#ANYWAY perfect timing for their birthday <3 yippee!!

[kaydreamsart]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIFFRIN!!✨

[rupertsfangirl]

Ron Weasley Imagine-Comforts you after a rough day at work (Smut)

Disclosure: Spanking, oral (female & male receiving), Probably missing sum but idk.

Summary: You have a long and rough day at work and your doting husband Ron takes care of you when you get home (IYKYK). 

Word count:2.5k

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Ron Weasley

Note: HOLY HELL I APOLOGIZE! I know I released the original all fluff version like weeks ago but the holidays came around and then my birthday and a bunch of other things but anyway I’m back for now (hehe). I am starting school up again but I should have a bunch of free time due to most of my classes being extracurricular ones since I took college courses to do the other classes early (Yippee for me). Anyway I really hope you enjoy it. I know I had fun writing it even though it took me like a million years. I do plan on making a twins one but I kinda need to rewrite it cuz I accidentally set it in a time period making them underaged sooo yea gotta redo that, oopsies. 

Ron stood in the doorway and let his blue eyes trace your figure. 

“You look beautiful.” You blushed at his compliment. 

“Well today is important.” He walked up next to you and took the necklace you planned to wear off the desk. He placed it around your neck while you lifted your hair allowing him to clasp it together. 

“Perfect,” he whispered, placing his hands on your waist from behind. You smile as you put your matching earrings in. 

“Alright, I'm ready.”

“Do you have everything prepared?”

“Yes, it's all in my organizer.”

“Well then don’t forget you are amazing and you’ve got this, go get’em.” You hug him feeling a surge of extra confidence from his words. You walk out of the room and down the stairs to the fireplace, Ron trailing behind you. He presses a kiss onto your forehead. While stepping into the fireplace you grab a palm full of floo powder,

“Ministry of Magic.” You watch as Ron disappears behind the flames and the ministry's black brick walls appear. You start towards the conference room feeling the sweat on your palms, you take a deep breath and reassure yourself. 

“You got this.” You step into the room first, as you expected. You begin to set up your presentation; it was an important one because it would allow your department to expand and potentially lead to a promotion for yourself. Once everyone had arrived you began the presentation. You glided through with ease feeling quite cool and collected the whole time. Why had you been so nervous before, you thought of Ron’s words and smiled internally. After the presentation you were feeling pretty good about it. You left the room and started back toward your office however you heard a few of the wizards and witches who had been in the room talking badly about your presentation. It made you upset and questioned whether you had hallucinated that you were so calm while presenting. You tried to shake it off but remained in a funk the rest of the day. And add that you were behind on just about everything due to being understaffed, it was a combination of all the things that made you overwhelmed. 

You had stayed about 3 hours overtime and got home later than you planned; but even still the second you got home Ron was there to greet you. He took your bag, giving you a kiss while grabbing it, and placed it on the couch. 

“How was work?” You only groan in response. “That bad sweetheart?” You nod and place your head onto his shoulder letting out a big sigh. Ron tries comforting you by rubbing your back and holding your head. 

“Why don’t you get out of those clothes and we can just relax.” 

“Alright,” you say, grabbing your bag and heading upstairs to change into something comfy. You take your hair out of the tight bun it's been in all day and fling off the narrow pumps your feet were squished into; sitting down you take out your earrings and necklace. 

Suddenly Ron shouts from downstairs, “I have a surprise for you!” You can’t help but feel excited using a spell to quickly and cleanly remove your makeup. You make your way back downstairs to see a table set with two plates of delicious looking food, candles, and glasses of the good stuff (nice wine). Ron looks pleased with himself and you can’t help but feel like you drooled a bit when you saw the food. 

“Oh my goodness, what did I do to deserve you?” You give him a tight hug and you both sit to eat. You tell him all about the rough day you had and he shows all his emotions on his face like he usually did: anger when you told him about the people who talked bad about you, worry when you told him about all the work you have, and excitement when you told him that you still felt the presentation went well. Then he told you all about the day he had at work which was usually light hearted as he co-managed the joke emporium with his brother George. He always managed to make you laugh with something crazy that happened. You guys finished eating and took the plates to the kitchen placing them in the sink then Ron used a spell to start washing them. 

“What do you feel up to, darling: a bath, a movie, or maybe me?” You giggled at his proposal and rubbed your finger on your chin pretending to think really hard. 

“Hmm, what about a massage; my back and feet are killing me.” 

“I can make that happen.” He had placed his hands on your shoulders and squeezed them lightly. “Go up to the room, I’ll meet you up there.” 

“Okay.” You head up the stairs and into the room, you lie face down on the bed placing your head into your arms. Ron walks in a minute or so after with a bottle of oil. 

“Well you have to take off your shirt,” he chuckled while giving you a knowing look. You roll your eyes at him making sure to face away from him while removing your shirt. You quickly lay back down on the bed and soon after Ron drips the warm oil onto your back instantly soothing you. He begins to glide his hands along the sides of your back to your shoulders where he puts pressure and squeezes causing you to let out soft moans. 

“You have magic hands Ronnie,” you mumble jokingly. He chuckles quietly and continues to massage the knots out of your shoulders. He then slowly moves his hands down to your lower back and using his thumbs he presses into it and moves out slowly; you gasp lightly feeling loose and calm. 

“Did that feel good?” You nod into the bed and he smiles feeling happy he can please you. Ron’s rough yet gentle hands rubbing from your neck, to your shoulders, to your tailbone. You feel as though you're on a cloud and you allow your mind to wonder. You sense his fingers slip into your pants, slowly pulling them down; you think about telling him off but it’s been awhile since you two had been sexually intimate, so you let him continue. His hands caressing your ass; starting from the bottom of your cheeks and squeezing while sliding up. He pulled the spandex waistband of your underwear letting it slap back down onto your waist and swiftly slapping your ass making you tremble. While sliding your pants off all the way, his hand came down a second time leaving you a shade redder. 

He smirked at his ability to make you squirm and leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Ass up.” You bite your lip, abiding his demand, getting on your knees and arching your back to lift your backside into the air. He ran his thumb under the trim of your underwear, lifting it and planting another slap on your cheek; you jump, letting out a slight squeal. 

A pleased grin spread on his face, “You’re so wet for me.” Placing the pad of his finger on the forming wet circle, beginning to rub it; the friction of the fabric against your entrance causing a moan to escape your lips. His fingers traced over your lips gradually moving inwards towards your more sensitive areas; slowly working up the pressure but keeping the same pace. 

“Your hands really are magic.” 

“That's not all that's magic,” a sly smile forming on lips. He roughly pulled off your underwear revealing just how wet you really were. His tongue gently skimming your thigh until slowly reaching your vagina. You softly call out his name as he draws circles and places kisses; soon after pushing his tongue into you. Sultry breaths and rough hands accompanied by a soft tongue brought a rising heat. Contrasting with the coldness of his fingertips as they explored your legs before placing another slap on your ass, pulling a whine from your throat. His mouth hovered just above your clit, placing gentle kisses around the hood and releasing light slow breaths onto it, making you ache for his tongue on your clit. Your hips seemed to take control attempting to move closer to his mouth; prompting Ron to plant another slap on your already rosy cheek. 

“You have to be patient,” he tutted before treating your ass to several quick slaps. The sensations drawing out sounds you were unaware you could make. 

“Please,” you whine.

 He smirks into your skin and shakes his head, “But I love watching you beg.” His finger trailed from the top of your vulva to the bottom; his breath still seemingly rubbing your clitoral hood. As his finger was just to touch your clit he pulled away skipping over the area then continued down. Every time he did this you whined and squirmed, craving his finger pads on your deprived clit. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, the feeling of Ron’s muggy breath and his coarse hands that knew all the spots to make you scream. 

“Ronnie, I-” 

“You're close, I know.” His voice trailed as he put his tongue back to work making you moan at the sudden warm stimulation. He slowly licked up to your clit and finally allowed it some love. Your voice filled the room and you could feel your climax on the tip of your tongue as could he (literally). You felt as if you were filling up until it spilled over, spreading throughout your body making you shiver and moan Ron’s name. Your legs become wobbly and weak causing you to fall flat back onto the bed. Ron flipped you onto your back and wiped your watery eyes. 

“How does my princess feel? Can she take another round?” his hands rubbing your cheeks and head. You felt all the warmth from his body next to yours. You turn your head to face him and biting your lip you nod. He smiles, “We can take a break.” Suddenly you feel a surge of energy from the very last remnants of your orgasm; quickly you straddle Ron who looks shocked but also extremely turned on. You slide his pants down slowly with his boxers in tow, revealing his hard cock. 

“It's so perfect. Perfect for me.” You place a kiss on the head, Ron smiles as his cheeks turn a light red. You slide down his legs to make it easier for your mouth to reach. You reached for the oil on the floor and put a bit on your hand. Placing your hand he twitched at the temperature change. You gripped the center and began slowly moving up and down placing kisses along the side. 

“Sorry it's cold.” He only mumbled under his breath in response. Your other hand made its way to his balls cupping them and beginning to massage them. Dragging your tongue across the head you heard Ron let out stifled moans, using his hand to cover his mouth. His eyes locked with yours, he seemed nervous but you maintained the contact seemingly making him more sensitive. You smile to yourself as you continue to navigate your tongue around his sensitive head, licking up a bit of precum in the process. 

“Does that feel good?” You watched as he brought his hand to grab the back of your head; he lightly tugged your hair letting you know he liked what you were doing. “You need to use your words darling,” you whisper smugly. Using his arm to cover his eyes he mumbled, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes it feels good.” His whines and reactions to your hand and tongue only tempting you to mess him up further; but you want to take your time teasing him until he can’t hold it. You start to quicken your pace as you feel Ron getting closer from his expressive voice and face as well as the abundance of precum flowing from him. His hand gripped to your hair hard pushing himself deeper into your mouth just as he came. You felt it slide down your throat as you swallowed, wiping some from the corner of your lip. You continued to run your hand up and down as he was feeling out the final traces of his climax. “If i’m magic you must be mythical,” he huffed catching his breath. You laughed a bit at his joke and crawled up to his chest laying your head on him. 

“I guess I must be.” He stroked the back of your head while planting kisses. Your hand remained on his penis, idly rubbing it through which you felt it regain the stiffness it had just moments ago. You slid back down so that his penis was against your stomach. 

“I thought you were tired. And yet here you are taking charge,” He chuckled while sliding a hand on your waist. 

“You’ve invigorated me.” You practically beam with confidence; giving him a sly look, you sit up on your knees to guide his dick inside. Placing your hands on his chest you began to roll your hips, looking at his pleasure stained face. You leaned over pressing your lips to his. His fingers snaking to your hair and pulling you away from his lips leaving a trail of saliva. You had stopped moving, catching your breath from his sudden aggression. His hips started to entertain you with small thrusts making you moan. Releasing your hair, he sat up keeping you in his lap. Pressing your foreheads together you breathe heavily into him soon after your lips are locked with his once again. The kiss is deep and messy matching his hip movements; you can feel him getting closer. He quickly flips you onto your back, catching you by surprise. You look upon his face, admiring him: his heavy breath, the way he looks at you, it makes you squirm a little. You move your hand to stimulate your clit as Ron drags his tongue against your neck, making you shiver. Both yours and Ron’s bodies were nearing their limit. A warm and powerful sensation began to overtake your body until it suddenly burst and felt like a wave crashing and soon after dissipating back into the ocean. At the same time you could hear and see Ron climaxing with you. You felt him fill you up and then fall next to you both of you catching your breaths. Ron turns his head to face you, pushing your head to face him.

“Your brilliant-” you glare a bit, “-and beautiful” he whispers quickly as he caresses your cheek. You smile leaning into his hand, your whole face a bit red. Bringing yourself closer to him you lay your head on his chest, allowing you to hear his fast beating heart. 

“I think I’ll take tomorrow off.” you chuckle. Looking up you give him a suggestive look, he seems to blush but it's hard to tell as his face is all a pinkish red. 

“Y…yeah maybe you should.” He slides his hand down the back of your hair as he speaks, while trying to avoid eye contact. 

“You're cute.”

“And you're perfect.”

[lewkwoodnco]

omg hi you said you were opening requests for lockwood in general and not just songfics so i was wondering if you could write one where lockwood gets hurt in a mission trying to protect reader (they’re dating) and when they get back to portland row she gets mad at him and they have a really bad argument that ends up with the reader saying she doesn’t love him anymore (shes lying) and wants to leave lockwood and co !! (if it’s possible for you to end it on a happy note it would be amazing but if it’s hard to write there’s no pressure)

only love can hurt like this - Lockwood x Reader

Psst I now have a taglist! yippee!

A/N: okay SO I know the title is from a song but it’s nottt a song fic and gosh this made me realise what a crutch music has been in my writing 😭 if any of y’all have more non-songfic requests I would rlly appreciate it 🙏the beginning's a lil fluffy hehe, inspired by this post! P.S. condolences for shadow and bone </3, wc 4.7k She was in the kitchen when George and Lockwood returned from their case, dusty and exhausted, and fixed up some tea for them. George took his tea up to his room with a mumbled thanks and Lockwood pressed a distracted kiss to her temple as he pulled out the biscuit tin. She made a calculatedly casual remark about going down to the basement to help Lucy sort out their storage, at which he rolled his eyes and pulled her into the chair next to his.

But that was about an hour ago, and now she could hear the tired flipping of pages and stacking of files from the library, where he was buckling down to fight the growing pile of paperwork on his desk. He's facing away from her when she steps in, and from the looks of it, the paperwork seems to be winning.

"I know you wouldn't want to make a fuss..."

He stiffens, and when he turns there's an incredulous tilt to his eyebrows and the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips. She keeps a hand over the candle's flame as she walks in balancing a card and cupcake on her palm.

"How did you find out?"

"I badgered Barnes for your birth certificate. Took me months."

"That can't be legal."

"Don't think he minded much in the end. Anyway, the card was like a pound and the cupcake is a gift from Arif so you can't refuse either of them."

He smiles despite himself, glancing through the card with a bemused interest, red glitter coating his fingertips.

"Well, I didn't know I was your 'precious sweetheart.'"

"Oh, shut up. It was that or a condolences card."

"Hmm, this card really is the gift that keeps giving. 'To my dearest darling...'"

"Maybe I should have had a look through."

"...blah blah blah 'perfect day for my adorable sweetheart -'"

"What on earth kind of a shop is Arif keeping?"

"'Happy birthday handsome'?"

"I think we're done with the card!" She snatches it from him and stuffs it under the large stack of papers on his desk, face burning, but it still takes him a while to laugh it out of the system. It's an endearing sight to see him so carefree, if exhausted, and even after months of dating she watches him shyly through her eyelashes. His haggard face makes it easy to see him as far more than only a year older, but for now it's enough that he's laughing and alive.

"First and last time I trust Arif's judgement on birthday cards."

That sets him off again, though he has the decency to try and choke it down, but even his suppressed amusement is infectious enough to make her lips twitch. She hadn't realised what a stirring experience it would be to watch him celebrate another year alive. He looks like he wants to say something, but she's not sure she can bear it.

"Y/-"

"Shh, just blow the candle out. Wait! You have to make a wish."

He sighs dramatically, but acquiesces, briefly muttering invisible words under his breath with closed eyes before blowing out the candle. She tries to match the fluttering of his lips to words but nothing quite fits, and she half wonders if he's spouting incomprehensible gibberish just to appease her. It isn't until he pulls out the candle and jabs her with it that she realises she was staring.

"You want to know what I wished for?"

"It's killing me."

"I -"

"No! You can't tell me or it won't come true."

"Y/N, it's a candle in a cupcake."

"I'm not putting up with any of your cynicism on your birthday." She thinks about the overly zealous card, and the crumbling cupcake that would be gone in a few minutes. "Should have gotten you a gift. At least a small one."

"This is perfect. Really."

"Still. Could have scrounged up a keychain, or a mug."

"What, from the kitchen? My kitchen?"

"You know me so well."

"Well," he leans back in his chair, almost superficially nonchalant. "I suppose there is one gift you could give me."

"Anything."

"What's it going to take for you to read the card out loud?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That day had a sluggish quality which made it feel like years had passed by the time they set out for their job at sprawling, if ancient, mansion on the outskirts of London. Looking up at the giant house that nearly completely blocked out the setting sun, relief over knowing where the haunting was centralised washed over her; she wasn't quite in the mood to be running up and down impractically ornate flights of stairs.

The neighbours had reported seeing a ghostly figure drifting aimlessly in one of the open-air courtyards, and occasionally it would appear on the balcony directly above the courtyard, climbing over the railing before vanishing into thin air. Lockwood and George were stationed at the courtyard, Lucy at the stairs, and she on the balcony.

She stepped onto the balcony hesitantly, eyeing a thin, jagged crack running through the stone. The house was too cavernous to be considered flimsy but some of the crumbling walls made her feel as though one good thump would bring the whole place crashing down. She started to unzip her duffel bag when an ear-splitting scream ran through the courtyard.

She jumped, her ear prickling unpleasantly. It was as though the visitor had been standing right next to her, but as her heart rate came down, she realised she wasn't even feeling chilly. She peered down, where George was squinting up at her, Lockwood already with one foot out of their chains. She shook her head, trying to muster a thumbs-up with her fumbling hands, but he was already walking towards the stairs briskly.

She wasn't sure how long it took him to reach her, but it definitely felt longer than it should have. The adrenaline from the scream had made her especially nervy, with a sickly fog of paranoia settling over her mind. Those trees seemed too lush, too dense, dark green leaves quivering under the whims of some invisible wind. She tried to think about the cupcake, and Lockwood's face when he first saw it, and it was enough to stop the balcony from dissolving under her fingertips.

But when he reached her, hair tousled, his grip on her shoulder just a little too strong to be entirely comfortable, she saw a very different version of Lockwood. His lips were moving but there was something rampant in his eyes, something that gave her pause. She glanced at the monstrous night sky, which seemed to threaten to swallow them whole, and then at the inky black heat in Lockwood’s eyes, and she suddenly felt overwhelmed by them both.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Wha - hm?"

"Are you hurt?"

“No, I’m fine. You didn't need to come up here."

His hand slipped from her shoulder, sliding down to her hand, which he stared at as if he couldn't quite understand it.

"Are you okay?"

He looked up, the furrow in his brows dissolving, though he didn't seem ready to let go of her hand yet. “Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. It's just...I...I could have sworn..."

“Breathe, Lockwood. You look like you’re stretched thin.”

"I'm fine," he repeated, but it's somehow more hollow than the last. Part of him turned to leave, but something made him stop. He opened his mouth, then closed it again as if he thought better of whatever he was about to say. The burning in her chest grew.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

He exhaled wearily. "He's playing tricks on us. Maybe Luce should join you here -"

"No, it's best she stay halfway. It'll be fine; we can see each other."

He nodded stiffly, before finally walking away with considerable effort. The balcony somehow felt more alive as Lockwood left, the trees rustling louder than they should as the air around her seemed to contract. It unsettled her.

Eventually the visitor made his appearance, and though her Sight wasn't the best it helped calm her nerves to have something solid to watch out for. He was in the courtyard, dodging Lockwood's salt bombs while trying to fly at George, who was desperately looking for the source. There was only so much help she could give as any flares she threw from her height were only going to hit George or Lockwood rather than the visitor, so she focused on hunting for loose panels or hidden latches in the balcony and the walls of the house from which it protruded.

When she walked back to the railing, she felt a stab of panic at the blanket of grey mist that obscured her vision of the courtyard. She gripped the railing, trying to calm down. She could still hear them, but given what Lockwood had said about the visitor playing tricks, she wasn't sure how much faith she could place in any of her senses. A crash sounded, as if one of the weaker walls had caved in, making her wince. She put her hand on her rapier, steeling herself to make the trip downstairs.

Another crash sounded, but this one seemed to resonate through the mansion's skeleton. There was an awful grinding sound and she felt the floor beneath her feet tilt. She clutched what she could reach of the balcony's doorframe, hanging on by her fingertips, not daring to even breathe as she desperately tried to plant her slippery soles onto the marble floor. Her palms were sweating, and her grip was slipping. She closed her eyes, fed up with the hallucinations, and braced herself for the fall.

Instead of the swooping sensation of falling, she feels strong fingers closing around her wrist. She opened her eyes to the sight of Lockwood pulling her to the safety with a badly scratched cheek, but otherwise unhurt. It makes her want to sob with relief, but she settles for scrabbling for his palm with numb fingers. She leans against the doorframe, reveling in the solid wall pressing against her back, though her relief was short-lived.

The visitor shrieked much closer now, startling her as she turned to watch it hurtling towards them, obsessively staring at the chalice in Lockwood's hand. The growing pit in her stomach swells as she rifles through her belt with increasing agitation, panic stabbing her in the eye with every empty pocket. Lockwood twisted his hand out of her relaxed grip, and in that split second she realised what he was about to do. He took a final step onto what was left of the balcony, and the whole structure came crashing down.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Among the roar of the rubble, she picked out what she thought was the sickening crunch of bones, and it took everything in her to fly down the stairs instead of jumping after him. Lucy was already there with George talking on a phone nearby, and their faces paled when they only saw her coming down the stairs. The three of them frantically started shifting through the rubble, yanking at the larger pieces together. She couldn't see the visitor as the dust settled, which saved her the trouble of ripping it to shreds, limb by limb.

She heard a familiar cough coming from under one of the pieces, and with strength she hadn't known that she possessed, she pulls the piece away to reveal a dusty, battered Lockwood. George and Lucy aren't far behind, quickly freeing him from the mountain of debris. This time she does cry out in relief, pressing her fingers into the skull behind his ears insistently, shaking from the blessing that it was to see him alive and breathing. He winces, and her grip on his head tightens reflexively.

"What? What hurts?"

"Your screaming, right now."

As the DEPRAC vans pulled up, George filled out the necessary paperwork on behalf of Lockwood, who was impatiently letting the paramedics check only for broken bones. As the relief of finding him alive faded, all that was left was a smarting irritation. Lockwood would forever and always remain addicted to playing the hero, she knew that, but it didn't piss her off any less, especially when he put his life on the line for it.

Once Lockwood finally managed to shrug off the last exceptionally persistent paramedic, the four of them trudged over to one of the cabs DEPRAC had flagged down for them.

"Hang on - what about the source?"

George turned and she followed his gaze to the team of DEPRAC officers delicately draping an iron net over the rubble.

"Given that it was the balcony itself, I think it's been taken care of."

As they settle into the cab, Lockwood carefully scans her face which is still as inscrutable as it was ten minutes ago. She relents, but only a little, giving his hand a light squeeze. She closes her eyes and leans her head on his shoulder, whispering quietly.

"I wish you'd let them look over you properly."

"M'alright. I can deal with a few scrapes myself. Fractures, not so much."

George's tired voice floats from the front seat.

"You better not have a concussion, idiot."

She feels him still next to her, and suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Why couldn't he let the paramedics do their job properly? Why did he have to be so stubborn?

She thinks about a night from long ago, before they were dating and before she learnt how to bully him into taking care of himself. They had just come home from a case, and he was sitting in his room in a curious manner: staring at the wall without even realising his door was ajar, or that he was still fully clothed. The patches of skin peeking out from under his clothes were littered with scratches and cuts, but nothing major enough to warrant first aid, save for the bruise on the side of his face. She paused at his door, watching him, and wondered if he knew she was even there.

“No library?”

“Not tonight.”

She didn’t like the way he was speaking. The response wasn’t immediate, as if it had taken him a while to detangle himself from his absorbing thoughts. The tone of his voice was as cordial as always, but there was some kind of agency missing, as if he were in a trance, and it unnerved her. And yet, something tethered her to him, some desire to protect him from some violence brewing close at hand.

“You should really get some ointment on that.”

“I know.”

But he made no movement to do so, and she felt awkward leaving him alone. That was how she ended up sitting next to Lockwood on his bed as the sun started to peek in. There was a misty tinge to the first strains of light, and Lockwood looked so pale she wondered if he was fully solid. She had watched his fragile and ambivalent spirit restlessly pace in the room for the past few hours, while his corporeal form withered lifelessly, but she didn’t understand him any better.

She slipped her fingers in his own, mildly frowning, as if trying to hold on to an increasingly amorphous Lockwood. His fingers reflexively tightened around hers before relaxing just as quickly, his first movement in hours, though his face remained impasssive. His hand remained relaxed, but when she didn't pull her hand away, he allowed his thumb to rest on hers. She had felt some kind of tension then, between the part of him that wanted to drift away and the part of her holding onto him for dear life. But now, the Lockwood sitting opposite her at the kitchen table was slipping through her fingers like sand.

"Y/N, about those conflicting jobs in Hackney - do you want to split up or should I cancel?"

"I don't know, Luce. Why don't you ask Lockwood? Since he seems to always know best."

Lockwood frowns, briefly looking away from the torch George was shining into his eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She ignores him, muttering under her breath.

"God forbid someone ask him to try to stay alive."

"Will you cut it out?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, which one of us has a head injury again?"

"I'm fine."

"How dare you lie to my face?"

George clicks the torch off, hastily moving to another corner of the kitchen, while Lucy's weary drifting slows down. Lockwood still looks peeved, but there's a hint of bewilderment on his face. She sighs irritably, pressing her eyelids.

"What I mean is...you don't look fine."

"It's only a bump. Not even a concussion - George checked."

"At least let me ice it for a bit."

"Don't fuss. I'm fine. Just sit and have your tea."

I’m begging you to let me help you, she wants to say. But she doesn't, because she's tired and angry and still very much scared, so she's in no mood for tea. He glances at her face when she continued to stand, and his jaw set when he sees she's in the mood to pick a fight.

"It's like you don't even think you did anything wrong." Do you know how much that terrifies me?

"I was only doing my job as your...employer, landlord, boyfriend...one of them."

"Why must everything be so complicated with you?”

"Fine. I'm sorry I didn't want to watch you break your neck."

And I didn't want to watch the life leave your eyes. "Oh, but yours is fair game?"

He doesn't respond, and it's almost as though she can see the invisible barriers he's putting up between them. She feels a brief stab of panic that she mistakes for anger.

Don't shut me out. "And now the silent treatment! God, you're such a child."

He stops drinking his tea entirely, and it doesn't give her the satisfaction she thought it would. Between the exhaustion from the case and the frustration over the brick wall that was Lockwood, her tongue gets the better of her and she sees red.

"Sometimes I wonder how I ever loved you."

The activity in the kitchen grinds to a halt for a few, terribly long seconds, before George walks out, Lucy not-so-subtlely following him with their tea. The anger on Lockwood's face evaporates, leaving an irritatingly smooth expression of mild surprise. She Silence suspends on the precariously thin string connecting them. He waits, but she doesn't backtrack. She turns away, unable to bear the look on his face.

"I'm...I'm sorry you feel that way."

"I've been thinking about leaving for a while."

"...leave...Portland Row? And go where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere's better than here." Anywhere I don't have to see you make stupid, reckless decisions because of me. Anywhere I don't have to look at you nursing fractures in barely-healed bones. Anywhere I don't have to watch you dither for peace you can never quite seem to reach.

He doesn't say anything, and she's not sure if there's anything he could say. She leaves the kitchen, dragging her feet up to their shared room. She empties the contents of her drawers and closet into a bag as if on autopilot, as she hid in some dark corner of her mind, waiting, begging for some force of God to tell her to stop. Her bags get packed, she gets undressed, and it is only after she turns out the light that she lets herself grieve the life she's leaving behind.

She's looking out of the window when the door swings open, warm light from the hallway spilling into the dark, illuminating her barren nightstand. He pauses at the threshold but she remains completely still, and after a moment or two he steps in, closing the door behind him. He shuffles about, getting ready for bed in the dark, and doesn't look at her face even when climbing into bed. She wants to tell him to try to get some sleep, but she isn't sure if it's her place, so the words remain unsaid.

He was so close she could just...extend her arm...brush her fingers on his back...clumsily soothe the unfettered demons which came out at night. There's a heady oppressiveness to the dark which weighs her down, not as cool and fluid as it normally is, waxing and waning around their shifting bodies and burning skin. The moonlight reflected on the pale patch of skin above the collar of his t-shirt, skin which looked like liquid glass. Close. She was so close to this delicate, temporal force which wrought a religious kind of faith from her hopelessly melancholic soul.

What a misery it was to love.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She wakes up to the sun streaming over the rumpled sheets of the empty bed. She sits up, the house significantly quieter than it usually is at this time of morning. In the kitchen, George is standing by the toaster and Lucy's pulling out the sugar bowl, making tea. Lockwood's sitting stiffly in his chair, and he looks much more whole in the daylight, though oddly fragile with the protection of his suit stripped away. Their eyes instinctively meet when she walks in, after which they avoid each other's gaze until much later.

She gently takes her mug from Lucy, brushing off her protests with a distracted pat on her hand. The emptiness from last night hasn't faded, and she puts together a cup of tea and collects 2 pieces of toast mechanically.

Without thinking, she swaps the mug Lucy's placed in front of Lockwood with her own, only realising what she's done when she feels three pairs of eyes on her, her own eyes fixed on the mug in front of him. She clears her throat awkwardly.

"Lockwood doesn't take sugar with his tea."

Lucy probably mumbles an apology, but she isn't entirely sure given how all she can think about is how close his fingers are to hers. She wills her hand to let go of the mug, and it takes a moment to reluctantly cooperate.

"Thank you."

Lucy takes advantage of her pause to place her mug next to his, so she hesitantly takes her seat next to him. She picks up a piece of toast and starts buttering it while Lockwood talks in an unfamiliar voice.

"So...any plans on where you're going?"

"I've got an aunt in Brixton. Might stay there for a while, until I sort out something more permanent."

He gives a half-nod, as if he hasn't bothered to listen to her words too closely. "Well, you're more than welcome to...stay, at least for a while. If you'd like."

"I...don't think that's a good idea."

"I see."

She can't bear the way his face falls before he attempts an unconvincing smile. It makes her heart ache. Even though they're sitting close enough to have their knees occasionally brush, here in this grimly-lit, transparent kitchen, she's never felt more disconnected from Lockwood. She wants to reach out, slip her fingers in his, btu all of a sudden she's paralysed by doubt and she doesn't know how. She slips the buttered toast into his plate. His lips quirk into a faint cursory smile, but it's gone as soon as he turns back to his plate, a vaguely miserable twist to his pallid lips. They eat in silence, and it's the hardest breakfast she's had to endure at Portland Row.

In another life I’m easier to love. I’m less complicated, less convoluted, less given to bursts of self-destructive/violent tendencies.

Afterwards, she gets dressed, but she cant bring herself to leave just yet, so she sits on the bed vacantly, looking up when he . He pauses at the door, looking at where his fingers delicately rest on the doorframe, the same way they always rested on her shoulder when he wanted to dip his head to whisper something into her ear, as if compelled by some unrecognised desire to hold her close. She steels her face but her eyes desperately drink him in, all of his rough edges and limp shadows, the hazy outline of his body. He holds out an envelope.

"What's this?"

"Your paycheck. The last one." He adds in the later bit almost as an afterthought, and it's almost enough to make her stay. She slips it into her bag, choosing not to point out how he had just given out their most recent paychecks just last week.

"I know I can't change your mind, so...thank you for...everything."

He glances at the birthday card on his nightstand, and any regret she had over buying the card instantly evaporates. At least she managed to somehow get out how she felt once upon a time.

"You'll get another next year."

"Don't think George shares my love for cheesy birthday cards quite like you do."

"Do you think I'm making a horrible mistake?"

"Y/N..."

She wants to feel the comforting weight of his hand in hers, wants to lean against him weakly and have him tell her everything would be alright. But her bags were packed, her dresser as bare as her heart, and she can't help but feel as though she would never be happy again.

"Humour me. Please."

He sighs, but relents.

"Up till yesterday I thought George didn't love me quite like you did, so, frankly...I don't know what to think."

"So...you want me to leave?"

"I didn't say that."

"So you want me to stay?"

"I didn't say that either."

"You make me…so scared, Lockwood. And...sometimes...I don’t think you realise it.”

He moves from where he's leaning against the doorway to sit next to her. She leans her head against his shoulder. He lets her.

"You and I both know I won't be around for long. I just want to keep you safe while I'm still here."

"You don't honestly believe that. Right?"

"It's...hard to say. Some days I feel normal. Mostly. Some days I feel like no amount of candles, eyelashes or wishbones can keep me from an early grave. I don't want you around to see it. I put you through so much, Y/N. I can't say you won't be better off without me."

"What about you?"

He smiles bittersweetly. "You're too...kind to see it now, but one day you'll realise that...it's what I deserve."

A silence fills the room, until she breaks it by violently chucking the envelope at his face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He gasps and splutters incoherently, still in shock from her attemoted assault.

"It's 'what you deserve'? What you deserve is a good knock on the head!"

"Fine, I'm sorry!"

"Don't ever let me catch you thinking like that again!"

"I won't!"

"What's it going to take to get it into your thick skull? I love you!"

"Okay!"

"I mean it!"

"I get it."

"And don't you forget it!"

"I won't." He wraps his arms around her, and she squeezes his torso aggressively, muttering increasingly extreme threats darkly under her breath. It's a sobering moment to hold each other as a new day blooms outside their window. "I won't."

They pull apart, but she still leans against him, and in that moment it's a dream to be sitting there, pressed impossibly close together, listening to each other breathe.

"I want to take evening walks with you. I want to watch you iron your ties on sleepy Sunday afternoons. I want to lose to you in chess. I want to manhandle you into celebrating your birthdays. I want to rub away the crease between your eyebrows whenever you’re thinking too hard."

Her hand drops from his waist to his wrist.

"Damn it, Lockwood. I want to hold your hand. I want to love you."

He interlocks his fings into hers, distractedly running his thumb over hers.

“Let me help you. Please.”

”I don’t think I know how.”

She tightens her arms around him again, overwhelmed by the burdens stretching out in front of them. Nothing was easy, not even this. Not even him.

"Just...hold on."

"I'm holding on. I'm holding on...to you. I'm holding on...for you."

TAGLIST: @mitskiswift99 @dangelnleif

[lilliathshifts]

Oh my god guys, I forgot to give y’all a little life update 😔

I had an ultrasound done on my thyroid about a month ago and they found a lil nodule on my thyroid which isn’t a big deal at all and is completely normal but when one is found, it’s standard to do a biopsy on it to make sure it’s nothing and luckily 99%+ of the time it’s nothing which yippee.

Today I woke up a 4 am to get ready and head to the hospital for my biopsy and I was a little nervous on my way there I went on my local news stations Facebook and found out my moms cousin got 99+ years in prison without parole bc he’s a multi offender and was caught cooking coca cola so that was a fun thing to wake up to. Anyway get to the hospital and the news is going and they mentioned him. He’s a celebrity. Jk.

So I get admitted and I meet my nurse. He was a dope guy and I genuinely thought he was gay but guess he wasn’t. He started my iv and he said my blood flow was incredible 😮‍💨

But there was so much blood everywhere. I wasn’t expecting to see that when I turned my head. He laughed at me and said “sorry didn’t mean to make this look like a murder scene”. Afterwards he was like “you took this way better than a lot of people, for a second I thought you just weren’t feeling any pain but then I saw that you were gripping your feet and you’re face was wide eyed” 😔

ANYWAY he put saline in the iv to “make it pretty and clean it out” LOL but he said that some people can actually smell the saline as they put it in AND I DID IT WAS SO WEIRD. We talked for a bit about our COVID experiences and I talked about how I got it on my 14th birthday and haven’t had my smell since (yippee 😔) and he said he has never met a person who completely lost their smell and never got it back. He left for a bit and came back and said “girl your labs came back in they’re literally perfect, I’ve never seen anyone who had labs this good” so I’m special I guess.

He gave me this calming med (forgot the name) and it made me feel so dizzy and and the room was SPINNING it was weird then I went back into the operation room.

I want to give a trigger warning but I don’t know WHICH one so just be weary I guess

It was awful and I hope I never go through this again. So I got in the room and my nurse was just talking about me and how I had COVID on my birthday and never got my smell back anyway so the biopsy started and the numbing medicine hurt like hell. It felt like someone STABBING my throat over and over and over again then practically the whole time and the person stayed the biopsy and I didn’t feel that but I did feel her pressing on my throat which was weird but the numbing meds were the only thing I could think about. The pain was horrible and I cried the whole time. They were telling me to pace my breathing bc it was really rapid but I couldn’t because it felt like someone was slicing my throat open. Then it was over and I just stared at the ceiling and they thought I was just high but I was actually just traumatized 🫶

the moment I got back into my room I started bawling. I wasn’t in pain but I was a little sore. My mom got my a cookie and my nurse brought me a water. I stayed in the room for about 30-45 minutes just waiting for all the meds to wear off and I was wheeled out to my car. I got Dutch Bros caramelizar (OMG IT WAS SO GOOD) and my mom got my Whataburger and I got home and watched Supernatural with my mom before going to sleep bc I got 3 1/2 hours of sleep last night.

I just woke up from my name to Kallmekris and CelinaSpookyBoo playing and thought “you know, I should probably tell tumble about my day” and so I am. Also after all this today, they LITERALLY slapped a bandaid over my neck 😭

Anyway peace out dawgs

[metalshea]

A Perfectly Doomed Christmas Carol: A Reflection on A Perfect Circle Through Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”.

Reflecting on the holiday season, I’m a little surprised at myself.  Maybe it’s because the lead up to Christmas was shorter here in the United States than it usually is.  The Thanksgiving holiday, our historic kick off for the Christmas season, was very late this year and so in some ways it doesn’t quite feel like Christmas time, yet. And so, I have yet to watch what is easily my favorite Christmas movie, A Muppet Christmas Carol.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are a TON of great Christmas movies: Die Hard (YES IT IS A CHRISTMAS MOVIE—I WILL FIGHT YOU!), Elf, A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, The Santa Claus, Miracle on 34th St., It’s A Wonderful Life, and, of course, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the original with Boris Karloff, not that Jim Carey nonsense), but there’s something about A Christmas Carol that resonates so clearly and seems so relevant beyond the holiday season.  I can’t say that about many Christmas movies.  

Ok, maybe Die Hard.  Yippee Kai Yay!

Maybe it’s because I share a birthday with Charles Dickens, but I really love and appreciate his writings. There is a clear moralism running his body of work that is still pertinent even today.  He continuously tries to call attention to disaffected working peoples, structuralized disadvantage, and implores his readers to simultaneously feel empathy and outrage.  A Christmas Carol does this as well.  I won’t spend long summarizing it because, really, who hasn’t seen or read it in the English-speaking world?  If you haven’t, go check out A Muppet Christmas Carol, it’s surprisingly accurate to the original text and Michael Caine plays a great Ebenezer Scrooge.  Or just read the novella and prepare to be shocked at the surprisingly unsettling atmosphere of the book.  What, surprised that the original is actually pretty creepy? It’s supposed to be a ghost story!

“Dude, when are you going to get to the music?”

We’re getting there, I promise!

A Christmas Carol follows Ebenezer Scrooge, a deeply flawed and emotionally insecure man who insulates himself from his insecurities by devoting himself entirely to his business.  He takes an “I got mine” approach to life, disparages and ignores the outside world—often at the expense of those in his employ or influence, and in the process begins to literally damn himself. Not to mention his name is literally synonymous with miser.  Scrooge’s deceased friend appears to him in spirit form and basically sets him up for a round of speed dating with 3 ghosts who show him the error of his ways by bringing him through his past, the present world around him, and the very not too distant future.  

Sounds familiar, right?  If you speak English, it should ring a few bells even if you haven’t read any Dickens. The literary device he uses is pretty common in Western literature because it basically invokes Dante’s Divine Comedy: the idea of a character being led by around by spirit and shown a picture of the world around them or the world that awaits them.

“Dude, now you’re shifting to Dante Alighieri?!  When are you getting to the metal music??”

Right now.

Just like Dante and Dickens, Maynard James Keenan uses the same literary trope in the writing of A Perfect Circle’s, The Doomed.  

Did I just blow your mind?

Before I go further, if you haven’t heard the song, you probably should.  Otherwise none of this will make much sense.  If you have heard it, give it another listen.  Enjoy! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDvfbvuJtS8

When this song dropped in 2018, it immediately resonated with me because of it’s use of religious symbolism, particularly the invocation of the Beatitudes.  When I started actually reading the lyrics, I realized just what Maynard did in it’s construction and started to get excited, he basically alludes not only to the Beatitudes, the Seven Deadly Sins, and the Gospels, but the narrative structure of the song alludes to Dante.  This religiously-raised, English-majoring musician and metalhead in started bouncing for joy.  Not only is the song pretty damn good, but it has a freaking point!  Hold me, Maynard!

But it’s Christmas, dammit, so we’re going to ignore Dante for now and instead examine this through the lens of A Christmas Carol.  

Truth be told, I actually think A Christmas Carol is a better lens to view the song than Dante, anyway, but I’m pretty damned sure that Maynard wasn’t even remotely considering it when he wrote The Doomed, let alone the absolutely glorious Muppet version.  Alas!

Ok, let’s start with the song itself and maybe some context. 

The Doomed is a damning portrayal of our current societal state.  You could probably make an argument around equality or neoliberalism, Trump’s America or capitalism, or the global refugee crisis, but I don’t think it’s meant to be so narrow a commentary, and for our purposes, I’d rather focus on the religious language at play here.  

The song was released in 2018 and was probably written closer to, if not in 2017.  At the time there was a growing on focus on the plight of the disaffected and a growing dialogue about how people interact with others with different life experiences.  There was a Huffington Post OpEd from around that time that this was likely being written titled “I Don't Know How To Explain To You That You Should Care About Other People” that sums up the broader societal dialogue quite nicely.  I wonder if Maynard read it as well?

Before going too far down that particular rabbit hole, let’s actually break down the lyrics.  The vocals open:

Behold a new Christ    Behold the same old horde  Gather at the altering  New beginning, new word And the word was death  And the word was without light  The new beatitude "Good luck, you're on your own" 

To my eyes, the song opens from the perspective of Dante’s Virgil.  Or, since this is Christmas, the Ghost of Christmas Present (GCP).  In my head, I picture the scene where Scrooge and the spirit stand outside the window looking into the Cratchit’s kitchen.  The spirit explains to Scrooge what he is seeing, an impoverished family making the best of what they have.  In Maynard’s retelling though we aren’t greeted with a touching Christmas scene, but rather a new Sermon on the Mount.  In the opening lines of the song, he immediately calls to mind the Gospels of Matthew, Luke, and John.  But it is the last two lines of the verse that are the most striking and set the tone for the rest of the song:

The new beatitude "Good luck, you're on your own" 

For those who are not Christian, or for those Christians that never learned about The Beatitudes, it helps to have some extra context.  The Sermon on the Mount is a scene from the Gospel of Matthew and elaborated on in the Gospel of Luke.  Jesus Christ gives a lengthy sermon to a crowd and during this famous speech, he issues The Beatitudes.  You can kind of think of them as the New Testament’s answer to the Old Testament’s 10 Commandments and be kind of in the right ballpark.  For all the hype and focus in Western society on the 10 Commandments, the Beatitude are often overlooked by a lot of Christians.  Which is kind of bonkers if you think about it and may hopefully become more apparent by the end of this article.  

Christianity is big on layering imagery and call-backs to earlier Biblical writings.  Seriously, Christians love that shit.  It adds a feeling a depth and purpose to The Scripture.  We can sort of view the weightiness of The Beatitudes through the doctrine of the Trinity.  Basically the idea that The Son, The Father, and the Holy Spirit are all one in the same being.  Ergo Jesus Christ is the literal physical manifestation of God.  Just as God the Father literally wrote the 10 Commandments in stone, Jesus Christ, The Son, issues a new set of Commandments, The Beatitudes, in the Sermon on the Mount.  

Yeah, they’re supposed to be THAT important.

Most Christians can name probably 6-7 of the 10 Commandments without too much thought, but they probably don’t know The Beatitudes, at least as a term. That being said, almost everyone would recognize them:

Blessed are the poor in spirit; the kingdom of heaven is theirs.  Blessed are the patient; they shall inherit the land.  Blessed are those who mourn; they shall be comforted.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for holiness; they shall have their fill.  Blessed are the merciful; they shall obtain mercy.  Blessed are the clean of heart; they shall see God.  Blessed are the peace-makers; they shall be counted the children of God.  Blessed are those who suffer persecution in the cause of right; the kingdom of heaven is theirs.  Blessed are you, when men revile you, and persecute you, and speak all manner of evil against you falsely, because of me. (Matthew 5:3-11)

The Gospel of Luke, a later chronological writing than the Gospel of Matthew, further expounds upon The Beatitudes, adding a bit more flavoring and essentially turns them into action items rather than just virtuous states of being:

27 And now I say to you who are listening to me, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you; 28 bless those who curse you, and pray for those who treat you insultingly. 29 If a man strikes thee on the cheek, offer him the other cheek too; if a man would take away thy cloak, do not grudge him thy coat along with it. 30 Give to every man who asks, and if a man takes what is thine, do not ask him to restore it. 31 As you would have men treat you, you are to treat them; no otherwise… 36 Be merciful, then, as your Father is merciful. 37 Judge nobody, and you will not be judged; condemn nobody, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven. 38 Give, and gifts will be yours; good measure, pressed down and shaken up and running over, will be poured into your lap; the measure you award to others is the measure that will be awarded to you.  (Luke 6:27-31, 36-38)

Luke also offers a complimentary set of warnings to accompany the Beatitudes, known as the 4 Woes:

Woe upon you who are rich; you have your comfort already. Woe upon you who are filled full; you shall be hungry. Woe upon you who laugh now; you shall mourn and weep.  Woe upon you, when all men speak well of you; their fathers treated the false prophets no worse.  (Luke 6:24-26)

When I was growing up in a very devoutly Catholic household, I remember my mother telling me that as important as the 10 Commandments are to the foundations of what was then my faith, The Beatitudes were absolutely critical to my being a good Catholic and, what’s more, no person could ever hope to have a shot at entering heaven without ascribing to them.

Something about a rich man, a camel, the eye of a needle, and the prosperity gospel, amirite?  But I digress.

It’s funny, re-reading the Sermon on the Mount and Luke 6, after I don’t know how many years, I really am struck by how the Beatitudes really are positive action items.  The quotes I provided above don’t really delve too deeply into how the broader context of the Beatitudes demand positive action.  This is article is going to be long enough as is without dissecting the full text of the Sermon on the Mount from both Gospels of Matthew and Luke, but they’re interesting pieces to read from a moral philosophy perspective even if you’re not religious.  Where the Commandments say essentially, “Don’t do this or else”, the Beatitudes basically say: “Do these things, act this way, and you will be rewarded; don’t do them and you won’t be”.  That is a MARKED difference in tone from the Commandments, and it is baffling why as a religion Christianity focuses so much on the consequences of negative behavior as opposed to the positive outcomes for good behavior.

Getting back to the song, it is through the Beatitudes that all people are called to approach and treat others with compassion and empathy.  As the GCP shows us though, this is no longer the case: you are no longer expected to care for others, and you should not expect them to care about you. You’re on your own now.

As The Doomed progresses, we get a better picture of scene the GCP shows to Scrooge.  The underlying music shifts to more of a march feel.  There is a call-and-response at play between an unnamed preacher, the New Christ, and his followers, The Same Old Horde:

Blessed are the fornicates May we bend down to be their whores  Blessed are the rich  May we labor, deliver them more Blessed are the envious  Bless the slothful, the wrathful, the vain  Blessed are the gluttonous  May they feast us to famine and war

Maynard covers a lot of ground in these two short verses.  He’s alluded 3 Gospels already--2 of which we’ve dug into, I’m not getting into John here, but yeah that allusion to the Word comes from there (among other places… Christianity is big on scriptural call-backs, what can I say?)--and now he’s inverting the Beatitudes by referencing the 7 Deadly Sins and even the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Damn. Maynard’s smart.

Like the Beatitudes, the 7 Deadly Sins are familiar to most Christians, but they’re fundamentally misunderstood. They are not explicitly Biblical, and their legacy mostly comes down to us through early Christian mysticism and through the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas.  They are: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. What sets these apart from sin as it’s normally understood is that they are not actions.  According to Aquinas, sin is a moral evil that is not in accord with reason or Divine Law and it fundamentally requires some type of decision and action.  The 7 Deadly sins are more states of emotional being that lead us to moral evils. Through wrath and anger, we’re prone to violence and poor decision making.  Through sloth, we’re prone to inaction in the face of evil.  And so it goes.

The 7 Deadly Sins are inherently selfish mindsets.  They are considered so in Western culture because allowing ourselves to fall victim to our lust or greed is  the same as saying that we are sating ourselves potentially at the expense of others.  Such a mindset is in direct conflict with the words of Christ vis-a-vis the Beatitudes. The contrast is so strong that, in a way, you could look at The Beatitudes and the 7 Deadly Sins as extremes on the end of a spectrum. It is the human condition to err towards the Sins, but it is imperative for all humans to move towards the Beatitudes, not only for their salvation but for the betterment of society (anybody else catching a whiff of Freud here?  Id/Ego? Just me?).  Maynard flips the script: the worst impulses of humanity now guide us.

The music shifts again, this time to something more innocent sounding, and we hear our Scrooge speak for the first time:

What of the pious, the pure of heart, the peaceful? What of the meek, the mourning, and the merciful? 

It’s a little difficult to tell if it’s our Scrooge or GCP who utter the next two lines, I like to think it’s the latter, but the sentiment is the same either way:

All doomed All doomed

In this new world, those that embrace the values and actions embodied by the Beatitudes are left behind.  

The music picks up again and the GCP again address Scrooge.  The atmosphere almost feels more somber and reflective:

Behold a new Christ  Behold the same old horde  Gather at the altering  New beginning, new word And the word was death  And the word was without light  The new beatitude: "Good luck"

This repetition of the earlier verse brings us back to Dickens’ scene outside the Cratchit’s: The spirt echoes the earlier words of Scrooge while Scrooge solemnly considers Tiny Tim’s health: “’If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.’”

The music shifts, again, this time back to the innocent, meek section we heard earlier in the song. Scrooge interrupts GCP:

What of the pious, the pure of heart, the peaceful?  What of the meek, the mourning, and the merciful?  What of the righteous? What of the charitable?  What of the truthful, the dutiful, the decent? 

Once again Scrooge directly references the Beatitudes, but this time he expands beyond them, alluding to people that embody other parallel virtues to those referenced in the Gospels. There’s a sense of pleading and desperation to his words as Scrooge tries to capture the gravity of the implications of GCP’s descriptions.

The music shifts again to the marching beat, with a dissonant guitar lead, purposefully played off key. GCP is becoming angry and annoyed. “You’re not getting it, stupid”.  He responds through Maynard, who now sings with a clear edge to his voice:

Doomed are the poor  Doomed are the peaceful  Doomed are the meek  Doomed are the merciful 

For the word is now death  And the word is now without light  The new beatitude:

GCP directly calls out a number of the virtues of the Beatitudes, but this time his cynicism is crystal clear. He finally exclaims to Scrooge, anger boiling over:

Fuck the doomed! You're on your own.

Again, I’m reminded of Dickens and the final exchange between Scrooge and GCP.  Scrooge laments the state and health of those whose lives he has just seen.  The sprit, angry that Scrooge still seems to be missing the big picture—that Scrooge bears responsibility for their state, let alone their opinions of him—uses Scrooge’s own words to drive the point home: “’Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Are there no workhouses?’".  It’s a final, damning rebuke for Scrooge to ponder before being confronted by the most terrifying spirit of the night.  Just as we are left to ponder the implications of the “New Beatitude”.

See, I told you there was a good reason to use GCP as the narrator as opposed to Dante.

Plus, Christmas.

So there.

Some final thoughts:

I’ve been struggling how to relate the two children that accompany the GCP in A Christmas Carol, named Ignorance and Want, back to “The Doomed”.  In some ways they could be tied into the 7 Deadly Sins as they are both expressions of pure human selfishness, but, you know, square peg/round hole. Still food for thought though.

Even as I have moved in my own faith journey from Catholic to absurdist (a la Albert Camus), I still refer to myself as “philosophically Catholic”, and have been known to reference Luke’s version of The Sermon on the Mount in casual conversation, specifically this gem:

By what right wilt thou say to thy brother, Brother, let me rid thy eye of that speck, when thou canst not see the beam that is in thy own? Thou hypocrite, take the beam out of thy own eye first, and so thou shalt have clear sight to rid thy brother’s of the speck. (Luke 6:42)

I love that image.

The Beatitudes, The Woes, the 7 Deadly Sins, and their larger roles as measures of personal morality are really meaningful to me.  Even though I don’t consider myself Christian, I still ascribe to them.  They are guideposts towards achieving The Golden Rule—if such a thing could be considered a state of virtue—and in their broader context they are calls for us to engage of certain types of action, especially considering Matthew 25:36:

I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.  

Re-reading The Beatitudes for this post, I’ve also been so struck by how little sense of primacy there is in them compared to the Commandments.  There’s no explicit demand that we follow the Christian God, but that we embrace the Beatitudes and their broader contexts as moral bedrock. Christ reflects later in the Gospel of Luke that not using them as the basis for our personal morality would be like building a house in a flood zone on dirt instead of bedrock.  There’s a lot of truth to that, and that message transcends a lot of the nonsense that tends to lead people away from the religion.

I think Maynard might be coming from a similar viewpoint.  The values that we are supposed to espouse and embody are outdated in this New World. Kindness is obsolete.  Those that embrace virtue are kicked aside just as readily as those that we would otherwise consider to be lesser than ourselves.  The Doomed urges us to reflect on this and consider how we view the people and world around us.  Like Scrooge, in order for us to make a substantive change in ourselves and around us, we need to really consider what we’re seeing before us in the present moment.

And it’s not a pretty picture.

But it’s not all bleak. The last line of the song uses the conjunction and pronoun “You’re” and “your”, respectively.  Both variations of “You”.  We could spend hours discussing and dissecting the grammatical implications of the lyrics, but suffice it to say: as much as a condemnation as the last line is, it’s also a recognition that it’s on us to act.  No one else.  

I’ll end this 3500-word beast on that note.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Let’s do a little bit better every day.

Shea \m/