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sultanaislammow · 4 months

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The Yuanverse "travels lightly", maybe we will see the results at the next intersection

The concept of the Metaverse has HE Tuber been very popular in the past two years. However, now, the attitude of major manufacturers towards the Metaverse has gradually become cold. So, is the Metaverse really "extinguished"? What stage of development is the Metaverse industry currently experiencing? You might as well take a look at this article’s industry observation and interpretation of the Metaverse.

Do you remember the year 2021 that just passed? This year was called the "First Year of the Metaverse" at the time. Recalling the glory of the "First Year of the Metaverse", the enthusiasm at that time is still before my eyes.

This is a track that almost everyone is optimistic about. Major companies are recruiting people, a series of new departments have been established, people are talking about virtual reality being about to subvert reality, and the argument that the "metaverse" is omnipotent is also popular. Zuckerberg is fully betting on the Metaverse. He even changed the name of Facebook to Meta and announced a staggering amount of investment.

Everyone wants to eat crabs, but before the crabs are eaten, reality teaches them a huge lesson. The most intuitive expression of the decline in popularity of the Metaverse is that according to Google data, the search volume for the Metaverse has dropped off a cliff, with a decrease of more than 80% compared to the same period .

Meta's stock price has fallen again and again, with the amount of evaporation starting from tens of billions of dollars. Zuckerberg has also had to bow to reality. From the end of last year to now, Meta has announced more than 10,000 layoffs, and may even continue to lay off employees.

After Microsoft showed great power in ChatGPT, it also decisively abandoned its Metaverse plan. The teams that had been poaching people from all over the place were collectively eliminated, and various Metaverse businesses were offline one after another. Looking at the domestic Yuanverse market, major manufacturers such as Tencent Byte have become very cold towards the Yuanverse this year, and rumors of business line adjustments continue to spread.

In the past, Xiao Tiantian is now Mrs. Niu.

Bill Gates, who previously claimed that the Metaverse will greatly change people's future work, also changed his tune this year and claimed that "the Metaverse is not revolutionary." Could it be that the once-hot Yuan Universe has completely gone cold this year?

This kind of argument is somewhat pessimistic and may cater to people's psychology of chasing hot topics, but it may not be in line with the actual situation. Although the spotlight is no longer on the Metaverse, outside of the spotlight, the Metaverse is still developing quietly and has achieved some tangible results. However, these developments are not so eye-catching amid the craze of talking down the Metaverse. .

Perhaps traveling lightly and moving forward in a low profile is the true portrayal of the current metaverse.

1. The infrastructure of the Metaverse is still being iteratively improved.

After the once noisy public opinion field became silent, we can finally look at the Metaverse with a normal mind and carefully analyze its real future.

Tall buildings are rising from the ground, and the Metaverse is no exception. For it, infrastructure is the starting point for all imagination.

The first is communication technology. Metaverse emphasizes instant feedback and requires large-capacity data transmission, so it must rely on the high speed, low latency, large connection and other characteristics of 5G.

Second is AI. The areas where AI is needed in the metaverse are very broad. It can be said that almost all content software and workflows can be improved with it, and even ChatGPT can be included in its scope. With the help of AI, other industries can be empowered and digital assets, artworks and AIGC can be established. Of course, only when AI achieves large-scale supply capabilities can the value it creates be highlighted.

There is also computing power support for intelligent computing, especially cloud computing capabilities. For users, cloud computing can effectively lower the threshold for entering the Metaverse. When massive data transmission and computing requirements lead to machine failure due to local computing, cloud computing comes in handy. Its remote data processing capabilities allow The Metaverse can stably calculate and execute massive data around the clock.

In addition, data storage is also extremely important . In the Metaverse era, a massive amount of digital assets will be generated, and any centralized storage is unsafe. If these contents do not have a proper storage channel, information abuse and various hazards may occur. Distributed data storage has significantly improved information security, allowing users to store and share data without relying on third-party storage service providers, reducing the risk of data failures and interruptions, and achieving better security and privacy. Good protection.

It can be said that the underlying infrastructure composed of 5G, AI large-scale supply capabilities, intelligent computing, network connections, data storage, etc. form the foundation of the Metaverse ecosystem. They are actually the infrastructure of the Metaverse.

It can also be seen from these aspects that the Metaverse is actually very hard-core, and technological breakthroughs cannot be achieved in just one or two years of hard work and rapid development . At this stage, the infrastructure of the Metaverse is not yet complete, and factors such as hardware equipment and computing power still restrict its development. Working hard on infrastructure is still the only way for the Metaverse in the next few years .

#HETuber #Music #Gaming #Entertainment #Science And Technology

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ernestowens · 2 years

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I AM NOW 31! Here’s how 30 won: I did what I wanted and didn’t feel the impulse to justify it. My 30s thus far have been a blast beyond the many tangible accomplishments I’ve noticeably racked up over the past year – and that’s because I’m truly doing things my way. I feel so connected and aligned with my purpose that it’s been easy to free myself from unnecessary burdens, obligations, and people. The frivolous things that used to devour my time either now make me money or evaporate (sorry, but it’s simply true). Being preoccupied with my dreams, friends, and family have reorganized my priorities in ways that are inexplicable. Being someone’s husband, professor, and president has taught me how to lead, love, and show up unapologetically. Tough conversations have become more liberating, standing ten-toes-down never felt this damn good. I say “yes” with excitement, I say “no” with confidence. It hasn’t gotten any better than this. If any song could describe where I’m at in my life it would be Beyoncé’s “Alien Superstar.” “I'm one of one I'm number one I'm the only one Don't even waste your time trying to compete with me No one else in this world can think like me” Being the bar has allowed me to raise it however I like because I’m in competition with myself. Every year of life has challenged me to set the metric on how to improve myself. Self-reflection and guidance from those who genuinely have my best intentions at heart has made this all worthwhile. This next chapter is going to only get better like wine. As always, stay tuned. Thank you to everyone for the birthday wishes. I love you all.

#Ernest Owens #media #birthday #philly

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mitsukui · 3 years

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put your lips like this | f.w.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader.

Summary: there is a secret buried inside your heart that is keeping you from going to the Yule Ball. However, Fred decides to be the greatest of friends and teach you one thing or two.

Word Count: 2.1k - oops...

Warnings: none! Just a whole lot of fluff! ✨ Oh, there is a curse word towards the ending.

Disclaimer: none of the pictures used in the edit below belong to me; I simply put them together.

A/N: HAPPY HOLIDAYS, BABIES! *aggressively listens to ‘My Boo’, by Usher and Alicia Keys*. Not to be dramatic, but James Phelps with long hair could punch me right in the face, and I would thank him. Please, leave me some feedback if you feel like it! My askbox is open for your opinions, thoughts and requests. Thank you so much for your time and attention! ♡

Masterlist!

“You know I’m good at keeping secrets, so just tell me already! C’mon, tell me why you don’t want to go to the Yule Ball.”

A heavy and utterly annoyed sigh left your lips. Fred Weasley – that prick! – had been tormenting you the entire day. You knew he was a curious soul, but you had never imagined he would try so hard to make you spill one of your secrets out.

It was not something you fancied sharing; actually, it was something that made you feel rather pathetic and embarrassed. How could you tell your friend, whom you had unexpectedly developed feelings for, that you had never been kissed?

Curiosity and anticipation were emanating from his figure as he whispered soft ‘tell me’s, and moved anxiously on his chair. You fidgeted with the quill in your hand before you sighed once more. It did not seem like he was going to give up on solving that mystery any time soon. “Alright, fine. I will tell you. But only if you promise you will act as if nothing had ever happened.”

“Pinky promise!” He immediately dropped his own quill and extended his right hand towards you, his little finger waiting up to be intertwined with yours. Your eyes studied his hand, and you did not fail to notice how big and veiny they were.

Oh, Godric, the voice that took form of your consciousness echoed in your head, this boy is going to be the death of me.

Reluctantly, you closed your textbook and put your quill down on the wooden table, these two actions being followed by the connection between your fingers. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, the similarity to a little boy that he carried in his behavior causing you to chuckle. However, your good spirits soon vanished away when you came to the realization you now had to tell him the truth. You had never been good at lying, for all it mattered.

He beamed widely at you, and he had his ears ready to capture all the words that were about to slip from your lips. But nothing was coming out of them, and a slight impatience resulted in his eyebrows being furrowed together. Fred went back to whispering words to hurry you into opening up, and the situation just overwhelmed your inexperienced heart.

It was all too much: you could not bear with the fact that he was staring so intensely at you, nor with the fact that you were about to tell him you saw yourself as a ridiculously stupid teenager who had never felt a pair of lips brushing against their own.

“I don’t really know how to do the whole…kissing thing. And I refuse to go to the Yule Ball because of it, given that chances of being kissed by your date are high.”

Your confession came out as a train losing its track – fast, unruly and through gritted teeth. Although you were deeply ashamed of that part of you, his face expressed the total opposite of any of your feelings.

His eyebrows were still furrowed together, but now scoff dripped from his words. “Yeah, right. And George is more handsome than me.”

You could swear your heart skipped a beat at that moment. Blinking in the rawest surprise your body could internally gather, you stared at him and waited for him to say anything else. You were lost for words. How could he not believe you?

“I mean, you’re incredibly beautiful. And I know you have a few people interested in you.” When you raised an eyebrow at his latter words, he was quick to snap back at you. “I’ve noticed how that Ravenclaw boy looks at you.”

Even though there was an inconspicuous blush tainting your face due to his compliments, you waved his words off and laughed shyly. He probably was just acting nice towards you. That was a huge characteristic of the Weasley family – being raised by an amazing woman like Molly herself made such a thing come out naturally.

You remained quiet for a few moments, your heart beating fast in your chest and your eyes staring out the library windows. You still had a hard time believing you had just confessed your deepest secret to your love interest, but it was of no use crying over spilt milk. If he were one to keep his promises, one of your rare studying sessions with Fred Weasley would soon return to normal.

But what if he started pitying you for it? Or what if he stopped talking to you, once he concluded your universes did not collide? He surely was vastly experienced when it came down to kissing. Kissing Fred Weasley would probably be the biggest honor of your life.

Unconsciously, your eyes left the windows and roamed the surroundings until they reached his lips. It was almost as if the whole world had stopped.

Fred had thin lips, but they seemed to be astonishingly soft for someone who caused as much trouble as he did. His upper lip was subtly curved, and you were mesmerized by every single little detail you could visually grasp. That moment would haunt your thoughts for a long time, once it was pure cruelty how you had fallen out of love – the one you loved did not love you back.

But you were terribly wrong about that. Fred had been experiencing some shifts on his feelings towards you lately. He had watched you blossom into a charming young girl, and there was something about you hitting hard on his heart. And, frankly speaking, after he caught you looking at his lips, he would be in heaven if he ever got the chance to kiss you.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He helped you gather all of your belongings with a gentle smile hanging on his lips and, once more, you swore your heart was melting away over everything he did.

As you walked out of the library together, dipped in a somewhat agonizing silence, you felt his fingers brushing against yours, which caused you to instantly look at him. “Can I hold your hand while we walk?”

Holy moly, what did he just say? Your consciousness was again alarmed at the scenario taking place right in front of your eyes. Okay. Keep calm. Don’t freak out.

“Y-Yeah, I guess.”

He did not waste any time on ending the ridiculously small distance between your hands. However, he did not simply hold your hand in his; he intertwined your fingers together, and gave your hand a light squeeze. His eyes fell upon you, and his gorgeous smile grew wider. You could not help but smile along.

You continued on walking together in silence, the only tangible thing between you and Fred being the tiny circles his thumb drew on your skin. If it were possible to describe your feelings, one would choose the talk about fireworks, or waves violently crashing on rocks on a breathtaking beach.

He unquestionably would be the death of you.

He tugged on your hand once you stopped in a deserted hallway. There was something astounding about the fact that he was able to find a calm and quiet place on Hogwarts, but he had always been like a box full of surprises to you. And he was also really good at knowing all the best places in the castle.

You smiled at him, the riddle he was presenting filling your chest with amusement. “What are we doing here?” All of the terrors you felt earlier returned to you, and you felt like withdrawing. “Wait. We are not here so you can lecture me on kissing, right?! Because, if we are, I would very much like to lea-“

Fred abruptly shushed you, stepping closer to your body and gently pushing your back against a wall. His eyes darted up and down your face, and he grinned cunningly down at you. He was so much taller than you, and the sight of him towering over you was quite intimidating.

“I’m gonna be your kissing instructor.”

Bitch, said what?! Your eyes widened in shock, his fingers reached out to place a lock of hair behind your ear, and your biggest wish was to evaporate. With your head shaking vigorously, and your lips being pressed together in a disappearing line, you exclaimed you would never accept that.

You could never allow physical intimacy to destroy your friendship with Fred Weasley. It was better to have him as a friend than not having him at all.

He found your actions to be absolutely adorable, the desire to consume your innocence growing bigger and bigger each second. “I’m only trying to help you out, y’know. If that Ravenclaw boy is not willing to claim these luscious lips, I sure am.”

Your cheeks erupted in a dark red shade, and you looked away from him, unable to take it for any longer. He was now evidently playing with your feelings, and you did not know how to deal with his attitude.

You were torn apart between accepting his kiss and pushing him away. It could go two ways: you would either kiss him and dismiss all of your feelings and expectations, or you would fall even harder for him. You were not exactly leaning towards neither option.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.” He murmured his confession as he briefly dodged his eyes from your face as well. It was unusual to see the great Fred Weasley embarrassed but, apparently, it was happening right in your face. “So, please, let me be your first kiss. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Your gaze moved back to him and he also had a light pink flush on his cheeks. He looked painfully handsome at that moment, with his freckles splattered all over his skin, and his lips trembling slightly. Your eyes met, and both of you smiled timidly. You were swooning.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He repeated your monosyllabic answer and nodded a bit, mostly to himself, assuring he would finally feel his lips on his. “I’m gonna put my hands on your hips now.”

And he did. Both of his hands ghosted over your body until they reached your hips. He pulled you a little bit closer to his chest, and his scent tickled your nose. You felt like electrical waves were rushing through your entire body, and you wondered how you had managed not to faint.

“Look, do what I’m doing.” Fred parted his lips slightly and tilted his head to his left side a bit, his eyelashes fluttering until he finally closed his eyes. He looked heavenly, but you could never admit that and put yourself into an even more vulnerable position.

An almost inaudible snicker rang in his ears, and he soon opened his eyes and looked at you. You confessed he looked quite silly like that, but he ignored your comment and ordered you to mimic him again. His voice was low and his warm breath hit your face gently. You finally obeyed, feeling all jittery and anxious.

You looked captivating in his eyes, and he was ready to show you how amazing a tad of intimacy could be.

He leaned down, bringing your lips together in an extremely slow brush against each other. “Put your lips like this.” And, a second time, you did as he told you to, copying all of his actions.

It did not take long for him to finally involve your uneasy lips with his own. He started out by giving small pecks onto your skin, but his hunger got too big and he demanded more.

Your small silhouette was pressed even harder to his body, and he touched your lower lip with his tongue, asking for permission to feel more of you. Your attempts to continue moving according to him went on, and you thought it was a good sign he had not stopped you yet.

Once the velvet-feeling of his tongue came in touch with yours, he groaned against your lips, which caused you to use both of your hands to hold onto his robes tightly.

The kiss went on for a few more moments until you and Fred were breathless, and you had to break away to learn how to cope with oxygen again.

It was difficult to find words to talk about whatever had just happened, but you mumbled a shy ‘thank you’, which he replied to with ‘don’t mention it’.

Kissing was not as horrible as you thought it would be.

And, after all, maybe going to the Yule Ball could be quite nice if you had enough luck to get Fred Weasley to be your date and kiss you again.

#fred weasly x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #🌼 — personal: writings

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mybg3notebook · 3 years

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Does Gale love Mystra?

So far in EA, we have been shown that this is complicated to answer: human love is complex as well as the delirious lore of Forgotten Realms.

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were written up to the game version v4.1.104.3536 (Early access). As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information. Written in June 2021.

The number between brackets [] represents the topic-block related to (this post), which gathers as much evidence as I could get.

The narrative is clear until the party scene which, as I stated many times across these posts, it's a scene that feels a bit inconsistent for me (reasonable since it's EA). But if we follow what the game explicitly shows us, we know that if we send Gale to sleep at the beginning of the Weave scene in which he is watching the incantation with the shape of Mystra, he will say:

Gale: Long days, yes. And long, lonesome nights.

If Tav knows that the incantation on his palm is Mystra, Gale will explain:

Tav: [insight] You don't have that look on your face when you're looking at “no one” / There's more to it than that. The figure I saw: she means something to you. Gale: [...] I can’t quite describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her – to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence. [...]

Dev's notes: Passionate. [...] He was recalling Mystra as a lover, but doesn’t say that out loud. [...] Narrator: The Weave evaporates, and as it does so, you realise the night feels suddenly cold and lonesome.

This allows us to infer that, at this moment, Gale is feeling alone and probably very anxious with the oppressing feeling of the "orb" in his chest. The tadpole only increased the number of problems he has, so he resorts to seeing Mystra melancholically. We notice later in the Weave Scene that not having Mystra around increases this feeling of loneliness. The whole scene seems to give us the idea that he still loves her. There is yearning and loneliness in his current situation.

After a moment of passionate description of magic, Gale invites Tav to experience the Weave. The Weave has a particular effect on Gale: "The moment feels intimate. You realise the Weave is making you one." Considering how Gale was feeling while conjuring the incantation, this moment touched him deeply (the narrator implies that this feeling is mutual).

If Tav expresses their romantic interests, Gale will be surprised:

Gale: I.. I didn’t think.. Narrator: You perceive quick-fire gusts of embarrassment, trepidation, and finally.. elation Gale: Sorry, I wasn’t expecting… But it is a pleasant image to be sure! Most pleasant, in fact. Most welcome. Dev's notes: Warm, with real affection.

The narrator is giving us meta-knowledge, we can trust in what she says, and we can see that the situation was truly shocking for Gale. These emotional stages described here made me suspect that Gale is a character who has focused for too long on healing his condition, ignoring any chance for romance. His surprise here may confirm that, in my opinion. He feels embarrassment, a feeling that one can interpret as a sign of the surprise of being thrown into a situation he had not seen beforehand (the death protocol and Gale’s conversations show us that he is a character that thinks ahead). It follows trepidation: fear or anxiety about something that he is going to do or experience. Gale is scared of the possibility. Maybe because he is thinking in the danger he is, maybe because he was already burnt by Mystra's attention and having someone else's attention now makes him feel a bit anxious. And then, the final resolution of the process: elation, which is a feeling of great happiness and excitement about something that has happened. Gale is suddenly excited by the possibility. Something he will be thinking about, many times, for the rest of the EA.

Tav: So what did you think about what I pictured when we were connected by the Weave? Gale: Oh, I was surprised. But pleasantly so, just like I said. Amid the madness that has befallen us, it seems almost out of place to think of a kiss/ of a romantic walk. And yet... now more than ever, it's important to recall what makes us human. [if Tav is not human] Well- you know what I mean. A stolen glance- that sudden heartbeat... Sometimes the little things are worth more than kingdoms. They promise things to come.

So romance was not something he had even considered until the opportunity arose (this is why he won't pursue a Tav who didn't show romantic interest towards him). I think that, since he is a character always living on the edge of death, he will take this opportunity to feel “human again”: after all, he follows the concept of "living life to the fullest".

During the Loss (see the post of the "Loss Scene"), we know that losing Mystra was a big blow for him. He regrets his decisions of the past in this scene, and it reinforced the idea that he is the only one to blame for Mystra's loss. There is a yearning for the lost Chosen powers, but Gale's context in the majority of his scenes seem to reinforce the idea that he sought power not as a means, but as a goal itself to be closer to Mystra and Magic. Since we are talking about a wizard, his passion lies in magic itself, in being one with the Weave/Magic/Mystra. A Chosen of Mystra is so entangled with the Weave and magic that when they die, they are part of the Weave itself. This is the level of passion that Gale has for Magic, and since Magic can only be performed by most mortals via Weave, and the Weave is Mystra, the whole three concepts are, in fact, one; and it makes it very difficult from a lore point of view to separate them.

Tav: There's something I don't understand. If Mystra abandoned you, how can you still cast magic? Gale: The Weave is still here, all around us – inside of us too. As long as the goddess lives, magic is a tangible thing for those who know how to touch. I've studied magic for many years, and in as many ways I am still a more than capable wizard. It's just that I'm no longer able to perform those feats even arch wizards would marvel at. To have one hand on the pulse of divinity. You have to remember that the Weave is a living thing, both the embodiment and the extension of Mystra herself.She can give and she can take away. I'm afraid I'm still very much on her naughty list. Consider yourself lucky you're not.

I personally think Gale will never stop being devoted to Mystra (and won't stop loving her in many ways), because his passion for magic and knowledge is his own life, and Mystra IS those things. He loves magic for the sake of it. So losing this unique contact with magic itself that only Chosen of Mystra have was a terrible punishment for him. His abandonment issues are not just the result of a “guy being left by a girl”. They have an extra complexity because of the nature of Magic in this world and how its deity behaves with her chosen. Gale was not only abandoned by Mystra, but was also removed of a good amount of his capacity to perform magic. If magic “is his life”, the abandonment removed a part of his life away. I think some people miss this point, because, once more, it's related to Forgotten Realm lore and not Dragon Age. Many of these people keep constantly comparing this situation with Dragon Age, which has nothing to do with it. Dragon Age has no wizards, their relationship with Magic is natural, it’s sorcerer-like if we want to compare it, and the relationship with their deities (mostly absent, silent ones) are nothing alike the ones in Forgotten Realm. The context is key, as I repeated several times in these posts and in the one about "Context, persuasion, and manipulation".

Tav: I don't know what to make of what you've told me, but I sympathise. Gale: Thank you. [no romantic weave] I want you to know that you’re a good friend. [romantic weave] I often think of that moment we shared together – one under the Weave. I hope you think about it too. /I'm glad to know you think about it too.

Narrator: You sense a moment of unspoken affection. You want to know where it may lead. Gale: I consider myself very lucky to have found you Tav: I think perhaps we could be more than friends Gale: Perhaps.

Tav: You said you think about the moment we shared under the weave. Do you think about it often? Gale: Do you? 1-2-Tav: Yes / From time to time. Gale: So do I. 3- Tav: Not really. Gale: And yet you ask. I do, as a matter of fact.

Gale: You see. I'm not a big believer in fate, but I do believe in serendipity. Life is a tempest of events that sometimes we brace against and sometimes embrace. You're one such event that one day soon perhaps I'd like to embrace.

So after sharing this regret during the Loss scene, Gale will show affection if Tav remains friendly during the Weave (but Gale will never directly engage it, he is waiting for Tav to give the first step; understandable if we consider he also has a dangerous bomb in his chest, so he may be torn between wanting to, but knowing he should not to). If there is no interest in pursuing romance, he will show a gesture of gratitude for being a good friend during that night of regrets.

If pursuing the romance, we can interpret that Gale, at this point, even though he is still struggling with all the emotions that Mystra inspires, wants to experience something more “human”, a romance with a mortal. We know for sure that Gale is getting interested, slowly, while thinking about it, since in each of the following scenes he will ask (or Tav will ask) about that “moment in the Weave”. He has been thinking about it for many nights, and he is “embracing” the idea.

If Gale is treated with judgement (despite not knowing his whole story) or allowing him to keep the secret of what or who he lost, we will obtain lines likes:

Gale: Good. Goodnight. And thank you for your patient understanding. // And try not to think too poorly of me. A cat can look at a king. A wizard can look at a goddess.

Tav: Another fool pays for his arrogance. A tale as old as time. Gale: Arrogance? Ambition, rather. And ambition is a fine thing – until suddenly it no longer is. Then again, if that is how you judge me, there’s little I can do to change your mind. But know that I have this ambition still. First to save myself, and after that, the licence to dream. (Gale Disapproval)

We could interpret these lines as the only ones so far that may suggest that Gale is still wanting something from the goddess. We know due to the tadpole dreams that Gale’s desire is Mystra. On the comments of the second tadpole dream we know more details about his major desire: it is not just Mystra, but her forgiveness.

Tav: Gale, who is the apparition in your dreams? Gale: She's... It doesn't matter. I just know her to be unreal. Tav: What's impossible about what you're been shown? Gale: Forgiveness Tav: Gale, who is the apparition in your dreams? Gale: It's indeed Mystra I see. And yet it cannot be her. There was a time when I would have believed - but no longer. I told you that I lost her. Lost her favour and lost so many of the powers I took for granted. What magic I can still weave is met only with undercurrents of disappointing silence. Mystra has not changed her mind about me. That's how I know our dreams are delusions.

I think this scene shows the difference between a standard desire for power as a means, and power for the sake of power itself (since this power allows Gale to be one with the Weave). The scene is ambiguous enough to see it as Gale wanting to return to Mystra’s side as well as remaining as an ardent devotee of her (because she is magic herself). I keep repeating that these scenes show that Gale’s most important thing in his life is Magic, which is Mystra: the extension and the embodiment of magic. So his desire for her seems impossible to be extinguished completely. In previous scenes we saw that he certainly had thought through the idea of loving her more like a devotee than a lover, but certainly the weight of being his first love will remain, especially since she is deeply related to magic itself.

During the Party Scene we find some information about his feelings for Mystra.

I personally ponder the book of Amn’s description as very important because, from a narrative point of view, it's a lot of lines/content that, if they were not important, tend to be removed from the script. If they are there, they are meant to be interpreted. For this reason those lines mean to me that Gale has finally embraced the idea of having something important with a mortal. In my post of the "Party Scene" I go into details, but here I will stick to the interpretation related to Mystra: all what Gale numerates in that book are things that he could not access to with a Goddess. Curiously, part of those descriptions are things that make humans human, so I personally think it reinforces Gale's intention in heading into this romance with the eagerness of finding some shelter (never forget the “orb” has a constant oppressing effect in him, increasing his anxiety and fears) and to experience (maybe for the first time) the love of a mortal.

So, for some assumptions made in the post of the "Party Scene", we suspect that Gale needs to share a night to feel confident enough to speak the details of his “orb” condition. Since he wants this relationship to be strong (after all, he implied commitment during the description of the book) he speaks about the true origin of the “orb” immediately after that night, starting with Mystra (which is, after all, the true origin of his folly). Depending on the version that Tav picks, we have extra information provided by Gale about his emotions for the Goddess:

Tav: What did Mystra’s attention feel like? Gale: Love. Perhaps it was not quite love, but you see, the wizard was but a very young man. It was most certainly love to him. [...] One day all too soon, the whispers stopped. The goddess spurned the mortal. [...] and the wizard was left behind heartbroken. Tav: I hate to say it, but he really could have seen this coming Gale: He was blinded by love. Good stories are rife with lovers’ follies after all.

[Short Version] Gale: Before long Mystra tired of me. What was I after all but a mortal plaything in sacred hands? You have to realise I was heartbroken. I was a young man, she was my first love. I thought it would last forever. I vowed to win her back.

[after explaining the mistake of the “orb”] Gale: It is this folly that led Mystra to abandon me completely. I can only hope you won’t abandon me as well. After all we’ve been through.. After the night we spent together. Surely we can brave even this side by side

Gale is giving a very detailed context about his love for Mystra: she was his first love, and the first love tends to have a special weight in a person's life and their memories. That doesn't mean the person has become unable to build more relationships for the rest of their life. If we add the fact that he was very young when all this happened (more details in the Post "Gale Hypotheses- Part 1") we find him under two effects: the impression of the first love and the naivety of the youth. Both elements made him believe it was a love that was going to last forever. With a Goddess, no less.

Besides, Gale expresses this, highlighting his naivety and foolishness: he is aware of how silly he was back then, and how impossible it could be for a mortal to keep the love of a goddess. He is a pragmatic and realistic character, after all. He recognizes in the end that he was just a mortal plaything for her.

I think these pieces of information give us a very clear context of his emotional state: he is still nostalgic for Mystra because of all the reasons I enumerated above; she is also more than just a woman, she is Magic itself. But he is aware that those emotions were the consequence of a very naïve and young self that has awakened by the burden of his own mistakes. There is also a reinforcement of “forever”, which recalls the concept of commitment that Gale pursues so much in his romance: he is not there just for the sex “intimacy”, he is there for serious commitment, maybe because he doesn't want to experience another abandonment. After all, we are talking about a character with a profile that shows abandonment issues (see the post of "Gale Hypotheses- Part 1", section: "Abandonment Issues")

[If rejected] Tav: No. This is too large a betrayal. GALE: I see. I am sorry. I am sorry that it had to come to this. All that’s left to say is farewell. Dev’s notes: hurt but understanding Gale: Farewell. (Leaves) Dev’s notes: A slight hesitation, hurt but understanding. He makes a polite little bow, then we see him walk away.

[If accepted] Gale: I don’t know what I did to deserve the magic that you do.

Despite being terribly cheesy, this last line shows that Gale was more than convinced that Tav would abandon him because he doesn’t deserve Tav. This is why he doesn't put up much fight if Tav chooses to tell him to leave. He will try to make Tav listen to his story, and once it's done, the verdict will fall and he will accept it. He learnt his lesson with Mystra. This line also shows how everything important around Gale is or has to be worded with magic, even a silly metaphor like this is related with the word “magic”: Tav's acceptance is like magic. For him, as important and good as magic itself.

As if that were not enough, after the scene there is a comment in which Gale will reinforce his gratitude for Tav's acceptance:

Tav: If you ever feel the netherese magic overtaking you, what will you do? Gale: If it should ever come to that... if I ever know I am no longer able to stop it... I will do anything I can to ensure no one but me pays for my mistakes. I will find the remotest place on the surface of Faerûn, or perhaps far below in the depths of the Underdark. I will await that death alone. [*] I promise I will not betray your trust... You kept me by your side despite the menace that I am. If worst comes to worst, I will be gone long before the curtain falls. [*] If romanced, Gale will say here "I cherish you."

Which makes me suspect that Gale can disappear at any moment (in full game) if for some game mechanics we are unable to get magical artefacts but the deal with Raphael did not happen (if that’s even possible). But that's just me speculating. Nothing in EA seems to suggest this. What i's clear is that acceptance—that strong concept in the book he put so much emphasis on—is really important to him, so he shows gratitude for that: he promises to protect Tav (and many innocents) from his own mistake. He also says pretty soon an equivalent of “I love you”, in a more formal/meaningful way: “to cherish” is not just to love, but to care/protect as well.

Finally, in case someone lost those hints, or maybe as a consequence of this unpolished scene, we have a direct question with a direct answer:

Tav: Gale, are you still in love with Mystra? Gale: I’ll be honest with you; I don’t know. She is my muse still, the embodiment of magic, but the embodiment of love? Only if we ever meet again will I know

Gale simply says what we have been inferring so far with all the previous information: Gale reinforces the idea that he will remain as a strong, loving devotee of Mystra, because she is magic. I personally don't even consider it possible to remove that love from him. He may not be a cleric, but he loves his deity as one. But he also learnt his lesson that loving gods has its own dire consequences for mortals. He is very aware of it during the discussion about Karsus:

Tav: Nothing good ever comes from mortals wanting to be gods.

Gale: Loving them has its side effects as well. Now, so many centuries later, I tried to follow in the footsteps of Karsus, not to destroy Mystra, but to prove my love for her. It tried to control only a fraction of the magic that was unleashed that fateful day. I merely sought to return one tiny diamond to an imperfect crown. Gale's Folly one might call it. History. Repetition. It's the way things go.

Once more, there is no scene where Gale doesn't reinforce that what he did was a mistake, a foolish action, a Folly.

Finally, if talking about a previous lover immediately after awakening with a new one was of poor taste, Gale acknowledges this, giving an honest apology:

Gale: Before we go on though, do first let me apologise. To share such a night with you only to tell you of a previous lover the next morning... It wasn't the most gentleman-like behaviour. But I had to finally tell you. Silence would have been far worse behaviour still. Nevertheless, I am sorry.

He accepts any rude response or lash-out from Tav without approval penalties. This is an interesting meta-knowledge that speaks about owning up to his mistakes. Unlike the Loss scene, where rude responses made Gale disapprove because Tav was judging him without knowing the whole story [16], in this scene he doesn’t. Now Tav has the whole picture, and he accepts whatever reaction Tav shows. Of course he will approve a forgiving Tav, since Gale is a character very related to forgiveness [12, 12b].

Conclusion:

So, answering the question that gives title to this section: yes. In my opinion, Gale loves Mystra. But it’s not a white-and-black love; it has the complexity of human love mixed with this crazy lore of deities in Forgotten Realms. I believe Mystra will always be part of Gale's life, because the Weave and magic are his life, and she is both. He will always love her as a devotee, even though he now understands the mistakes of his young self and seems more aware of how naive he was when he was a “very young man”. The comments on the second tadpole dreams explicitly show that what Gale wants the most is Mystra’s forgiveness, but at the same time, he knows that he does not deserve it. And this raw realistic view of himself is what makes him understand that those dreams are illusions. During the party scene he is uncertain about his emotions, but still he emphasises that there is a big chance for him to not see Mystra as the embodiment of love any more but reinforces that she will always be the embodiment of magic to him (a very important concept in his character design).

Whether Gale is romanced or not, I don't see a difference in the information he shares on this matter in EA.

This post was written in June 2021. → For more Gale: Analysis Series Index

#bg3 meta #gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale

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parkerlyn · 4 years

Note

how would the ROs react if MC showed up at their bedroom door in the middle of the night hugging a pillow and looking for comfort after a nasty nightmare? bonus if MC's normally tough and doesn't scare easily ❤️ please bless us with some fluff 💕

Nightmares you say? 👀

(tw for brief blood and death because this got away from me and turned into drabbles. Written in the who-will-admit-to-the-feelings-first stage, and as if everyone’s uhhh staying at the same inn? Sleepover at The Lucky Albatross for [insert reason here]? haha. And thank you both for the ask! ❤️This really helped me kickstart my writing again after hitting a bit of a block 💖💖)

Sweat clings to your forehead as your eyes snap open, clammy cold jittering from the base of your skull and slamming down between your shoulder blades. Pressing your eyes closed again, you narrow your consciousness to your breaths, mind solely focused on the rising of your chest.

In. Out.

Blood gurgling from swollen lips, a hand clutching at dirt with a shiver. They look to you, pleading, wanting, no strength left to form the words you know would be their last.

In.

You stare helplessly as they collapse into the red already soaking into the ground, finally succumbing to the wound that’s pierced through their ribs.

You watch their body deflate in an exhale before stillness takes over.

Out.

Back in your bed, your fingers grip at the sheets around you in frustration and you sit up with a scoff.

No paradise and verdant fields tonight it seems, only nightmares. And in a cruel twist of fate of course, nightmares about someone who’s taken up more of your thoughts than you’re comfortable admitting.

You know you’re all safe. Your magic is strong enough to reach out and feel the comforting (comforting?) presence of all the people you expect in the rooms around you.

But you’re already up, securing the glamor, watching your mortalis form take shape.

You need to know for sure. Need to know that this isn’t some cruel illusion. Need to know their heart still beats, can beat, will beat in time with yours.

You find yourself...

---

The Healer:

...at the Healer’s door, hand hovering over the wood before you let your knuckles fall against it with a faint knock. There’s no response at first, and you curse under your breath for this moment of weakness, before you hear shuffling on the other side.

It goes quiet, and despite your self-chastising, you find your hand has already knocked again. Another magic reaches out cautiously before you can feel their guard drop, the door opening soon after.

Guilt flickers in your thoughts when you see them, golden eyes darkened with sleep above the disheveled open neckline of their nightshirt, warmth radiating from their exposed skin. They blink a few times before they fully come to terms with the fact that it’s you standing in front of them, the realization apparent when their eyes widen with clarity.

“I had a nightmare,” you explain, the words spilling out into the silence. “You...you died.”

The statement takes a few more seconds than usual for them to process, before their eyes soften and they step to the side to invite you into their room. The smell of cedarwood grazes against you as you pass, and you have to resist the urge to turn towards the source along their bare neck.

Once the Healer pinches fire alight on a couple candles, they ease you over to a chair near their bed.

“Ah- wherever you want to sit.” They murmur, voice laced with sleep. “I know the inn’s chairs aren’t exactly built for comfort.” They scratch at the back of their head and stay standing.

Watching their reaction for a moment, you decide to sit at the foot of the bed, where the covers are only mildly disturbed. The mattress sinks under your weight as you leave your legs hanging over the side, the balls of your feet pressed into the floor. Soon after making sure you seem settled enough, the Healer makes to sit in the chair instead.

But your body reacts first, reaching out without thinking to grab at their wrist, to stop them from moving farther away. To be able to feel them, tangible and real.

They swing their face to you when your hands connect, and you know they’ve felt the shiver run through your fingers. Whether from the lingering sight of their blood staining the ground, or from the static in the touch between you, you’re not sure.

Judging from the worry lining their brow, you’d guess they’re reading the former.

Within the space of a few seconds, their arms are around you with a hand firmly planted at the back of your neck, enveloping you in an embrace.

“I’m here,” says the voice in your ear, the vibration in their chest grounding you through their body.

It’s only then that you can feel what they’ve seen, your body shaking and swaying in the terror that crept into your limbs.

Fabric twists between your knuckles as you clutch at their back and bury your face into the crook of their neck while they squeeze tighter. The warm earthy scents from before fill your senses completely.

“I’m here.”

---

The Magesmith:

...at the Magesmith’s door, but you can’t quite bring yourself to knock. There’s a faint light trickling out from the loose parts of the door’s frame, and you can tell that they’re still awake. That should be enough, you can feel their magic through the door, clearly alive, clearly still there. It should be enough.

But it’s not.

You register the sound of the knock before you realize that you’re responsible for the echo in the hall, followed by the realization that it’s too late to retreat as the Magesmith opens the door.

With their headband discarded and the glowing light of the hearth’s fire, their dark auburn hair falls against their face in a gentle, haloed wave.

“You-” they start with a cocked eyebrow, before seeing the sheen of sweat across your forehead. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

You stare at them for another moment, reassuring your senses that it is in fact them. No illusion, just them in all their slightly sour-faced glory.

“Nightmare,” you respond softly, the Magesmith leaning in just a hair to hear you.

“Nightmare?”

The question comes across more tenderly than you would have expected from them, a sudden shift from the previous questions. It’s the first time the two of you have been alone in a long while, and the sudden awareness of this leads your gaze over their barely parted lips and across their sleeveless arms, the various smithing burns and scars writing shimmering stories over their skin.

“I, uh...” You sigh. “Nevermind, it’s fine,” you finally spit out, turning towards your room again.

“No, wait, please-” The Magesmith reaches for you but pulls their hand back at the last second. They smother the desperation in their voice and instead try to read your features for an answer to the questions they don’t want to admit they’re thinking.

Why me? Why did you come to me?

You watch them swallow the thoughts, lips pressed together as they look away.

“You...” Deep brown eyes snap back to your face at the sound of your voice, waiting for you to form the words. “You died. I watched you die and I wanted...I don’t know what I wanted. To see if you were alright?” You cringe at the words as they flow out and turn from the Magesmith’s scrutiny again.

Though you’re looking at the floor, you see them bring their hand to scratch idly above their prosthetic arm.

“Did I at least put up a fight?”

Jerking your head up in disbelief, you level them with a stare only to be met with genuine interest, and the faintest smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. In the odd situation, you can’t help but let out a short, crisp laugh.

“You can come in, if you want,” they whisper tentatively, as you feel the unease evaporating off of you. “Waiting for the fire to die down anyway.”

It takes you a moment to respond, the silhouette of flames dancing between you and them.

“I’d like that.”

---

The Sage:

...at the Sage’s door, clenching and unclenching your fists as you still try to shake off the residual images ingrained into your vision. Eventually you steel your nerves to knock, the sound as loud as thunder along the still hallway.

You hear a quiet hum on the other side of the door, followed by a soft “Just a minute,” and what you can assume is the Sage stumbling from the comfort of their bed to greet you.

This was stupid, that’s plenty of confirmation, you shouldn’t- but they’re already at the door, easing it open while gently rubbing a knuckle into the corner of their eye.

Worry shapes their face almost instantly when they register that it’s you, and they immediately survey the hall for a sign of any dangers. Content that there isn’t anything threatening your safety, they turn their entire focus back.

“Are you alright?” Their hand twitches as if it wants to reach out to you but they restrain themself. Looking into their eyes, the flecks of topaz in hazel are brilliant even in the dim night lighting, and you force yourself to rein in your staring before you fall in further.

“Just...just a nightmare,” you eventually respond, matching their hushed tones. You can feel them exploring your features, unsure of what to do.

They decide though, as you feel fingertips barely float above your shoulder, before their hand commits to giving you a light squeeze.

“Please come in?” they ask, easily reading what you’re hoping for. You nod and follow them inside.

With ease, they charge the crystal lantern into a faint golden glow, and let the fire curl off their fingers as the spell politely moves around you to swirl into the hearth. A healthy fire builds in the small fireplace and they take a seat down at the bench in front of it, offering the space next to them. Gladly, you take it, pressing your palms into the edge of the wood while watching the flames grow.

They’re happy enough sitting in silence, turning from the fire to you and then back. But it drags on longer than intended and you give a small sigh.

“It was you. I watched you die, and I couldn’t do anything.”

You hear the sharp intake of breath from beside you, and know that their eyes are focused on you now. You wring your hands together, still trying to shake off the icy grip of the hellscape you awoke from.

Carefully, gingerly, their hands come into view as they surround yours with theirs, the cold of your fingers sending small goosebumps racing up their arm. But they hold fast, letting the warmth of a small muted spell ease into your skin. Their palms glow as they run their hands over your wrists and your fingers, the heat reeling you fully into the present.

The motion continues, and you can feel the strain melting off as the heat inches up your arm. Sensing you relax, if only just slightly, they smile.

“Better?”

“Better.”

They keep a hold of your hands even when the spell ends.

---

Oisein:

...at Oisein’s door, and you barely rap your knuckles against the wood before it’s already open, lavender mortalis irises staring at you with concern. In the haze of your fervor to find them you missed that their magic was already reaching out to you, because of course it was, reading your nerves and your fear.

They give a tentative half smile. “I’d say you’re going to cause a scandal sneaking around like this, but...” They stop, deciding whether or not to gauge you again before you feel their pathos magic retreat. “You okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” you say, avoiding their gaze.

“What, really?” Some of the tension disappears from their face and they sigh with relief, a teasing smirk on their lips. “Well I can't complain if it sent you running to me for a late-night rendezvous-”

“I watched you die,” you interrupt, and their smirk shatters when they see you shudder. “I had to make sure-”

Their hand is already wrapped around your forearm, trying to move their face back into your sight. “Hey, no wait, I’m sorry- hey-” they start, and when you still won’t meet their eyes, they move their hands to gently cup your cheeks, guiding your face back up.

"No nightmare can get rid of me that easy, yeah?Sorry 'bout your luck, but you're still stuck with me," they whisper, a quiet chuckle following close behind.

Their face holds a smile, until you both realize you’ve drawn closer together. Their palms surge warmth through either side of your face, fingers lightly traced over the cool soft skin beneath your ears. There’s a flicker in their eyes down to your lips, and they try to nonchalantly draw their hands away from you, coughing in embarrassment and hiding behind the golden hair falling over their face.

Spreading their lithe fingers against their room door, they open it wider.

“Want to stay for a little? I’ll behave, really,” they offer without a single shred of their usual sarcasm.

You nod and walk in past them, and they tentatively place a hand on the small of your back as they close the door, walking you over to sit at the corner table.

As you lower into the chair, their hand ghosts up over your shoulder and down your arm, trying to maintain contact while they sit opposite to you. They let their fingers hold yours, thumb smoothing over your knuckles.

With an exhale through their nose, they look from your hands up to your eyes with almost a tinge of defiance.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

You believe them.

#ro ask #ro asks #the healer #the magesmith #the sage #oisein #nightmare #nightmares #fluff #drabble #drabbles #I....may use some of this content in the game at some point 👀#blood tw #death tw

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vpyre · 3 years

Text

The Geek Division

Grelle was annoyed. She generally was these days, but this time there was a tangible reason. Why on earth did she need to experience “the science side of Grim Reaper Dispatch” when they knew full well that she had no interest in academics and would rather be out learning something useful like how to collect souls? She was in Retrieval training for christ's sake. To hell with “having an understanding and appreciation for all branches of the Dispatch”. It was just pointless. Pointless and stupid and just another thing for her to suffer through. She sighed and tapped her fingers against one of the black lab tables. Beakers and vials bubbled and hissed in the back of the room, barely audible over the clamor of the new trainees as they filed in and found seats with their new friends. No one sat with her. She was left alone to sulk, not that she particularly cared. They were all the same anyway; afraid of her, unnerved by her, rude to her. She would tell them all to drop dead, but it was a bit too late for that.

When everyone had found a seat, four reapers in white lab coats made their way to the front of the room, and one of them stepped forward. As soon as the first word left his mouth, Grelle knew she'd be dying of boredom ten minutes in, if that. Pointless. What a waste of time. As her gaze settled on the view through the long window on the other side of the room, she propped her chin on her fist and twirled a strand of her short hair around her finger. I wish it was longer. To my knees even! I’d be gorgeous if I grew it out; and then maybe they would see me the way I really am. Her thoughts continued drifting wistfully, like a cardinal’s feathers in a breeze.

"Hiya."

Grelle started and whipped around so hard she almost fell out of her chair. Sitting in the previously empty seat beside her was another man in a lab coat, though he was decidedly more rumpled than the other scientists. Where their clothes and hair were tidy and their demeanor formal, his dark hair stuck out in odd places and he was slouching in his seat. When she saw the open, laid-back friendliness on his face, she felt some of her tension evaporate as her mind processed that he wasn't there to harass her like the others. But still... why is he talking to me?

"My name's Othello. What's yours, my dear new reaper?" he asked. She didn't see a single hint of negativity or ulterior motives in his face, so she replied,

"Grelle Sutcliff. From the Retrieval Division." If he was really genuine in his friendliness, she couldn't see the harm in making conversation to pass the time.

"Good to meet you! Now, what're your pronouns, Dear Grelle?"

What? She blinked, trying not to let her surprise show. No one had ever asked her that before; they all just assumed. She couldn't blame them, not really. She'd never met someone like her, never met someone who was aware of anything other than what the societal norm was. But somehow he knew. Why did he know? Reapers must really be ahead of their time, or at least this one was. He seemed to have picked up on her line of thinking when she didn't respond right away, so he continued,

"I've seen you around, so I noticed that you carry yourself a certain way and that you don't appear to like being referred to as male. I wanted to make sure I wasn't assuming anything, 'cos you seem like an interesting person to know."

It was the sincerity in his voice that stifled the last of her apprehension. She relaxed and murmured,

"I... I'm a woman. And thank you. Y'know, for asking. It isn't often that people are this considerate."

"No need to thank me, it should just be common decency. Anywho, it doesn't look like you're particularly enjoying the forensics lecture." Before she could finish stuttering out a defensive response, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna tattle on you. I'd be in the same boat if I had to visit the retrieval division, seeing as I'm physically incompetent and nothing fascinates me more than science." There were sudden rustles of movement around them as the instructors shooed everyone out of the room for a demonstration. Grelle sighed and stood up to follow,

"Well, it was nice to meet you, but-" a hand on her arm gave her pause. "What?" She turned to look at the other reaper, and he mouthed,

"Come with me!" She hesitated for a moment, deliberating. Then she shrugged. She had nothing better to do; plus he was considerate and kind, which was more than she could say for anyone else as far as she was concerned, so she nodded, relief and mischievous curiosity bubbling up and lifting her spirits. Stifling a grin, she followed him as they scurried through the lab and away from the group, quietly slipping out into the corridor.

She glanced around furtively and asked, "What are we doing?” as he tugged her onward through the stark white halls.

”Alleviating your boredom. You looked like you were about to snap and smash some of those beakers, so I thought I’d save you from the inevitable cleanup duty punishment. And like I said, you seem like an interesting person to know. Plus, I want to show you my lab. Forensics will never interest you if those stuffed shirts are the ones talking. They don’t ever say anything interesting. They all think I’m ‘eccentric’ just cos I’m not satisfied with their dull science; and I very well may be, but at least I’m not boring.” She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny that listening to this geek talk was infinitely more entertaining than sitting in that stuffy lab, listening to those stuffy scientists regaling her with their stuffy lecture.

His lab wasn't far, thank god. As much as she hated the Dispatch and its rules, she didn't want to get caught and written up, not when she was doing so well in her retrieval training. They stopped at a plain wooden door in the middle of the hall. It was unremarkable, but from what she could already tell about Othello himself, it was sure to be more interesting on the inside. He unlocked the door and they entered. What she saw was unexpected, but she had expected it to be unexpected, so really it wasn't all that surprising. Where the other lab was neat and orderly, equipment organized and surfaces uncluttered, his looked like a tornado had torn through it. Beakers and papers were scattered across all available tables and counters, almost completely obscuring every horizontal surface. There were science-y odds and ends everywhere. On top of that, there was a huge pile of unrecognizable mechanical parts, metal, and machinery on the floor in the back of the room (strangely enough, the floor was clean and absent of any other clutter).

"What on earth is that thing?" Grelle asked, leaning on a table and gesturing to the back of the room. She hoped he wouldn't get all technical about it; she didn't understand these sorts of things, nor did she want to, but she couldn't help feeling curious.

"It's a dynamo, a generator; or, rather, it will be. I'm still working on it. Humans probably won't have it for the next hundred years or so." He strode over to the desk near the metal thing -the generator- and started digging through the papers. Despite the mess he seemed to know exactly where to find what he needed, emerging a moment later with a diagram, which he waved around enthusiastically, excitement shining in his eyes. "It converts AC into DC using a commutator, which is a set of rotating switch contacts on the armature shaft that reverse the connection of the armature winding to the circuit with every 180 degree rotation, creating a-"

She shook her head and cut in, waving a hand, "Wait wait wait wait. I don't speak geek; mind translating that to English?"

"Essentially, it just generates energy in the form of electricity. But there's so much more to it than that! Lemme show you the diagram." He motioned her over to the desk. Pointing out parts as he spoke, he explained what each one did, how it worked, and how they fit together. When he finished rambling about the generator, he moved on to some of the other blueprints and formulas scattered throughout the room as well as some of the chemical vials sitting in their various nooks and crannies. She didn't understand a word that came out of his mouth, but his enthusiasm was contagious; though she tried to act aloof, she found herself smiling and nodding along as he spouted scientific gibberish. It was entertaining just to watch him gush about it all, and honestly kinda endearing. It certainly took her mind off of her bitter thoughts. Even with the difference in interests, she was just glad to be around someone who seemed to enjoy her company and who didn't harbor any negativity towards her. Someone who went out of his way to cheer her up. Someone who trusted her not to lash out at him. Someone who was thoughtful enough to ask about her feelings and respectful enough to listen to, then act on her answer.

Still, she wondered. "Why did you come talk to me, y'know, back in the other lab? Most reapers would rather avoid me."

He shrugged and put down his test tube. "You just seemed lonely. Not only at that moment, but almost every time I saw you around. To other reapers, your loneliness and hurt might come across as anger, but that's just 'cos they don't bother trying to understand you. Honestly! You'd think they'd have no trouble understanding on some level; after all, we all got here the same way, but some people just don't seem to have it in them to be sympathetic anymore. I make a point of doing things others are afraid of doing, which too often includes being a decent person. On top of that, you're just a very interesting woman, and I like interesting people. Besides, you're really tough and I'm physically weak, so if I stick with you no one will dare mess with me, ha ha!"

Grelle rolled her eyes, but she chuckled a bit all the same. Truth be told, she genuinely appreciated this reaper, someone she had just met, for speaking so openly and kindly. He certainly was eccentric, but he made that a good thing. He continued on as if nothing had happened, and she relaxed in the casually comfortable atmosphere.

All too soon, she heard the trainee crowd walk past Othello's lab, instructors herding them back from the forensics tour. To her surprise, she found that she wanted to stay and simply listen to Othello rave about his beloved science, even though it just went in one ear and out the other for her. She turned to bid him farewell.

"I'm going to head back before I get us in trouble. It was a pleasure to meet you, even if you are a huge geek. And just... thank you. For going out of your way to make me feel more welcome. I may not like or understand science, but if you have to talk about that sort of thing, I suppose I'll humor you and listen."

He smiled a bit and shrugged. "Anytime. And I guess it's too much to hope that I've piqued your interest in forensics?"

"Yes. I'll leave that to you geeks." She shook her head in mock exasperation, but as she walked away, she smiled. Just a bit.

#for the people without ao3 accounts #fanfic #my writing #platonic grellethello #grellethello #grelle sutcliff #grell sutcliff #othello #black butler #kuroshitsuji

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 37

Read on AO3. Part 36 here. Part 38 here.

Summary: There are only so many ways you can deliver news.

Words: 2700

Warnings: dystopia

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I really didn't think I'd get a chapter out today, but I did, so yay!? Sorry it's a bit short (I remember when 2000 words was normal for me!), but I must be on my bullshit, as always.

Thank you very much to everyone who reached out. I had a shitty week this week, and I anticipate things in the next few weeks will not be super great. If there is a week where an update is missed, I hope you can understand.

I love y'all very much, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3

Beyond the sheet, the doctor’s shadow worked in silence, collecting instruments to soon be used to pry and expose your pomegranate flesh. Your monthly exam would never feel routine--prior to the collapse of society, they’d already been unpleasant. But now, separated from the provider by gossamer cloth, scrutinized in anonymity while metal objects cracked you wide, they crushed you in revulsion. The doctor whirled on his stool between your legs, air whispering over your bare skin. You swallowed.

A squeaking, clacking, and the cold metal of the speculum parted your labia and pierced your entrance. You held your breath, willing away the tears that pricked your sight--you’d always cried at this part, even before it became obligatory--drifting to your mind until he was finished.

Kylo Ren had been gone for 18 days, and in his absence, Gilead had drawn from your veins, a vampire of systemic proportions bleeding you not of life, but of the will to live itself. Without his presence, his power, his capability to extract you from bondage, you’d sunk into it like a tarpit, thick sticky ooze edging ever-closer to your throat. Sutures now removed, antibiotics completed, your days consisted of waking, walking, waiting, and, more than once, weeping, before wishing yourself into a witless slumber. Not that you were surprised. After all, before you’d fucked him in secrecy the first time, you’d asked yourself, what was life without living?

As it turned out: pretty fucking awful.

Pain lit up your spine when the doctor dug at your cervix for a swab--you winced, and the exam room door opened.

“Hey, we’re running behind, you do you want me to grab the next one, or--”

“No, no,” your doctor replied. “I’m almost done with this one. Did you get the urinalysis back?”

“Uh, no, sorry, I haven’t checked. I can go do it now.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Oh, hey.” Then he swiveled away--leaving you gaping, a red tunnel open for observation. “Did you hear what the director said this morning?”

The other man hummed in thought. “Something about Commander Pryde. I didn’t really care.”

You stared into the ceiling, hands folded over your stomach, tears stinging again while your thighs began to tremble. Privacy and respect hadn’t been afforded to you in three years; you had long been designated a womb buried in a hunk of meat. But something about having your cervix on display like the Hope Diamond was particularly nauseating. Your stomach groaned in humiliation.

“Yeah. Anyone who’s even spoken with Pryde in the last month is getting rounded up.”

Breath stalled. There was no way the doctor knew who you were--the sheet separating you ensured that. Dread iced over your chest.

“Shit,” the other man replied. “Really? Damn.” A pause, clanging of instruments. “Just questioning, right?”

“For now.” The doctor grumbled. “I just had the tenaculum. What the hell?”

“Isn’t it right over there?”

“Oh, right, yeah.” Wheels squeaked across the floor. “Anyway, it’s just a new round of Ren’s bullshit.” He sighed, scooching between your legs again. Something sharp and cold pinched you--you bit your lip. “Dissenters this, threats to Gilead that. I wouldn’t worry about it. Unless--”

A snort. “I hate the both of ‘em.” The man sighed. “You’d think that fixing the birthrate should be their top priority, the way things are going.”

The doctor grumbled, and something pinched you like talons, shooting pain up your spine. “Yeah. Well. If Ren has his way, half the people in this country are gonna end up dead.”

Your heart was tumbling into a canyon. In the time without him, your belief in your Commander’s defection had dimmed. You’d believed initially that his motivation for Pryde’s capture was revenge--something undesirable, but still understandable--but the longer his campaign went on, the more you realized that there would be nothing that would convince him to release his stranglehold on his position. A gnawing despair within you whispered that whatever Kylo Ren felt for you, he felt it one hundredfold for power and control; convincing him to leave it behind would not only be improbable, but impossible. Yet, as you considered betraying what little affection he might have, sorrow shredded you. The thought of his capture, trial, possible execution--

More tears. You couldn’t stomach the thought of him not here, of being torn from him, of his existence in the past tense. And you also couldn’t sacrifice your freedom for his sins.

The release of the speculum tugged you back to the exam, and you sniffled, clearing your throat. You’d missed the rest of the conversation.

“Whatever happens, at least we won’t be out of a job. They’ll always need someone to make sure the breeding stock is healthy.” A pause, as if to acknowledge that, yes, you were still in the room. “No offense, of course.”

Bile burned your tongue. You said nothing.

“Shit, that reminds me,” said the other man. “I’ll go check the urinalysis.”

“Thanks.”

The door shut. Without warning, latex fingers pushed inside of you, another hand pressing down on your belly. The inspection went on for seconds longer than you thought it should, his fingers curling, as if he was languishing there, reveling in the sensation of feeling your uterus. For a blink, every thought surrounding your Commander’s desertion of Gilead fled your mind, consumed by a venomous desire that he might catch this doctor in the act and crack his skull on the pearly tile, spray his blood, stain the grout. And then the intrusion was over, and your fury dissipated, the ache for retribution hollowing in your heart.

It wouldn’t have mattered, really, if he had been standing in the room when it had happened--the doctor was no anomaly, but a functioning cog in Kylo Ren’s machine. As long as you both remained in clutches of his own creation, he would spend eternity defending you from its design. Even if you could be an exception, other women would suffer in forced silence. And even if he could mould it to your liking, it would still mean he preferred you to exist in subjugation instead of liberation.

Hope had been a security blanket almost three weeks ago, thick and warm around your shoulders while he’d bathed you with gentle hands. Now it clung in tatters to your ribs, the tiny scraps fluttering like tissue with every gust of reality.

The door opened again.

“Hey,” the man said. “Got the results.”

A snap of rubber as the doctor removed his gloves. “And?”

“Look for yourself.”

Shuffling paper stifled the sad knock of your pulse in your ears. Perhaps you knew, and had always known, that Kylo might never come to agree with your perspective. You just frequently forgot to acknowledge that it would mean letting him go. Forever.

“Hey! Okay!” A warm palm slapped your thigh, and you squeaked. “We got another one!”

When no one responded, you realized he had been speaking to you. About a result. A urinalysis. Another one...

You couldn’t speak. Or breathe. Oh--

“You’re pregnant!”

Like a geyser, it burst from you--your sorrow, your fear, your disgust, your absolute joy--and poured in rivers down your cheeks, your hands clapping over your face. There was no one coherent thought that could be plucked from your mind, just a constant tornado of horrific exhilaration, a celebratory mourning that within you, a tangible testament to you and your Commander’s connection beat and pulsed and flourished with life, growing veins like vines and limbs like wings.

His child--your child--a physical entity you could nourish in the wake of his reluctance, an unalterable legacy inside of your womb, one that you, if you were to be denied all else, could adore. Your child, but also his child, descendant to a despondent devil, progeny to a preserver of your own imprisonment. A child that, if born into the realm of its father’s regency, would never know normality, or maybe even you--at all. A heaving sob cracked through, and you shivered, trembling with terrified bliss.

The doctor slapped your thigh again. “Don’t stress!” he said. “According to the chart here, you’re about six weeks along. There’s still a chance for disruption. So I’d stay relaxed, all right?”

Swallowing, you creaked out a noise of assent. There wasn’t a word you could bear to say.

After the doctor left, you slipped back into your red dress and wings--despite Kylo’s words weeks earlier, you had been provided no other options after he’d left, and you suspected he’d meant for you to only be out of uniform in his presence, regardless. You were escorted by an armed nurse out of the clinic, where a Knight--still masked, no cloak, just in tactical gear--was waiting by the black SUV you’d seen a few of them in before. Averting your gaze, you climbed into the back and buckled in. The vehicle started, you coasted through the parking lot, and onto the road.

For the first time in several days, the sun was out--though it would need more than an afternoon to evaporate the muggy air that had accumulated in its absence. You gazed into the stark, cloudless sky, placing your hands on your belly, as if you could commune with the little being inside of you, know it before it knew you. A question, awful and exciting, lingered in your mind as you imagined telling Kylo the news, but no answer revealed itself. You replayed the scenario over and over again, practicing it on your tongue--I’m pregnant--digging deep for his reaction. But it was useless, as initially unknowable as anything else about him. Anxiety constricted your heart, a dam about to crumble behind your eyes.

The Knight turned a corner, and you jostled in the backseat. There couldn’t have been much intimacy between them all. But still.

“How do you think the Commander would respond…” You swallowed again--hesitation kept wadding in your throat. “How do you think he’d respond to a pregnancy?”

Long, sweltering seconds ticked by without a word. Balling your hands in your lap, your palms slipped, heartbeat thumped in your clasped thumbs. You’d never heard a Knight say a word, before--you weren’t sure why you were expecting one to answer you. Lava licked at your neck, dripping down your spine, your teeth tearing at your cheeks.

“Whatever it is,” the Knight said, shattering expectation, “anything in comparison will look like apathy.”

A rush of interminable origin raced your flesh, flushing hot in your blood. That was about as accurate as you could expect. And unsatisfying as you could predict.

When you arrived at home and stepped out of the vehicle, another realization crested over you. Johana. Though your relationship had settled into an uneasy truce since the day the Commander had left, the words she spared you had been few and far between. You knew that your pregnancy was possibly her only dream, but combined with the uncharted territory of her husband’s intentions, you worried it would become her nightmare.

At the same time, perhaps these worries were unfounded--the threats Kylo would face by disrupting his Wife’s right to your child might be too great for him to risk his power. His concessions had been minor and in relative secrecy, affecting only his relationship with you--everything else had the secondary benefit of securing his reign. He’d said plenty, but how much had he meant? After overhearing the discussion in the exam room, you were fairly certain that if made to choose between Gilead and you, you’d lose.

You followed the Knight into the house, relieved to cross into central air. Taking a few slow steps, you drew a deep breath.

“Ms. Johana!” You paused, listening for a response. You heard none. “Ms. Johana?”

She wasn’t in the house--that meant she was likely out in the yard. In the heat. Sighing, you trudged through the halls through the back door, squinting as light smacked your face. In the weeks since Kylo’s departure, the garden had been cleared and mostly restored at Johana’s behest--the grass gleamed gold, summer flowers replanted in over-saturated swirls of color. You hopped over the stones, turning the words on your tongue, hoping to make them real in your mouth.

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m--

“Ofkylo.”

You stalled, recognizing the moniker as yours, resentful of its familiarity to your ears. Beyond one of the hedges was Johana, prying open a birdfeeder. Heat--though whether it was from the sun or your fear, you didn’t know--sizzled the nape of your neck. You steeled your jaw, grabbing your skirts and tromping through the trimmed lawn in her direction.

“What are you doing out here?” There was a bag of mixed seed at her feet, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she wiped the feeder clean with a rag. “I thought you just left for your exam.”

“I did. I’m back,” you said. “I was, um. Looking for you.”

“Oh.” She flipped the top in her little hands, scrubbing it clean, too. “Well, that’s fine. What’s going on? They didn’t find out about the gunshot, right?”

You shook your head. “Oh, no no. That’s fine.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m tired of lying for your benefit. The antibiotics weren’t--”

“I know, Ms. Johana,” you sighed. “So…” The words were so simple, but so difficult to say. “The exam went well.”

She nodded, digging into the seed, scooping a helping. “Uh-huh.”

There was nothing that would make this any less nerve-wracking. You inflated your chest, and let it go. “I’m pregnant.”

Johana stopped, like she’d been shot herself, staring into the ground. The seed fell from her palms and spilled over her shoes. She rose, gaze drifting from your feet, to your hands, to your face, her chin shaking. A smile was threatening to explode across her lips.

“Wait.” She exhaled. “Really?”

Wagging your arms in admission, you nodded. “Yup.”

A human springtrap, she squealed, launching into you and wrapping you in a tight, bony hug. You wheezed from her strength--she squeezed you, pinning your limbs to your sides as she wriggled you like a toy.

“Yes!” She jumped up and down, still holding you. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Yes,” you repeated. “It’s, um, it’s true!”

Johana released you, erupting with elation. “This is amazing!” she said. “Lord, I’m going to have to go see everyone. Yes, we’ll have to have a party.” She clapped her hands and hugged you again. “Can you let the Marthas know to clean this up? I have to get going.” A playful, devious smirk twisted her mouth as she skipped into the house, congratulating herself. “Oh, they’re going to be so jealous! I’m pregnant!”

You stood, staring down at your belly. It wasn’t obvious, yet--but it wouldn’t be long. The thought of Johana preening, presiding over your stomach like it was her work paralyzed your heart. Had it been any other Commander, any other household, you might have even been relieved to incubate your ticket out of the Colonies, but now, you felt only panic. You didn’t want to give this baby up to her--a desire you never would have anticipated.

But then, none of this had been anything you had the ability to anticipate. A Handmaid was not supposed fuck her Commander outside of the Ceremony, or kiss him, or wake up in his embrace. A Handmaid was not supposed to yearn for her Commander, feel comfort from his voice, find companionship in his presence, or feel grateful for his brutality and strength. A Handmaid was not supposed to plan her Commander’s downfall, or plan his escape, and especially not plan his future with her in it.

A Handmaid was not supposed to fall in love with her Commander. But you were a Handmaid. And it was too late.

You left the empty birdfeeder and the bag of seed, slinking up the stairs, creeping back to your room. Throat, chest, face tight, you laid in bed, palms planted on your stomach, and breathed. Shutting your eyes, you hoped for the hundred-thousandth time in three years you would wake up in a different world--a world where the father of your child was not your legal owner, a world where another woman was not claiming it as hers, a world where you opened your eyes and you were not alone, and you were free, and you were truly, deservedly loved.

If you fell asleep, you didn’t know--the next thing you recalled was the familiar rumble of the Audi’s engine, dying as it rolled into the driveway.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #idk I got feelings

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isingonly4myangel · 4 years

Note

You asked for prompts, so here is one: Hilda organizes a dance at the Academy of Unseen Arts to lift people’s spirits. Zelda begrudgingly attends. Everything is fine until a cheeky young warlock asks her to dance, and she has a flashback to being under Faustus’ spell.

Yikes, well this only took me more than a year to answer. Nothing like a mandatory quarantine to force you into working on pieces you haven’t touched in ages! Anyway, this is set after part 2, so we’re still in a sweet spot of potential before part 3 happened. First CAOS story, would love to hear people’s thoughts!

Also, in case anyone is interested, the piece they dance to is “Melting Waltz” by Abel Korzeniowski. Yes, I like my horror tv shows :)

Below the line, because Faustus Blackwood is an ass, and- ya know- trauma

The dance had been Hilda’s idea. Since the whole Satan fiasco, morale amongst the remainder of the coven had been low. Very low. Hilda, ever the caretaker, tried everything to lift people’s spirits. Once baked goods had failed, even with enchantment, she began to plan for the dance.

A week or two prior, Zelda had contacted the High Priests of two covens in New York City that had a reputation for being more liberal in their beliefs, to inform them of what had happened in Greendale. Both men had accepted her as the first High Priestess in history with relative ease, and though she was reluctant to show it, Zelda was delighted. So when creating a guest list, Hilda had written to them with a dual invitation for a face-to-face meeting as well as an evening of socialization with the Greendale coven.

Expecting the remaining members of the Greendale coven to be joined by a dozen or so members of the New York covens, Hilda spent days decorating and baking. Two days before the event, she and Zelda stood in the main hall at the Academy, making minor adjustments to decorations.

“What’ll we do about that… thing?” Hilda asked, gesturing to the statue in the centre of the space, now missing its head. It was one of only two tangible marks of Faustus Blackwood’s brief and twisted domain over the Church of Night, the other being his office within the building. Zelda had begun to clear it out the previous week, but had left almost as soon as she entered. She could not stand his lingering scent.

In response to Hilda’s question, the ginger-haired witch merely raised her left hand, palm facing the statue, and Hilda turned to look at Zelda as she felt her sister’s magic surge through the room. Slowly at first, but then with increasing speed, the neck of the statue began to melt. Dark grey droplets formed, dripping from the statue’s throat down to its shoulders. Before long, stone flowed as liquid, the statue becoming misshapen, drooping as it disintegrated.

Once the statue was no more than a large puddle of grey sludge, it suddenly errupted into flames. Zelda took a drag off the cigarette in its holder on her right hand, watching the remains of the statue evaporate.

“Well,” Hilda broke the silence as the last of the puddle burned away. “I suppose that’s that.” She began, somewhat awkwardly, to sneak out of the room around her sister. Zelda methodically exhaled a cloud of smoke before flicking the ashes of her cigarette in the swiftly shrinking puddle. Then the redhead turned on her heel and sauntered out, feeling somewhat lighter.

The evening was lovely. The hall of the Academy was alive with light and sound. Candles on each wall and hovering overhead created a sophisticated and appropriately spooky embiance. Music reverberated softly through the space, somehow smoothly alternating between classical orchestrations, jazz band recordings, and modern pop songs for the younger generation.

Sabrina sat on the staircase surrounded by her schoolmates, the red silken fabric of her skirt draped over the stairs. Her mortal friends had joined the coven for the occasion, mingling with the Academy students around Sabrina. Hilda played hostess as she made her way in cheerful circles around the room to ensure that every guest was contented, the neckline of her blue dress cut just a little lower than previous dresses (at her sister’s encouragement). Zelda was every inch the High Priestess. Her fiery hair was pinned up, her dress a formal black, pointed at her shoulders and at the ends of her long sleeves, partially covering the backs of her hands. Her nails were a deep, blood red matching the jewels of her earrings and the color painting her lips. She stood in a cluster of warlocks, trading ideas on numerology, quietly pleased that things seemed to be going so well. Their guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, and Zelda felt respected, listened to, equal with the men she stood amongst. It made for a very welcome change.

The music shifted into a haunting waltz, a minor-keyed orchestration full of strings. The warlock on Zelda’s left extended an upturned hand to her, the gesture holding a certain air of ceremony. He made quite a picture with his gold suit jacket, along with gold rings on his fingers, eyes lined in the same color, and nails painted to match. So much gold laid against his dark skin created quite a striking effect. “Might I ask you for a dance, High Priestess?” he questioned with a charming smile. Zelda raised an eyebrow, almost as though she were evaluating him before replying.

“Very well,” she murmured after a moment’s pause, placing her hand in his outstretched one. He led her to the centre of the room where other dancing couples had begun to pick up the waltz tempo, and pulled her gracefully into a dance frame with a hand on her back, leaving her free hand to rest on his shoulder. As the music rose, he stepped forward and began to lead.

They were a very elegant pair, and other couples drifted to the outskirts of the dancing space to allow them more room. A number of conversations around the room fell silent as people turned to watch.

“You dance beautifully, High Priestess,” he spoke as she followed his change of direction with ease, flashing her that same lovely smile.

“Thank you, Brother Ethan. It was one of my favorite pastimes a century or two ago, I did quite a lot of it. All those marvelous European parties.”

“Oh I know just the ones, somehow the Europeans always throw superior parties. And so many handsome young men,” he added, a wry smile on his lips. Zelda gave a knowing laugh as he raised their connected arms for her to turn under, but as she spun- once, twice- the room seemed almost to tilt under her feet, and she heard the flutter of a skirt that she was not wearing, felt sharpened fingernails pricking the delicate skin of her waist. She was pulled back against the warlock, and she desperately tried to focus on his tightly curled hair, the feeling of the flat of his palm nearly between her shoulder blades, the gold edging his dark eyes, anything to remind her that this was not Faustus.

Breathe, she thought, forcing herself to keep with the rhythm of the music while everything in her screamed to run. Careful to keep her face frozen in a slight smile, she directed all of her attention to inhaling and exhaling evenly in time with the music, counting waltz time in her head. In 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Her feet followed his automatically, and she bit hard on the inside of her lip as he turned her again.

An eternity later, the music came to an end, and she returned his bow with a picture perfect curtsey. “You are truly lovely, Sister Zelda,” spoke her partner as they returned to the side of the room.

Zelda, Blackwood’s voice hissed in her mind, a cruel echo of Ethan’s friendly tone.

“Thank you for the dance, Brother Ethan,” she spoke, digging her fingernails into her palms to stop her hands from shaking. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some-something to attend to.” Without waiting for his response, she turned away from him and started across the room. She managed to keep a sensible- though swift- pace until she stepped into the empty corridor. Her strength disappeared and she broke into a run, undeterred by the height of her heels.

Swinging around the corner, she flung herself at the front doors and stumbled through them, the chilly evening air tearing into her lungs. She flew down the stone steps, no thought to where she was going, only wanting to get as far away as possible. Racing towards the railroad tracks, one foot caught behind her, and suddenly the ground rushed up to meet her, her palms skidding against rough soil and small stones tearing at the knees of her stockings. As she whipped her head around to look behind her, she saw her right shoe standing upright, its heel rooted in the earth. Her breath caught in her chest and a sob ripped from her lips, fingers digging into the dirt in an effort to find something- anything- to hold onto as memories that plagued her nightmares flooded her mind. She sank back on her knees, gasping air into her lungs while her tears left tiny dampened spots on the ground beneath her.

Every thought was disturbingly vivid- the overpowering scent of Faustus’s cologne, the sickly sweet taste of sugared tea, the sharp crack of the cat o’ nine tails against her back, pricks of pain as his sharpened fingernails tore at delicate flesh inside of her until there was blood on the sheets. The maddening knowledge that she was aware of every moment and yet powerless to stop anything.

A hand on her back startled her so that she recoiled from it with a strangled cry, her hip landing hard against the uneven earth. Half-expecting it to be Faustus standing above her, waiting to drag her back to the prison of the music box, she was somewhat bewildered to see Lilith looking down at her, an unfamiliar expression of pity on the face borrowed from Mary Wardwell. Zelda wiped furiously at her cheeks with the back of her hand in a futile attempt to compose herself.

“My Queen,” she spoke, her voice wavering. “What m-”

“I’m not here as your queen,” Lilith cut her off, kneeling beside her despite the dirt. “I could feel you. All the way down in Hell- your body, your magic in distress, your mind practically screaming. Zelda, what’s happened?”

“I-it felt… it felt like F-faustus, when he-he…” A sob bubbled up in her throat and she tried to swallow it, her head dropping in shame at such a display in front of the Queen of Hell. In front of Lilith.

Lilith reached out a gentle hand and placed it lightly against Zelda’s head, brushing fiery hair away from her face. The witch allowed it, leaning in almost imperceptibly to her touch. Wishing to spare her High Priestess any pain she could, the demoness pulsed her magic through her hand and nudged into Zelda’s mind, carefully touching on the recollections at the forefront of her memory. Brushing up against the thoughts, Lilith could see Zelda’s remembrance of the last few minutes in the hall, and of everything she suffered at Faustus’s hand. Her lips parted as she gasped in horror, tears burning in her own eyes to match the redhead’s.

“Oh, Zelda,” she breathed, leaning forward to touch her forehead lightly to the witch’s. “As I am Queen of Hell, I promise that no man will ever hurt you like that again. And when I find Faustus Blackwood, I will drag him screaming into the Pit and I will visit on him pain as he has never known before. He will pay for what he’s done, I promise you.” Lilith tilted her head up to press her lips against Zelda’s brow, sealing her vow with a kiss heated in Hellfire.

Hold me, she heard Zelda’s whispered thought as the witch bit her lip, trying fiercely to hold back tears. Lilith, please. Please hold me. The desperation in the redhead’s mind broke the demoness’s heart as it had not been broken in millennia. She gathered the other woman into an embrace, feeling Zelda’s arms wrap around her waist as she held her tightly. And as the witch sobbed against her chest, finally giving into tears, Lilith began to plot revenge against the man who had brought her High Priestess, trembling, to her knees.

What fun she would have with him. What fun.

#I was gonna end it differently #but I couldn't bring myself to just leave Zelda there #pardon the shameless madam spellman shipping #caos #chilling adventures of sabrina #Zelda spellman #aunt zelda #high priestess #madam satan #lilith #church of lilith #madam spellman #Blackwood sucks #zero spellw*od here #tw #trigger warning #writings

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jimlingss · 5 years

Note

mayhaps a friends to lovers jungkook fic where they’re total opposites and mayhaps some mutual pining? hakjdkf I hate how when requests are open I can never think of exactly what I wanna say lol 😩

Anonymous said: Request: “Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful.” “No. I hate you because you’re a bitch.”

smolchimchimhandz said: one of those “:0 sharing one bed!!!!!” fics but tae has a dream about a hamburger and bites the reader in his sleep

Anonymous said: I have a request! I always wanted to read a Nana( the anime/manga) inspired Au (If you haven’t seen it that’s okay) except I want the oc to be the punk rock badass girl who loves to sing and doesn’t take shit from anybody. Anyway I love your writing! I hope you continue to love what you do ❤️❤️

↳ Die for You

2k words || 96% Fluff, 3% Smut, 1% Angst || Jeon Jungkook || Band!AU

He was a decent lay.

As decent as he could get with that handsome face of his and blessed package — but those things he was lucky enough to be born with. As far as actual skill goes, you had to do all the work. At least you could look at his face while you got yourself off. You weren’t too mad.

But the last straw is when you’re suddenly awoken in the early morning with his teeth sunk into your shoulder. What the f— “What the fuck!”

You slap his head, kick him as hard as you can in his abdomen and he wheezes, shoved off to the ground and shocked awake. The blonde man drags the soiled sheets with him as he falls. And then he blinks away his sleepiness, utterly confused while he scratches his scalp.

“You bit me!”

“Wh—…Oh. Sorry,” Tae…Tae-something, smiles sheepishly. You don’t remember his name. “I was having a dream about eating a hamburger.”

Was this guy serious?

“Are you serious?” You eye him in horror, wondering if his last two brain cells evaporated in the middle of the night. Taekwon grins and he shrugs. You’re wholly unimpressed, hitching your thumb to the door. “Get out.”

“You look like you had a rough night,” Hoseok comments, grinning once you enter the dressing room. You drop your guitar case with a sigh, flopping down onto the armchair and propping your feet up on the vanity.

As fun as it is to chase after fame and perform on stages across the country as a band, there came hardships and exhaustion — sometimes even outweighing the benefits. But Hoseok helps to keep the morale going, even in his playing. He has a knack for bringing more colour into the songs with his drumming skills.

It’s not to say that Yoongi’s composing is bleak and dark, but it’s bleak and dark. He’s the primary composer of the group, a keyboardist, and you sing what he gives you. Most of the time, it’s about agony and heartbreak — but you enjoy vocalizing his anger to the audience. His passion and rage is always tangible and similar to that of your own.

When you don’t see him in the room, you assume he’s off somewhere smoking a cigarette. It seems to be Yoongi’s routine before a show. Jungkook, on the other hand, is scrolling through his phone quietly. It doesn’t look like he’s warmed up with his bass for once. That thing is usually glued by his side.

“It wasn’t pleasant, I’ll give you that.”

Hoseok smirks. “Was Mr. Handsome not good? What was his name again?”

“Taemin, Taeyin, something like that.” You motion lazily and Hoseok laughs. “He bit me.”

“Kinky.”

“In the middle of my sleep. Woke me the fuck up. Said something about how he was dreaming of eating something.”

Hoseok bursts out laughing with tears in his eyes. It only pours more salt in your wounds with how he bends over, clutching your stomach, relishing in your disgust. He laughs for a full minute, stopping before exploding into even more laughter. A small part of you hopes he gets a heart attack from it and dies. “What did you do?”

“Kicked him to the curb.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t sleep with fans,” Jungkook pipes up, eyes flickering up from his screen, self-inviting himself into the conversation.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have a stick stuck up your ass.” Your mouth curls. “But you probably get off on it, don’t you, Jeon?”

Hoseok grins at the banter, borderlining argument. But this isn’t a rarity. “Guys, guys, don’t fight. It’s bad for the team environment. Try not to kill each other while I go grab Yoongi, please.”

It’s no secret you and Jungkook don’t exactly get along. You’re neutral at best to one another, trying to be civil on most days. But you’re just not compatible together. How can you be when he’s a righteous bastard who thinks he’s better than the rest of the band. You also can’t understand why he’s so strict and disciplined just to self-suffer. He’s rigid too, not at all spontaneous like you are.

It’s surprising a boring man like him would want a job like this that includes glitz and glam, attention and the spotlight.

“Did you listen to that recording I sent?”

“Nope.” You pop the ‘p’ with your lips, grabbing your electric guitar out of your case to begin warming up as Hoseok leaves to find Yoongi before all of you are late on stage again. “I was busy fucking myself on that Taejoon guy, remember?”

“When are you planning to listen to it?”

“I don’t know. When I have time.” You shrug, plucking some simple strumming patterns. Jungkook pockets his phone, jaw clenched and an annoyed look etches on his face, one you know well. Sometimes it’s good to get him riled up. It sets the mood for the angrier songs.

“Yoongi and Hoseok already heard it.”

“If Yoongi thinks it’s good, then it’s good,” you mutter. It’s as simple as that. Yoongi is the one who writes the songs. Sometimes Hoseok might help with coming up with the lyrics, but you don’t know why Jungkook is trying to write music too these days.

You’ve only written one song. But you don’t perform that one.

The silence is suddenly broken by Jungkook’s cold laugh. Your eyes flicker up to him, brow cocked, wondering if he finally lost it. “What?”

He’s condescending. “You seriously don’t care, do you?”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” you say shortly, looking away. “You’re not the only one who’s serious about music here, Jeon.”

“Really?” he questions. “Because it sure seems you’d rather get your pussy wet.”

“Can you not be so anal about what I do in my spare time?” You put down your guitar, unable to focus. “Last I checked, I got away from that bitch mother of mine.”

“I care if you’re neglecting your duties.”

Your mouth twists into a smile, and you loll your head to one side. “ Are you sure it’s not because you’re jealous?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Your ego is incomparable.”

“You hate me because I’m beautiful.”

“No, I hate you because you’re a bitch.”

“But you like it.” You lean towards him, elbow propped up on your knee, cheek rested in your hand. You stare and bat your lashes in an exaggerated manner. “You have a hard on for it, Jeon. You don’t need to keep it a secret. I see the way you look at me.”

“You shouldn’t project your own desires onto other people,” he says, challenging you. But Jungkook still diverts his vision elsewhere. And you see right through him.

“I mean I’ve thought about it.” You shrug, having no reason not to be honest. “I’ve thought about everyone in our group, including you.”

More than anything, you want Jungkook to admit it. So you coax him, getting to your feet, moving to hover above him, cornering him in. You lick your lips slowly. “I’m sure you have too, Jeon. You want me to suck your cock, right? Backstage, like I’ve done for our fans numerous times. You’ve seen me on my knees before.”

“You’re cocky because you’ve never been fucked well before. Everyone’s been so subpar that you think you’re the best. It’s a bit sad actually,” he says it like it’s a fact, unfazed by your attempts of seduction.

But you wonder if that’s a proposition. If he’s suggesting something else, and you try not to show your surprise too much. “Oh?”

Air rushes out of his nose. He smiles, the corners of his mouth curling. Somehow, arrogance is a good look on Jungkook — it makes you want to fuck him right now, right here, just to shut him up. “Too bad your personality is too ugly for me to waste my time on you.”

You’re taken aback by insult, standing straight with your arms crossed. He gets to his own feet, shuffling his belongings and opening his bass case. “You’re all talk and no action, Jeon.”

His voice drips of sarcasm. “Yeah, and that’s how I was able to hold onto a girlfriend for three years.”

You roll your tongue in your cheek. “Are you slut-shaming me or are you saying I could never do long-term?”

Jungkook smirks. He leans down to match your height, connecting your eyes together. Your faces are an inch away from one another. “I’m saying that you’re all talk and no action. You might be able to get people into your bed, but that doesn’t mean you can get them to stay and actually like you beyond a superficial level.”

You scoff, tipping your head. Your eyes flicker down to his mouth and that cute mole dotting below it. You swallow hard. “Really? That’s hypocritical of you, Jeon. I know you’re soft for me. Hoseok told me you were writing a love song. That’s not like you. Where’s the teenage angst about anger and death?”

“You’re such an annoying brat, you know that?”

His hand comes up to hold your jaw in place, but he isn’t rough. It’s a tender touch that you could easily shake off — but you don’t. Your lashes flutter and you catch him staring at your own lips. You lick them just to tease and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“So you admit it?” You throw your arms around his shoulders, pushing him even closer to you until you can feel his hot breath against your skin. “You’re in love with me, aren’t you, Jeon?”

“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself when you sing my love song on stage.”

It’s intoxicating. You both lean closer to one another, no one giving in just yet, struggling to stay afloat. Jungkook whispers, his voice husky, “You’re missing out on what could be the best lay of your life.”

“Then show me.”

You lose. You give into the sexual tension that’s electrifying, practically tangible in the air. And the consequences are absolutely gratifying. You kiss him with a vigor and hastiness of being kept on edge, of long anticipation.

The pad of his fingers presses against your jaw in a silent command. Immediately, you open your mouth for him and his hot tongue intrudes, rendering you breathless. It’s overwhelming with his unforgiving force. Jungkook kisses you like he’s hungry for it, like he’s out to prove a point. You don’t know that his eyes are slightly open, taking in your pleasured expression.

You damn yourself when he draws a desperate, pathetic whimper out of you. When he smirks against your mouth. Someone with as much experience as you do shouldn’t be so flustered.

But the fucker knows what he’s doing. He’s making you hot and bothered, smearing your lipstick shamelessly. He’s more aggressive than you thought was possible. You make an attempt to try to regain control, pushing up against him, rolling your hips. But he grabs a hold of your waist.

Suddenly, Jungkook bites down on your lips. His teeth sink into the soft flesh.

You draw back with a hiss. “Ow! What was that for?”

You’re caught off guard, mouth swollen, eyes watery.

“I know you, Y/N.” Jungkook smirks, running a hand through his long black locks. He grabs his bass as normal. As if the kiss didn’t even begin to affect him. “It’s not fun for you anymore when you get what you want.”

You blink several times and when he notices your dazed expression, he barks, “Get yourself together! We have a performance!”

Jungkook leaves you with weakened knees.

It’s only then that you begin to realize just how severely you underestimate him.

You were so fucked.

#Requests 2019 #bts fanfic #bts scenario #jungkook fanfic #Jungkook scenario #ngl this is my favourite drabble out of twelve of them #I don't think I've ever written such a sexy pair before lol #the tenth of my requests #Anonymous #smolchimchimhandz #Jimlings

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incarnateirony · 4 years

Text

15.07 Thoughts

1. Y’all know I’ve been very opinionated about certain things, but my inbox has been such a perpetual onslaught that I haven’t had time to really *sit and genuinely write*

2. This is premised 100% off of an expansion on a beautiful post by @heliodean (x) -- or more, I would say that heliodean already wrote most of what I would begin to say, and very elegantly about the text, subtext, representation, visibility, canonicity, but that all as a simple underline to the growth evidenced by Dean. 2b. That is to say, that while the queer text is itself indivisible from the original text, I would like to expand on a few points that are also character-specific, and I didn’t want to kidnap a representation-leaning post to discuss only phantasmally attached affairs.

So again, @heliodean‘s post is an absolute must-read, but building aside on the discussion of Dean’s growth as expressed in the episode, I wanted to focus on some personal John-facing issues.

While helio mentioned Lee’s last advent of Dean being when he idolized John Winchester, which is very true, but I think several of their engagements -- including, yes, the queer narrative but not dependent on it -- are hugely reflecting.

Even if we take, in example, Dean, ass slaps, waitresses and Lee -- a common discussion point is for example that despite open flirtation, Dean dismisses her like she brought his burger over too well done, implicitly. She was there, literally while they talked about double dogging someone down, and despite ass slaps and flirts and posturing, she just kind of vanished into the aether, a thought to neither of them.

How this attaches to the John related issues actually requires dropping a level deeper, when you realize that while the implication is itself surface level text, the words hang instead in old canons, just reflecting at the surface; the sense of history being tangible between them is there for a reason. Even if you took the most heteronormative read on how to double-dick down an ungendered individual, that we hetly decide was female, and that the balls never touched or whatever because *big gay panic* the choice to literally bring that to center discussion after Dean implicitly seemed to forget it ever existed, or act like he didn’t want to talk about it until being charmed by the memory in particular.

Or perhaps, more realistically in the subtext to the *actual text* as expository line everybody is spinning circles on -- quite simply, there were triplets and there was a woman shared between them, but she wasn’t what he remembered. As far as Dean was concerned, there was one woman and, very quite-down-to-point, one man has was sharing. The fact that he happened to have trimmings of a spare woman as a commentary didn’t even plink his memory. *Holy shit*

-- (and let’s be real, MOST OF THIS WAS IN DIRECT TEXT TOO. The only “subtext” is the most liminal understanding that words connect to each other and sentences are usually related to the discussion at hand, but that’s about what people call subtext these days. Dean literally forgot and had to be reminded. I guess “subtext” is applying the working adult brain to figure out how the FUCK you forget who you were putting your dick in. The tryst itself, the bizarre things Dean forgot, these are all... well, text. And the rest is so narrowly subtext that someone missing it out of genuine ignorance and not petty malice and active choice/reconfiguration is pretty much contingent on someone literally not thinking at all)

I’m not gonna heavily debate textuality in this post because at this point, fandom dialogue is a helium inflated parody of itself on most of that, but like I really? Don’t give a shit? How someone tries to move the goalposts around? Seriously grab that whole scene at the table front to back, and then the stage, and show that to some random straight guy you know that doesn’t even watch the show. I’m going to tell you 99.9999% right now the first thing to come out of their mouth is “That’s fuckin gay” or some variation of it into various fields of PC-facing culture. The hilarity of trying to run defense lines for them at this point is somewhere out in orbit in Alpha Centauri, bitching about a whole other solar system of shit.

But taking back to that -- that waitress, that woman that just evaporated. That was a different time. That’s when Dean wanted fodder between him and anyone else he had a deep connection with. That’s when Dean *did* womanize. Did bury himself in skin.

And frankly that’s a Dean that hasn’t existed for a long time while fandom has sat in general denial about it, or the canonicity or *sets off carousel music*

(My mood every time a young bright eyed LGBT warrior thinks they’re doing a service by dismissing, deleting or denying low-visibility LGBT text)

Mutual ass slaps and vigorous bisexual reactions be damned, Lee’s adoration OF John was even brought into text, be it the solemn vigil he held up in his service, or his textual “I’m you” to Dean, and everything old Dean might have become if things hadn’t dramatically shifted gears in his life; but something the *here* and *now* is trying to make him become.

Reaching into the alchemical stuff again, be it Silver And Gold, or Nothing Gold Can Stay, or Golden Time, or now, the monster that spits out fake gold as long as you feed it, and stop caring. The thing Chuck is trying to make them. The things -- the people -- the building treasures in their life of Eileen, and Castiel, and yes, lost several episodes but not forgotten, Jack and Mary; Eileen treasure found anew, Cas a treasure lost that took the last light of his family, and Jack and Mary’s shadows, with him.

The force that broke their chain, the force that was first ready to face authority, because this was not a new battle to him; it had just been given new meaning, many years ago, when he first faced Dean. Dean echoes the broken despair Cas once saw life as from angelic roost, and Cas stands instead for every lesson Humanity taught him, and continues the fight, and walks away from a toxic vortex of destruction drilled and doubled down on by Chuck’s purposeful machinations -- machinations Dean convinced him to break from long ago, but the man that the angel fell for is not who he is now; the fire he gained from Mary went out in her death into the dark and obsessive and introverted blackened side of John Winchester, not the one that, taking his wife’s hand, disappeared into gold.

(Don’t even get me started on the recurrence of this exact shot in Dabb’s SPN, we’ll end up in a whole other aside.)

“Nothing Gold Can Stay.” This is the lesson Chuck has been trying to force down their throats alongside murder suicide. It is our target subversion, but--

This episode fundamentally *exists* to just *put Dean Winchester’s growth into perspective*. Be that textually affirmative bisexuality (regardless of if it’s visible enough for everyone’s taste, which I hold in bizarre levels of wtf question/suspicion), or about the boy of vices and basically casual misogyny and grim habit that has grown into a man that -- while he may remember it fondly with crinkles in the corner of his eyes, he doesn’t flit it to whatever filler is in the seats between them, but to that old “friend” that, you know. *jazz hands*

About his fight with resignation that has griefed him since his first demon deal, and of self worth, and of what he has learned, and of what he will deep down never let anyone take away, even if he’s made to question it.

(Dabb on 14.13 Lebanon and the lessons imbued)

This episode??? Like??? Jeremy Adams didn’t blow me out of the water. I jettisoned somewhere into another galaxy or some shit. Here I am holding tentative resignation about how bad the new (presumed) straight white male author on crew is gonna do while looking at history, but giving benefit of the doubt, making a few jokes??? And then it’s like HELLO YES ALL OF THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE. WHAT KIND OF FIRST EPISODE BLACK MAGIC? THAT WAS A BOBO LEVEL FIRST EPISODE.

Oh my god.

I mean, I’m sure we all saw it coming, like deadass you all know I’m not a genius for saying and expecting -- Dean, lessons learned and remorseful from these last few misadventures, coming in to want to talk to Cas, who has had no such giving and keeps his focus on the target, outside of his perceivably crumbled relationship. Like, expecting this is about as simple as expecting them to fight monsters, or Sam and Dean disagreeing over a method/plan.

But as unsurprising as it is, it held weight and value, after the episode -- as given in my addition to the original referenced link -- spent its entire time framing loss of best friends, empty space, the ramifications of turning one’s back, and knowing gold when you have it and what’s worth fighting for.

Now, to fall back to touching on the textuality topic: I thank 15.07 for the display of performative absurdity. It’s not the first episode to rip open and expose fandom’s dirty underbelly and intersectional marginalization forces wearing an LGBT Activism Suit -- 14.03 also did so loudly by Bobo (eg read: “The Problem with Dreamhunter” [A post that points out what people will accept for canonization when there isn't a rival ship or excessive projection of antis specific to a ship which is *SPOILER ALERT* nowhere near what everyone pretends is needed when they want to argue just to argue and some intersectional WLW vs MLM issues]) -- but it was the first to approach it directly with Dean, much less so textually.

The ridiculous redefinition of words, of “what *I* think canon means” whipped completely out of fandom generated buzz and no dictionary on the face of the planet -- the demands, and the active erasure of existing LGBT text because it wasn’t *visible enough* -- really does show a seedy side of fandom that wears a nice Representation Warrior dress sometimes, but betrays a series of issues:

Most points boil down to “I won’t acknowledge any text unless it is loud enough to argue down any idiot I ever meet”, putting the focus not on representative resonance and value of quality of text, but on personal vindication for raw argumentation. A world where trolls and their personal agendas have actually taken *greater importance* to people than the representative text, and is an absolutely abysmal motivation or bottom line for any discussion and yes, if you recoiled and feel ashamed or called out about that, rather than patching over your pride and doubling down, maybe skim the reblog tags bisexual people have left on my several dozen posts about the damages of them being actively deleted is doing.

If you care about representation, you’ll think about that. Even if it’s not the loudly visible version of representation you *want*, it is what it is, and well--it is. Pretty simply. There is no perfect fantasy world where everybody understands and wants the thing you do. And I’m not just talking about LGBT rep. I’m talking about the people you pretend to need to argue gay canon with still being absolutely flummoxed by canon itself, like them saying “family don’t end with blood” and “found family” are “fanon concepts”. People that are confused where demons go when they die. People that rebuke literally many-times textualized non-gay things just to suit their personal agenda. And shockingly, they have a personal agenda about the gay content too.

I’m talking about straight pairings like mulder and scully that got no romo’ed around even after they kissed and got pregnant and the whole nine, because bawww that’s not what the show is about so *allow me to build elaborate theories that make no sense and pretend they have standing in canon equal to the straightforward read*.

Cuz that’s where we’re at right now. Our fandom is just particularly bonky, and has been allowed to go so far off the edge of the map and away from center GA-resonant discussion that the bog standard antis have literally come up with body-mutilating necrophilia as an answer to avoid the gay, and somehow... *shruuuuug?* people act like these people not only are of equal worth but like... deserve... any consideration long term? Which is when we lean into the next point on MOTIVATION.

So ask at what point arguing with tinhats beat out your actual interest in representation and LGBT rights and media issues. Ask at what point you surrendered your focus on feeling resonant with a character that has been textually acknowledged, and traded that for implying you suddenly can’t relate to the character until he performs [X] exact function, exactly how you want, and when you want. Hell, I have even gotten an anon that literally said they would have acknowledged it if SPN had given them what they want when they wanted-- so basically, too late, not enough.

That’s not how text works. Whether the text came ten years ago or now, the text is the text. Your personal fulfillment aside, text is text. And I highly urge people to stop demanding tokenism above demographic-targeted representative types (eg bisexual, raised in the 80s in a patriarchal/power/grit based society and its own associated dogmas, fairly masculine identity, and so on) or demanding characters perform as if they were from another demographic (be it age or gender) because that’s your demographic.

Once you start removing elements of the represented demographics (LGBT, male, age, origin, etc) and wanting it to perform by way of *your* demographic’s behaviors or base line needs/wants, that’s when we’ve left representation. That’s when we’re demanding tokenization. And when you’re demanding tokenization to win internet fights with people who don’t even believe what they say, you have long left the representation wheelhouse. That’s what we call troll wars.

Do not let LGBT media representation be kidnapped into troll wars. Do not let content be degraded or removed just to engage in troll wars. And if you want to engage in troll wars, and you value the arguments more than the discussion *of* representation intersectional issues, and methods, and all around it -- then just... stop. Stop saying you want representation. Don’t.

I’m tired.

#supernatural #spn #meta #my meta #pagan life #gold #alchemy #hermeticism #jeremy adams #15.07 #dean winchester #mine

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crapitskizaru · 5 years

Text

Anxious!Sub!Eustass Kid x Dom!Fem!Reader

HOO BOY YOU WANT SUB ANGSTY KID?? HAVE I GOT A PROMPT FOR YOU. How about kid is feeling insecure/has a shit day and just wants his fem so to dom him/make him feel better, so like a comfort smut?

Warning: well - upsetting themes, miserable kiddo, soft filth (: + it kinda took a turn idk

Word Count: 1,9k

When you’re sailing on the open ocean, no day is the same. There’s always something to do - something to check, something to repair. And even though the captain looked bored, standing on the quarterdeck and bouncing his leg up and down while staring off at the horizon, boredom was the last thing on his mind.

She observed as Kid briskly marched below the deck, finally giving up. He rarely let anything overwhelm him, but this time stress seemed to get the better of his rationality.

“I’ll go,” Killer said, muscular arms crossed on his chest. He must have seen his captain’s uneasy expression as well.

“No, I will,” she replied. “I know exactly how to cheer him up.”

She found him in his cabin, hunched over the maps sprawled carelessly on the table. He couldn’t have been paying them much attention - when she came closer, he seemed spaced out.

“Hey,” she muttered, rubbing his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.”

He could feel the tension in his body. But what worried him even more was the almost tangible fear clouding his mind, messing up the rational thoughts, reversing his judgement.

How was he supposed to be a captain? How can he lead his crew to another battle if he’s already losing the one he’s fighting with his own self?

“Wanna take a nap together?” She wanted to rest her chin on his shoulder but he kept fidgeting, so she settled for loosely hugging his arm. He needed contact, touch, affection.

His grumpy response was barely audible. Thankfully, he didn’t oppose when she started dragging him towards the bed. Before she managed to as much as feel the texture of the sheets, Kid was already buried in the blankets. For a while, the only sounds in the cabin were his steady breaths.

He needed to rest, to escape from the anxious thoughts. But there was one thing he needed even more than that.

“Kid,” she said, keeping her voice low and gentle. “I can help. You know that.”

His careless grumble got muffled by a pillow. Despite the wrinkles on his forehead, his sleepy expression oozed with calmness - she wished it wouldn’t go away the moment he decides to leave the bed.

“Wake me up when you find One Piece,” he mumbled. “And I get to be the Pirate King. And I also get to take the treasure.”

She started stroking his hair, furrowing her eyebrows upon hearing the demands. “What’s in it for me then?”

“This world is so fucked up. Does everything need to be a good deal for you? Can’t you just help me for free?”

His heart felt a little bit lighter when he heard her laugh. And when she tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, he was ready to forget about the whole world and focus on her.

“Nothing comes for free,” she said with a smile. Then she leaned in and kissed him. “Maybe besides this.”

Just when he felt her wanting to pull back, he bit down on her lip and deepened the kiss.

“You know I’m a sucker for free shit.”

She laughed again, brushing her lips against his. The warmth radiating off of him already seeped through her clothing. Somehow, it felt familiar, as if she was coming home.

He didn’t give her time to savour the moment. His arm threw one of the blankets around her body and tugged her closer. She could feel how pure excitement was boiling inside him when she looped her arms around his neck. He was so close, so warm and so familiar. He must have been her home.

“Wait,” she managed to mumble in between the kisses, just when he was getting ready to get on top of her. “I came here to help you.”

“You are helping me.” His hand maneuvered around the blankets and landed on her butt, squeezing it shamelessly. “See? That’s my kind of therapy.”

A part of her didn’t want him to stop - his lips kept caressing her neck, hands rubbing her body in all of the right places, it felt so good. But there was something more important than her pleasure.

“I thought you’re a good liar.”

This time he was the one confused, pulling away from her. “I’m not lying. I really wanna fuck.”

She cupped his face and studied it with a worried look. He was obnoxious, yes, rowdy and wild and just so brave. But he was also young, far too young to carry such weight on his shoulders.

“Tell me what’s bothering you then,” she whispered, slowly climbing to straddle his lap. “I want to hear everything.”

“And if I do? Are we going to fuck?”

“No, you asshole. I will make love to you. You deserve it.”

He rolled his eyes and moved his hands to rest on her hips. “Same deal.”

Her eyebrow raised expectantly. When he became silent for a few moments, a writhing coldness started to spread inside her stomach. What if she was wrong? What if she’s just embarrassing herself, trying to find a hidden meaning behind his recent, seemingly nervous habits?

And then another thought came, way worse than all the others.

What if he just wanted sex? What if that was the only thing he cared about?

Meanwhile, another sort of anxious questions started appearing in Kid’s mind. Being her captain, he shouldn’t reveal his insecurities, shouldn’t let his weaknesses show. No one cared about that anyway.

And yet, she kept on asking.

“We’re in the New World,” she started, breaking the silence. “It’s dangerous. Are you scared you’re not strong enough?”

He snorted with contempt. “That’s the only thing I’m not worried about. I’ll crush anyone who stands in my path.”

At that moment, speaking with a firm, low voice, he seemed fearless. Being alone with such man in the cabin, having him underneath her sent a rush of excitement down her spine.

She leaned in for a kiss. The sudden friction caused her to sway her hips, almost unconsciously, against his groin and the strike of pleasure immediately pushed her to speed up the movements.

He didn’t even try to restrain the loud, shameless groan.

“Oh? Does someone want to be pleasured?” she cooed, caressing his cheek. Her thighs tightened their grip around him and when she started rubbing against him again, the friction increased.

He bit down on his lip and nodded; the simple action only reassuring her that he was already in the mood - willing to let go of his constant obligation to be the one giving out orders.

The sight of her on top, being in control, her wary gaze and confident manner put him at ease; it felt as if all the responsibility shifted, even for a short moment, to someone else.

“You deserve a good captain,” he said, eyes focused on her face. “All of you. Not a coward.”

“Are you calling yourself a coward?”

Instead of waiting for his response, she indulged in claiming his lips harshly, feverishly. Violently. One thing she was sure of, learned from the time she spent on this ship, was the fact that Kid had no mercy for cowards. They were the ones receiving the worst kinds of torture when captured by the crew, they were the ones sure to be murdered first - they were mocked, insulted and despised by him. Could he really think the same of himself?

He scowled. “I’m not running away from anything.”

“But you are scared.”

She studied his pained expression, the way he averted his gaze and pushed his hips upwards against her, impatiently, as if wanting to shift his attention to something else.

She couldn’t blame him for that. His hardness had been becoming more and more obvious in the past few minutes, rubbing against her inner thigh - she wanted nothing more than to ride him until she starts crying out to the heavens.

“Follow my lead,” she whispered, biting his ear. Her legs began trembling from nerves and anticipation when she set the pace of her movements, humping directly against his groin each time.

Every single thought suddenly evaporated from her mind, apart from the one that kept repeating over and over again - it feels so good. She gripped the sheets - the slicky sound their lips made while connecting spurred her on; she wished the pleasure and this moment could last forever.

His hips started to reach upwards to meet her and he soon found the right rhythm, his fingers tightening on her waist.

“Mmh, what a good boy you are,” she purred, holding back a moan. “It feels good, right?”

“Fuck, yes.” It came out as almost a gasp as he fell silent once again, producing only the slightest pants and breaths.

The thin material of his pants must have been a literal gift from heaven; she could feel how hard he was and how the warmth of his cock spread along her abdomen and thighs as she swayed on top of him in fluid motions.

“I want you to come for me.” She forced her voice to be strict and steady. “You’re such a good boy, I know you can do it.”

His hands fell to deliver a harsh squeeze to her butt, only to drop even lower and embrace her thighs; he felt her muscles clench and strain with each of the movements.

He growled a string of curses under his breath, already getting close to the edge. And when her fingers gripped on his hair, tugging harshly, a sudden feeling of safety took over his heart.

Yes, it felt safe. With her in charge, he was ready to comply for as long as he could last - which, apparently, wasn’t going to be much longer.

“Fuck, baby-” His quiet gasp was barely audible, as if he was afraid of how vulnerable she made him. “Yes, keep doing it.”

“Cum for me,” she ordered, picking up the pace even more and holding back her own sounds of pleasure with the last bits of self-restraint. “Be a good boy and cum right now.”

And he did, almost in sync with her words; his loud groans ringing around the room as the warm cum stained his pants and his hips snapped forward, pushing his cock in between her legs even more.

She couldn’t help but smile with pride when his orgasm finally subsided and he fell back against the mattress, the look of satisfaction on his face.

“You’re not alone in this.” Her finger traced his jawbone as she looked him in the eyes, trying to ignore the wetness in between her legs. “It’s normal to be scared. But you’re no coward. You’re the bravest, the most courageous fool in the world.”

Before she managed to finish the sentence, he flipped her on her back, his face in her neck.

“What is this, a shitty pep talk? I didn’t sign up for-”

“Shut up and listen,” she scowled, wrapping her legs around his waist. “You can’t lie to me. Being a captain, especially of such crew, requires a lot of responsibility. I want you to know you’re doing really well.”

“Mmhm.” He pushed her harder against the bed, one arm looping around her waist. But, finally, he gave up on marking her neck and met her gaze. “Of course I’m doing well. And I fucking swear to anything that is out there, one day I will make it to the top.”

She saw the rebellious spark in his eyes and the way he smiled while thinking about the future - it became obvious that, no matter how many demons come at him, whether from the outside or his own inside, his mutinous nature won’t let him surrender to them.

She looked again, this time at the scar on the left side of his face and the way it ran down across his chest; her fingers touched the cold metal of his prosthetic arm.

He was just so young.

#eustass kid #xoxobb #dinofilth #one piece scenario #op scenario #tw: anxiety #tw: angst #tw: negative thoughts #one piece imagines #one piece imagine #one piece #op imagine #op imagines

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akumadeshitsumon · 5 years

Text

The legend of the headless horseman (part 1)

[[So, here is the first part of my attempt at a topical Halloween fic - a short drabble on how the demon currently known as Sebastian Michaelis came to be a headless horseman in the English countryside (VERY loosely inspired by the 14th century poem “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”). I’ve got an idea for a connecting short story in Sebastian’s current time, which I hope to get around to this weekend. Mobile users, if you want to read this, I encourage you to read it on AO3 instead - I’ve seen what mobile tumblr does to my formatting, but I have no idea how to fix it. (If you do know (and the answer is something other than ‘format everything on your phone’) PLEASE let me know. There’s virtual cookies in it for you.)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18124445/chapters/50657459 ]]

The legend of the headless horseman

The Dark Ages, somewhere in the English countryside.

There is an air of beauty to Autumn, especially in the countryside. By day there are gorgeous displays of autumn colours on the trees, fallen leaves dancing in the wind, and golden sunlight filtering through the morning mist and spilling into windows like liquid honey. In the fields, the crops that represent a year's worth of hard labour await the harvest, and in the orchards fruit hides coyly between the leaves, waiting to be picked. In the evening mist swirls over the fields and roads, and warm lights in the windows welcome the farmers home.

But Autumn's beauty is deceptive. Nightfall comes earlier every day, and the air turns bitterly cold. The leaves that danced merrily by day now rustle menacingly in the shadows, and warm sunlight is replaced by the silvery cold light of the moon earlier every passing day. As the light fades from the world and nature gives up her fight against the cold reality of the approaching winter, the darkness of night starts to feel more and more oppressive, like a dark force closing in on the little towns scattered around the countryside. By day, one can see the threads that bind these places together - dirt roads and tree-lined paths, the fields and the workers in them. But by night, these connections disappear into darkness, cutting the villages off from each other. Such nights made humans feel... unwelcome. Those who had to be out at night walked quickly, their shoulders hunched against more than just cold, hurrying to get home.

It is on such dark and cold autumn nights, when the wind howls in the trees and darkness flows through the streets and coats the world like tar, that fear takes hold of human hearts and takes root in the depths of human minds.

And this was exactly what the demon was counting on.

In this contract it had not been named, but it had been given a task: to spread terror across the countryside and strike fear into the hearts of the peasants living there by any means necessary. Demands for tax and supplies had been high, and the locals were becoming restless, so the lord of the local castle had tasked the demon to clear up his mess while he continued to enjoy the fruits of his unbridled greed. Personally, the demon did not see how this behaviour could continue without consequence, but it had not been summoned for its piercing insights into the clearly unsustainable nature of its master's practices. It had been summoned for the power it wielded, and tonight it was meant to put this power to good use.

There were always whispers of ghostly forces at work in Autumn; strange shapes hiding in the mist over the fields, impossibly large animals stalking the woods at night, the cackling laughter of witches on the wind when the moon was full and bright. But lately a more tangible story had been added to the pile: the story of the headless horseman.

It was the miller who saw the knight first, though at first everyone thought he'd been drinking too much, as he'd been known to do. But the miller stuck to his story, and became very agitated when people did not believe him.

On his way home from the tavern one night he had heard hooves on the road ahead, and saw a horseman coming towards him. It was unusual in itself to be riding a horse out at night, though not particularly alarming. However, as the horseman drew close the miller started to suspect that something was wrong. The first thing he noticed was that both man and horse were very large; unusually large for any human or animal he'd ever laid eyes upon. Both horse and man were in full armour; the miller could hear the sound of metal hitting metal every time the horse's hooves hit the ground. This was highly unexpected, as there had not been war in these parts for as long as the miller had been alive. And there was something off about the rider's torch, as well; the light from it was not orange or yellow, as one might expect of a torch, but a sickly green, such as a smith's fire might be if metal shavings fell into it. Put together it was enough to make the miller feel uneasy. As the rider approached the miller's sense of unease increased. The rider was getting close now, but he showed no sign of slowing down, even though he must have spotted the miller on the road in this bright moonlit night. From his position on horseback the knight towered over the miller, but the miller could discern no eyes behind the helmet, no sign of recognition. Thoroughly spooked he leaped aside to avoid being trampled, and in that moment, he noticed that what he had taken to be a torch was not, in fact, a torch at all, but a sword; a flaming sword the size of a scythe, with green flames streaming off it like liquid. Most knights around these parts would have trouble lifting this sword with both hands, and yet the rider held it effortlessly in one hand, as though it was light as a feather. The flames seemed not to hurt him; they danced on his armour, which was also green, and then harmlessly winked out.

As the miller scrabbled up from the mud beside the road he heard the horse pull to a halt; perhaps the knight was feeling guilty for almost hitting him. The knight had stopped and raised his hand to his helmet, and for a moment the miller thought he was going to lift up his visor to speak. But instead the knight grabbed the helmet and lifted it away from his shoulders completely, revealing... nothing. There was no head on his shoulders, just the stump of a neck, dried blood coating it thickly. The knight lifted his helmet high above his head, and a booming laugh echoed through the air.

The miller felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. As the knight's horse reared the miller was already moving - he sprinted through the fields towards the woods, away from the road and the knight in green, whose laughter followed him all the way to the trees.

When he finally stopped to look back, the knight and his horse were gone.

As mentioned, the miller’s story was laughed off at first. After all, it was impossible for a man to ride around without a head. But soon more people reported seeing the spectral figure of the knight, often from further away, silhouetted against the sky with his head lifted high above his shoulders. The stories spread outwards in ripples; soon the knight was known across all of the region - and more crucially, all of the lord’s domain.

Before long, even those who had never seen the knight feared his presence at night. Going out after dark became a hazardous activity, and after the first few victims were found with their heads missing no one dared attempt such a feat at all. Rumours spread among the peasants like wildfire, and by the time the lord of the castle started his ‘investigation’ into the problem people were more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. The lord’s heroic ‘battle’ against the knight would be passed along the families of the region for generations - how he confronted the green knight one night and chased him into the woods, only to return at sunrise carrying the flaming sword, which evaporated when touched by the morning light.

It was all suitably dramatic�� and a load of old hogwash, of course. The demon was quite adept at creating illusions, and this one had been a masterpiece, if it did say so itself. In reality, all that had happened was its master chasing it into the woods, then waiting a suitable amount of time to build up suspense before returning to announce his glorious victory. The trick worked wonderfully well - the demon’s master saw his power over the peasants living on his lands redoubled, all ideas of dissent stripped from their minds. And when the lord later mysteriously vanished from his castle… well, that only added to the mythos of it all.

Over time humans gained more knowledge of the world around them, and slowly the belief in ghosts and legends dwindled. The headless horseman faded into legend, until he was nothing more than a story to scare kids into going to bed.

And yet... those cold autumn nights never stopped making people feel uneasy.

And there would always be those who knew how to make use of that.

#akumadeshitsumon #ask sebastian michaelis #ask sebastian #sebastian michaelis #black butler #kuroshitsuji #Sebastian's past #headless horseman #halloween #halloween fic #Part 1

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tllthesundies · 5 years

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just so you know, I’m always thinking of that au where Harry gets weird dreams and Taylor appears and Louis is moving around AHHH I’m so excited for that one, I always re read the snippets 💗

EEEEEEE! ily ty i’ve actually been working on it the same time as my blff fic! lemme give u another snippet for being so excited n waiting for it 😘

“Who said I cared about what you think?” he retorts without looking Taylor’s way. “You don’t have to believe it.”

There’s a small moment.

“I won’t,” she decides.

“Good,” he replies with a petty tone. “Now, can we, please, leave? I’m tired of looking at myself.”

Never thought I’d hear you say that, a voice, eerily mimicking Louis’s in his head, says. It’s so in place Harry hardly blinks, though he recognises the impossibility of the chance. However, instead of acknowledging it, he takes the hand Taylor proffers and allows for the first time his senses to be evaporated. His eyes open to his darkened room, his bum sat on the side edge of his bed, with Taylor standing near him. He blinks a few times — slowly, evenly.

“Are you all right?” she asks, looking Harry in the eye with genuinity.

“Why would you put me through that?”

It’s what comes out of Harry’s mouth because it’s banging on every nerve in his head. It’s the thought of Louis’s facial expressions and the painfully nostalgic feeling wrapped around his ribs during and now after. He’s trying to breathe through it, but it strangely feels like his heart is breaking all over again; piling onto his recently existing anxiety that has been accumulating strongly since the night he had sex with Louis.

He’d rather be consumed with hatred towards Louis than deal with this a second time.

She sits down beside him, keeping eye contact.

“What’s going through your head?”

Who cares — his head’s in pieces; nothing can go to and fro in a malfunctioning universe. Shouldn’t she know this? “Shouldn’t you know?” he chooses to repeat aloud. “You know every God damn thing, so, I’m assuming you can read my mind, as well.”

Taylor looks at him.

Harry shakes his head, looking away. “Forget it,” he continues, with a brief sniff.

He feels Taylor move to sit beside him.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs.

The assurance triggers an abrupt snap of anger beneath his bones and stomach.

“No, it’s not,” Harry argues hastily, then turns his head towards her. “You don’t know what it’s like losing someone. You brought me back somewhere it hurts my very soul to be here; a place I cannot stand to remember, because it is the direct origin of my pain. When Louis and I gave up on each other—yes, it was an equal parting—we gave up on every part. Love turned to loathe. Yet I still love him most days. It’s torture to sit and allow you to bring me back to these memories because I have never healed from them, and I don’t think I ever will, and I am tired of feeling this excruciating pain in my chest. Sometimes I don’t think I will be able to breathe. But I do. And that’s not good enough. No, it is not okay, Taylor.”

Taylor simply looks at him. “Are you done?” she asks.

Harry scoffs.

“That’s such a fucking condescending thing to say,” he points out. “I’m choosing to be honest, and that’s all you have to say?”

“I don’t say it in a condescending tone, Harry,” she replies. “Look past the defensive behaviour your strong feelings fuel in you and understand that I am asking if there’s any more you’d like to get off your chest. I am never here to dismiss any part of you.”

Her words irrationally piss off a different part of him.

“Yes,” he answers curtly.

“What is it?”

She’s infuriatingly calm, but he knows he’s unjustly taking his pain out on her. He attempts to unsuccessfully breathe it off him like dust molecules. “I know your purpose with me is to—help me. . . . But . . . I don’t want help if all it will do is make me relive and reinforce all that I’ve been through. I don't want any of it.”

Gazing at Harry, Taylor remains silent. Then a gentle hand presses against his lower back.

He wants to push it off, but can’t.

“I do know what it’s like losing a person,” she says, tone quiet. “To grieve someone, or something, while they still exist. I have lived for eons, Harry, and you are far from the first I have helped.” She turns her lingering, knowing gaze onto him, and he can’t help but return it. “I’ve gotten attached to some, I won’t lie. Despite my difference, I still carry that human trait in myself to grow love for others and connections, and a couple were very deep that it scarred me to let that go. I’ve had to pull myself back and hold things in—to remind myself consistently that I can’t keep contact.

“I may still look over them without their knowledge, but it’s not the same. Even now, with you, I’ve grown this . . . concern. I’m alone on the other side, Harry. It’s just me. And sometimes it drives me crazy.

“I understand you better than you let me.”

The silence is tangible — Harry could take it from his skin, if he chose to; to mold the clear gel with orange undertones in his palms and fingers. So, he looks away — like the coward he can hear Louis calling him in his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologises quietly.

It’s a moment before Taylor responds.

“Your apologies are starting to have some meaning,” she tells him, then stands.

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bestillandremember · 5 years

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“Never Too Broken”

As Bible School and my time at Capernwray comes to a close, we are spending our last week diving into a specific subject that interests us. I chose the 5 women of Jesus’ genealogy, their broken pasts, and how God used their mess for his glory. I presented it to the class this morning, and thought I’d post it so others could read it. Please let me know what you think!

“Mara gazed, transfixed with her reflection. The mirror in front of her showed only the surface, as it was designed to. Today, somehow, she marveled at how it managed to identify the depths of brokenness within her. Every day previously, she had passed in front of it, tugging at her shirts, pulling at her shorts, evaluating how much of herself she wanted on display. She fixed her hair, mended her make up. It was if she was perfecting a daily costume, a disguise in which she could walk the streets of her world and not be recognized for who she truly was. It was only when she couldn’t recognize herself, that she would walk away from it. Secure in the fact that everyone else would see only what they wanted to see anyways.

Today though, Mara had no mask to wear. No foundation, no cover up. Everything she currently was stared her down in all it’s shattered glory. She saw every mistake, every damaging decision, every compromise, and every betrayal. She saw nothing but scars, both internal and external, that traced a broken roadmap of her past. Cracks, chips, and dents, like a used car. One many people had driven across the country, through desert heat, wild storms, and bitter winters. One they had left behind with crumbs, stains, and rips in her upholstery like memories of a life she almost had. With very little left to offer, her purpose was leased to those who decided her worth for themselves.

Despite what the world told her, she was not an object. She was a human. One with a soul, thoughts, and feelings, expressed through a heart that was worn on her sleeve and readily offered to others. Even now, the words of those that received it rang in her ears. After a lifetime of dedication, she had ministry leaders tell her she hadn’t done was was necessary to deserve their support. So for years she worked to meet their standards, and lost any sight of a higher calling. Christian leaders that followed told her she created a bad image for their mission by simply being who she was. Though she placed ministry first in her life, followed every rule, performed every task, and respected all boundaries- she was told it was not enough. Over time, she discovered there was nothing she could do to earn their approval. So she decided, almost by default, that her heart belonged elsewhere, as it was clearly misunderstood by those within the Christian community.

The world welcomed her with the open arms that ministry and the church couldn’t. It was charming, captivating, and almost addicting. The people within it asked for everything and nothing at the same time. Men wrapped warm words around her, whispering promises that slithered around her heart like a boa. They increased constrictive control over her slowly, in the name of a type of love that filled a void within her long enough for her to forget to question it. Their demands were masked in deep affection, and she gave freely, deceived by their performance. They asked for her world, and in turn, they became hers. Around and around she went, caught in a lonely orbit over her fragmented life, and they were her sun. In that isolation, the darkness worked away at her light as each person left her denounced and alone. If they gave any reason at all, they called her ‘less than’ and disgusting. They told her she was garbage, a waste of their precious time.

Crying out, she sank to the ground under the weight of an ache that bore down on her soul like a jackhammer. Completely helpless, she had no other choice but to acknowledge the chasm she had long ignored, even as it grew. Tears pooled until they blurred her vision, and the image of the girl in front of her was unrecognizable. Air caught suddenly in her lungs when she realized that she wasn’t alone in the mirror. Four figures had formed, two on either side of her, and she blinked to bring them to clarity. A quartet of women materialized, each laying a hand on her. She jumped at and away from the contact and turned rapidly in either direction, finding she was still alone in her room. How is this possible? she thought, as she came to face her reflection again. The women were still there, each greeting her with a kind, but knowing smile.

The woman farthest to her left was mostly covered. She was draped in several shades of dark and maroon cloth, and a veil shielded her eyes. She wore jewelry, but it was her porcelain face that drew you to her. With just the lower half of it exposed, you saw only the most delicate features. The black that covered her eyes casted a shadow, and had the word “Liar” stitched in beautiful letters across it. Mara’s heart fluttered at the proximity of someone so openly guilty, especially knowing she deserved this label as well. When she asked who she was, the woman tightened her grip briefly on her shoulder and said nothing but,

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

With these words, her veil was lifted, revealing honest eyes that implored her to trust as she looked the woman next to her. As she came into focus, Mara saw she was clothed in extravagant shades of red and gold. Jewelry and gems hung so low on her hips that she imagined if she started dancing, that they would chime and jingle as she swayed. Her skin was soft, and perfumed. She smelled hints of vanilla and a musky sandalwood mingled with ancient scents she didn’t recognize. Her hair was twisted and pinned in an intricate mix of curls, pearls, and other jewels. She was beautiful and alluring. She touched Mara with hands that were bound by a scarlet cord, that wrapped around each her wrists like chains. Before she could ask anything else the woman said,

"For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin- because anyone who has died has been set free from sin.” (Romans 6:6-7)

As she finished, her bindings lifted into the air like smoke and she was free. The next woman could have been her polar opposite, but they smiled at each other like sisters. The third had dusky skin, darkened by hours in the sun and manual labor. Dressed modestly in black fabric that wrapped around her head and framed a gentle face, Mara got the feeling she was mourning. Not just a person, but a life, security, and prosperity. She was simple, but in her brown eyes you saw a spirit and light that was genuine and willing. She spoke boldly as she told her,

"For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.” (Romans 10:10)

Her last word echoed, ricocheting off the walls of Mara’s empty heart, and the woman’s clothes transformed into light blues and whites. With the added illumination, she recognized specs of green in her eyes that brought life to her face. A simple marriage band appeared on the left hand that played with her hair fondly, and she gazed at the last woman. Power and influence dripped from this fourth female force. She was stunningly captivating, wrapped in royal purples, bright teals, and garnished with gold. Her hair fell in long ebony waves, braided around her face so that it stayed out of her light eyes that contrasted intriguingly with her olive skin. Her wrists and fingers were layered in bracelets and rings that glittered in the sun that came in rays through her window.

Mara’s eyes were led to a bright “A” that was threaded into her clothing. A modern reference for a woman clearly not of this century. She lifted her gaze to the woman that straightened under her scrutiny. There was a conflicting shadow that crossed her face, one that clashed with the pride in her features. Loss. Grief. Honor. Virtue. She was torn between something. Maybe love and duty, since they are often separate and can exist outside of each other. She took Mara’s right hand, and placed it in hers. Holding it gently she said,

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

Her scarlet letter disappeared, and was replaced by a crown. She smiled, and each woman knelt around Mara. She felt a spirit flow through the five of them, uniting and binding them in something she couldn’t apply any logic to. Though she fought it, there was a tangible connection that transcended time. It knit them together intrinsically, like roots in the same tree. Suddenly they were joined by a fifth, who stayed back to examine the women on display. Mara realized with some discomfort that she couldn’t have been more than a teenager. Innocence radiated from her, and waves of maternal warmth washed over all of them as she approached each individually.

“Tamar,” she addressed the first woman by name. “Who lied to save the bloodline of Judah.”

The girl laid a kiss upon Tamar’s head, and she leaned into Mara’s image in the middle of the mirror. Like two lanes merging on a highway, they became one. She blinked, but otherwise remained motionless, fear and doubt still holding her hostage.

“Rahab,” she named the second one. “The prostitute that hid Joshua’s spies and deceived the guards searching to kill them.”

The scarlet lady received a similar loving gesture and laid a hand on Mara, only to evaporate into her like the first. This time, she shivered and closed her eyes. Something called her to acknowledge the two women within her, but she held back. They were chipping away at the bitter denial within her, but she wasn’t ready to give in. Instead, she opened her eyes again to find the third woman reaching out for the newest arrival. They joined hands, and the younger nodded to the older.

“Ruth,” she called her. “The widowed outsider.”

Ruth wrapped inviting arms around Mara, compassion reaching to her very core. Her head fell, overwhelmed by the presence filling her. When she looked up again, only the woman dressed like royalty remained. She bowed her head, showing incredible humility to a girl half her age. When she raised her face again, the younger released the older to join the others, but not before calling her by name.

“Bathsheba. The adulteress, and accomplice to murder.”

Suddenly Mara found herself alone with this spirited youth that somehow commanded the respect of all four women before her. Surprise lifted her brows as the girl sat next to her. She took her hand gently, and nodded towards her reflection. Fearing being left alone again, she hesitated to look back. However, the girl wouldn’t let her avoid it, and lifted her chin with a gentle finger so she could face the mirror. Breath hitched in her chest as she did, and tore from it in the form of a sob. She didn’t just see herself this time, but the eyes of Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba staring back at her. Their stories settled into her soul. They radiated and related to her own, comforting and calling her to peace. They welcomed her to the knowledge that she had sisters in sin, with a history equally darkened by transgressions they could not hide. Mistakes that they could not escape the consequences of, and yet the Lord conquered and used them all.

The girl next to Mara, barely more than a child herself, wrapped a thin arm around her to steady the trembling that shook her body. Taking inventory of all her Bible knowledge, she went through each person she had met in an effort to identify the stranger. The minute her heart inquired, it became abundantly clear, as if this woman could ever be unknown. In humbled awe, Mara was finally able to recognize the girl next to her.

“Mary,” she breathed. “The virgin. Mother to Jesus, the Messiah.”

The girl smiled and nodded, lifting a hand to her cheek she said,

"Therefore, my friends, I want you to know that through Jesus the forgiveness of sins is proclaimed to you. Through him everyone who believes is set free from every sin.” (Acts 13:38-39a)

She put specific emphasis on words she knew were meant just for her. A message she needed to hear. Redemption. The women within her echoed the same good news. Our weaknesses are His strengths. He is the only Creator that can take broken people and turn them into a purposeful masterpiece. Furthermore, there are no mistakes in His kingdom. God is unchanging, and so are His plans. Jesus himself came from a long line of messy humans, and the Lord used each of them to bring salvation to all. Our sin is only a testament to His power and what he can overcome.

Together they stood, and Mary faced her, palms open. Within them, a smooth stone. Confused, Mara looked to her imploringly. This couldn’t be it. She wanted to ask so many questions, because answers would surely quiet the chaos within her. Heal cuts and injuries too deep to reconcile with. The women warred inside her head and heart, trying to unite them. Not everything in this world had a righteous solution, and justice would not be her own. They fought to remind her stubborn spirit that there was nothing she needed to do. He had a plan, and she could be a part of it, just as they were. If she could acknowledge the Creator and His sacrifice, He would do the rest.

Mary took pity on her tormented mind and gave her one final reminder,

“Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it.” (Isaiah 30:20-21)

Mara thought of the voices of her new teachers, and knew they were rejoicing in this message. If all she had to do was say yes to the gift Jesus gave her in death and trust Him, who was she to deny His power to use even her pain for His glory?

“What do I do?” she asked the angel in front of her.

Mary reached forward and gave her the rock. The weight felt strange, but a nervous hope began to bloom. Nodding her head towards the mirror, she gave her a simple instruction,

“Break it.”

A refining fire erupted in her, and with one last look at her reflection, her resolve hardened like the stone in her hand. A holy calm washed over her, like a sea of cleansing water. She brought her arm all the way behind her head, and released it forward with the force of all her hurt and regret. The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, every version of herself with it. All of her sin was in fragments, catching light and casting brilliant colors on her walls. A kaleidoscope of pain she kept hidden for years, now splattered like a Jackson Pollack painting around her room.

Filling her lungs with a breath of air that no longer suffocated her, she turned to Mary. The smile on her face was tender, both proud and grateful for what she had witnessed. She offered her hand once more, and this time, Mara didn’t hesitate to take it. Together, they walked through the open door, and into the light.”

#bible #biblestudy #jesuschrist #genealogy #creative writing #women #storytelling #testimony #old testament #new testament #redemption #brokeness #christianity #god #godisgood #godisgreat #godislove

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