoid of prying eyes and anyone who could be annoyed with the two of you gossiping like high schoolers.

“You know I’m not wrong, right?” he says around a bite of crisp apple. What is up with this guy and fruit?  Sure, he’s on a restrictive diet for a role to keep him from bulking up (something at the intersect of keto and vegetarian but able to eat lean meats) but he’s can’t eat like, the vegan stuff? Why must he always eat like rabbit in your presence? “Have you not seen what he says on Twitter?”

You scoff. “No, because I don’t have a Twitter. And neither do you!” You narrow your eyes accusingly. “How do you know what he posts?” Sebastian rolls his eyes. “I see screenshots on Instagram, first of all. Second, he could be complimenting your music on the inside of a cave. It’s about the principle.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you hiss. “Also, I’m done arguing with you about this. Let me find a cheeseburger and eat in peace. Is that too much a woman to ask, Sebastian!?”

He just laughs you off and lets you eat in peace, eventually getting his own food. Though, you suppose the meal was specially timed, because then Chris Evans is sitting next to you.

He’s about to say something, too, and you’re about to listen, but then you get called for an individual interview for a women’s health magazine and you have to leave him and you plate of food and fuck…you hate this job. A lot.

The interview is boring, once again, and the next time you have another coherent thought you’re taking the elevator back up to your hotel room and waving off your manager, who is telling you to be downstairs by seven tomorrow to catch your flight back home.

You’re just kicking off your heels when you hear a faint knock at the door. When you look through the peephole, you see a very sad-looking Christopher Evans. With his small frown and hunched shoulders, he looks like a kicked puppy; and even though all you want to do is take your bra off, you let him in.

He’s quiet for a moment before speaking as if he was a child preparing to be scolded.

“I lost my hotel key. And my backup got demagnetized.”

You bite back a laugh, trying to seem sympathetic. “Do you want to chill in here until security brings you another one?”

Chris nods solemnly as he steps through the threshold. “Thanks.”

Neither of you speak for a while, instead Chris looks around your quite messy (or “homey,” as you call it when you FaceTime your best friend and she scoffs at how easy you can make a room look like a hurricane tore through it) room and you…find an outfit for tomorrow?

You’re the first one to speak, only breaking the quiet after changing into fuzzy socks and sneakily taking off your lacey bra (and tucking it under the covers of the bed for you put away later).

“Well, that was excruciating,” you mumble. All you want to do is change into your biggest, most comfortable hoodie and your cotton panties and order room service and ignore humanity until you leave for a flight the next morning, but a man you’ve had a crush on since he appeared as Johnny Storm is right in front of you and after that talk with Sebastian your world is kind of shaken to its core and should you make a move? Is he the kind of guy to not like that? Would you want to be with a guy that doesn’t like that? What if he-

“Always are, I guess.” Chris interrupts your train of thought, saving it from going off the rails. When you at him he looks just as, if not more than, exhausted than you are. “That’s one of the things that you forget, I think. How hard it is to talk about these movies.”

You snort. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Chris smile a little wider as you laugh. “Yeah. Other movies I can talk about like, characters and plots and shit. With these I live in constant fear I’m gonna pull a fucking Ruffalo and get my ass fired from the best paying gig I’ve ever had.”

Chris laughs with you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Word.”

An awkward silence fills the room and you find something, anything to do to avoid his heavy gaze under those thick eyelashes and his thick beard that you just want to run your fingers through or his even softer hair that you want to mess up while you-

“Do you want to get dinner together sometime?” you blurt. You’re ready to take back the words as soon as you say them, wanting to backtrack or say “just friends” or “ha-ha, just kidding!” or something else that absolves you of non-platonic commitment.

By a long stretch of luck that you can’t even begin to thanks a long number of deities for, Chris doesn’t laugh at you or turn you down or even walk out of the room. He meets your gaze with excitement in his eyes and a smile wider than your home state. “I’d love to,” is all he says. It’s all either of you get to say before his phone rings loudly, and the name of the head of security flashes on his screen. He sighs loudly, apologizing as he takes it. Somehow, you feel more awkward as he turns away and answers the call. You fidget with your hands, with a loose thread on the sweater you’ve come to hate more than anything else in the world, with your phone. Nothing makes it easier to face Chris again once he hangs up.

“That was…,” he laughs lightly. Not laughing at you, maybe at life or how weird his life is, but never at you. “You know. They fixed my key and want to give it to me in person.”

You swallow and nod. “Yeah, understandable. I’ll, uh,” you clear your throat. “I’ll see you…”

Chris finishes for you. “How about we find a good restaurant near here after I’m confirmed to actually be me by the private security detail our employers hired to make sure no one kills us? We can have that second dinner I’ve heard you always eat late at night.”

Holy shit…he remembered that time you vaguely mentioned how much you enjoy staying up late and eating lots of food. It makes you blush as you respond.

“Yeah that sounds,” you sigh happily, smile just as big as his is. “That sounds great.”

#chris evans x reader #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff #chris evans imagine

[arcticdementor]

The battle for the survival of the United States of America is upon us. It has not come in the form of traditional civil war. There are no uniformed armies, competing flags, or alternate constitutions. The great showdown is not being fought within the physical limits of a battlefield. It is instead happening all around us and directly to us. It defines our culture, sustains our media, and gives new shape to our public and private institutions. In this fight, there is no distinction between what was once known as the culture war and politics rightly understood. The confrontation stretches through time and space, reframing our distant past even as it transforms the horizon, erupting from coast to coast, and constraining our lives in subtle and obvious ways. And it’s happening too fast for us to take its full measure.

For partisans, it often feels as if everything stands or falls on the ideological battles of the day. But this is different. This is objectively real, and it’s remaking the nation before our eyes.

We know it’s different this time because the stakes are continually articulated by the enemies of the current order. They are demanding, and in some cases getting, a new and exotic country. The police are indeed being defunded. The statues are coming down. The heretics are being outed. The dissenters are being silenced. The buildings are burning, and the demands are ever growing.

…

If it wasn’t clear in late May and early June, it should be well understood by now that we are in the throes of a genuine revolution of the most extravagant sort. Like messianic revolutionaries of the past, the revolutionary mob of the 21st century is out to “remake the world.” Their compass is “no longer pointed at one thing.” It’s aimed in all directions at once. As Thomas Paine said approvingly of France in 1791, “it is the age of revolutions, in which everything may be looked for.” A mission so grandiose demands the most radical assault on the current order, and changing the world begins with changing one’s country. So it was in France in 1789, Russia in 1917, and China in 1949. And this is especially so if one’s country is seen as the seat of the present evil and is also the most powerful nation on the planet. This is, then, most fundamentally a revolution against the United States of America and all it stands for.

And yet, we seem to be treating the great unraveling as something less than a revolution. Apart from the boasts of the revolutionaries themselves, we are apt to hear characterizations of the moment as either “an opportunity for change” or, among those who are wary of it, a “fever” that will blow over in time. But what we are living through now is more consequential than any period of recent unrest, and it’s not just another leftist wave destined to roll on until it loses strength. Indeed, a revolution’s ultimate power comes from its being underestimated, tolerated, or accepted by those outside its ranks. The speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, has adopted the language of the revolution, calling federal agents “stormtroopers.” For New York Representative Jerry Nadler, anarchist violence in Portland is but a “myth.” And the media’s abiding sympathy for the revolutionary cause has become mainstream journalism’s new North Star. The great unraveling has won the tacit approval of the press, influential policymakers, and a great many ordinary Americans. It is, therefore, already remaking the world.

We tend not to recognize the revolution for what it is—first of all because it seems to lack a proper paramilitary element. Popular notions of insurgency involve images of AK-47s, organized bands of armed men, and the general flavor of war. But in truth, the current revolution has drifted much further into this territory than the media care to admit. The Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone (CHAZ), the anarchist territory formerly established in Seattle, boasted a provisional armed “security” force. Weeks after CHAZ was dismantled, Seattle police responding to a riot uncovered a cache of weapons including explosives, bear spray, spike strips, and Tasers. Antifa members not only routinely dress in similar black garb but have come to rely on a crude but dangerous arsenal of improvised fire bombs, fireworks, rocks, bricks, and frozen water bottles. In New York, three rioters were arrested for throwing Molotov cocktails at police vehicles. Revolutionaries in cities around the country have shown up to “protests” with rifles and assorted arms.

The revolution lacks martial discipline but not a body count. Three weeks in, some 20 people had been killed during riots alone. The number has climbed steadily since. Within the brief life of Seattle’s CHAZ, there were four shootings and two deaths. You can add to these the hundreds dead (overwhelmingly African-American) in major cities due to new policing restrictions. And this is to say nothing of the multitude of nonfatal injuries, including hundreds suffered by law enforcement. Among these is the likely permanent blinding of three federal agents in Portland whose eyes were targeted with high-power lasers.

The cost of revolutionary violence in destroyed property and ruined livelihoods has been gargantuan, somewhere in the billions of dollars and climbing ever higher. And if you don’t think vandalism is a sufficiently revolutionary act, you’d do well to note that the term “vandalism” itself was coined during the French Revolution to describe the ruination of the country at the hands of the sans culottes.

…

Some have been prone to discount the revolution as a mere by-product of seemingly larger national woes. In the run-up to the riots, the nation suffered from a dispiriting pandemic and a paralyzing lockdown. As a result, we went from 3.5 percent unemployment to 14.7 percent in two months. For more than a decade, political polarization has been growing and faith in American institutions has been plummeting, both trends sped up and magnified exponentially over the course of the Trump presidency.

But these overarching conditions don’t vitiate the sincerity or salience of the revolutionary cause. To the contrary, they mimic precisely the classic circumstances under which revolutions have been birthed. It is in soil fertilized by decayed public trust that revolutions take root—whether or not those revolutions actually address the source of destabilization. One year before the onset of the French Revolution, France saw a totally failed harvest. One month before, a devastating hailstorm nearly wiped out national yields again. These disasters along with broad French distrust of the church and other institutions outside the monarchy all contributed to the fall of the king. Illness and disease have also been classic contributors to revolution. In 1917, St. Petersburg, ground zero for the Russian Revolution, was considered the unhealthiest major city in Europe. Its ongoing woes included a deadly cholera epidemic only a few years earlier.

…

The revolution’s left-liberal targets, in the media and the academy and mass entertainment, have been quick to adapt—some out of genuine sympathy with the cause, others hoping to protect their political standing, and still others out of abject fear. In China, few dared criticize violent Red Guard gangs for fear of seeming unsympathetic to the revolution. In the United States, rioters are furnished with every excuse the elite can muster. And the broad acceptance of the revolution in liberal institutions has resulted in a widespread pressure campaign of accusation, confession, and reeducation.

Mao sought to eradicate what he labeled the Four Olds: old customs, old culture, old habits, and old ideas—the established mental life of the country. Our own pressure campaign is shaped by similar goals. The revolutionaries have deemed American customs, culture, habits, and ideas racist. And instead of Mao’s Little Red Book to guide them in the ways of the proletariat, they have Robin DiAngelo’s White Fragility, which shows them all the hidden places where racism is to be found and rooted out.

…

For those not being re-educated by the state or canceled by the media mob, that is, for ordinary low-profile Americans, there are other channels of coercion. In the New York Times, writer Chad Sanders recommends interfamilial blackmail. In a June 5 op-ed, he suggested to white people: “[Send] texts to your relatives and loved ones telling them you will not be visiting them or answering phone calls until they take significant action in supporting black lives either through protest or financial contributions.” This, too, is straight out of the Cultural Revolution, during which Chinese were compelled to shun and turn against any family members with even the most remote connections to the wrong ideas.

_____________

What to do? Those of us who stand opposed to the revolution and its aims harbor the hope that the revolutionaries will “eat each other alive” or that their mixed motivations, outlandish ideas, and repellent actions will ultimately blow up the movement from within. But such internal dynamics can serve to refine, not kill off, revolutions. Revolutionary France was a perpetual and bloody power struggle between parties such as the Hébertists, Thermidoreans, and Jacobins. Such competition ensured that, in the long run, the fiercest elements came out on top. The same can be said of the battles between the Mensheviks, the Left SR, and the Bolsheviks of Russia. The Cultural Revolution was itself a sustained effort to wrench and secure control of the Chinese Communist Party. And in all these cases, important nonrevolutionary fellow travelers found reason to make common cause and go along with the winners at any given moment. Judging from history (and the present), it is unlikely that the revolution will self-destruct.

#abe greenwald #commentary magazine

[questionsonislam]

Is our Prophet (pbuh) any different from other prophets?

1- We must believe in all prophets whom Allah sent to human beings. They are the leaders and source of pride of the humankind.

Although all prophets are the most superior and the most virtuous ones of all humankind, there may be differences in levels and degrees between them. Actually, the verses (al-Baqarah, 253; al-Isra 21, 55) which say that “Those apostles We endowed with gifts, some above others” indicate that there may be differences in superiority between them.

Moreover, the verse “We sent thee not, but as a Mercy for all creatures.” (al-Anbiya, 107) indicates that the reason why all beings are shown mercy is the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh).

2- Quran especially emphasizes that the Messenger of Allah (pbuh) is a human being and orders him to say “Say thou: "I am but a man like you: It is revealed to me by Inspiration, that your God is one God: so stand true to Him, and ask for His Forgiveness." And woe to those who join gods with God.” (Fussilat, 41:6).

The Messenger of Allah is a human being. None of his followers have denied this fact and have had wrong beliefs about their prophet like people prior to them had. However, what kind of meanings and wisdom does the statement “I am a human being” which is emphasized in various Quranic verses bear?

The statement “I am a human being” includes meanings such as the Messenger of Allah has got basic human needs, is responsible for worship, is mortal, cannot know the unseen unless Allah lets him know and his power and strength is limited. Deducing from this statement that the Messenger of Allah can tell lies like other people, can sin or do all kinds of unfavorable behaviors like ordinary people contradicts to the qualities such as trustworthiness, rightness, guidance to the right way, sharp-wittedness and honorability which prophets must have.

Allah the Supreme has chosen some people for a specific duty. They are the prophets to convey messages they receive from Allah to people faultlessly and completely. Of course, people to take on this significant duty must have some supreme qualities. We see many times in Quran that they are exalted and praised by Allah. They are supervised and protected by Allah. They have got best qualities, intellectually and morally outstanding, and very respectful and loyal to what is entrusted to them. The fact that they have got some different qualities must not be found strange. Prophets, who are human beings as we stated before, have got some qualities and characteristics exclusive to them. These qualities distinguish them from ordinary people. Their lives before they were chosen for this divine duty by Allah had also been different from lives of other people. These high-quality human beings, who represent good moral values at their zenith, were always away from theft, mendacity, deceit, idolatry, immoral behaviors and other similar bad qualities. If they had done something considered immoral in their lives before the duty of prophethood, it would have been difficult for them to dissuade people from doing the same thing. Their words would have been unavailing for people.

Allah the Glorious points out in Holy Quran that some prophets, who were sent to people as messengers, are superior to others in some ways, in addition to that they are superior to and more virtuous than ordinary people. The verse “Those apostles We endowed with gifts, some above others: to one of them God spoke; others He raised to degrees (of honour)” (al-Baqarah, 2:253) indicates this fact.

The Supreme Creator and the owner of the Cosmos, of course, creates consciously and decides wisely. He organizes everything by seeing, disciplines everything with knowledge and provides reasons and benefits that are seen in everything. As the Doer knows, of course the One who knows speaks. As He is going to speak, of course He is going to speak to those who have got opinions and conscious and who can speak. As He is going to speak to those who have got opinions, He is going to speak to speak the most conscious beings of all beings, that’s, human beings. As He is going to speak to human beings, of course He is going to speak to the perfect ones who have also got the gift of elocution. As He is going to speak to those who are perfect, the most capable, the most moral and who can guide people, of course He is going to speak to Muhammad (pbuh). Muhammad, who was agreed to be the most capable and the most moral by both his friends and enemies... Muhammad, whom the one fifth of humankind chose to follow… Muhammad, whose spiritual sovereignty ruled over the half of the world and whose light lit up the future for one thousand and four hundred years… Muhammad, to whom enlightened and believing people refresh their loyalty five times a day and pray for his mercy and happiness and praise him… Muhammad, whom Allah made a prophet and guide for humankind…

3- Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh)

a. A High-Quality Human Being

Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh) is a human being, yet he is a very high-quality and eminent human being. This eminence has been recorded by The Supreme Creator and declared to us. When one looks at his life generally, it is seen in the first place that he acted in control by the Supreme Creator’s revelation, that he did not wait any remuneration for his duty, he was sincere to the utmost degree, he invited people to believe in Allah’s existence and oneness and that his aim and goal was immensely clear.

Again when his life is examined, it is easily noticed that he was immensely right in his words and actions, he was at the zenith of trustworthiness, he was very careful and attentive about fulfilling this holy duty, that he solved complicated problems in such an easy way which was favored and approved by everyone and how pure he was.

He received revelation like all other prophets and was gifted with clear and great miracles that interested everyone, as evidence of his prophethood. He was given the Holy Quran, which is a universal Book protected from deterioration. Birds protected Kaaba, which was going to be the prayer direction of his and his followers, from the People of Elephant. He made the holy metaphysical travel of Miraj (ascension), which is above the comprehension capability of humankind, in the name of all humankind. The Moon was divided into two as evidence to his prophethood and the doors of the space were shut for devils so that they would not be able to deceive human beings through this way anymore.

Every stage of his life formed a different aspect of his eminence and unsurpassability. There was not the slightest lie even in his jokes. He showed a great patience for all the troubles, problems and torments he experienced from the time he was born until his death. He presented an exemplary, superhuman forgivingness and tolerance to inhuman actions and treatments he, his relatives and his friends received from people. His wide mercy which included not only all human beings but also animals attracted everyone’s attention, both friends and foes. Although it was possible for him to access and have everything as a human being, he led a very modest and simple life. He did not expect any remuneration for any of his works and he did not show the slightest sign of tiredness and hopelessness when he was left alone and in hard times. He was always more advanced and deeper than everyone in terms of worshipping and rendering service to Allah… In summary, whatever we call a high moral quality, he represented it at its zenith as an ideal example.

b. Protected

Allah the Glorious protected His Honorable Messenger from sins and made him an untainted and flawless being. He also protected him from all kinds of dangers which could come from people. He saved him and eliminated all kinds of complots resorted by enemies at many dangerous points when he faced death and it was impossible to escape.

He presented a clear example of coexistence in peace and with differences in community which is needed by our modern world and he shared the same city with people of different religions and beliefs.

c. His Prophethood is Universal

Yes, he is the last prophet. His prophethood is not limited to a country or a specific period of time; but his prophethood is a Universal one covering all times and places. Besides, he is the prophet of the jinn, too.

Not only people believing in him but also other people could not hide their admiration of his unsurpassable supreme character and respected this invaluable gift of the sky to the earth. For instance, Michael Hart put him in the first place in his book titled “The 100: A Ranking of the Most Influential Persons in History”. Great German Statesman Bismarck put his admiration of him into words as “O Muhammad (pbuh), I regret of not living in the same time with you!” and in International Law Congress in1927 showed their admiration in him by adding the following statement to the statement of result: “The humankind is proud of Hazrat Muhammad; because although he was illiterate, he developed such a great law system 13 centuries ago that we, the Europeans, would be happy if we could reach its value and truth two thousand years later.”

4. His Superior Qualities

There are some qualities called “hasais”, which are exclusive to him only, stated in both Quran and hadith. These qualities can be listed as follows:

Besides being a human being, he is also the last prophet (al-Ahzab, 33:40). His prophethood is universal (al-A’raf 7:158; al-Anbiya 21:107) and also includes the Jinn (al-Akhaf 46:29; al-Jinn 72:1-13). His wives are the mothers of the believers (al-Ahzab 33:6). His old sins and new sins to be committed later have been forgiven (al-Fath 48:1-2). Other prophets promised to believe in him (al-i Imran 3:81). He was giving the tidings that he was given Kawthar (al-Kawthar 108:1). Captured property was halal for him (al-Anfal, 8:1). He was sent as a mercy upon the worlds (all beings) (al-Anbiya 21:107). His qualities are known to the People of the Book (al-Baqarah, 2:89, 146). It was guaranteed that the religion he brought would be protected (al-Tawbah, 9:33). Isra (night travel) and Miraj (ascension) are exclusive to him (al-Isra, 17:1; al-Najm, 53:1-18). Angels helped him in person occasionally (al-i Imran, 3:13, 122-123). Obeying him means also oneying Allah (al-Nisa, 4:80). He is given the right of testimony and intercession on the Day of Judgment (al-Baqarah, 2:143). He was crowned with Maqam al-Mahmoud (al-Isra, 17:79). His people (people believing in him) have been made the most decent of all people (al-i Imran, 3:110). His life and his land were sworn upon (al-Hijr, 15:72; al-Balad, 90:1-2). He and his people were given the Laylat-al-Qadr (the Night of Power) which is more virtuous than a thousand months (al-Qadr, 97:1-5).

5. His Miracles

The Lord of the Universe is a human being. However, he is a human being with a single finger pointing of whose the Moon divided into two, a human being in the palm of whose the pebbles talked, for whom the trees rooted off and walked towards saying “Salutations to you o the Messenger of Allah!”, a human being who filled up three hundred people with a few handfuls of date, in whose hands a jug of milk became abundant enough to fill lots of people, water flew through his fingers when he sank his fingers into a bowl and three hundred people took ablution with that water, for whom the log – on which he sermonized once upon a time until a pulpit was made for him – cried so loud that everybody heard it, a human being who was saluted by trees and stones on his way, who eased Ali’s pains by touching him and then Ali had never felt any pain again, besides whom the dumb children started to speak all of a sudden and said “You are the Messenger of Allah.” He was a human being, with whose touch the salty waters became mild, and whom even wild animals such as wolves and lions recognized and obeyed…

Both our prophet and other prophets said “we are but human beings” when their people expected them to do miraculous things. When we look at the reasons why the verses related to the fact that the Messenger of Allah is a human being were sent and the relations between them, we see that idolaters expected some superhuman actions from him. Actually, unbelievers living in Mecca, such as Utba bin Rabia, Shaiba bin Rabia, Abu Jahl and Walid bin Mughira, gathered together one day and invited the Messenger of Allah to join them. They asked him to prove his prophethood right by causing waters spring out or rivers flow out from the ground, or by breaking the sky into pieces and making it fall unto them, or by showing them Allah and angels. Upon this, the following Quranic verses were sent down:

They say: "We shall not believe in thee, until thou cause a spring to gush forth for us from the earth, or (until) thou have a garden of date trees and vines, and cause rivers to gush forth in their midst, carrying abundant water; or thou cause the sky to fall in pieces, as thou sayest (will happen), against us; or thou bring God and the angels before (us) face to face, or thou have a house adorned with gold, or thou mount a ladder right into the skies. No, we shall not even believe in thy mounting until thou send down to us a book that we could read." Say: "Glory to my Lord! Am I aught but a man, - an apostle?" (al-Isra, 17:90-93).

As it is comprehended from these verses, the aim in emphasizing that the Messenger of Allah is a human being is that things, which belonged to the Divinity, were expected from him. In other words, it is that he was expected to do things which are beyond human power in order to leave him in a difficult situation. However, he is a human being. It is impossible for a human being to be a god. Therefore, his humanness was put forward in order to state this impossibility clearly.

Actually, he had never stated that the treasures of Allah were with him or he had never claimed to be an angel. He stated that he was knowledgeable about the unseen (ghaib), and yet that he was but a messenger receiving revelations.

#Allah #god #islam #quran #muslim #revert #convert #revert islam #convert islam #reverthelp #revert help #revert help team #help #islam help #converthelp #prayer #salah #muslimah #reminder #pray #dua #hijab #religion #mohammad #new muslim #new convert #new revert #how to convert to islam #convert to islam #welcome to islam

[metaphoricallyroger]

With Love, From Me to You - iii of iv [R.T.]

Summary: One-hundred ways to say ‘I love you’ over twenty-eight years.

Words: 3,387

Warnings: Implied smut.

Note: This follows both Bohemian Rhapsody’s and real-life events (generally for dates, minor plot etc.), picture whichever Roger you fancy! The title is taken from ‘From Me To You’ by The Beatles.

--

51. (1977):

“Were you seriously just checking out that woman’s legs?” It wasn’t much to ask, you thought, to have a little attention from your boyfriend whom you haven’t seen for weeks.

But apparently, said boyfriend was too engrossed in the leg length of a party attendee.

“Her legs were longer than Brian’s, how could I not look?”

“I noticed too, but that doesn’t mean I stare when I’ve got my girlfriend sitting on my lap!” You screech and ignore his childlike poking to get a hold of your cigarette.

When Roger goes quiet, you look to the left to find him smiling affectionately at you. You raise your eyebrows, waiting to see what he wants.

“Can I hold your hand?”

His cheeky grin wins you over.

--

52. (1977):

The day seems to drag on and on as the rain slides down the windows of the recording studio while Queen tries to lay down tracks for their latest album.

Roger sighs and takes the headphones off after having finished his harmonies and watches Freddie put his own on, ready to do just as Roger had been.

“Taylor, your girlfriend is here,” the sound technician drones into the microphone without sparing you a glance.

Roger barrels through the door of the control room, much to the protests of his bandmates, grinning widely.

“I thought you had work today?” He says, giving you a surprised kiss.

“Got let off early. Thought you could use a distraction,” you smile. Roger returns it, immensely happy to get out of the studio if only for a brief period.

--

53. (1978):

Your head pops out of the duvet, peering at Roger with puffy eyes.

“I’m sorry that I made you cry,” Roger holds up the flowers he nicked from the neighbour’s yard which were really weeds.

“It’s not your fault,” you wipe at your red nose, “I’m hormonal on my period.”

“I really shouldn’t have eaten the last of that chocolate, I’ll buy you more, I swear.” He puts the ‘flowers’ on the bedside table and crawls into the bed.

He pulls you onto his lap, cradling you much like one would a baby.

“You will?”

“I’ll get you two,” he smacks a kiss against your cheek.

--

54. (1978):

Your hand moves across Roger’s forehead as he rests himself in your lap.

“One more chapter.”

“Roger, you’re falling asleep.” You can’t help but smile at the sleepy man who continuously burrows his nose into your thigh as you turn the pages of your book.

“It’s because you’re rubbing my head. You’re to blame here.”

You remove your hand but the fussy Roger grabs it and puts it right back to where it was.

“I think you’re tired because you just got back from tour. But if you insist, one more only.”  

The blonde on your lap is suddenly quiet, asleep.

--

55. (1978):

You and Roger lay side by side late into the night when neither of you can sleep and this usually resorts to a game of questions until one of you falls under.

“Do you ever think about having kids?” He asks one insomnia-filled night. It wasn’t uncommon for questions to turn to the future, but the topic of children was yet to appear.

“With you?”

“With whomever,” he gestures in the air and you can feel the breeze on your face as his hand lands on the bed again.

“I’ve never really liked them if I’m honest.”

“Oh,” he says, sounding dejected.

“I think I’d like kids with you though.” You roll onto your side to look at his shining eyes.

“You would?”

“Yes. Could you imagine tiny Roger’s running around? We might prematurely age Brian.”

“Can we start now?” Despite the darkness, you can see his profile shift as he wiggles his eyebrows.

“We can practise how not to get pregnant.”

“Deal,” he rolls you to your back and climbs on top of you, laughing.

--

56. (1979):

“Have you ever thought about getting married?”

“Are you asking me if I want to get married to you?” You roll onto your stomach and prop yourself on your elbows, looking at Roger as he does the same.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“And you decided that four o’clock in the morning would be a good time to ask?” His tongue-in-teeth grin is all you need to know.

“Seemed like as good a time as any.”

“Alright.” Your hand subconsciously begins to trace around your ring finger where one was yet to appear.

“That a yes?”

“Seems so,” you mock and giggle when he bites your lip, dragging you back down to the mattress of a hotel in Hamburg.

--

57. (1979):

Brian has been graceful enough to lend you his camera after you left your own at home, and you were using every moment of your day with Roger to snap photos of the sights (which mainly included your fiancée in them).

“Love, you’re clogging up the flow of traffic, we’re going to get yelled at.”

“Yeah, but look at all of this, doesn’t it excite you?” Your hands make a sweeping motion over the city. You can’t decide what to focus on, the stores and markets Tokyo have to offer are unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

“Seeing you excited makes me happy. Now come on,” he takes your hand, “let’s go get ripped off by a stall owner.”

--

58. (1979):

“Come on, let’s go outside.” Roger gives you a gentle tap on the arse.

“Why?”

“Because you’re about two seconds away from eating that pencil you’re chewin’.” You’ve decided to quit smoking after years of doing so, and it wasn’t proving as easy as you thought. The pencil acts as a placebo and aided a bit, aside from the fact that you’ll need a new one soon and probably dental work.

“What’s the point in this walk? It’s chilly.” You drag your feet along the concrete of the footpath that’s damp from afternoon showers.

“It’ll keep your mind off it. Besides,” he raises his eyebrows, “you get to look at my perky arse when I walk.”

Roger turns where he is leading you and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Could you get your cigarette breath out of my face, please?”

“You’ve got cigarette breath too, I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” He plants an even sloppier kiss for effect.

“Not for long anymore, trust me, next time you’re home from tour I’ll be minty fresh.”

“Is that a promise?” He tilts his head, and you could compare him to a puppy if you thought about it.

“More like a threat.”

--

59. (1980):

Freddie has taken it upon himself to be the EMCee of the event and has decided that people have been sitting around for far too long and not having any fun. A soft, romantic ballad that neither you nor Roger knew plays from speakers, clearly showing that you both were not in charge of the music. It’s time for your first dance as a married couple.

“Can I have this dance?” Roger glances up at you from where you just finished talking to guests at another table.

“Thought you’d never ask, Mrs Taylor.”

--

60. (1980):

After sneaking out of your own wedding, you and Roger stand in a conveniently unlocked, large, supply cupboard.

“You sure you want to do this?” You grin, leaning on your husband’s shoulder, “we’re the bride and groom, I think we’ll be missed.”

“Who cares?” Roger bites his lip and smirks. “It’s our wedding, after all.”

“You’re going to have to help me with my dress.”

--

61. (1980):

Whilst in the South of France on your honeymoon, Roger decides on both of your behalf’s that it is important for him to buy a Ferrari.

When you get the phone call that Roger just trashed his car, your fear-riddled mind thinks that he’s been gravely injured. That clearly isn’t the case because your husband is the one talking to you and still swearing in that high-pitched tone he affects when he’s angry.

“You’ve crashed your car?”

“No, I didn’t crash, the bloody things shit itself and caught on fire!” You hear a thump from the other end of the line and can picture Roger kicking the phone box in frustration.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, but my Ferrari is.”

He sounds more upset about the car rather than the fact that he could have died.

“Roger, I don’t care about the car, just about whether you’re okay. Where are you?”

During the time it took him to tell you where he was you had already grabbed the rental car keys and ran your fingers over the teeth of the Mercedes one anxiously.  

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

--

62. (1980):

A bulky letter awaits Roger as he returns to his hotel room after soundcheck for the concert in Pittsburgh. He picks up the phone to call home, knowing with the time difference you’d be the only one left awake in the house at this time.

“Hey, love.”

“Did you get my letter?” Too electrified to contain yourself, you ask before you greet him, worrying that the letter you gave to Brian to give to Roger somehow got lost in the woes of international travel. You gave specific instructions, that he was under no circumstances allowed to open, and it was to be handed off when Roger became homesick or too stressed.

“Just did, but I haven’t read it yet. Should I now?”

“No!” You screech. “You have to wait until I’m off the phone.”

“So should I hang up now?”

“You have to tell me about your day first,” you know he can hear your teasing tone.

Roger begins telling you about his day, holding the phone between ear and shoulder, discreetly opening the letter and watching polaroids slip out with a smirk.

--

63. (1981):

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you wince, “my stomach just feels a bit off. That’s all.”

“Would you like me to rub your stomach?”

“I’m not one of Freddie’s cats.” Even with those words, you lie between Roger’s legs, back to chest so his hands flit comfortingly across your stomach.

--

64. (1981):

“I figured out why my stomach has been weird.”

“I told you not to eat that old take out. Didn’t you learn from that disaster years ago?” Roger barely spares you a look from the magazine he is reading.

“You’re going to be a father in the near future.”

His eyebrows hit his hairline as you sit next to him.

“I’m what?”

“You, me, parents.” You punctuate each word with a slight kiss.

“Parents,” he trails off, eyes stuck on the inconspicuous bump under your dressing gown.

--

65. (1981):

You were practically falling asleep next to Roger on the lounge at Freddie’s party despite the raucous and debauched atmosphere.

You adjust yourself against his shoulder and brace yourself as another server comes to offer you champagne once again.

“She’s not drinking tonight.” Roger easily dismisses the servers but takes a flute for himself.

“You pregnant or something, Y/N?” You look up at Brian who has a knowing look on his face.

You have a look of elation as you glance at him, causing the band members around you, family really, and their wives to all laugh.

--

66. (1981):

“Look after your Mum, okay?” You struggle to hold back a laugh as Roger gets down to his knees in the middle of the busy airport. He speaks directly to your stomach and his lashes flutter when he feels movement under his placed hand.

“They’ve still got two months before we meet them, I’ll be fine, Roger.”

“I know, I just worry.” His brows draw together as he looks up at you.

“I’ve got plenty of help, and Mum and Chrissy will be a wealth of knowledge. Believe me, this baby is well looked after, and so am I.”

You wrap one arm around his neck and your free hand over his, still resting against your stomach. You had thought that the constant touching on Roger’s behalf would drive you up the wall, and it has to a certain extent, but now you knew you are going to miss it.

“I’m still calling every chance I get.”

“You’d better.” You share a kiss before he pulls away with a smirk after the boys call out to him.

--

67. (1981):

“Watch your step.”

Roger helps you up the stairs to the nursery with a careful hand on your lower back. Typically, him fussing annoys the living daylights out of you but because you knew what he was doing today it was a welcome fussing.

“What do you think?” His hand uncovers your eyes.

“You did all of this?”

You were shipped out of the house to spend some time with Mary while Roger, with the help of his band members decorated and put together the flat-pack furniture you’d been seeing arrive the previous days.

The room has everything a baby could possibly need, and the change table was already stocked with enough nappies, wipes and baby powder to sink a battleship.  

“Well, I did get some help from Fred on the decorating and Brian and John with the cot and such.” He blushes and rubs the back of his neck.

“But it was your idea.”

“All mine.” You wrap your arms around his neck and sway with him gently, kissing his stubbly jawline every so often.

“I think the baby will be very happy here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you smile whimsically, “especially with this.” You walk over to the cot and pick up the stuffed lion you had given him all those years ago.

“How could I forget about him? He’s important to us.”

--

68. (1981):

“You did well.”

“Only well?” You grin down at the tiny, fragile figure in your arms you have given life to. Roger passed her back once she started to fall asleep, and she now rests with her hand tucked in a fist under a rosy cheek.

“She’s perfect already, I’d say you did amazing.” His eyes are glistening with unbridled joy as he glances down at the yet-to-be-named Baby Taylor.

“Yeah, I don’t think we need anything for Christmas this year,” you joke.

--

69. (1982):

You and Roger practically went into hibernation mode after you had Zoe, and haven’t seen the band since before she was born. They all sit in your living room, passing her back and forth between each other and cooing every time she lets out a little grunt or a happy noise.

“Would you look at that, the little darling looks like Rog.” Freddie notices as he looks down at the baby currently snuggled in John’s arms.

“She’ll have his chin, I bet,” John smiles at the sleeping angel.

“Oh God,” Brian moans, “another Taylor running around.” You can see he doesn’t mean it as he has a small smile on his face when Zoe wraps her finger around his tightly.

Roger feels slightly defensive over his new baby, but he knows Brian is just ribbing him and smirks at the taller man.

“Yeah but this one is extra important because she’s half Y/N.”

--

70. (1982):

Since she was born, Zoe hasn’t slept through an entire night, and it was beginning to take its toll on you and Roger. You both love being parents, but the intimacy you once shared is no longer the same.

The intimacy comes in quiet moments when you’re looking after the baby, and you get to watch Roger’s smiles and one-sided conversations with her. It’s an even deeper form of intimacy that only comes when you share the role of caregiver.   

“Roger, I’m tired, I’m not really in the mood.”

“Want to watch the telly instead?” Roger pulls back from where he was sucking on your neck and settles next to you, already grabbing for the remote.

“Are you sure?” You worry your bottom lip.

You miss being in bed with Roger, and the way he makes you feel when he’s pressed deep inside you, but you’re just so tired.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to.” He plants a kiss on your cheek and positions himself so you can lay on his chest, hand rubbing his hip.

--

71. (1982):

Roger pays an extravagant amount for flowers in the shop down the street from the restaurant where your work dinner is taking place. He knows that no expensive bunch of flowers can make up for being late to something that means a lot to you.

“Love! I’m so, so, sorry,” he tries to catch his breath as he finds you, about to get into the car.

“I really didn’t mean to-”

“No, I get it. Busy being a rock star and all,” you don’t even look at him as you unlock the doors, handing him the keys to drive.

“It’s not that at all,” he pleads, “I swear I didn’t mean to be late.”

“Whatever, let’s just go home.”

--

72. (1983):

“Look, Zoe, there’s your daddy,” you coo to the toddler waddling beside you.

“Hi, Bubs!” He calls to her. You and Roger barely stand three feet apart, arms extended in case she falls over. He missed her first steps but won’t miss her fully walking on her own as her little feet stomp over to him to wrap around his knees.

“Hello,” you smile as Roger scoops the giggling girl into his arms.

“I’m so glad to be back,” Roger sighs. You wrap one arm around his shoulder in a hug and let him guide you out of the busy airport.

--

73. (1983):

“Say it, say ‘dada’, Zoe.” You watch Roger with wide eyes as he moves his head side to side with every syllable.

“She’s not going to say it if you tell her to.”

“She will just you wait. Taylor women are very smart, just need some persuasion, that’s all.” He grabs the lion out of her hands and holds it above her fair head.

“Dada!” She finally shrieks and extends her arms to try and grab her lion back.

“See! So smart, just like her mother.”

“I’d yell too if you snatched my toy away.” You still sit down next to the pair and celebrate with them, mainly Roger, because Zoe’s too young to get why this is a big deal.

--

74. (1983):

You’re standing under the warmth of the shower spray when Roger barges into the room, raging about something or other to do with a new song.

“I’m trying to understand, Roger,” you sigh.

“I feel like I can’t tell you anything anymore,” he leans against the bathroom sink. You open the glass door of the shower with wide eyes, uncaring about your nakedness, paralysed.

“What? You’re my best friend, you absolutely can.” You grab onto his elbow when he scoffs and goes to turn away.

“I know I can. I want to, believe me. It’s just … hard.”

“It may take time, but you can tell me anything.  Surely you have to know that.” You hold out your hand and invite him into the shower.

--

75. (1983):

Roger opens his eyes with a groan as the bright mid-morning sunlight streams into the room due to your opening of the curtains and windows.

“It smells like a brewery in here, get up.” You pull back the sheets and begin to remove them, rolling Roger’s dead weight across the mattress as he isn’t making any attempt to move.

“I’m hungover,” he moans.

“Whose fault is that hm? Not mine.”

“Can’t you leave me alone for once? I don’t feel well.” He rests his palm across his forehead and looks up at you with pleading eyes. It doesn’t do anything.

“That would have worked if you didn’t throw up all over my floor at four o’clock in the morning. You’re an adult, not a five year old. You should know when you aren’t feeling well.”

“I don’t know I’m not feeling great when I’m that drunk!”

“I understand that you’re having troubles with the band but if you keep coming home drunk, you’re going to have to find somewhere else to sleep.”

“You’re going to kick me out? Of my own house?”

“I paid for half of this house too, don’t forget.”

You pause and try to take a softer tone, brushing sun-streaked golden hair out of his eyes.

“I just want to help you, Roger. You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong and I’m already worried about you. Would you like a hug?”

Roger half crawls, half wiggles his way over to you.

#roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #bohemian rhapsody imagine

[chinatea]

Tattoo/Christian, Superhero AU.

The one where Tattoo is a Superhero and Christian is a reporter who always ends up being saved by him.

(Tat is your generic superman - super strength, super vision, super speed, all that jazz.)

(A fun fact - I actually started writing this as Tattoo/Baby G, but ended up writing Christian, behavior-wise, so I changed the pairing to Tat/Chris. Although there is still a few Baby G-ish traits to him I decided not to edit out, cuz it’s just more fun that way, isn’t it.)

It’s Friday night and Jimin could think of a million ways how to spend it in style.

Like, having a hot bath with candles and a glass of Bordeaux. Classic. One could never go wrong with classic on a Friday night. And that was his plan for the day. Hell, he’s been looking towards it all week, but the plan has changed and that’s why Jimin is not currently soaking in himalayan salts, but instead soaking his ass in some dank-ass basement, all tied and gagged up like someone’s messed up idea of a Christmas present.

(Sadly, that wouldn’t even be the first time - the criminals around here lack both brains and originality, like, big time.)

Times like these, Jimin truly hates this city. Times like these, he swears as soon as he’s outta here, he will pack his shit and catch the first bus out of this hellhole, because he’s had enough of this bullshit.

Why him? Just...why?

A rhetorical question, mind you. He bloody knows why.

It all started with Mr. Titanium Glutes, or Tattoo, who spawned out of nowhere one day, like most superheros do, in his spanking new spandex briefs and has been stealing the front pages across editorials all over city ever since.

Meanwhile, Jimin was just a modest reporter (with awesome hair and scintillating smile) who did his job. And sometimes that job had him doing some footwork, sending him places no-sane-person-would-ever, putting his life at risk and other occupational hazards.

Running away from enraged crime mobs was nothing new to him. Little did he know, however, how much of a pesky menace Tattoo would become once they get to know each other a little better. Despite all Jimin’s attempts to minimize their contact as much as possible.

There is only so much he could do, however. He’s not a miracle worker, after all. His job is dangerous and dangerous spells Tattoo in big sparkling letters. The man would just turn up, whenever a shitstorm rolled in, to save those in need with his superhuman strength.

And yes, Jimin might have been a hair away from the imminent death, but was he in need? Hell no.

He never asked to be saved. Never asked to be held like he was made of glass. And he definitely didn’t ask Tattoo to look at him like a lovesick fool. (Must be the hair, dammit.) Naturally, it was exactly the moment when a million of stringers around the area chose to snap their best winning shot of the day - and ever since that day Jimin has gotten unfortunate notoriety and a new nickname...

Lois Fucking Lane.

Inevitably siccing every single villain who has beef with Tattoo on Jimin’s ass. Which is, like, the entirety of the criminal underworld by now.

Gee, thanks.

“Stupid rope,” Jimin mutters under his breath, struggling to loosen the knot holding his wrists together just enough to hopefully slip a hand out and undo the binds.

Whomever kidnapped him was stupid enough to leave him and his tiny hands unsupervised and is so going to suffer for it, because Jimin also has a superpower - in times of need, his tiny hands have the capacity to become even tinier. He’s a badass like that, obviously.

A few little huffs and puffs later, Jimin lets out a happy little squeal, wiggling his hands free and tackling the foot binds next. Followed by a nasty gag that smells like something Jimin doesn’t want to linger on too much to avoid a lifelong trauma.

Although free and unbounded, it still leaves him locked up inside a dimly lit basement, containing nothing but a rusty tankard left forgotten on a shoddy wooden chair in the corner.

Jimin has a mind to kick it in frustration when he makes out faint footsteps approaching from behind the door. In panic, he grabs the chair, the rusty tankard flying off with much racket.

Jimin cringes, cussing out loud, as he hurries to take point next to the door, readying the chair above his head. If he is to die tonight, at least he’ll take one of those motherfuckers with him.

He holds his breath as seconds stretch into long moments of waiting. Then, the door knob turns and Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, smashing the chair down on whomever glides right in.

The man doesn’t even flinch as the chair disintegrates into dust upon contact, raising a cloud of fine specks to float in the air. Jimin stumbles back by the sheer force of the impact, air caught in his lungs. He wheezes loudly, struggling to catch his breath. He feels a hundred years old, for some reason, utterly tuckered out. Who knew that holding that chair for two seconds could be so damn exhausting.

“W-what the hell are you doing here?” he finally stutters out, shooting a glower at Tattoo who just stands there, arms crossed over his massive chest, thoroughly amused by Jimin’s fumbling around.

“Oh c’mon, toots, you just jumped me with a chair. I don’t exactly expect a written apology, but a kiss would be nice, don’t you think?” Tattoo intones as he flicks away a few splinters off his bicep. “Besides, one would think you’d get the memo by now. Your knight in shining spandex has arrived. Now gimme my kiss.”

“Shut up,” Jimin grouses. “Where are the scumbags who kidnapped me?”

“Probably running for their lives now,” Tattoo shrugs. “I’ll deal with them later, don’t worry.”

“If you can find them, that is,” Jimin scoffs.

“Oh I will,” Tattoo adds smugly. “Just like I always find you, toots.”

It occurs to Jimin then that Tattoo indeed is infallible when it comes to tracking him down just in time before the heat. If only he hadn’t been too preoccupied being exasperated with the man half the time, he would have questioned it much sooner.

“Super hearing,” Tattoo explains then, tapping next to his ear, looking like he’s about to burst from smugness. “I always listen in if my toots is in trouble.”

“First, I’m not yours, second, excuse me??” Jimin seethes. “You can’t do that. This is violation of my privacy. I know my rights, dumbass.”

The look Tattoo gives him is far from remorseful. His unapologetic grin shines like a beacon of self-righteousness.

“Then go ahead and sue me, toots. I’d rather have you mad at me than hurt,” Tattoo says before adding in a voice that belongs in a bedroom with moody lighting. “Besides, I usually tune out for a while then you...ah, you know. Even if those are the prettiest little sounds I’ve ever heard anyone make with their mouth.”

Heat creeps onto Jimin’s cheeks as he gawks at Tattoo, feeling disarmed and stripped naked, metaphorically, of course.

“You didn’t...” he whispers.

Tattoo’s big stupid grin tells otherwise.

What a fucking sleazy bastard.

Mind gone black, Jimin turns on his heels and wobbles out of the creaky door and up the steep staircase, so steep in fact, he has to almost crawl up the steps, hating himself for choosing skintight jeans to wear today. As much as he loves how they hug his thighs, he hates the very idea of treating that douchebag to the dreamy panorama of his ass. He doesn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know that Tattoo is watching him go like a creep.

Because Tattoo is a creep, regardless of how many grannies he saves per day. And Jimin just happened to catch his fancy. Oh woe is him.

He pushes the heavy door and finds himself in a quiet back alley, heaps of trash bags and not a soul in the vicinity.

“Eh, toots?” Tattoo calls after him, hot on his heels, as always.

“I’m not talking to you. Ever.”

“Sure, but I think you’d still like to know that there is a huge damp spot on your ass that looks like you peed yourself, just saying,” Tattoo supplies helpfully. “Did you really pee yourself?”

Tattoo looks genuinely concerned for him while Jimin cranks his neck this way and that to access the damage done. His ass does feel wet to the touch.

“You know it’s okay if you did,” Tattoo continues, nodding to himself. “I won’t judge. We’ve all been there. Well, not me, obviously, but I still find you hot, don’t worry about th-”

“Jesus fuck, will you shut up?” Jimin barks at him. “I didn’t pee myself, you asshole. I sat in a fucking puddle for an hour, okay? And it’s all your damn fault.”

“I know.”

Tattoo sounds somber, for a change, all usual mirth gone, which makes Jimin eye him suspiciously. Did the bastard suddenly grow a conscience?

Then, Tattoo holds his hands out, squeezing the fingers in a grabbing motion, shamelessly lewd.

“Hop on,” he pipes, eyebrows wiggling. “C’mon, toots, you know the drill.”

(Or maybe not.)

A million curses later, Jimin finds himself successfully loaded into Tattoo’s arms. What choice does he have? Brave the streets with damp asscheeks? Hell no.

Arms wrapped around the bastard’s neck, Jimin tries to think happy thoughts - like choking Tattoo to death with his tiny hands which gradually translates into choking Tattoo with his thighs which ends up with Jimin power-riding Tattoo’s face, choking him with his ass.

His thoughts are weird, so what.

He just hopes that Tattoo doesn’t have a telepathic ability or anything of that sort, because…

(He’s totally fucked, isn’t he?)

Only the bastard doesn’t take him home as Jimin belatedly discovers. While in the air, Jimin keeps his eyes squeezed tight because Jimin and heights don’t mix well, so when he opens them, deeming it safe, what welcomes him is not his balcony with petunias from his mum.

“What in the frack is this?” he says, wobbly on his feet, soaking in the sight of a lonely tent on the roof of some apartment building. The inside of the tent, decorated with fairy lights, are layered cozily with blankets and throw pillows. Jimin spies a food basket and a bottle of wine, which leaves little room for misunderstanding - he knows what in the frack this is.

A romantic roof picnic set for two.

He faces Tattoo then, hands akimbo, and taps his foot impatiently, waiting for explanations.

“Well,” Tattoo starts. “I hope you like chicken, toots. It’s organic, I promise.”

“Did I ask you to do this for me?” Jimin asks, unamused.

“No, you didn’t,” Tattoo replies, looking too somber for comfort for the second time this night. His chest sinks with a sigh as he rubs the back of his neck, a touch sheepish. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. Better late than never, right? I’m sorry for making you a target even if it was not my intention, I just...I’ll be back in a second.”

Jimin has barely any time to blink as Tattoo flashes in and out of his sight, only this time, the spandex suit is gone and, in a way, Tattoo is gone, too. What Jimin sees in front of him is a guy in a hoodie, sweats and a pair of round glasses. What the..?

“My name is Jungkook,” the guy says. “Apart from doing, you know, superhero stuff, I’m an average student who majors in culinary arts with a minor in photography. I love video games and working out even though I break pretty much every gear I touch, so I don’t. I have a doting mum and a little brother. They’re normal, by the way, in case you wanted to know. I don’t know why I’m the way I am. My favorite color is yellow and hey, I’m single.” 

The guy, Jungkook, wraps his speech up with a stupid wink and even a stupider grin and the only reason why Jimin doesn’t shove him off the roof is because of the major cognitive dissonance he’s experiencing right now.

So he lets it slide, just this once.

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he says, quiet, hugging himself from the chill of the night. “Why would you expose yourself like that. That’s stupid.”

“Because I think it’s only fair after all I’ve put you through, besides I know that you won’t tell anybody,” Jungkook smiles cheekily. “And I don’t know how about you, but I’m starving, all this superpower can’t sustain itself on air, you know.”

Jimin stares at him as he shakes his head to himself.

“Fine, but only because I’m hungry too, okay? Don’t get any ideas now, brat. This is not a date!”

“Sure, toots. Here, I’ve brought some spare sweats for you.”

“The fuck I’m gonna do with them? Wear them as a dress?” Jimin gripes as he grabs the sweatpants offered, five times his size from the looks of it.

He quickly strips out of his skinnies and tugs those parachutes on as Jungkook crouches over the basket, unloading its contents. Jimin’s stomach grumbles at the mouth-watering smell of food and he mentally wills it to shut the fuck up - he’s been through a lot today and doesn’t need Jungkook being even more smug than he already is.

A total husband material he may be, but Jimin won’t give in.

Not on their first date, anyhow.

“Scooch, or something,” he gripes, settling down next to Jungkook who only scooches closer, unapologetic, and even if Jimin scrunches up his nose at that he doesn’t complain or move away - it’s warmer that way, okay?

(Yep, totally fucked, he is.)

#tattoo/christian #personas au

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 17 - Willkommen!

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 2037

Summary: The part of the story in which the reader really should have listened to Castiel’s thoughts regarding her safety.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

You sit on a fallen tree trunk stripped by weather and time of the remnants of its roughened bark at meadow’s edge nursing your woe in the peaceful haven Cas shared with you on that first fateful bunker outing together. The season’s rain and shade of surrounding trees lends a bracing dampness to air freshened by clusters of purple aster and sunny wild coreopsis blooms. Every so often, your toes prod the spongy mound of moss beneath bare feet; the earth thereon is scattered with contrasting piles of yellow petals plucked from the crowns of flowers, unlucky demise the result of their proximity to your person – a person absent-minded with need to apoplectically occupy fingers by dismembering the delicate buds one by one whilst reciting in silent solitude the not very cheering and pitifully childish mantra, ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’

You couldn’t bring yourself to stay inside today knowing the rift was opening and Cas was leaving, with feeling as though the tattered bits of hope still anchored in your heart at the possibility of his coming around and forgiving you might come completely untethered in his absence. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye himself, a slight you can only assume expresses the uncaring truth of his angelic nature; in which case, shame on you for letting down your guard and letting him in when you knew full well the sinister substance angels are made of. You wonder if Sam drew the short straw in announcing their imminent departure. You wonder if any of them are ever coming back or if, like before Dean rescued you, you’ve lost everyone you care about to that devastated world and must endure alone in this strange one.

A sharp snort and stomp of hoof draws your attention up and out into the field. The twin fawns, white spots fading on tawny coats with maturity, cautious of the salt smell and sniffling sounds of a human quietly sulking and seething, creep into the clearing to join you. Ears flicking, the larger of the two fixes her brown-doe eyes on your slumped figure. After a moment, her steady gaze shifts, drifting deeper into the wood beyond where you sit; her wary regard softens. Though not visible to you at this distance, the mirror image of a man in a trench coat reveals in the enameled glaze of her eyes – a man she knows simply as the sweetness of apples. Satisfied no danger exists, she paws at the ground and drops her head to join her sister in grazing upon the dewy grass.

Rounding the log with seraphim stealth of silence, Castiel sinks beside you.

At least you assume it’s the angel, certain anyone else at all would have sent the deer running in fright. For fear of shattering the illusion he’s here, that he didn’t leave after all, you keep your focus trained ahead.

He, too, looks forward, crossing and uncrossing his arms in a reflexive quest for comfort in the atmosphere of guarded awkwardness which general precedes the breaking of ice and subsequent admission of personal failings invariably followed by a vulnerable outpouring of bottled emotion which to him, as a divine being honed to conceal such sentimental weaknesses with wrathful righteousness, feels nearly as unnatural as it does natural. Unable to subdue the inner tumult of manifest feelings, he fidgets – a soldier waging war within the battleground of a vessel containing aloof angelic reason and a heart hewn to love humanity, the opposing ends battling to do the right thing by you.

The spastic shuffle of limbs in the otherwise hushed setting is enough to drive you bonkers. You reach out sideways, the impulse not entirely in your conscious control, and seize his hand to still the closest fretting limb. He does not stiffen at the suddenness of your touch, nor does he pull away when your fingers flex and fold, seeking the warmth and security of the spaces between his own.

You hold each other thus, unspeaking, watching the deer without really watching them, for what seems a stretch of eternity.

The fawns, perhaps sensitive to a tension strained to the pressure point of bursting, grow weary of munching. Fuzzy dew-soaked muzzles quivering, they decide in a subtle show of twitching withers and flinching flanks to embark on a winding path across the meadow. Disturbed from tall grassy posts, the translucent wings of small flies take flight, glittering the sky in the wake of their departure.

As the dim thickness of the bordering forest swallows up the creatures and outward tranquility again reigns supreme, Cas speaks. “I owe you an apology.”

You turn, a startled gasp catching in your throat at the blueness of his irises after being deprived of their gentle light for so many days. Shaking your head, you murmur, “You don’t owe me anything.” It’s an honest correction – he healed your mortal wounds with his grace and cleared the scorched ruin of your mind to give you back your memories. Wanting anything beyond these miracles seems greedy; although, at the sight of the doubtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth over your contradiction, the swiftly thumping knot of muscle wedged inside your chest tells you despite all reason the heart nonetheless desires more.

His small smile dissolves almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a contrite pout. “I behaved” –he pauses to glance upward in search of a grand and meaningful explanation. Finding none in the grey clouds above, he settles for the humble truth– “selfishly.”

“Me too,” you contend. “More so. You saved my life and I-”

“Acted as anyone who lost everything and everyone they cared about would under the circumstances.” Interrupting your attempt at self-contempt, he squeezes your hand tighter. “Please forgive me for allowing frustration to get the better of me” –he brings his fingertips up to caress your cheek– “for forgetting you have feelings too. If you permit me, I’ll try to do better.”

His sincerity extracts an airy breath of pardoning laughter and bright twist of smile from you. “I’d say you’re only human, but …”

Chin dropping to his chest under the weight of his matching beam of a grin, he lets go a husky chuckle.

Soles of bare feet slipping on the moss, a relief of warm tears brimming over your lashes, you dive to embrace the angel.

Opening his arms to your scrabbling hug, he winds them about your waist to draw you into his lap and pull you firm to his torso. He buries his nose into your tousled hair to nuzzle and kiss the top of your head.

It’s there, clasped in the refuge of revived affection, it occurs to you to ask why he’s still here when he was supposed to leave hours ago with Sam and Dean and Gabriel. “Cas, what happened with the rift?” you mumble the query into the cushion of his coat.

He smooths a hand up your back. “We” –he hesitates, fisting and flattening his fingers at your spine– “we need another source of archangel grace. Gabriel’s is too weak to maintain the gateway to your world. I came to talk to you about that.”

You incline backward slightly to peer up at him. “How can I help?”

“We have a plan. It’s not a great plan” –he frowns, blues sheening in a serious darkened glint as he continues– “or even a good one. Sam accurately called it one of the worst plans ever and Dean’s sarcasm was evident even to me, but it seems to be the only option available to us if we want to rescue Jack and Mary and stop Michael.”

“What’s going on?” You squirm to sit up straighter, steadying yourself by clutching the lapels of his coat.

His tone tumbles gravely deeper. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything, angel.” Freeing a hand, you reach up to run your fingers through the silky sweep of chestnut locks gathered at his temple.

He looks at you hard, eyes narrowed and roving your features like he’s searing a mapped memory of your face into his celestial consciousness; after a few breathless heartbeats, he nods, lids relaxing their squint to blink entreatingly wide. “Y/N, I need to know you’re safe, no matter what happens.”

A spasm of emptiness snatches at the steady rhythm of your heart. In the skipped beats, you sense what’s coming next – he’s about to ask you to leave just when you’ve reconciled. You bite back the argument brewing on your tongue.

Regardless of the uneasiness he feels flowing through your veins, he continues in hope elucidation of the danger will assuage your trepidation. “As we speak, Rowena, Gabriel, and the Winchesters are attempting to capture Lucifer to bring him to the bunker in order to use him as a power source to keep the rift open. To do so means we need him alive.”

“You’re bringing the devil … here?” you gulp, although the news does nothing to diminish your desire to remain.

“Yes, and if you’re to be safe, you should be somewhere else.” He ignores the slow objecting wiggle of your head. “It isn’t as far as I’d like, but in Sioux Falls we have friends …”

“Cas” –you press a palm to his heart– “I’m staying.”

An anxious line creases his forehead at your protest. “If you think what happened to you on your world was bad, multiply that by a hundred thousand times and that’s what happens if Lucifer manages to free himself. He’s without mercy. Think about it.”

Unmoved, you enfold yourself back into his embrace. “There’s nothing to think about. I need to be here to make sure nothing happens to the rift. To make sure you come back.”

“Y/N …” Recognizing his frustration once again threatens to erect a wall between you, he stifles further reproach out of respect. Cuddling you close, he reassures himself you’re stubborn. Strong. “Very well … little one.”

Little one. A cold shiver courses your coiled form. The other Castiel called you that – not out of any tender endearment, but to reinforce your insignificance to him.

Dread darkens the perimeter of your vision; the colorful meadow wavers ribbon-like in ebbing blackness. “Wh-what did you call me?” you stutter in a fraught whisper; the tentative wriggle from the angel’s grasp rapidly evolves into a desperate struggle to free yourself as his grip constricts your movements.

“I said, you did very well, little one,” he repeats in the wrong voice, his nasally strangely accented voice.

Eyelids clamping, you try to believe this is a nightmare.

Snippets of memory roar through your mind in a vacuum of wind: Cas – your Cas – cutting Lucifer’s throat. The golden bolt of the rift opening in the library. Cas’ parting kiss before stepping through it that felt too much like a final goodbye. The devil’s escape. Rowena’s threat to abandon them all and your frantic plunge back into your world through the flickering rift, unarmed and unequipped, to warn the others and because you couldn’t imagine being separated from your angel forever.

The greater your panic to be free, the more agonizing the reality of entrapment. You discover then you cannot scream, the fingers gripping your gorge prevent any sound from escaping your lips or air from entering your lungs. You verge on blacking out, having no such luck as the vice relents to let you suck in a gasp in order to keep you conscious.

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

The skin sheathing your wildly darting orbs unwillingly parts to comply with the order. An unsympathetic appearing Englishman with fractured facial structure and shrouded in mercenary black frowns at you from where he hangs by the wrists from the beam of the ceiling. Beyond him, a fiery redhead slumps comatose where she sits bound and bleeding in a chair.

Castiel tilts you by the neck, wrenching your regard with angelic force from the others in the room to center instead on him; features alive in a firestorm of tics, dead opaque eye and menacing blue one searing you to the soul, he yanks you closer. Brushing his convulsive lips to yours, he growls, “Welcome home, my little one.”

Next: Ch. 18 - The Good Soldier

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel x y/n #castiel reader insert #castiel series #au!castiel #castielxreader #castielxyou #cas x reader #cas x you #spn x reader #reader x castiel #you x castiel #castiel fanfiction #spn fanfiction #castiel x au!reader #au!castiel x reader #castiel fanfic #spn fanfic #cricket writes cas

[quirkydahlias]

I love your last post with Aizawa and Toshinori so much!! Is it okay to request something based off of that post even though that was not my request? I was hoping you could add on hcs about how well Aizawa and Toshinori could move on after losing their s/o like that? How long would it take for them to live normally again and if they could ever love someone else again?

;;; w ;; my heart swells up at the notion of people wanting a sequel! Of course, I can write that angsty goodness. I hope it’s what you wanted, sorry if it isnt ; - ;

Oh, for any new readers, it’s a continuation of this angsty piece

Shouta Aizawa and Yagi Toshinori Moving On

Aizawa Shouta

Being a pro-hero was a serious and dangerous profession.

Everyone who became one knew that.

You knew that… both of you did.

In a world where almost everyone has inhuman abilities, where villains and crime grew like weeds and where hundreds of thousands of heroes rose to the occasion-

It was only logical that there would be casualties.

That those shining heroes would eventually fizzle out, as All Might did.

Or they would drop like flies. 

Like the way you died, bleeding out as you waited for death to take you underneath your own concrete mausoleum.

Ruled by logic and reason, Aizawa saw no choice but to move on.

But even his closest friend, Mic, was extremely concerned at the speed at which the tired pro transitioned into acceptance. 

The truth of the matter was that he did grieve for you, just…in his own way.

As workers under the government, sacrificing your life for the public, many of your family members expected a visit from an empathetic official.

Many were surprised to see Shouta in their place, dressed cleanly and groomed for once.

And it was to each of your family members that Aizawa got on the ground and bowed to, giving his apologies for not only your passing.

But for his failure.

For letting you die.

Because while he was safe and sound, pinned by villains in some safe house- you lay bleeding in the darkness, chaos echoing from the outside of your rubble cage.

While the villain that held him captive gloated, your thoughts wandered, thinking about the people you would undoubtedly leave behind by the end of the day.

After that day, many of your family members wouldn’t be surprised to see Aizawa patrolling in their neighborhood or helping out where he could financially, as you were unable to do so yourself.

Taking all the blame on himself, Shouta suffered quietly, his thoughts twisting and turning in his mind as he mulled over what to do next over gin and tonics.

Whatever he did, he would have to decide soon. Time waited for no one and 

By the time Izuku and the rest of the students that were caught up in the incident returned to school, Aizawa was ready to teach again.

Nothing seemed to change, but a keen eye could notice the more subtle differences in his teaching method.

Shouta was more methodical, more critical of his students than ever. Hell, he even threatened to expel Mineta once or twice.

In his mind, these kids-these students of his were the next generation. Where you and eventually, he, would fall, these new heroes would pick up where the good fight left off.

You gave your life to protect others and he wasn’t about to let that effort be wasted.

Not by any other villain, if he could help it, and certainly not by incompetent children trying to play at being pro heroes.

However, that wasn’t the only thing you gave your life for.

You died- so that Eri could live.

When he first met the girl, she looked to frightened…so scared of the world around her.

She needed to learn how to control her quirk, how to be a normal girl. What she needed was guidance.

She needed him.

And so, the pro hero adopted her.

Sort of.

She lived on the UA campus, and all the pro heroes had a hand in raising her, but no one was blind to the fact that the two were often found together, Eri finally being able to relax and touch someone without the fear of harming them.

Sometimes when his mind would drift while he lazily used his quirk on Eri, to give her the boost of confidence to shake a stranger’s hand or to go play with some of the UA students. He’d think of you.

Would you have wanted kids? Wanted Eri? He’s not too sure anymore.

But he couldn’t dwell on you for too long, it wasn’t healthy.

He needed to move on and to make sure that no one would ever have to feel the way he feels.

Or die the way you died that terrible night.

Yagi Toshinori

All Might was expected to retire, once everyone had seen his form.

Hell, even if he didn’t weaken in front of the entirety of Japan, All Might would have retired.

After all, he failed you.

He watched the one person he truly, dearly loved get torn open by some abomination of science.

Even when he was being pulled into the hospital for recuperation and recovery, all he could think about was that expression you had on your face the moment the nomu sunk its claws into you.

The fear, the type of fear everyone experiences before they die.

The exact same type of fear that Yagi works so hard to prevent.

So while the media’s fanfare celebrates his victory, while his students cheer from the comfort of their homes.

While his own protege panicked over his destiny of becoming the next #1 hero, All Might wallowed in his own failures.

The pro in him screamed to move on, to stay strong- a pillar for others to lean upon.

But he wasn’t a pillar anymore, was he?

During his recovery, he visited your family and gave his condolences, their anguish almost being too much for his bleeding heart.

Having loved you while you were still alive so passionately, All Might was at a standstill without you.

Unable to drink his darker woes away like Aizawa could, All Might instead sought comfort in the only other way he could.

His friends.

Due to having to keep his quirk and secret identity a secret, All Might didn’t have many friends to turn to. However, once your death was announced, he did notice that his coworkers stepped up to help where they could.

Mic gifted him some albums of soothing music that he fished out of his music library at home.

Aizawa took over grading papers for him, believing that his help was far more effective than giving him something that he might not even use.

Nezu allowed All Might to take some time off to grieve and even when the former pro declined the offer, he did appreciate the sentiment.

Sir Nighteye even sent a small letter of condolence to his former teacher, formal and to the point. But considering their relationship prior to your death, it was a gift that All Might treasured.

But all the gifts and assistance in the world didn’t seem to have much of an effect on the former pro, Yagi only smiling politely and maintaining his strong facade before leaving out of the room.

He didn’t need support.

Not this particular kind of support.

So one night, as school was closing, Nezu made a quick announcement for all students to remain indoors tonight. At all times. No exceptions.

It was a confusing demand, but none of the students questioned the request.

All Might decided to take the chance to leave work early and get some drinks with Naomasa, wanting to catch up with the old detective.

Sitting alone in one of his friend’s favorite dives, Yagi sat and occupied his time by watching the notifications on his phone.

A robbery five miles away.

A hostage situation a few cities away.

A hit and run, the next prefecture.

But as if he could do anything but watch and pray that help would arrive soon.

Then Naomasa arrived, just in time to save Yagi from his thoughts.

But he wasn’t alone.

Mic was dragging Aizawa long by his capture weapon, Nezu seated on the scruffy man’s shoulder.

Midnight was dressed in more casual attire, along with 13.

It seemed that all the hero teachers had arrived along with his closest friend.

And it didn’t take much for the former pro to realize…

They were here for him.

All squeezed together in their booths, with wider heroes like Vlad opting to sit at the bar stool across from the table, the conversation started off light.

How was your day? Did you see the new support items released yesterday? How are your students?

All Might cracked a small smile, a sincere one that the whole room appreciated it.

Mic snatched up Aizawa’s wallet, much to the irritation of the tired 30-year-old, as he paid off the bartender to ensure that they’d be the only ones in the shop for the time being.

And as the boss, Nezu happily paid for everyone’s drinks and food.

Once the small talk died down, Aizawa was the first to speak up, unafraid of telling the truth.

“All Might.”

“U-Uh, yes? What is it, Aizawa?”

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“About…what?”

“About them.”

Deciding to make up for how forward Aizawa was, Mic patted the fail skeleton-like man on his back

“It might make you feel better, you know! All that negative energy’s no good!”

The side chatter died down as everyone’s gaze softened a little at the broken man, twiddling with his thumbs.

Nemuri than spoke up, asking a rather small, inconsequential question.

“So…how did you meet?”

The soft laugh that escaped All Might was a big relief to everyone around him, everyone listening in as he retold stories of his love for you and the experiences you two had together.

Sure, it was difficult for him to imagine a life without you.

And while it was hell to live in a life without you…

Your memory would forever be cherished in the stories he told of you as for once, Toshinori leaned on others for support in his time of need.

#shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta #aizawa shouta x reader #angst #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #all might #eraserhead #yagi toshinori x reader #toshinori yagi #yagi toshinori #canon x reader #canon x reader hc