#I WROTE THIS IN LIKE...AN EMOTIONAL HAZE OVER THE LAST 30 HOURS

[words-writ-in-starlight]

Lisa, I'm killing our boy... Okokokokokokokok please tell me Trevor comes to visit every month or so to make sure Broody Mc. Blondie doesn't get too bored and that he enters the estate by loudly insulting him because it's the only kind of interaction trevor is any good at let's be honest. Alucard shouts right back at him and tosses him some tools and planks to help him rebuild the Belmont estate. That's how it goes right

See, you say “happy ending” but I say “I have some things toget OFF MY CHEST” and, well, you came to me, so…no.  That is nothow it goes.  Also this racked up to like 4k pretty quick so here, also on AO3.

Adrian is restoring the castle.

Both castles, he supposes—he’s strong, and he has all thetime in the world.  He pays for materialsout of Dracula’s vault and does not seek help. No one dares approach the strange and twisted castle above ground, andso below, like Belmont said.  Adrian hasa shrewd suspicion, when he bothers to think about it, that the incineratedruins of the Belmont manor grounds have been left untouched out of a fear thatthey might be cursed.

He’s glad, in a grim and distant way, that he pushed Belmontand Sypha to leave.  This is…this is tooraw, too aching, to have anyone near him while he faces what used to be hishome.

Adrian starts with the bare minimum.  The doors of both castle and hold have to berepaired, to prevent the elements from doing the work of destruction in amatter of weeks.  He can’t restore the Enochiansigil on the trapdoor of the hold—he would need a magician for that, and forall that Adrian is a linguist and a polymath the likes of which most humanscould never hope to match, his natural gift for magic is middling at best andlargely untrained—but a large granite slab does almost as well.  He hefts it into place and fits it over theopening, seals it with wax so that it will hold out wind and rain while hedeals with Dracula’s castle.

Adrian repairs the door of the castle.

Then he walks into the great library and stands in themiddle of the room, looking at the wreck, for seven hours.

Some of the books knocked from their shelves have been putback in place.  He did that, the very nextnight after they took the castle and he killed—

It had been something mindless and small, familiar from alifetime of loving the tidy order of alphabetized authors.  Adrian had picked up the books that hadfallen with the great impact of his back hitting the shelves, when he wasthrown into them, and slipped them back between their neighbors where they belonged.  Where the shelves were fragmented beyond use,he had stacked the books among the rubble on the floor, neat piles with thespines facing outward.  He had notbothered to move the broken glass or the splintered wood, nor done anything todeal with the scorched and melted hole in the wall.  Only the books.  

Adrian realizes, dimly, that the sun is setting through thewindow, the near-painful white light of day fading to something softer, lesslikely to make his eyes burn and his head ache.

Adrian leaves the library untouched.

Adrian—Alucard, hetells himself, murmurs it under his breath when he’s working, whispers it untilit loses all meaning, tries to carve it into his tongue and burn it into hisblood like silver, like holy water, like a ward—Alucard doesn’t have to hunt. He needs blood, but Dracula’s stores do more than pay for repairs.  He drinks from the preserved supply of bloodkept against a disaster, or a long period away from people, and eats from thefood stores that remain untouched by the vampires who lived here.  Some, the fresh fruit and vegetables, arelargely spoiled.  Most of the rest isfine.  There’s even flour, and yeast, ifAlucard had it in himself to spend the effort on bread.

If anyone else were here, someone else who needed food, ahuman or two, maybe, he might try.  

Alucard does not make bread.

The library and much of the other areas ruined in the finalbattle—the observatory, the laboratory, the wing of living quarters—are toohaunted for Alucard to bear.  He choosesthe deeper reaches of the castle instead, where the work is simple and directand miserably straight-forward.  He tearsout bloodied carpeting in the entrance hall and pulls down the throne roomalmost entirely, excises the forgemasters’ workshops like a gangrenous limb,dismantles guest quarters and burns a bonfire behind the castle taller than heis, for days on end.  

He destroys the night creatures still caged in the castleand burns their bones, burns the beds used by Dracula’s allies and the tablesused for their war councils, cracks open the Belmont Hold and burns the bodiesthere, burns bloodied carpet and broken wood. Alucard considers burning the books he finds there that are too damagedto be legible, but he sets them aside to evaluate later.  Perhaps he can decipher what is left andtranscribe them.  Perhaps Belmont knowswhat was inside.  Perhaps—

Alucard runs out of things to burn, eventually.   There was little to rebuild in the lowerreaches of the castle in the first place, and now he has reduced what there wasto empty rooms, a labyrinth of gutted dungeons and bare stone.  He scrubs the floor with his own hands andwith telekinesis and with lye so pure it makes him retch until he cannotjustify it anymore.  He retreats to theentrance hall, and then outside of the castle, where the ground is scarred andblack from the bonfire, and sits down with his back to the castle and his kneespulled up to his chest.

It’s dark out—he’s been working night and day without muchregard for what time it is.  He’s notsure how long it’s been since—since, but the air has gone cold and bitterrather than the sweet crisp bite of autumn he remembers from Gresit.  There’s snow on the ground.  He observes these things and forgets to allowthem to affect him, because vampires, even half-human vampires, do not sufferfrom the cold the way a mortal would.  Hesits behind Dracula’s castle—his castle, now, Alucard’s castle—in shirtsleevesand lets frost accumulate in his hair.

Alucard can’t sleep. There’s irony there, he thinks, in his moments where things like ironyand humor are achievable.  He slept for ayear and was more than ready to sleep again, to escape this world that Draculahad made and sleep until he was found, until he was needed, until Gresit felldown and destroyed his vault and everything inside.  Whatever came first.

Now he can’t sleep at all.

Where would he sleep, anyway?  He’s avoided thinking about this questionsince he sat in his father’s study—in Dracula’s study and cried until hecouldn’t anymore, curled up in the sturdy oak chair that he had hiddenunderneath as a child.  He had set someof the room to rights before he broke down, steadied the chair and set hismother’s portrait on the mantle, but he had fled as soon as he could trust hislegs to carry him.  Once, his father’s—Dracula, damn him, Dracula’s study hadbeen a place of warmth and comfort.  Itmeant that his family was together, when there was a fire in the hearth and thesoft sound of a quill tip writing, and Alucard had slept there often when hewas restless as a boy.

He hasn’t been back to the study since he fled the ghoststhat lingered there.  Nor the ruinedlibrary, where he used to creep after his mother put him to bed, so that hecould read late into the night.  Hehasn’t dared the observatory, nor her laboratory.  Dracula’s private library was in nearly aspoor repair as the main one, with the distance mirror shattered on the floor,but even if it had been pristine, it made the scar on Alucard’s chestache.  

His parents’ rooms, he didn’t enter even to check theircondition.  His own—

And he couldn’t feel at ease closing his eyes in the lowerreaches, where the burning taste of forgemaster magic lingered and his mindwhispered dark warnings about the dangers that lurked in the corners.  Now, of course, he’s rendered them more orless unlivable for a vampire until the astringent, insistent reek of the lyeairs out.

So.  Where does hesleep?

Alucard sits on the ground, back pressed to the wall of thecastle behind him, and lets the question chase itself around in his mind untilthe sky lightens.  When he finally stirs,snow drifts from his shoulders and hair.

He holds his hand out, palm up, and watches flakesaccumulate in his palm. They melt more slowly on his skin than on humanskin—than on his mother’s.  She loved thesnow, had taken him out on a balcony the first winter after he was born andcuddled him close, her warm cheek pressed to his and his hand, small andchildish, wrapped around the end of her braid as they watched the snow fall onthe mountains.

“Water is the only material in the world that naturallyoccurs as a solid, a liquid, and a gas, Adrian,” she had whispered, like shewas sharing a secret.  “Here, lupul mic, like this,” she said, andtipped her head back, sticking her tongue out. Alucard had done the same, turning his face up toward the grey cloudsoverhead, and had laughed, stretching his hands up toward the sky as the coldflakes landed on his tongue.  His motherhad laughed too, spinning the two of them around on the balcony until she wasdizzy and he was clinging to her jacket, and then…

And then his father had come to find them, had found themsitting on the balcony with Alucard in his mother’s lap, both of them rumpledand flushed and grinning.  He hadlaughed, had crouched down to ask what they were doing, and his mother hadcaught the fearsome master vampire Vlad Dracula Tepes by the collar and draggedhim down by main force to kiss him with her cold lips.  They had gone inside, finally, when hismother’s ears and fingertips were so cold she swore they had gone numb, and shehad put a cup of warm spiced milk in Alucard’s hands to match her own and theyhad sipped at it while his father read to them beside the fire, and it had beenso good—

Something hot strikes Alucard’s skin, shocking, almostscalding.  He may not feel the cold likea mortal would, but his skin has grown chill, almost deathly so, and the waterburns.  He raises his fingers to his face,presses his hand over his eyes as if to force the tears back, and a high, thinsound escapes through his teeth, like the whine of a wolf wounded by an arrow.  He feels a little like it, like there’ssomething barbed and terrible lodged in his chest that he’s been trying tooutpace, and sitting here has finally let it dig through his bones to tear opena lung.  That’s what Alucard imaginesthis feels like—gasping airlessly while tears fall down his face, as if he’sdrowning in his own lungs, grief filling the empty spaces like blood.

This is the third time Alucard has cried for his family.  

The first was when he returned to his mother’s home in apanic—he missed her by a matter of hours, because Alucard is too human toteleport any respectable distance and had to run home on foot when he heardrumors of a witch from Lupu.  He had pacedthrough the ruins of his mother’s home, marking the rooms and doors in his mindto prove to himself that it had really been hers.  Here, his mother’s kitchen; here, his parents’bedroom; here, his own room; here, her laboratory.  He had dashed the tears away without athought and run, flat out, toward Targoviste, and arrived just in time to seehis mother die.

Then he hadn’t allowed himself to shed another tear untilDracula was dead.

Now, crying hurts,makes his ribs ache, makes his head spin. Alucard closes a fist into his shirt, over the sharpest point of pain inhis chest, where a child is calling hopelessly for his parents to come back tohim, and lets his hair fall forward to hide his face.

Eventually, Alucard runs out of tears.  No one can cry forever.

Alucard wipes his eyes. Alucard stands up.

There are still repairs to be done.

The hold is less damaged than the castle—Belmont killed mostof the invaders in the first chamber, kept them from reaching the holdproper.  But the damage to the entrance shaftis extensive, the stairs smashed to kindling in places and ripped whole fromtheir moorings in others.

Alucard solves the first and most obvious problem by thesimple expedient of affixing a strong pulley to the top of the open column.  He can get himself in and out without trouble,but he’s not interested in testing the exact limits of his telekinesis in sucha high-stakes manner as lowering heavy construction materials down a hundredfoot shaft with him at the bottom.  

Then Alucard tries his hand at carpentry.

All things being equal, he’s not bad at it.  He dares the ghosts in the castle to findbooks in his mother’s study, her endless curiosity teaching him new things evennow as he repairs the shattered staircase. The stairs aren’t as fine as their predecessors, but they’re smooth andclean and sturdy, and he figures that the Belmonts would probably be all rightwith it.  Even if they wouldn’t—well, it’shis hold now, isn’t it?  If he decidesthat it needs pretty stairs, he’ll redo them.

The thought is equal parts encouraging and deeplyterrifying.  Encouraging, because in themoments where Alucard is still, trying to close his eyes for a moment, hedreads finishing the restoration of the Belmont Hold.  When he finishes here, there will be nothing leftbut his family’s own wing of the castle, no excuse not to repair the libraryand the laboratory, nothing keeping him away from his parents’ chambers and thelittle room where he grew up and killed—

Terrifying, because for the first time in his life, Alucardlooks forward at eternity and sees a long and lonely blank.  There is no one here.  Even if his mother hadlived a human life and died of old age—unlikely, in Alucard’s opinion, Draculawould never have allowed it—he would have had company.  Family. His father, who lovedhim.  Now he has an empty, hauntedcastle, and the last legacy of a family wiped out of history.  If Alucard rebuilds the stairs of the BelmontHold twenty times, at least it will be something to do to fill that endlesstime.

Alucard tries not to think about it too much.

When he finishes the stairs, Alucard turns to the rest ofthe hold.  He sets the painting of theBelmont ancestor back on the wall.  Hepulls rubble out of the places where the walls are damaged.  He returns the books they pulled down intheir frantic research back to their shelves, and begins trying to transcribethe ones that have been damaged.  Helearns the index inside out, expands it. He grins a little, for the first time in…a while, at the memory ofBelmont’s affront over his criticism of it.

It’s been—months, probably, since Belmont and Sypha left.  Alucard isn’t sure.  It’s even harder to track time in the holdthan in the depths of the castle.  Hedoes know that he hasn’t talked to anyone in almost as long, except for a fewpassing exchanges with the merchants who sold him the stores of wood and stone thathe needed.  He doesn’t talk much now,except for the occasional flood of cursing when something goes wrong in therepairs.  He doesn’t even murmur his own nameanymore.  Alucard comes easily now.

His mother would be so disappointed.

Alucard is restoring the Belmont Hold, and he is notthinking about his mother, or his father, or his eternity.  

He is not.

The hold is beautiful, and deep, and quiet, and kind—even toAlucard, who is trespassing on the legacy of those who might have hunted him,given the chance.  He sleeps a littlemore, here, an hour or two of restless dozing at a time snatched while he’slying on the floor or the top of a shelf or on a table, filled with uneasydreams.  He thinks he could be at peacehere, if the world left him alone.

He understands, a little bit, the world Dracula craved.  The silence. There is nothing that Alucard wants more than to close his eyes andsleep forever, and the hold, sometimes, seems like it would let him.

Alucard comes to the end of the restorations in the hold.  It takes longer than he’d first expected—he’sbeen doing makework, he can admit it, restitching old pages back into bindingand moving books that have been misplaced back to their proper shelves just todraw it out—but not as long as he’d hoped.

The last step is the granite slab.  It’s the same size and weight as the previousone, as best as Alucard can estimate, and smooth on top, ready to be engravedwith the Enochian seal.  Alucard hasseveral diagrams of the seal, drawn from his memory and checked against whatbooks he could find on the subject, and in theory, he should be able to engraveit and be done.

Alucard doesn’t engrave the seal.  He’s still not a magician, he tellshimself.  If there’s another step hedoesn’t know of, something left out of the books or lost over time, he couldcarve the seal and render the stone useless. He’ll look into it later.

Besides, no one comes near the castle.  The hold is as protected as it’s likely toget.

Some part of Alucard wonders if he can find a way to contactSypha.  She would know how to seal thehold.  Belmont might be with her—would heapprove of Alucard’s repairs?  He’s thelast of his line, it’s only right that he know what’s happened to his family’shold.  Maybe the two of them—

Alucard breaks off the thought as crisply as snapping a neck,and leaves the granite slab over the entrance.

It is spring.  Heknows this because the weeds taking over the ruin of Belmont Manor are greenand lively, putting out flowers.  Thesunlight is bright and cheerful, the air sweet with the promise of rain, warmenough that Alucard’s plain dress of shirt and breeches wouldn’t mark him asstrange.  It’s…beautiful.

Alucard stands in front of the castle, hands spread and facetipped up to the sun, eyes closed to against the brilliance, for a long time.  He has always loved sunlight, even though it’soften too bright for his eyes, he remembers, and the memory is strange and alittle foreign, as if remembering a story told to him by someone else a longtime ago.  But it’s his, his own story,his own memory, and as he stands there in the sunlight, feeling the warmth sinkinto his bones like so little sinks into a vampire’s bones, it clicks back intoplace, a stone pressed back into a wall he’d thought was mostly torn down.

He is—so glad to be half human, Alucard thinks abruptly, asa breeze whips around him and vanishes into the ruins.  He would hate to have never felt sunlight onhis face.  

The sun begins to set, and Alucard goes back into thecastle.

It’s time to face the upper rooms.

Over the last uncertain number of months, Alucard has done morework than a team of humans could have achieved in years, but when he steps intothe ruins of Dracula’s private library, the enormity of the work he has aheadof him hits him like a tidal wave.  Itleaves him breathless—there’s so much to do here, even just in this room, whichis less damaged than some.  He had thoughtthat starting here might be easier, the way it was easier to tear apart the lowerreaches, where there was more evidence of the monster Dracula than there was ofAlucard’s father.

This room is ruined, but in the way of a room willfullywrecked by someone in a rage, or a haze of grief, rather than the collateraldestruction the main library or the observatory faced.  The smashed distance mirror is far from theonly thing scattered in pieces—books and quills, glass beakers and vials, evena writing desk, have all faced Dracula and failed to withstand his wrath.  The icosahedron that used to govern thecastle’s movement is as shattered as the engine, planes melted together at oddangles and lying on the floor.  Alucardhasn’t even bothered to try and repair the engine yet, hasn’t even reallydecided if it’s worth repairing.  There’snowhere he wants to go, after all.

Alucard lights the lamps and looks around the room,breathing slow and careful, as if inhaling too sharply might send his fragile controlof himself spinning.  The shelves aremostly intact, at least, and he can probably repair the damaged ones easilyenough.  The desk is a lost cause, he’llhave to build up a bonfire again.  Mostof the books are more or less intact, and—

And there’s a spray of blood, smeared across the wall besidethe door as if someone had tried to scrub it away while it was drying but hadn’tcleaned it properly.  It smells old, morethan a year, and it has a distinct signature to it.  Unique, even. Neither the sweet promise of human blood nor the electric crackle ofvampire blood—somewhere in between.

Alucard retches, and it’s probably for the best that he hasn’teaten anything more substantial than donated blood in a while.  There’s nothing to bring up.  

He locks Dracula’s library behind him.

It’s a bad start and sets a bad precedent for hisprogress.  These rooms are haunted, true,by the memory of better times, but Alucard drifts from one chamber to anotherlike he’s the only ghost in this castle. He remembers this feeling from that first day, a sort of perfect numbhelplessness as he rights chairs and straightens pictures, lingering over them,but doesn’t move a finger to take steps toward real repairs.  He trails his fingers over his mother’s books,over Dracula’s telescope, over the door to his parents’ room.  He still hasn’t dared to go inside.  

Alucard passes through the halls of the castle with lessimpact than a strong breeze and—and he’s tired,a sort of soul-deep exhaustion that drives him on instinct to the door he leastwants to see.

At the end of all this, of Dracula’s war on the world, ofhistory’s longest and most disastrous suicide, Alucard is a little boy alone ina vast castle, and all he wants is to sleep, and so here he is, sitting on hischildhood bed without much memory of having walked there.

The room has suffered for the winter with a shattered window,but not as much as Alucard might have expected. The eave, and the fact that the broken window is one of those set intothe wall, have conspired to protect it from most of the elements.  The wallpaper is peeling, and many of thedrawings tacked to the desk and wall have been shredded or suffered waterdamage, but the portrait of the three of them is unharmed, and other than theblack and ashy stain on the carpet and the broken bedpost, there’s little else disturbed.

The ceiling is still painted with constellations—it’s full darkoutside, probably even getting on toward morning a bit, but Alucard can stillsee them when he leans back to lie down on the bed.  He’s too tall for it now, lying at an anglewith his legs bent at the knee and his feet on the floor.  His father had painted the stars for him, asa surprise for his first naming day, a mishmash of constellations that Alucardliked best arranged without concern for the reality of the night sky.

“If it’s the stars you wish to see,” Alucard says to theceiling, remembering what his father said, “look out your window.”  Art isfor us, Dracula had murmured, and Alucard had rested his head against hisfather’s shoulder, so that he could better hear the rumble of the deep voice inhis chest, like distant thunder.

It’s been some time since Alucard slept here regularly—firsthe stayed in Lupu, then he traveled, and then, of course, he fled to Gresit.  Still, though, the bed is made up with softsheets and a warm blanket, the pillow placed as if he might come back to it atany moment, and it smells familiar and soothing, the smell that meant love andcomfort for most of his life.

He is so tired, Alucard thinks as he stares up at theceiling.  The painted stars swim beforehis eyes, the periphery feathered with grey, and focusing his vision makes asharp, subtle pain lance through his temples. He hasn’t slept well in so long. Today was probably his least productive day in months, idled away in thesunlight and the night spent wandering the dark halls of the castle, but theexhaustion is hitting him hard and fast, like he’s been in free fall all thistime repairing the castle and hold and now he’s finally reaching the bottom.

The thought comes to him like it’s being whispered bysomeone else—maybe he can sleep here. Maybe, if he closes his eyes here, he can sleep until he wakes up better, without the ache in his chestand the weight in his bones.  Maybe he cansleep until he wakes up to his mother’s face, his father’s affection.

Maybe he can sleep until he wakes up in a world wherevampires don’t exist.

It’s a hopeless wish, but Alucard shuts his eyes anyway.

As the sky begins to turn grey, Adrian Tepes fallsasleep.

[narrysgolden]

So uh, hi, I’m not a writer but I do occasionally (used to) write and some lovely lovely person brought that to my attention today! They mentioned a totally different fic I was writing and forgot about (oops) but reminded me I wrote Part 3 of this ficlet ages ago and never posted it SO here’s that now. Happy Holidays to you all ☺️

Private Nights - Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

They were both much more quiet now than they had been the whole flight. Thoughts, and a hangover, swimming around in their heads. Niall was debating in his head whether he was hoping to not have to see Harry again this weekend, or was hoping to run into him again. He was leaning more towards the latter.

With an ounce of liquid courage left, he decided to ask anyways, just out of curiosity. “Hey where are you staying tonight?”

Harry’s face went blank. He closed his eyes, lowered his head into his hands and whispered shit.

“I think….I don’t think I actually have a place to stay.” He said with a chuckle, an attempt to not scream. In years past Harry would just stay at his house, but since he sold his LA home he had been staying with Jeff. Now that Jeff and his wife are out of the country, Harry not thinking to bring his spare key, that’s not an option either. Surely he could call up another friend, pop into a hotel or something. “Forgot I don’t live here anymore and usually I’d just go to Jeff’s but, “second honeymoon.” He shrugged.

Without thinking Niall blurted out “you can stay at mine” before realizing what he said. “I mean got a spare room and all, not too far from tomorrow’s venue.”

“Oh I don’t want to be a bother, can just call up a friend, get a hotel for a change or summat.”

A friend? Did he not consider me a friend? Niall thought. That kind of hurt but he tried not to take it personally. Would probably be awkward to have Harry sleepover anyways. “Uh yeah sure, sure. I’ll be there if you uh, need anything or whatever.” Now Niall was being awkward, tripping over his words and trying to play it cool.

“’course, thanks Niall.” Harry pat him on the shoulder with a soft smile as he peeled himself off the leather seat.

The boys parted ways after the flight, engaging in a much less awkward hug than the first one, and hopping into separate cars. As Niall went back to his LA home, Harry was feeling out of sorts. Even with his countless contacts in the area, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do and had the driver drop him off at the Beachwood Café. Out of all the places in LA, this it felt most like a home away from home. He frequented the dainty café every time he was in town, knew the workers by name and they were always considerate of his privacy.

After greeting the employees behind the counter and ordering his usual, he sat himself in the back corner booth, shoving his Gucci bag underneath the table and pulling out his book. He had brought Norwegian Wood with him, grabbing it last minute from his shelf as a way to keep himself busy on the long flight. Even though he’d already read the book, twice, it was his favorite and impossible to put down. In an attempt to clear his mind, he began reading, for the third time, sipping on his coffee in an attempt to beat the already setting in jetlag.

When he woke up the room was half lit with soft sounds of mugs clattering together. He jolted his head up with a gasp, forgetting where he was and searching his surroundings. Harry had gotten so engrossed in his book he completely lost track of time….and consciousness. Jetlag hit hard and despite his second cup of coffee, he dozed off through chapter nine and slumped back in the booth. A slight bit of panic set in as he frantically looked at his phone, not knowing what time or even day it was at this point.

9:45pm

The café closed in 15 minutes. Harry quickly shuffled out of the booth, grabbing his stuff and swiftly placing his dirty dishes on the counter. “So sorry for hogging up the booth all day, keeping you here” he quietly apologized to the employee, voice coming out hoarse from sleep.

As he darted out the door he really started to realize he has nowhere to stay tonight. It was nearly 10pm on a Sunday and he’d feel bad for bothering anyone for a place to crash at this hour. He quickly remembered Niall’s offer earlier, along with how much of a dick he probably sounded for so quickly turning it down. In his sleepy haze he decided to just fuck it and call Niall up anyways.

Three calls later. No answer. Harry would really start to feel like a needy boyfriend if he called again. And fuck all if he remembers how to get to Niall’s house, let alone his address. Unless…

Harry unlocks his phone, scrolls through his contacts, and clicks on Niall’s name. And sure enough, right under the address bar is Niall’s street, number and all. Even after all these years, Harry couldn’t bare to delete Niall’s number or any of his information, and he’s thanking God now that he didn’t.

While in the Uber on the way to Niall’s he starts to become really anxious. This isn’t creepy right, just showing up at his house? I mean it’s Niall and he offered anyways. Right?

The car pulls up to the soft gray home, light coming through a couple windows with Niall’s car parked in the driveway. Thankfully Niall’s gate code was still programmed into his phone as well, so he could at least get past the fence without looking like an awkward stalker who shouldn’t be at this residence in the first place.

With all signs that Niall is home and another few phone calls going unanswered, Harry assumes Niall must have fallen asleep early too. He makes his way up to the front door and knocks, then rings the doorbell, then the buzzer and repeats the three for what feels like 30 minutes before giving up. He doesn’t want to yell or cause a disturbance in his neighborhood at now 11pm. So he sits down on the stoop, back up against the door, jetlag already taking over again.

Niall jolts awake with a weird feeling. All the lights are on, his damn shoes are still on and he’s very disoriented at this point, not intending on passing out so early in the day. He goes to check his phone, 11:30pm, and notices the 6 missed called from Harry. Immediate panic shoots through his body. Is something wrong? Did he need me? Oh god I wonder where he is. Am I overreacting?

Despite his hesitation, he decides to just call Harry back. No answer. So he calls again. After the fourth ring with no answer is when Niall really starts to panic. Without thinking he jumps up, grabs his keys from the counter and heads for the door. He flings the front door open so fast he barely has time to process the body thumping at his feet.

Harry is shocked out of his slumber as he flies back and his head smacks down on Niall’s feet.

“Jesus, fuck! Harry what the fuck!?”

Harry rolls over with a loud groan of pain and confusion. “Oh my god” he grunts.

“Harry WHAT the hell” Niall yells.

As Harry continues to writhe around on the stoop, Niall’s demeanor changed. “Har-Harry are you okay? C’mere”. He reached down to gently place his hand under Harry’s head and help him sit up, worried that he smacked his head too hard. Harry finally squints his eyes open to look up at Niall. He doesn’t know if it’s the jet lag delirium or the fact that he banged his head half on Niall’s foot and half on concrete, but he smiles up at the Irishman with a dopey grin and dimple on full display. “Hi.”

Niall is confused but can’t help smiling back. After a moment of innocent affection, Niall’s concern creeps back in. “Are you okay? Really? Need some ice?” Harry’s smile turns into a frown as he remembers his throbbing head and nods, taking Niall’s hands to help him up. In full disclosure, Harry is a total baby when it comes to being sick or hurt. He will take all the love and care that anyone is willing to give him and he will milk that shit like it’s his job. Niall knows, Niall kind of loves it, and Niall acts just like the caretaker Harry wants. “C’mon baker boy” he chuckles, wrapping his arm around Harry’s waist to lead him inside.

The name gets Harry to chuckle, lightening the mood. “Baker boy? Really? It’s been nearly 10 years Niall.”

“And yet you still talk about bread, Harold.”

For those few moments it’s like Niall and Harry we’re back in 2015. It felt different than the plane ride earlier which was fueled by alcohol. This time, the comfort was fueled by vulnerability. Something they shared closely between each other, years ago.

Harry laid down on the couch, sinking into the big plushie cushions and trying really hard to block out the memory of what happened on this couch the night Niall moved in. The heated kissing, the touching, the clothes thrown about the kitchen. It was also the one and only time that Harry had stepped foot in this house, other than at this moment. Niall brought over a bag of ice, handing it to Harry along with a pillow to prop his head up. As his mind began to clear up, he decided to take a seat at the other end of the couch. He could feel emotions resurfacing that he wasn’t ready for and did not think was appropriate for the time.

Harry thanked Niall and laid back on the ice, wiggling uncomfortably as the cubes poked the back of his head, but he was grateful for the gesture. Neither of them said another word, sleep taking over both of them yet again after Niall had put the golf channel on the tv for some background noise. As Niall dozed off, he could hear Harry’s labored breathing. Through hooded eyes he took in the sight of Harry’s chocolate curls sticking to the melting ice bag. His lips slightly parted, looking plush but dry, in need of some chapstick. The way his skin was so clear and glowed under the light of the tv. He was just....so....pretty. And with that thought, Niall fell into a deep sleep as well.

Niall awoke to a heavy weight on his stomach and a tickle of hair on his arms. He squinted one eye open in the dim lighting of the room and moved just enough to get Harry’s attention. The lanky boy on top of him groaned a small “mm cold” before readjusting his head to now be on Niall’s crotch and curl his legs up next to him.

“D’you wanna go up to bed?” Niall mumbled. Harry nodded, continuing his “baby” act.

The two of them groaned as they got up, sore from the awkward couch positions and groggy from on and off sleep all day. Harry slung his bag over his shoulder as they trudged up the stairs, coming to the guest bedroom on the right. Niall stopped ahead of Harry. “Sheets are clean, bathrooms on the le—“

“Can I...” Harry began to interrupt. “My uh, my head still hurts.” It didn’t. But Harry didn’t have another excuse to sleep with Niall and he knew Niall wouldn’t deny him the comfort he really needed right now.

“Uh yeah, sure, my rooms down thi—“

“Mhmm I remember” Harry interrupted again with a smug tone. Niall just rolled his eyes and continued on down the echoey hall. With each step Niall began to strip off another article of clothing, desperate to be comfortable in his own bed again and not caring that Harry was right behind him,

“Eager are we?” Harry remarked, watching closely each piece of fabric fall to the floor.

“Oh shut up.” Niall jabbed back, sprinting the last few steps and catapulting himself onto the bed. His head fell back, getting engulfed in the mountain of pillows stacked at the headboard.

“Jesus, Niall. Preparing for a pillow fight or something?”

Niall let out a cackle, pick up the pillow closest to him and chucked it in Harry’s direction. ”Maybe.”

Harry caught the pillow with impressive accuracy and threw it straight back, jumping on the end of the bed and launching Niall’s legs in the air. The two boys burst into a fit of laughter, lazily tossing pillows at each other in the process.

The laughter died down and their eyes began to droop again, but neither of them wanted to sleep another minute.

[misskittysmagicportal]

End of the Year Fic-Writer

So I am DELIGHTED that @joz-stankovich @elliethesuperfruitlover and @midnightseance  Have basically asked me the same things :)  So I am gonna make my own post for it instead of individual asks!!

What’s your personal favourite thing you wrote this year? (For @joz-stankovich and @elliethesuperfruitlover) So in this crazy fucked up world I know I am loving writing for Leon, and stepping outside of my comfort zone with Klaus.  Yet my favorite thing is my “All You’ve Got Is Gold” three-parter.  It means the most because it’s my first fanfic in almost ten years. It gave me the courage to come back to Tumblr and fandoms.  It’s not quite as popular because so many still aren’t familiar with Cormac, but I just loved him.  I may actually re-write the third part because I keep thinking of Roland instead of Billy.  

What’s your least favourite thing you wrote this year (For @joz-stankovich? You know this one is kind of hard because I am just critical of everything.  Am I too descriptive?  Why did I make all of this about Cormac?  C’mon, Leon?  God how much sexual deviance can I put into this Klaus drabble.  WHY DID I MAKE THIS DARREN STORY ALSO SO SEXUALLY VIOLENT.

What’s your favourite piece of dialogue you wrote this year?  (for @elliethesuperfruitlover and @midnightseance) Oooooo DAMN YOU BOTH *laughs*  

First is from “All You’ve Got Is Gold Pt 1″ because I think Cormac would just automatically correct anyone who ignored his Doctorate, even if they were trying to have sex with him)

 “Miss Turner, why are you only in a sweater?" Cormac stepped back and lifted his glasses and put them back down. He took them off hurriedly as if he was embarrassed to be wearing them.  Turning once more to face her "Is.. Is that MY sweater? You're only in. Jeanie, Where are your pants?" 

‘Well I planned on seducing you “ 

"Doctor" -

I also love this exchange between Jack and Rin in “Im A Creep” because you know Jack’s never met anyone as “barking” as he’s been told he is.  But Rin knows better and doesn’t care what the doctors think.

Jack took an impossibly deep breath, “Schizo-effective disorder with some dissociation, post traumatic stress disorder, non-suicidal self injury disorder and depression.”

“Fuck me, that's a trail mix of bonkers. Now ask me” 

Jack closed his eyes. They were shut for so long that Rin was certain he had fallen asleep having given in to his meds. His hunched, thin body sort of folded a bit in on itself. A moment of possible self-soothing when he started to sway. 

“Jack?” Rin's tone fell quietly with concern. She poke his arm carefully avoiding touching the skin. “Darling what cocktail did these quacks put you on.” She was an expert after all these years; if the drugs were working, no way would he be this much of a zombie.

Green blank eyes hidden behind enviable eyelashes attempted to focus “Seroquel. Clozapine?” His words start to slur a bit. “Fine. How fucking barmy are you?”

“Well,”  the young woman softened, “I have suicidal ideations with self-injury tendencies myself, severe clinical depression, a bit of the old borderline personality disorder and wait for it..”  she practically whispered a few inches from Jack’s face, “total emotional attachment to partners.”  

The skin around Jack’s eyes crinkled as he squinted just enough to indicate his hazed brain was trying to process everything Rin just unloaded. His lips parted to speak but he paused resulting in a gobsmacked expression.  “You’re barking.”

“Says the sexy scarecrow with journo clippings of dead boys.”  Rin pursed her lips and crossed her arms, “Why are you really in here Jack.”

“I’m fucking mad.” It was matter of fact.

“To quote the Cheshire Cat, we’re all mad here, love.”

And this last part isn’t dialogue as much as it is just a picture I painted in Tupelo Honey: Hooked on a Feeling because I just really want to see Rob sitting somewhere with his arm around a goat like theyre best friends while taking care of it.  Maybe lovingly petting it:

“Well HONEY thought it was a goat. Leon was convinced it was Artemis trying to protect Honey’s virtue. Laughable as it was, he spent the better part of an hour feeding her (the goat) olives and berries and petting it. Just petting it.” 

Which fic this year was most fun to write? (Also for @elliethesuperfruitlover and @midnightseance)  Hands down “The Dog Days are Over” and “The Days Days Are Done”  Because I noticed we write fun Nathan and sexy Nathan and big mouthed Nathan.  Yet none of us really write Lord of Chaos Nathan.  Nathan with his magic that has the potential to make him incredibly powerful.  And he’s Nathan, so he’ll never be responsible with anything, even when he hits his late 20s or early 30s.  

And FINALLY If you could go back and change something about one of the fics you wrote this year, what would it be? (For @joz-stankovich)   This might be a cop-out, but I think it’s my descriptions?  Am I too logistical or tactical describing sex and smut when all my homies here just get the fuck down to it!

[writing-after-midnight]

Between the Office Blocks

WRITING MASTERLIST

Welp its currently 2:58 am and I just wrote this lil thing for y’all! :) I promise I’m going to get back to my multi chaps and stuff! This probably has a few mistakes, but have mercy I only work when I’m close to utter exhaustion and when it’s past midnight hahaha!

If I made a list to tag people in everything I write (including asks, mini fics, multi chap, etc) would people be interested?

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The day starts as a usual Monday morning in the Prythian Industries office. My colleagues arrive at their desk half-awake, clutching a coffee as they try not to fall asleep in front of their screens; the air conditioning ceasing to work and leaving the block to slowly cook as the summer sun glares in through the windows. The office is never too lively at this time, but not even the boss can bring himself to care about the lack of productivity. 

Fighting to keep my head from hitting the desk, I manage to send a few emails to my half-dead colleagues. Too many late nights spent painting the starry sky have taken their toll. Office jobs are the one thing I vowed to myself I would never do, but an aspiring artist with no money to keep herself afloat in the first place would never survive in this city. I feel like my brain is processing everything a minute after it happens. I sigh, and look around. The rest of the people in the office still look half-dead, so I don’t think I’ll be told off if I let myself relax for a little bit. That’s what I tell myself as my head turns the other way to look out of the window, at least. 

I’ve always had a fascination with the sky and its colours, but the haze blurring the rest of the city on my left and right doesn’t inspire me today. Still, I just want to get out of this Cauldron-damned office. I watch the cars pass by below me, checking my boss doesn’t pass by every few minutes. Maybe I could just walk out and grab one of those cars, and drive somewhere nice… nobody here would notice. The only thing holding me back is the lack of money when I would get back. Or maybe I could sit in a field and forget about everything. I close my eyes, imagining the soft wind through my hair....

I jerk awake when someone behind me drops one of their folders, the clatter ringing through the office. How long was I out? I know that I should I probably get back to work and emails and planning, but my brain still won’t bring itself to do any of it. Instead, I continue to stare out of the window. 

There is another office block in front of me, the same ugly colour and uniformity as ours. Most of the time, I detest looking at the Mountain Inc. building. The people sitting next to the windows look closer to death than half the people around me. Every single one I see look devoid of any emotion, hunched over their computers, continuously typing. I scan over all of them, looking for any signs of life anywhere. And that’s when I see him. The office blocks are so close together I can see him perfectly, directly across from me.

The man is dressed in a black suit, and he is staring out into the sun, seemingly daydreaming. The light reflecting from the window illuminates all of the features on his face. The chiseled jaw, the dark blue eyes that look almost purple in the light, the inky black hair framing his tanned face. The dreamy look he has on his face suggests that he’s feeling similar to me from a few minutes ago. The large window perfectly frames his body, and my fingers itch for a paintbrush, to hope to capture some aspect of this man. And then I realise I’ve been staring for too long. And the man is now staring at me, an unreadable smile crossing his face.

My cheeks instantly heat, and without thinking, I wave. Did I actually just do that? I quickly look behind me to check that nobody is watching, and find him offering a small wave back. His smile widens to a grin, as he holds up his hand in a gesture to wait. Slightly confused, I watch as he turns back to his desk, then faces me again a moment later, pressing four sticky notes to the window. 

H i ! The notes said, followed by a smiley face. I can’t help but laugh. It’s his turn to wait as I grab a piece of paper to write my response. 

This day is going by too slowly! He reads, as I then grab a sticky note. Name? I ask followed by a smiley face to match his.

Same over here, Darling! He replies. The name he gives me makes my cheeks turn red again. I’m Rhys.

I’m Feyre! I’d much rather be out of this office, everyone’s a zombie.

Can we be office buddies, Feyre Darling? It’s much too boring over here too. We’re the only ones left alive, it seems.

Yes, please.This is so much more fun than trying to talk to Bron at this hour.

I see Rhys laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. I’ve not even met him properly, so how can I already find him so attractive? You’re always welcome to… what is this? Talking? Messaging?

I have just enough time to read what the note says, before a panicked look crosses his face and he crumples it.

A second later, a woman with red hair appears at Rhys’ desk. She seems to be angry, and Rhys’ head hangs a little bit. I cringe, thinking about how I’ve just gotten him into trouble. The woman must have seen what we were doing because she walks to the window and spots me staring at them. Her face goes stony, and I watch as she drops the blind. That’s ended our conversation, then.

An hour passes by, and I do next to nothing on the computer. I can’t help but look over to the black blinds opposite to me every couple of minutes. By the second hour of staring at the screen, I look over to Rhys’ window again, completely giving up on any sort of work. And then, I see a flash of yellow peek through the blinds as tanned fingers press a note on the window. My heart does an involuntary leap.

Number?

Immediately, I scramble for a pen and sticky note, writing my phone number down. I stick the note on the window and wait, watching for any movement on the opposite block.

 A couple of minutes later, I see two fingers part the blinds, and the pair of blue eyes stare back at me. I offer back a shy smile, and his eyes wrinkle in what must be a grin. The eyes disappear, and I search through my bag for my phone. Even though I’ve been clearly putting sticky notes on the window all morning, I decide to hide my phone under a folder, just in case I’m spotted. Not 30 seconds later, my phone buzzes.

Unknown number: Is this Feyre Darling? It’s Rhys! Sorry about that! My boss decided I wasn’t doing enough work, not like I’m going to let that stop me from talking to you :)

I actually giggle. Like a schoolgirl. The effort this man is going to, to talk to me makes me blush for the third time today. 

This is Feyre! Your boss gave me the worst side eye, and I don’t even work for her! I’d die if I had to work there.

She’s like that all the time, it doesn’t matter who to. Oh well, it’s money!

That’s the only reason I’m here, otherwise I’d be painting.

A minute or two passes, and I start to worry that I’ve gotten him into trouble again, or maybe that he has simply lost interest in the conversation. However, the reply I receive isn’t quite what I was expecting.

This may be a little bit forward, but perhaps you would like to meet after work for a coffee, and you could tell me about your painting? Only if you want to, of course, but I would love to talk to you!

Is this actually happening?

Yeah, that sounds great! What time do you get out of work? I’m out at 4pm :)

I’ll be out for 3:30pm, but I’ll wait outside if you would like? Or we can meet at the coffee shop on the corner? :)

I’m not opposed to walking down with you ;) see you at 4pm!

See you then, Feyre Darling ;)

The last few hours in the office seem to pass by even slower than usual, but at least they feel brighter. It finally comes to 4pm, and I dash out of the office and down the stairs, out onto the street. I look around, trying to spot inky black hair in the bustling crowd. Then a deep voice comes from behind me.

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

----------

[quokkalatte]

Mixtape pt. 4 [M.YG]

Part 4

Category: One Shot series

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Female!Reader

Summary: Living as an aspiring rap artist in Seoul, all you want to do is work on your music and try to get your name out there. Of course when you have someone as annoying and spiteful as Min Yoongi makes that extremely difficult. Until he decides to help you out.

Warnings: smut, language, some Namjoon action (which ofc is a warning cause oof), angry Yoongi, alcohol consumption, perhaps some angst but not really

Warnings for this chapter: Honestly none except slight mentions of sex

Author's Note:so sorry it took so long to get his out thank you for being patient ♡ this chapter is short. Like really short but I'll try to make the next one longer ~ Autumn

Tags; @notsolovelykarsyn @psychoticshawtyy

Cannot tag: @deesixx2801

[Message me to be added to the tag list so you can be notified for new updates]

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

It was like clockwork, waking up again and feeling angry and bitter at myself. Making myself something to drink and brooding and contemplating telling Yoongi not to come, tell him I'm sick. Any excuse not to see him again.

I sat on the couch, staring at Yoongi's contact, chewing my lip. I pressed his contact and texted him.

Me: don't come today, I've come down with something

Jerk: OK

I sighed, putting my phone down, going to take a long shower and try and get over the pounding in my skull, drinking was never a good idea. I undressed, stepping into the shower and allowing the steaming water to pour down my body, my eyes closing in content. I lathered myself in soap and wrapped myself in a towel, ruffling my hair with another to dry it faster. A faint knock had me frowning, dropping the towel I was drying my hair with I quickly adjusted the one covering my body, making sure I was appropriately covered, I went to the door, checking the peep hole and nearly yelped in shock.

Yoongi stood outside the door, container in hand and two drinks in another. His blonde hair was tousled and he was peering down the hall at something, scratching at his neck for a moment, pushing the grey goodie he wore for better access. I let out a short gasp. I told him I was sick! What was he still doing here? I backed away, from the door, eyeing it like it was deadly or toxic.

"Open the door Y/n I know you aren't still asleep, you texted me 30 minutes ago" Yoongi's aggregated voice came from the other side of the door. I swallowed and glared

"I told you I was sick Yoongi"

"And? Just let me in please your druggy neighbor keeps peeking at me and it's unnerving" he says, the last part fading into a whisper. I groan, pulling the door open, and Yoongi steps in quickly. He freezes once he sees my attire. Color floods his pale cheeks, and I blush darkly. "Uh, did I interrupt something?"

"N-No I just got done showering. I wasn't expecting you to still come" I mumble, excusing myself to dress, leaving Yoongi in my living room. I quickly pulled on a hoodie and sweatpants. I found him peering around my desk, and I clear my throat, and he turns to me. "Finished?" He asked and I roll my eyes.

"I still don't know why you're here, I told you not to come"

"I was already on my way when I got your text, and it wouldn't be the first time I've been around you when you're ill" he prompts, walking over to my kitchen island and setting the box and drink tray down.

"Have you considered maybe I don't want to see you?"I snap, fed up with him already. Memories of last night kept swimming in a haze, the alcohol making it dim to remember everything, but I understood the jist of watching Yoongi stick his tongue down some girl's throat and going to bed with her.

"Have you worked on a song yet?"

He completely ignored my question, opening the box and the tempting smell of sushi wafted towards me. I folded my arms, and huff

"You didn't answer my question"

"You didn't answer mine" he smirks, plucking a sushi roll and plopping into his mouth. "I brought you some too come eat" he mumbles, his cheeks puffed as he chewed. I growl in frustration and take one. "Well?"

"Yes I've worked on the song" I grumble, remembering the furious drunk scribbling I did last night in anger. Yoongi swallowed, taking a drink from his cup and dusted his hands on his pants.

"Let's see then" he asks, and I walk over to my desk and snatch the papers and handed them to him. He raised his eyebrows at me, before scanning the angry lyrics. I knew what they were, those were the one thing I remember about last night. The lyrics spoke of harsh love, love that wasn't reciprocated and the pain of having to watch him move about and not do anything about it. I suddenly realized the inspiration of the song was reading it, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth formed the words. I grew nervous, wanting to know what was running through his head. He read through them twice before handing them back to me.

"They're very meaningful, full of emotion. I'd tweak the grammar a bit and take out a couple of repitions" he says, but his mouth moved as if he wanted to ask something else. His tone was guarded and he took another sushi roll and chewed it. I nod, returning the paper to the desk. The silence that followed was awkward. Yoongi wanted to ask something, I could see it in his eyes. It did nothing more than agitate my already hostile mood with him. He chewed the sushi in silence, eyeing me as I watched cars come and go out the window above my desk. It got to much.

"Just ask what you want to ask Yoongi" I sigh, turning to look at him. He seemed embarrassed that I had caught him, but as he eyed me, his nervousness quickly snapped and he spoke.

"Is the song about the guy you're with?" He asks, tone cold and judging.

"What guy?" I frown at him, halfly with exasperation

"The Panda Express guy" he said impatiently, like I was an idiot of some sort. My eyes widened and a blush rose on my cheeks.

"I'm not seeing the Panda Express guy Yoongi" I growl.

"Are you sure?" His tone mocking.

"Positive."

"Then what are the looks he gives you every time we go out after a session?"he accuses. I groan, this boy. He acts almost like he's jealous. Which couldn't be true considering the activities he had partaken in merely 12 or so hours ago.

"That's what they are Yoongi. Looks. He kept trying to ask me out but I turned him down. He thinks we have something special after we drunkenly kissed at a friends party over a year ago" I scoff. Yoongi squinted at me, trying to see if I was telling the truth.

"Jimin?" I groan, wanting to strangle him.

"Just a friend"

"You sure?" His tone was sharp "you seemed awful cozy last night"

"Dammit Yoongi I don't like Jimin! I don't like the Panda Express guy! I've never done more than kiss a guy so stop treating me like I'm some common whore" I yell, fists clenching in anger. Yoongi blinked, taken aback my my outburst. He looked guilty for a split second, and he eyed me. I blushed, realizing I had admitted my viginity to a guy who had probably taken many.

"You've never had sex?" He asks after a pause. I turn my eyes to the ground, not meeting his gaze

"No. Never found a guy I liked enough to do things with" I mumble. I didn't like the silence. That all that seemed to be happening were bouts of awkward and tension-filled silence. I just wish he'd speak. Yoongi was always bad with words, except when he was rapping. Then he could spit out words faster than I could comprehend.

"Neither have I" I was caught in my thoughts that I almost missed him saying it. I looked at him, and he looked back. This pissed me off. I balled my fists, walking over to him, and grabbed him by his hoodie. He yelped as I dragged him towards the door. The shock must have allowed me to do so, considering Yoongi was taller than me and more built. I shoved him towards the door.

"Get out" I snap. "I don't want you here again. If all you're going to do is patronize me and slut shame me and tell lies then I don't want you here. Ever" Yoongi sputtered at me

"What are you-"

"No!" I cut him off "you don't get to listen to me announce my intact viginity only for you to reply with you haven't had sex either" I growl, pointing my finger in his face.

"I havent-"

"Liar! You had your tongue down some poor girls throat just last night! I saw you so I dare you to deny it" I hiss. He swallowed cautiously.

"I won't deny it, but I didn't have sex with her" I snort and he glared at me. "it's true. I was going to, but I stopped. I always stop. I can't bring myself to do it" he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. I frown, not fully believing him. He always had girls at parties, every single time. He'd take a girl upstairs, and now he's trying to say he's never slept with them? I was doubtful.

"Why do you stop? They're pretty and eager" I ask

"Because I don't like them. I don't want to have sex with someone I don't care about. It needs to mean something." He says. I study him before replying. He seemed honest and genuine, I didn't see a trace of a lie on his features. My next question I knew would anger him, it was a touchy subject, but I couldn't deny my jealousy that wiggled it's way into my head.

"The girl in the song you wrote for, is she special?" I ask. Yoongi's gaze was intense, and I had to will myself not to look away. I stared into his brown eyes as he spoke.

"More than she could possibly know" he says, his voice low and calm. The air sparked with a new kind of tension, created from his words and gaze. It sent pickles of emotion up my spine and caused a round of goose bumps to grace my arms. The jealousy egged me on, I wanted to know more about this girl that apparently plagued his thoughts enough to have a song written for her. Did she know about the crush Yoongi was harboring so deeply for her? Maybe not, or they'd be together already.

I didn't realize how close Yoongi was to me. His face hovered inches away from mine. I could feel the exhaled breath fan across my face and the heat his skin put off warm the air between us. It chilled me, him being so close and my cheeks spread with warmth as I realized he hadn't broken eye contact. He licked his lips, and leaned forward just slightly, his breath setting me aflame.

The loud sound of a phone ringing caused us to jump. Yoongi stumbled back into the door and I turned to find the offending noise. Yoongi phone was vibrating and ringing nest to the food and drinks. I tried to still my rapid hear beating as Yoongi quickly walked over to it, picking it up and answering it.

"Hello?" His voice was higher pitched and his cheeks were flushed pink. Incomprehensible words came from the other side. Yoongi hummed "okay I'm in my way. Try to get him not to move it" he says and hangs up. He glanced at me "I need to go"

"What happened?" I ask, instantly worried. He wrinkled his nose

"Namjoon's roommate, Seokjin, got his hand caught in the sink. Reached down to grab something and it got stuck. I need to go help get it out while Namjoon panics unnecessarily" he says. I open my mouth to respond, to tell him I wanted to come, but he was already out the door with a quick slam and a rushing sound of clothing, leaving me alone and confused.

[henriwithaninterrobang]

Fangirl

<29th July>

TV is back! For ages I’ve been spending all my time on YouTube since there were no good shows on cable, but I just discovered this awesome new one called Starz of Death! The plot is totally amazing, and the characters are sooo relatable, it’s like I literally stepped into the tv and started a show. Except if I was the main character, I wouldn’t have Lexi’s pretty golden hair. Also I’m not a vampire slayer. All of my friends are gonna be talking about SoD when we get back to school! I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when I tell them my theory about Morgan’s true motives. She’s totally evil, the way she always analyses everyone and pretends to be emotional, and it really reminds me of this girl Stacey, who’s always telling me I spend too much time online. She doesn’t have any idea how much better it is. Real life has no do overs.

<1st August>

It’s like 2:30 in the morning, and I’ve been watching Starz of Death nonstop since my last log, like 7 hours or something. The sky might have changed colour, but I think it was just the special effects in the show, haha. It’s so captivating, I just can’t take my eyes off the screen. Lexi’s boyfriend, Sam, is actually a werewolf, and he was cheating on Lexi with her fourth best friend, Alex, so Lexi felt really betrayed. It was totally heartbreaking how Lexi was moping around for days, and Morgan almost killed Lex without Sam protecting her. I knew Morgan was messed up! I have to show this to Jack tomorrow! I just know she’ll be obsessed with it.

<3rd August>

I am SO PISSED right now. I lost track of time, and so I showed my sister Starz of Death two days after my last log instead of one, but it doesn’t matter, because she hated it! I showed her season one’s best episode, the season finale, where Lexi discovers that Sam and Alex have created a secret league of Monsters with Unisex Names, just to fight her, and Morgan’s in it too, of course. Lex gets her friends Hannah and Chrissy to help her fight them, and after the battle, Lex breaks down, because she didn’t want to kill Alex and Sam but she had no choice. I sobbed so hard at that part, and I was seeing red (that’s what they say rite?) when Morgan got away. But Jack, she just rolled her eyes, and told me that the female characters were weak and the plot was filled with holes. She thinks Morgan is the best character. MORGAN!!!! Clearly being the “smart one” hasn’t done much for her taste in REALLY GOOD SHOWS. Sometimes I really hate Jacqueline's attitude. I’m not talking to her anymore. Lex is more interesting and fun anyway, so I’m going back to my Starz of Death marathon.

<5th August>

It feels like I’ve forgotten what I’ve watched in the show, like it’s all blurred together in my mind or something? I don’t know. Maybe I should rewatch a few episodes, but I wanna find out what happens at the end. Only a few more days before I finish, heh.

<8th August>

I decided to rewatch a few of my favorite episodes, and they seem so much better the second time around! Every new time I see them again, all ma peeps seem more and more real. My mom keeps coming in and yelling at me, “Gemma, come in here and do this and that and this that this!” I’m barely even hearing her anymore.

♠

Right now, I think my mom has changed what she’s been saying to me, since I’ve been ignoring her for a few days since the last time I wrote up an e-journal. I think she keeps saying “Gemma, move further away from the tv” in her tired worn-out voice.

Oh. My. God. I’ve reached the last episode! I’m pressing play, holding my breath as the catchy theme song begins for the last time.

The minutes are flying by. Lexi must face off against her ultimate archenemy, Blood X. I’m scooting closer and closer to the screen. I really think Morgan has been conspiring with X. It’s nearly certain in my mind, because she’s messed up so much stuff for Lexi already.

 “You have evaded me for a long time, X,” Lexi yells across this deserted arena, “but now it’s over. Reveal yourself!”

X is laughing, a deep, cruel laugh that chills my bones a little bit. I lean forward as X tosses back the black hood…

 Click.

 That’s it.

 My mind goes out of my body, and I see myself press play. And again. Againagainagainagain I’m pressing it, and then I shake the remote, press play again, hit it against the floor, hard, until the top corner snaps, exposing wires, and the back goes flying across the room and out of my sight. I’m reaching forward and I desperately slam my hands on the screen

 And suddenly I’m back in my body as I tumble forward, fall downward through a blur of sound and colour and radiation. I land hard in an open meadow where the grass is all the wrong colors and the sky is a brilliant pixellated haze and I know I shouldn’t be here but I’m not think straight. My mind is as hazy as the sky.

I moan and groan as I lay there on the ground, until I hear footsteps. I abruptly stop and I’m laying perfectly still. Maybe they didn’t hear me?

A voice is echoing from above me. “Are you okay?” it asks, and I swing around and sit up

And scramble backwards, jump to my feet. Morgan is standing over me, a mix of confusion and terror on her face. “You shouldn’t be here!” she says, and I glare at her.

“What do you want? You’re evil! Look at what you’ve done to Lexi!”

Morgan’s eyes are darting back and forth and her lip quivers. “I tried to stop them,” she mutters, “but I couldn’t, and now they have you, and they have so many―”

“What?!” I cut her off. None of this makes any sense, and who the heck is she talking about?

As she looks over my shoulder, Morgan’s eyes widen, and she falls to her knees in defeat. “It’s too late,” she whispers bitterly. “They’re here.”

I whirl around and watch in bafflement as Lexi walks leisurely toward us, Blood X at her side. She smiles, her eyes glinting coldly. “How nice of you to join our collection,” she says, and her voice doesn’t sound soft and melodic like it’s supposed to, no it’s rough and angry and ravenous.

“Who are you? Where’s the real Lexi?” I whisper. Lexi laughs, and so does Blood X next to her, and it’s worse in real life, a rattling, black sound of life long gone. Slowly, agonizingly, X lowers the hood, and I’m seeing her face for the first time. “You’ll work well for us,” she says, and my eyes are locked on her face and it’s just like Lexi’s, and I don’t understand her but I know I won’t ever have the time to because her face is morphing into a new one now. It’s my face.

[littleladysongbird]

CommodoreCliche’s 30 Day Writing Challenge, Day Four:  Write the worst possible way your OTP could’ve met (David x Gwen)

A/N: I’m a day late, but here it is! While not my definite OTP, I think David x Gwen (Camp Camp) is cute so I wrote this little thing. 

***

Postcard

It takes two delayed flights, a busted tire, three hours of trying to get proper cell reception, and one, long rickety ride through the Californian mountain valley for her to arrive at camp.

She’s just turned twenty one, and she should be able to handle her emotional shit and exhaustion like a real, mature adult. But the day’s been too long, and this last disappointment is the last thing she needs right now. But it’s happening.

“Welcome to Camp Campbell!” The stick-like young man shouts from the mess hall doors. He runs like an energetic child, tripping over his own two feet and nearly tumbling to the ground just to get to her. She can’t speak; she’s too angry at the moment.

“Can I give you a helping hand there Miss-”

“What the fuck is this shit?” Gwen seethes, her face burning bright red from the stress piled in her cheeks. The young man’s smile only falters for a second.

“Why, what do you mean?”

“This” she turned, eyes glaring at him from behind layers of smeared eyeliner and eyeshadow as she shoved a crumpled postcard into his face, “is not what I was promised.”

To her surprise, he hardly looked offended at her outburst.

“I’m sorry, you must be Gwen,” the young man gently leaned down to pick up her suitcases, “Mr. Campbell keeps forgetting to recall those old things. It’s really misleading and unprofessional, I’m so sorry about this.”

Gwen blinked, the clouds of anger simmering away quietly. “I, well-”

“I also totally understand if you don’t want to take the job like the other councilors,” he smiled, walking towards the only counselor's cabin, “but you look really tired and it’s almost midnight and I’m sure Mr. Campbell won’t mind if you stay here tonight-”

“Other counselor’s?” Gwen asked, snapping out of her haze and running to catch up with him. “I’m sorry, but, um…”

“Oh, silly me,” he set her luggage down once again, reaching out to shake her hand, “my name’s Daniel; I’m the head councilor here at Camp Campbell.”

“Okay, Daniel,” she returned the gesture, “look, I’m sorry for my outburst, but I’m still interested in taking the job.”

“Wait, really?” his eyes lit up like a christmas tree. “You actually want to take the job?”

“Could this discussion wait until tomorrow?” She asked, letting go of his hands. “I just don’t want to accidentally kill your or some shit like that.”

“Oh absolutely!” David chirped, taking up her suitcases once more and marching towards the cabin. “I completely understand that! I’ll leave you to your bed then; I’ll have breakfast prepared in the morning, or we could go into town and get pancakes at the Rusty Spoon-”

“We’ll figure it out,” Gwen interjected, stopping at the cabin door, “but thanks, David. Also, once again, apology for the sleep-deprived behavior and the gross appearance.”

“Well, while I appreciate the apology on the anger, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Gwen blinked, staring at his raised eyebrow.

“About what?”

“Gwen, pardon me for saying this, especially because we just met, but even as tired as you are I still think you look well put-together!”

It was the most innocent comment he could’ve made; there was a half chance he was lying; and Gwen knew this. And yet, for a brief second, it was perhaps the sweetest thing anyone, let alone any man, had said to her. Her nose twitched, a small patch of pink growing across the bridge.

“Well, thank you, David.”

“Don’t mention it Gwen!” He opened the door and flicked on the lights, “I’ll see you bright and early!”

“How about mid-morning?”

“That works too!” He called, bouncing off the front porch to round his way to the back. Gwen sighed, closing the door and sitting down on the old feather-bed up against the back of the room.

The job might be shitty, but at least he wasn’t.

[anhedoniacity]

alright Squiddy

@thespiritsquid Here’s another one, I hope you like it <3

Fangirl

written by EL

<29th July>

TV is back! For ages I've been spending all my time on YouTube since there were no good shows on cable, but I just discovered this awesome new one called Starz of Death! The plot is totally amazing, and the characters are sooo relatable, it's like I literally stepped into the tv and started a show. Except if I was the main character, I wouldn't have Lexi's pretty golden hair. Also I'm not a vampire slayer. All of my friends are gonna be talking about SoD when we get back to school! I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when I tell them my theory about Morgan's true motives. She's totally evil, the way she always analyses everyone and pretends to be emotional, and it really reminds me of this girl Stacey, who's always telling me I spend too much time online. She doesn't have any idea how much better it is. Real life has no do overs.

<1st August> It's like 2:30 in the morning, and I've been watching Starz of Death nonstop since my last log, like 7 hours or something. The sky might have changed colour, but I think it was just the special effects in the show, haha. It's so captivating, I just can't take my eyes off the screen. Lexi's boyfriend, Sam, is actually a werewolf, and he was cheating on Lexi with her fourth best friend, Alex, so Lexi felt really betrayed. It was totally heartbreaking how Lexi was moping around for days, and Morgan almost killed Lex without Sam protecting her. I knew Morgan was messed up! I have to show this to Jack tomorrow! I just know she'll be obsessed with it. <3rd August> I am SO PISSED right now. I lost track of time, and so I showed my sister Starz of Death two days after my last log instead of one, but it doesn't matter, because she hated it! I showed her season one's best episode, the season finale, where Lexi discovers that Sam and Alex have created a secret league of Monsters with Unisex Names, just to fight her, and Morgan's in it too, of course. Lex gets her friends Hannah and Chrissy to help her fight them, and after the battle, Lex breaks down, because she didn't want to kill Alex and Sam but she had no choice. I sobbed so hard at that part, and I was seeing red (that's what they say rite?) when Morgan got away. But Jack, she just rolled her eyes, and told me that the female characters were weak and the plot was filled with holes. She thinks Morgan is the best character. MORGAN!!!! Clearly being the "smart one" hasn't done much for her taste in REALLY GOOD SHOWS. Sometimes I really hate Jaqueline's attitude. I'm not talking to her anymore. Lex is more interesting and fun anyway, so I'm going back to my Starz of Death marathon. <5th August> It feels like I've forgotten what I've watched in the show, like it's all blurred together in my mind or something? I don't know. Maybe I should rewatch a few episodes, but I wanna find out what happens at the end. Only a few more days before I finish, heh. <8th August> I decided to rewatch a few of my favorite episodes, and they seem so much better the second time around! Every new time I see them again, all ma peeps seem more and more real. My mom keeps coming in and yelling at me, "Gemma, come in here and do this and that and this that this!" I'm barely even hearing her anymore. * Right now, I think my mom has changed what she's been saying to me, since I've been ignoring her for a few days since the last time I wrote up an e-journal. I think she keeps saying "Gemma, move further away from the tv" in her tired worn-out voice. Oh. My. God. I've reached the last episode! I’m pressing play, holding my breath as the catchy theme song begins for the last time. The minutes are flying by. Lexi must face off against her ultimate archenemy, Blood X. I'm scooting closer and closer to the screen. I really think Morgan has been conspiring with X. It's nearly certain in my mind, because she's messed up so much stuff for Lexi already. "You have evaded me for a long time, X," Lexi yells across this deserted arena, "but now it's over. Reveal yourself!" X is laughing, a deep, cruel laugh that chills my bones a little bit. I lean forward as X tosses back the black hood... Click. That's it. My mind goes out of my body, and I see myself press play. And again. Againagainagainagain I’m pressing it, and then I shake the remote, press play again, hit it against the floor, hard, until the top corner snaps, exposing wires, and the back goes flying across the room and out of my sight. I'm reaching forward and I desperately slam my hands on the screen And suddenly I'm back in my body as I tumble forward, fall downward through a blur of sound and colour and radiation. I land hard in an open meadow where the grass is all the wrong colors and the sky is a brilliant pixellated haze and I know I shouldn’t be here but I’m not think straight. My mind is as hazy as the sky.

I moan and groan as I lay there on the ground, until I hear footsteps. I abruptly stop and I’m laying perfectly still. Maybe they didn't hear me?

A voice is echoing from above me. "Are you okay?" it asks, and I swing around and sit up And scramble backwards, jump to my feet. Morgan is standing over me, a mix of confusion and terror on her face. "You shouldn't be here!" she says, and I glare at her. "What do you want? You're evil! Look at what you've done to Lexi!" Morgan's eyes are darting back and forth and her lip quivers. "I tried to stop them," she mutters, "but I couldn't, and now they have you, and they have so many―" "What?!" I cut her off. None of this makes any sense, and who the heck is she talking about? As she looks over my shoulder, Morgan's eyes widen, and she falls to her knees in defeat. "It's too late," she whispers bitterly. "They're here." I whirl around and watch in bafflement as Lexi walks leisurely toward us, Blood X at her side. She smiles, her eyes glinting coldly. "How nice of you to join our collection," she says, and her voice doesn't sound soft and melodic like it's supposed to, no it's rough and angry and ravenous. "Who are you? Where's the real Lexi?" I whisper. Lexi laughs, and so does Blood X next to her, and it's worse in real life, a rattling, black sound of life long gone. Slowly, agonizingly, X lowers the hood, and I’m seeing her face for the first time. "You'll work well for us," she says, and my eyes are locked on her face and it's just like Lexi's, and I don't understand her but I know I won't ever have the time to because her face is morphing into a new one now. It's my face.

[sjtv]

Lay it bare.

Here we are in 2019...and it’s about time I started writing again.  As usual, I’ve been toying with whether or not to share this; but balls to it.  We’re seeing a lot more traction surrounding advancements in mental health; which is absolutely flipping brilliant.  Thanks to all of us speaking up and all of us making waves.  But we still have so far to go.  

I wrote here nearly 4 years ago about my battle with my own mental health; and since then, it’s certainly been a journey.  But I’ve not shared where I’ve been at - it’s been shitty and I’ve felt embarrassed.  I’m at a stage in my life where I’d spent a lot of time hiding away from my feelings, hiding my feelings away from my family & friends and it’s time to put an end to that.  I have no intention of sharing the details of ‘why’, but I’m keen to spread more awareness (and as ever, not for sympathy) and if I can help at least 1 person to open up a little bit more or take a little more care of themselves, my job’s done.  

My brain has been what I will happily describe now as a bit ‘squiffy’ since I was around 10 years old.  I didn’t realise the trends until much later on in life when I started to connect with myself a little bit more.  I was 10 years old for goodness sake.  Exposure to some pretty horrendous things growing up meant that I was more susceptible to bullying, to depression, anxiety...you name it, I had it or I did it.  Sorry Mum, I was an absolute terror.  I mean, who in their right mind sends a message to their mother whilst at a festival telling them they’re about to drop some class A drugs??  Mother may be liberal, but I think I may have shaved a few years off her life with some of my antics.  

“Is that Mrs Valentine?” 

“Yes” 

“This is the Thames Valley Police, we have your daughter.” 

I mean, seriously.  

I have absolutely no doubt that what I’ve been through is nothing compared to a number of others in the world; but it’s not about the facts of what happened, it’s about how we then rationalise, process and ultimately deal with what happened.  Let’s be clear; I don’t actually regret anything I did - because I was just coping, learning who I was, and at times, just being a standard twat of a teenager.  

This past 18 months have been an absolute rollercoaster.  Upheaval in both my personal and working life meant that I was left feeling like I was running a marathon against 70mph winds.  I was living out of a suitcase, drinking far too much, living it up and then BOOM, it hit me.  Again.  Straight back down to the depths of absolute misery.  But this time it was different.  I stopped eating.  I couldn’t sleep.  I lost all interest in things.  I would do something for 30 minutes and then need to take a nap.  My anxiety was at such a peak that I could barely have a conversation without feeling like something would go wrong.  I’d never really had physical symptoms of anxiety before; but I consistently felt like I had a lump in my throat, like someone was sitting on my chest...and the teeth grinding....oh the teeth grinding. My friends were having to wake me up in the middle of the night to stop me.  

In October, I made a call to an advice line through work and had an ‘initial assessment’ (I’ve honestly lost count of how many of those I’ve had).  But it came back that I was scoring 19/20 for both anxiety & depression, but a functioning level of 2 - so extremely high functioning.  This confused me.  I was able to carry out my work (even if I was genuinely exhausted at the end of a day), I was able to interact with people as though nothing else was happening and the scariest thing...I had become so good at hiding how I truly felt that no one knew the internal battle I was facing every day.  I was then referred back to my GP.  We all know a 10 minute appointment with your GP is standard; I was in there for 45 minutes.  Within another few weeks, I had been made an appointment at the hospital for a psychiatric assessment.  

At the end of the year, I could feel the intensity of my emotions picking up.  I tried to ignore it.  But they crept up on me.  I spent most of my time off over Christmas in bed.  Then it hit me like a sack of shit.  I couldn’t hide it anymore.  I was having dinner with a friend and I just turned to her and said “I think I need to go to the hospital”.  I called 111 from my car after having a horrendous panic attack in a multi-storey car park.  Once they had calmed me down, I was able to get my head together to get home.  But it got even worse when I arrived back.  I became terrified of my own thoughts; as though the last 18 years of my life had just been dumped on top of me and I genuinely didn’t know what to do.  Within an hour, the crisis team had called me and told me to get to A&E, where I spent the next few hours being assessed.  I got home in the middle of the night and spent the next day in bed.  Don’t ever think that mental exhaustion doesn’t contribute to physical exhaustion kids, because it really does.  

I then finally opened up to my family.  Which I had been petrified to do for years.  I didn’t really have a choice given I was back in my hometown.  Through that I felt worse for a time, but now, the relationship I’ve built with my little Moomin over the past 6 weeks has progressed faster than we have in the past 28 years.  I’m really proud of that.  

The day of the appointment comes.  Lovely to bring up the last 18 years of my life in the space of an hour.  Suffice to say, I spent the remainder of that day in a heap.  But through the haze, I had at least one positive.  A diagnosis.  Fluffy though it was, a diagnosis nonetheless.  Borderline Personality Disorder; or, as it’s now known: Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder.  Both are pretty shitty ways to put it, I gotta be honest.  For all of y’all that don’t know (because I certainly didn’t know), it means that my reactions to things are completely disproportionate - that is in my own head.  For example, where other people might feel slightly nervous, I will go in to full panic mode.  Or if someone else feels sad, I will feel grief.  And there are triggers to those emotions.  Mostly when something happens that leads back to things from my past that I was too young to resolve.  There are a number of other things that display themselves as a result; if you want to read more...Google is your pal.  

Along with all of this, they’re treating anxiety and depression separately.  But both of which are heightened by BPD.  And that’s alright, because at least now I know.    

What the diagnosis has given me is a better understanding of my mind and where these feelings come from.  It was almost like a light bulb moment...”oh so THAT’S why I feel like that...I get it now” - and even with a treatment plan not yet in situ, I’m able to take a step back & think about how I’m reacting - and this isn’t reactions to other people, this is my own reactions that I don’t share.  

It’s a confusing place to be, but with more clarity than I’ve ever had.  I’m finally ready to get back at ‘em with a clearer understanding of who I am; and I’m not ashamed of my diagnosis.  It’s a byproduct of all of the shit I’ve had to withstand over a very long period of time.  So in my opinion, that makes me a warrior.  I say every year that I’ll ‘transform myself’ but truly, I don’t need to.  I’m easing in to my own being; and those that are in my life love me for that version of me, not someone with a mask.  I’m proud of who I am.  And if you’re reading this and living (not suffering) with any form of mental ‘instability’, I’m proud of you too - because it takes a fuck load of effort sometimes even just to get out of bed.  

My mission in life has always been to help people; and my writing is one of the ways I’ve decided to do that in 2019.  Watch this space...I’m scheming like a squirrel after another squirrel’s acorns to bring something big.  I appreciate that this metaphor is a little bit unimaginative, but I’m rolling with it.    

I suppose the moral of the story is twofold:

1) Don’t ever assume that someone has it together just because they ‘seem’ to - we’ve all got our own battles.  Don’t be a dickhead.   

2) If you’re struggling, speak up.  It doesn’t have to be to a friend or family member.  Call your doctor.  Call a charity.  Call an advice line.  Just speak to someone.  

As ever, I’ll sign off with a lyric...

“What it all comes down to; is that I haven’t got it all figured out just yet.  ‘Cos I’ve got one hand in my pocket; and the other one’s giving a peace sign.” 

Take care of yourselves; and in the words of Ru...if you can’t love yo’self, how in the hell are you gon’ love somebody else?  

STV xx 

[sugasgrowl]

Things Never Changed

Group: Got7

Member: Mark Tuan

Pairing: member x reader

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2739

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

Okay so I’m slowly becoming Got7 trash thanks to @fortheloveofsuga (fuck you for giving me “feelings”) so I was compelled to write something for them. I just kinda wrote this at like 3am on my phone and debated on whether not to post it, but I decided I would. :) 

@seokvie @gotsinvn @mark-myass (i know y’all appreciate Got7 so here ya go *insert side eye emoji*)

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

There’s an old philosophy that says “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. The sentiment seems beautiful. Poetic, even. The thought that your absence from someone’s life will be an ever-present hollowness that makes it nearly impossible to complete simple daily tasks--the constant memory of the one you love dancing along the edges of your mind, just barely out of reach from your shaking and nostalgic fingers. The deep and meaningful love a connection that is blatant and comforting and unwavering, even with thousands of miles of ocean separating you. Poetic, indeed.

But it's just not realistic.

Mark rested his forehead against the cool glass, the earth an inky black top spinning in slow motion below him--twinkling gold and blinding white flecks of city lights flickering meekly in the never ending tar-like expanse of sleeping civilization that was creeping painstakingly slow underneath the plane. To no avail, he tried to still his shaking leg, to relax his muscles and sleep, but his body was completely indifferent to the fact that he hadn’t gotten more than three hours of sleep in the past two days. He sighed deeply and adjusted the earbuds shoved carelessly in his ears. The loud and percussive drum beats stitched together in the song that played at a volume far too loud to be healthy going unnoticed for the third hour in a row, his racing mind too clouded with her and his belly too full of nerves to give a damn. He was so ready to get home to her.

Four months. That's how long it had been since he’d held her. Since he could let his dark irises, heavily lidded and glazed with the haze brought on by countless rounds of passionate sex, drink in her every detail and attempt to commit every blemish, freckle, scar, and pore to memory. Four whole months since he could reach out and brush the tips of his fingers along the seam of her kiss-swollen lips without the harsh screen of a phone or laptop getting in his way. Since he could hear her loud, genuine laughter without the crackle of a phone speaker rudely interrupting.

It was fucking torture.

At first, they did their best to squeeze phone calls and late night FaceTime sessions into their (well, his) busy schedules, determined to do everything in their power to make it a functioning relationship. The calls were filled with lazy smiles and bursts of high pitched hyena laughter as he would retell his tales of touring, most of them involving Jackson’s shenanigans. She would always stare at the pixelated version of him on her phone screen, her smiling eyes twinkling brightly. More often than not he would attempt to continue with his stories and try to ignore the way his heart beat just a little faster at the weight of her gaze.

He would get distracted by her half smile, losing his train of thought and his ability to form a complete sentence.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he’d muse, his piercing laugh and the faint pink dusting of embarrassment blooming on his cheeks made her smile grow in size.

She'd shrug and shake her head, her smile nearly blinding.

“I'm just really proud of you.”

But all too soon one of them would be mumbling incoherently, drunk on exhaustion.

The frequent calls lasted about a month before the reality began to set in that long distance relationships are hard, the real world marching forward to yank them out of the honeymoon phase by their toenails.

Reality wasn't whispered sweet-nothings and hours of sleep lost due to the giddiness brought on by hearing each other’s voices. It was one of them--usually Mark--barely able to keep his eyes open, regardless of the time of day they found time to talk. It was him forgetting to let her know that he wouldn't be able to get in touch, and her waiting for hours until anger burned her throat like acid. Or her hearing a rumor that he was seeing someone else and calling him in tears, desperate for reassurance. Or simply both of them missing each other so deeply that they questioned if the pain was worth it in end.

The triggers almost never changed, regardless of the country he travelled to.

There were time zones, really fucking crazy time zones. There were drops in service. Hours and hours of radio silence, one of them almost always busy with their lives and responsibilities. Neither of them were strangers to misplaced anger, the bitter words and sharp comments climbing from deep inside them like a beast that had been lying dormant while Mark had been staying at her apartment like a semi-normal boyfriend.

Opposed to never ending patience and understanding, real life wormed its way into their hearts. But despite the ridiculous strain that came with a long distance relationship (and an idol relationship on top of that), there was faith that they could make it. There was the hope that they could last, the brief and fleeting moments of happiness a flickering candle flame. A beacon of light to lead them through the fights and frustrations.

Reality was hardly hearing from her, or her from him, in two and a half weeks aside from the argument they had three nights before. Reality was him sending her a text saying My flight should land around 2:30 and having two letters stare him blankly in the face, speaking volumes more than she did after she hung up on him for snapping at her all those days ago.

[10:45pm] Ok.

He was unsure at what point during the flight he fell asleep, but Mark awoke with a start, Jaebum’s warm hand firmly shaking his shoulder. Mark squinted up at his leader dumbly, red marks temporarily marring his lean face from the way he had rested his cheek against the sill of the tiny window. Still dazed and confused as to what city and time zone they were in, it wasn't until Jaebum uttered a sleepy “C’mon. Let's go home” that Mark realized they were back in Seoul. He jumped up so fast that he slammed his head on the low ceiling as he scrambled to gather his things, a low and gravelly swear escaping his lips.

The journey through the airport felt like he had lived that particular moment in his life nine hundred and seventy four times already, all the previous tours and fan meetings and times he had to travel for work swirled together like some sort of lethal cocktail--the likeness of it all making his legs grow wobbly and his head spin. People blindly scurried through the terminals like disgruntled ants with the hopes of making it to their flights. Some were sprinting with huge grins on their faces to meet loved ones halfway after being apart for an unknown span of time. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark watched the emotional moments take place with jealousy simmering in his chest.

I wish we could do that.

He took a deep breath through his nose. If he attempted to share such a loving moment with her in public, there would be drops in sales. Thousands of angry comments directed toward her. They didn’t try to hide their relationship, necessarily. The two of them would go out for coffee or to dinner, occasionally holding hands, but never venturing further than that--partly because of the fear of hate, but also because they weren’t into PDA anyway. They didn’t feel the need to express their feelings for everyone else to see. They found their own language of expressing feelings through gentle brushes of his hand against hers, or the slight quirk of an eyebrow.

God, he missed her so much.

After four months, sixteen whole weeks, he was going to be able to kiss her again. Their plane had touched down a little early. He quickly glanced at his watch and processed the numbers reading 1:45am in blunt white lettering.There was no way she was asleep at that hour. She had always found solace in the way the silver moonlight blanketed her whole universe at night.

She probably waited up, he thought to himself, desperate for his nerves to ease up. His thick brows furrowed. But what if she didn't bother?

The possibility made his stomach feel like it housed a den of snakes, all the excitement of seeing her and the worry of what would come of them after so long apart slithering sickly in his gut. He’d spent so long wishing he could be with her.

What if she decided this isn't worth it? What if she forgot my personality and she's disappointed when I’m still quiet?

He shoved the worries deep down until he could no longer hear them echoing inside his head.

Whatever happens is for a reason. You can't make her stay if things have changed.

When he finally walked up to the door of her apartment, his heart floundered helplessly in his throat. What if she doesn't love me anymore? The thought begged to be coddled, but he immediately snuffed it out.

He didn't need to be worried, because things between them never changed. Deep down he knew that. Or at least he hoped.

Carryon bag thrown over his shoulder and suitcase gripped tightly in hand, he pushed his way through the entryway. Shuffling inside and accidentally closing the door a little bit too hard behind him, he flinched. Back home for twenty seconds and he was already coming off as pissy.

Before he even had the chance to take a step inside the apartment, the bedroom door was being flung open. And there she was.

Messy hair piled on top of her head, not a stitch of makeup on her face. Threadbare and faded t-shirt with her old high school mascot cracked and peeling off the front. Batman pajama pants just a hint too short and exposing the skin of her ankles.

It was her.

Mark almost stopped breathing. He wasn't a sappy guy. He really, really wasn’t. They were the couple who usually poked fun at each other and acted more as best friends than anything else. But seeing her there, staring at him with a sheen of tears glistening in her eyes and a look of utter bewilderment etched into her features, he was in love.

He had known he loved her. He had told her he loved her almost every day, even if that was all he said. But it wasn't until his body acted on instinct and dropped his bags to the floor as she practically flew across the living room and jumped into his open arms that he knew and he felt with every fiber in him that he was madly in love with that girl.

He let out a strangled huff when her legs wrapped themselves around his waist and her arms slung themselves around his neck. She was happy to see him, too. Thank God.

They stayed like that for hazy length of time, the only movements being the way her back quivered as she cried into his neck and the gentle way he swayed their tightly tangled bodies back and forth.

“I’m sor-” Mark’s voice cracked as he muttered the sentiment into her neck, bringing him to the realization that the shame he felt was escaping him in a trickling of hot tears.

“God, I'm so mad at you,” she almost growled. “I missed you so much, you bastard.”

Her words were borderline furious, but her actions were tender and needy--her hands gripping both sides of his face and roughly pulling him into a bruising kiss. It was deep and a full on clashing of tongue and teeth, the both of them willing to do anything to try to convey their feelings without bothering to use words. The taste of her was so overwhelming, warm and slightly sweet with just a hint of mint. She must have just brushed her teeth--he could taste the icy cold flavor of her favorite toothpaste on her lips. He had to bite back a groan of satisfaction when he felt her lick into the heat of his mouth and lightly trace the underside of his tongue with the tip of her own. His grip around her tightened, a sinful sigh rushing past her lips at the closeness, and he seized the opportunity to capture her bottom lip between his teeth and tug.

The way her fingers wove themselves into the hair at the nape of his neck and her nails dug into his scalp drew a sound that was a hybrid between a grunt and a whine from his chest. Any other day and Mark would have probably either laughed at himself or been somewhat embarrassed, but he couldn't bring himself to give a shit. His feet began moving on their own accord and carrying them both in the direction of the bedroom, praying to god that he didn't somehow trip and drop her on her ass in the middle of trying to be good to her.

He gently lay her on her back, the mattress dipping even more when he pressed himself flush against her, his hands grabbing fistfuls of her thighs, her ass, her waist, feeling every part of her that he had been deprived of for four months, until both of his hands cradled her face in his palms and his thumbs were frantically brushing her cheekbones.

Mark forced himself to disconnect from the kiss, a whine of protest falling from the dorky goddess that he was undeniably head over heels for.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathed, forcing himself to look her in the eye and ignore the way her pupils were dilated so much that he was on the edge of falling into the velvety blackness that threatened to swallow him whole.

With every syllable, his lips grazed hers in hopes that the closeness and the way his breath fanned across her face would satisfy her in a minuscule way that he couldn't while he was away.

He reconnected their lips, unable to be without her taste any longer than he had to. Only half in control of his brain, a half-drunken chorus of “God, I’m so sorry. I love you so fucking much. I'm sorry” was mumbled into her mouth, her neck, her shoulder, peppered across her cheeks. He wanted to paint the apology across every inch of her in hopes that the message would somehow sink into her skin and lave at the gaping wound on her heart.

After a few moments, their kisses slowed until they were simply curled up together on her bed, their soft whispers loud enough for only their ears but still under the heavy protection of the pale light of the moon. Her face brushed against his with every expressive scrunch of her nose, and her leg was thrown over his narrow waist--wishing to be close to him in the most innocent and pure way possible. She peeked at him through her lashes, unable to deny the feeling of comfort that swelled in her chest as he traced the seam of her pajama pants, losing himself in the path going from her knee to her hip. A small, tired smile tugged on the corner of her lips.

Mark felt the subtle raise of her cheek and pulled back a bit more to evaluate her expression. His heart stuttered in his chest when he noted the warmth in her gaze.

Things never changed.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” he whispered, a sly smile breaking out across his handsome features.

She placed a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth before a genuine and heart wrenchingly warm smile nearly split her face at the seams.

“I’m just so proud of you. I love you.”

Mark beamed, his eyes scrunching up at the corners.

“Let's go to bed. We can pick this,” he playfully squeezed her ass, “up tomorrow. I just want to hold you and get some good sleep for once.”

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and Mark was unsure if that were true. But he was positive that no matter where in the world he was, no matter how far from her he had to be, the love pooling in his heart belonged to her. He was hers. She was his.

And that never changed.

[rheasunshine]

As I delve a little into what happened yesterday during my second half infusion of Ocrevus, I want to be very clear that “weakness” is not at all meant to be a taken as derogatory, or a stand-in for failure.  I do not intend “weakness” to bring up feelings of inadequacy or defeat.

Weakness, in this piece, means vulnerability, means softness, means disarmed – and the context of these words are meant to evoke in us the power of our humanness and to speak to the testament that though we are all fragile, that fragility bonds us together and opens up the pathways for empathy.

As I wrote about in my last piece, my decision to start Ocrevus was not an easy one and the long-term side effects were scary and the short-term ones turned out to be terrible.  This all comes with the territory of long-term disease management and medications.  So I won’t re-hash that and I’ll start with yesterday morning.

(Full disclosure, as I’m writing this, I’m currently basking in the warmth of 7.5 mg of Vicodin, 50 mgs of Benadryl, plus the haziness of sheer exhaustion.  Also, my skin is burning at a level best described as “infuriatingly distracting” and I have no feeling in either of my legs, so every once in awhile I’m taken out of writing mode to try to figure out how my laptop is floating in front of me because I can’t see the lump of legs beneath the blanket and so the whole “out of sight, out of mind” comes in to play.)

Knowing that we would have to leave for Duke at 5:30 am on Tuesday morning, I went to bed at 7 pm Monday night; not surprisingly, I woke up at 1:45 am, anxious and pissed.  But I got dressed, combed my hair and took a “Let’s Do This” selfie in an attempt to get myself pumped up.  I was thinking I looked pretty good for 2:30 am, especially since I was fighting a panic attack and couldn’t take anything for it (so there would be no interactions with the pre-medication they give you at the infusion center).

We headed out right on time, and despite the Tropical Cyclone warnings, there was only a light rain falling.  Thommy and I took the obligatory “WE’RE ON A ROAD TRIP!” photo at the first red light we came to, and then he took an adorable shot of the two of us once I inevitably passed out in the passenger’s seat.

Durham rush hour traffic was reliably crazy, so we rolled up to Duke Hospital with 15 minutes to park and check-in.  While I nervously waited for them to call my name I couldn’t help but notice the obnoxiously optimistic vending machine taunting me.  Similarly to adding the words “in bed” to the ending of fortune cookies, I sometimes like to add the words “my ass” to the end of inspirational quotes.  In case the image is too small for you to read, let me assist you in recreating what I read in my head yesterday morning as I waited for the IV toxicity:

“The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it … my ass.”

Despite my obsession with quotes and my belief in their ability to empower and embolden us, sometimes the only thing that pulls me along in life is sardonic humor. Apologies to C.C. Scott.

Anyway, the appointment started out great – especially the first three things.  For starters, the scale was broken!! After just getting weighed in at a doctor’s appointment on Monday (yes, I truly do spend most of my life at doctor’s appointments), I was really not looking forward to it on Tuesday.  Most people dislike getting weighed in on those hideous contraptions anyway, but for someone with anorexia it’s an even harder proposition. Sometimes I do the weigh-in backwards, but most times my sadistic side takes over and I can’t avert my eyes.  I’m going to be writing a special post about my upcoming 10 year anniversary from Renfrew and one of the things I’ll be talking about is some ways people with eating disorders engage differently than regular folks with seemingly benign tasks.  For example, on the day before a scheduled weigh-in, I usually dehydrate myself and often times use a diuretic or laxative (despite the fact that I am chronically dehydrated and have diarrhea anywhere between 5-15 times a day).  I also wear as few items of clothing as possible.  This is much easier to accomplish in the South, but regardless of the fact that I am always cold, I usually wear shorts and flip flops to appointments so I can take them off before stepping on the scale.  At the infusion center, none of these preemptive steps are possible because those places are kept at what seems to be “just-below-freezing”, so I’m forced to wear jeans and shoes.  I digress: I didn’t have to get weighed in.

The second good thing was finding out that they try to keep you with the same infusion nurse for sake of continuity of care.  I loved my nurse the first time and I was ecstatic to be back under her care.  The last positive to happen in quick succession was the fact that she was able to get the IV in on the first try.  Last time, it took 3 pokes (plus the delay of waiting for the “IV Team” to show up).  Then, things started to take a turn for the worse.

Despite assurances last time that were going to double ALL my meds to start (including the Benadryl, which is a god-send during these infusions because it either knocks you out or keeps you in a “I Don’t Give a Fuck” haze), I was informed that only the Pepcid and the steroids would be doubled.  That was the first time I wanted to cry in the infusion chair.  I held it in.  I dug in hard, gritted my teeth, focused my energy and willed myself to stay ahead of the thundering rumble of disappointment I could hear building up in the background.  Thommy must have taken a picture at this moment, which I didn’t see until later, but perfectly captured the internal pep-talk.

And then he asked for a picture, grinning.  I tried to smile back.

  Then, as my nurse administered the normal dose of Benadryl, none of the twilight-like sedation that had blissfully overcome me during the first infusion took hold.  It might as well have been saline.  Again, the tears swelled up from my gut to the edges of my eyes – but I blinked them back down and just let the crashing wave of disappointment and frustration wash over me.  All my senses and emotions were so heightened that it felt more like drowning than washing, but I didn’t want to give up on the day so early in the process.

The day marched on.  Thommy did some work and I mostly stared ahead at the wall, or occasionally at my phone, but mostly I just looked at the IV.  A little blood had started to flow back into the tubing, a hazy mixture of red blood and opaque medicine creating a pink swirl in the line.  I don’t know why it was mesmerizing.  Something about blood leaving my body was calming; it was just the smallest amount, really, but it was beautiful.  It didn’t even scare me that I wished it was coming faster, or that the tubing wasn’t there, or that the earlier moments of “washing disappointment” turned to a wistful hope that the droplets of blood would turn to tiny streams, then currents.  Visions of crimson liquid on pale skin lulled me.  It wasn’t the meds but this vision that acted like the Klonopin I hadn’t been able to take earlier, and my eyes closed.  Thommy must have looked up from his laptop shortly after this and captured with his phone what must have seemed to him like a momentary respite from the struggle and a rare moment of calm.  It was.  But for all the wrong reasons.

***

As we hit the mark in time where I had experienced a reaction during the first infusion, I was ecstatic to realize I wasn’t having one this time.  I stubbornly decided (as one does when they think they can control everything around them) that I was NOT going to have a reaction this time and we were going to get out of there on time, beat the Durham rush hour and be back home after “only” 12 hours.  It was not to be.  30 minutes later when they once again bumped up the infusion rate, I started to get the faintest tingle around my ears and the outline of my face.  Then a little on my neck. I tried not to think about it; I certainly tried not to touch it.  I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself while surrounded my hawk-eye nurses and an even more attentive husband, who for reasons that entirely escape me, seems to actually like looking at my face.  I again tried to convince myself the increasingly hard to ignore burning was simply a matter of psychosomatic manifestation.  No allergic reaction to see here.  Maybe if I pretend to sleep, no one will look at me.

Then I coughed.  Just once.  But Thommy looked up.  I shook my head nonchalantly: “I’m fine, just a tickle, it’s fine.”

Then another cough, deeper this time: “I’m fine,” I laughed, “seriously, go back to work.” Then 3 more in quick succession, harder and rumbling, ones that forced my body upwards in the chair.

Fuck.  Me.

After 2 minutes of “Should We Get the Nurse” ping-pong, he poked is head above the nursing station.  I could hear the mumbling and I shot Thommy the coldest death stare I could muster and like a mother scolding an insubordinate child, I mouthed “SIT. DOWN.”

“Never mind, she’s ok.” Thommy said with a sheepish chuckle.  It was his turn to try to laugh it off.  But it was too late and here she came, arms crossed, smiling.  It wasn’t my nurse (she was on lunch), but one that had remembered me from last time and had come over to say hi when we first got there.  “Good to see you again,” she had said.  She was young and very pretty.   It’s strange, but even after just two visits, they seem like a family to me.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I laughed, waving my hand in an attempt to shoo off the inevitable.  I try to act like the smartest person in the room when in medical settings, like it simultaneously makes everyone up their own game and also allows me the upper-hand.  I do it because pretending I’m in control is the only way I’ve found to survive all this shit.

I don’t remember exactly who said what, but among the three of us, words like “itching”, “just a little irritation”, “cough”, and “I really am fine,” got tossed around.  No dice.  In quick succession, 3 nurses and the PA who oversees the floor and is probably the sweetest person I’ve ever met in a medical office were standing and sitting around me.  Then I started to fucking cry.  Not sobbing, not hysterically, but a stifled stream of tears finally made their way out of my eyes and down my already red and itching face.  The nurses and Thommy tried to console me, thinking what, I’m not sure.  The darker part of my nature thought maybe they believed I was weak – easily rattled – being a brat.

I doubt anyone actually thought that but those were the assumptions pounding against my skull as I tried to explain that I was only crying because I didn’t want to stop the infusion, I just wanted to get through it like (seemingly) everyone else did and go HOME. I wanted them to understand that my body does not know any other mode than “self-sabotage.” It is a betrayer.  It lies and it breaks and it defies logic.  I wanted them to ignore what they were seeing, go against all ethical and practical guides of medicine and just let me have my reaction in peace and get the fuck out of there.  As I explained that, minus the expletives, the PA sat down next to me and placed her hand on my knee that was huddled up next to me as I did my best to place myself in the fetal position in the chair.  Her eyes were the warmest shade of brown, and empathy and sympathy shot out of them like laser beams set to a better frequency than mine.  Excitedly she said, “we won’t stop like last time!! No, no…” she comforted, “we will just stop the drip while we give you more Benadryl, more Pepcid and some Allegra, and then I promise you we’ll start right back up.”  There were some hesitant, doubting looks on the faces of the nurses surrounding her.  The PA must have noticed that too because she added – “I’ll start it back up myself if I have too.”  I agreed, but kept crying.

They all started shuffling around doing what had to be done and within a few minutes, my own nurse was back.  They explained to her what had happened.  They tried to explain why I was upset.  I started to defend myself, but she stopped me.

“Of course you’re crying.  You’re tough and happy for as long as you can and you do what you have to do and then all it ever takes is one final thing, the straw that breaks the camels back, to put you over.  It’s not pain, you can handle that; it’s just frustration at one more thing not working out the way it should and you just have enough.  You’re ok.”

I cried harder.  She actually fucking got it.  I’ve known her for a total of maybe 18 hours in my life and she completely understood the secret language of my tears in that moment.

They infused more meds and I watched the clock tick.  And then, when my time was up, and every nurse was with another patient, the PA (who works in administration and oversees the floor, and who was wearing high heels, a skirt and a blouse, but who had promised me that this little setback wouldn’t get me off track to go home on time), found gloves and started my drip back up herself.

The state of medical care of this country is currently broken.  I know this because I am a professional patient.  But the level of care I’ve received at my infusion center, and especially at the hands of this PA at that moment, healed so many fractures for me.

I still had well over an hour to go when my nurse left for the day.  She came over to say goodbye and that she’d see me in 6 months.  She said a few things, all so genuinely sweet that I wanted to cry again.  Then she said “it was truly a pleasure being with you today.”  I could only nod.  When she left, Thommy turned and said, “she loves you.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking about all the times doctors and nurses would fawn over Memere, even as she experienced the worst that hospitals have to offer.  “I learned that from Memere.”

***

In my ongoing commitment to showing how “real” complicated and ongoing illness and disability can be, I allowed Thommy to post a picture he took of me crying to Facebook.  We try to document as much of our lives as possible, and while most people who know me know that I’m incredibly open and honest about what all the colors of life look like, there are lines I try to draw.  I’m struggling with that right now as I’m drafting my Renfrew piece, because despite the trigger warnings and the explicit language I’ll use to shy away people who shouldn’t be looking at it, I know if they’re anything like me they’ll be compelled to do so anyway, and so I haven’t decided if I’ll use pictures to help illustrate what my personal weight and health struggles have looked like over the last 18 or so years.

When we finally got home last night, I kept looking at that picture.  I really had to fight the urge to take it down.  I still think displaying vulnerability, depression, anxiety and self-harm are ways that help me fight against them.  I know not everybody feels that way and I do worry maybe it’s too triggering for people.  And maybe I’m delusional, but I do feel that if someone is battling their own demons in secrecy, and maybe feels like no one else understands, that they might see one of my pictures or posts and realize that weakness does not have to equal defeat or inadequacy or failure.  Sometimes – hell, most times – weakness is permission to feel vulnerable, hurt or broken while simultaneously seeing the strength that all those feelings require.  It is permission to be human, and to let others know that not everything they see or read from people they consider “strong” is the whole story.  Strength requires too much energy sometimes; it needs its’ counterparts to be whole.  When someone tells me I’m strong, I want them to know that, while it’s often misquoted and not used in accordance with the original source material from “A Farewell to Arms”: we are all broken, that’s how the light get’s in.

So today, as I sit here, I am bloated from the steroids and terrified about how much worse it’s going to get in the coming weeks. I am in incredible amounts of pain radiating from all over, and both legs are numb.  I am starving, but I won’t eat.  My face is broken out in hives (as are my neck, chest and shoulders), and I am dizzy and nauseous from all the medicines.  I am worried about money because our car just needed $1,100 worth of repairs.  I am feeling like a horrible friend and daughter because there are things I’m supposed to be doing for my friends and family that I just can’t.  I feel like the “World’s Worst Wife” (a title I bestow on myself often) because Thommy is stressed and anxious and I can’t be as attentive or patient as I should be.

I am feeling my humanness today: hard.  I am still crying.  But I’m urged to remind you that while it’s not necessarily fair to feel this way, we are okay.  And if you need to reach out, reach out.  And if you want to share your struggles with social media but worry people might think you’re being “dramatic,” tell that voice to shut up and share what you want.  You have no idea who it might help.  Or how it might help you.

What’s the point of being strong if you can’t define strength on your own terms?

What’s the point of struggling in silence because you’re worried about what other’s might think? People who would turn their backs on you deserve to be walking away.

What do you need today?  Ask yourself – then ask for help if you need it.

If you’re doing OK today – ask someone else what you can do to help them.

Results may vary.  You may make someone’s day.

Or you may save it.

  In strength and solidarity,

Rhea

    In Defense of Weakness As I delve a little into what happened yesterday during my second half infusion of Ocrevus, I want to be very clear that "weakness" is not at all meant to be a taken as derogatory, or a stand-in for failure.  

[rueur]

Morning Pages #36 (25.02.2017)

Saturday 25th February - 6:08 p.m.

Yes, I know that it’s been an actual week without my morning pages and this is egregiously unacceptable, but I actually have a fairly decent excuse: I’ve been dying. Well not literally. I’ve been damn close to that though, at least on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday of this week, which saw me fall into what was at its peak awfulness, a thirty-eight degree fever. It’s been hell on earth. I’m going to take a break for a bit, even though I just started. I’m going to go and get some water, and then I’ll have to type this all up rather quickly because I want to go to the gym tonight, because I haven’t been all week! And it’s been torturous knowing that the gym is right next door but my condition was honestly inhibiting me from doing so much during this last week off. Oh yes. Monday will come all too soon and then I’ll be back at school after over three very long months off. So much has happened in this last three months though, I mean these holidays saw me experiencing so much more and growing so much more as a person I feel, than any other period of time I’ve had off. No I have to go and get some water. I’ll be back really soon. I might have to pee too. My period finally came after this tumultuous past few weeks/months so I’m glad that that little stability is back in my life. The only drawback is the period pain of course. And the constantly having to pee. I feel like I’ve been dispelling far too much fluid than I should be, what with not only my period but also this killer sickness I’ve been battling. NO I REALLY HAVE TO GO AND GET SOME WATER NOW, BUT I KEEP TYPING. STOP TYPING.

So it’s 7:30 p.m. now. I know. I still have a lot to say. On Thursday the 23rd of February, I performed my slam poem in the first Slamalamadingdong of 2017. I scored 28 out of 30 but it got dropped down to 25. I lost points for going over time, which I knew I would. But I wasn’t really playing to win anyway, which I let everyone know right before I started my piece: ‘Brown Girl in the Mud’. My actual words were ‘I’m here just to see if I can do it’, which people applauded. In fact, the poem was received really well altogether. People clicked and ‘ooh’-ed in the right moments and I think my message really sunk in. My nerves left me when I actually started the poem, and once I had taken that first step it was like flying, it was just so easy and liberating. Evan was there too! He asked if he could come and see me perform when we were together last Friday. We sat in the back so I had to run to the stage and then run back like as soon as I’d finished I literally ran down the steps and across the room back to him. He was so supportive honestly, it was really lovely having him there. And to think I had made plans to do this all on my own! I mean, I actually could’ve done it on my own really easily. I got to know a lot of people that night, like Charlotte and Sigrun who were two of the poets I most resonated with. Charlotte wrote and performed ‘Purple Haze’ which was a poem that so beautifully captured what it means to be a hybrid Australian, which I most definitely relate to and never tire of writing about myself. Sigrun on the other hand, was just incredibly passionate and it really showed. She got to the second round but not to the third, which was a shame I think. But everyone there was amazingly talented, really. It was so refreshing being in a room full of people I really naturally recognised as my peers, my people. The spoken word scene in Melbourne is still quite young, but it’s really finding its footing and that’s all thanks to the gorgeous and creative people I met on Thursday.

I actually almost didn’t perform, because I was still feeling really ill on the day and I had been drinking water incessantly, like every time I felt a cough coming on which was very often. Evan was very patient with me, I think. I mean he might’ve also been rather concerned for me because I’ve been in a bit of a bad headspace for a while what with everything that’s happened. My skin has been so unclear, and then I fell into that fever, and then this bloody cold. Although I’m so so grateful that my period is here honestly, because it has definitely been a weight off my shoulders. Another thing: I feel like I’m growing bolder. By the day. I mean I feel like this hasn’t been a drastic change at all. If anything, it’s probably been a very gradual process that’s been taking place of these past two years now, but I’m only really just feeling the effects of this change now. Or perhaps I’m feeling it now because I’m finally free to feel it. I’ve been free to just be alive and be myself and get to know who I am over these past few months, so I guess it makes sense that I’ve reached a stage where I now feel that I know myself more than I’ve ever known myself before. Maybe that’s why it feels so right typing right now. My fingers feel like they’re gliding across the keyboard. Funnily enough, they did up until I typed out that last sentence. My head is playing a cruel little game with me! Anyway, I say that I’ve been growing bolder namely because two things happened today that I spent a lot less time being anxious about before I actually just said ‘fuck it’ and did it. I spent the whole of Thursday in a state of intense nerves, from before I left the house to my dinner with Evan and then to the first half of the first round of the poetry slam. I gave him his birthday present too: hamburger socks. He wore them last night when I saw him. He came over to South Morang after his basketball game, to celebrate his last day of work and I guess the midway point between our birthdays. He got to South Morang station at 12:20 a.m., like a half hour after my parents called it a night, which naturally worked out perfectly for me. I took the bike out and rode it all the way to the station, locked it up and then met him. We were out from 12:20 a.m. till his train at 7:53 a.m., though I said goodbye to him at around quarter to, because we HAD just spent the last seven hours with each other in the cold and in the dark. I took him to Quarry Hills and to the Lakes, and we did walk a little into Mill Park as well, before deciding that there was more to see out in South Morang. Before I talk about last night in detail, I just wanted to say that I was out of the house all night and nobody had any idea. Except my brother, who I told just in case my parents discovered I wasn’t home. My main point is that I snuck out! For over 7 hours and I got not a wink of sleep. Actually, I did sleep later. From 8 a.m. till about 2 p.m.. Okay I’m going to go for a bit. I realised that the gym actually closes at 6 today so I wouldn’t have been able to go after typing this anyway! So I’m going for a run right now. Before it gets too too dark. It’s already quite dark. It’s getting darker earlier now. Summer’s on its way out.

It’s 10 o’clock. I feel like I’m putting off writing about last night because I just feel like I’m not going to effectively capture how lovely it really was and then the loveliness will become forgotten to me over time. I don’t know if that’s really possible though. Evan told me he loved me last night. He said he thinks he’s falling in love with me, and that the moment he met me he thought he was already in love with me, because we connected so well from the beginning. I was astounded because I thought so too. Everything he said to me, every feeling he expressed, I shared. On the way home after the poetry slam I said thank you to him for tolerating my anxiety because it had been driving me mad for most of Thursday, his birthday. It affected me the entire day. I couldn’t eat properly, and I kept leaving him during the slam for some air, but he just dealt with it all. And I was grateful so I told him. He said in a very earnest and compassionate tone that he’ll always be there for me, and will always be supportive of me. He said it in such a sure way too, like he just meant it and like saying that stuff, promising that to me, was one of the easiest and truest promises he’s made. Being with him has been a dream. He called me heavenly too! I forgot about that, but it made me blush at the time. But when he told me he loved me, and that he thinks he’s loved me perhaps from the moment he met me (he just didn’t want to freak me out by saying it too early, which was yet another feeling I had shared with him), I was just overtaken with emotion. I just kissed him, I couldn’t not kiss him. And I told him that I loved him too, and then we both said that we had a hunch we both knew the other was thinking exactly the same thing. And we were right. The level of deep care and sincere affection that Evan has shown me has been incredibly new to me. I mean I haven’t experienced this kind of intense intimacy with anybody and yet simultaneously, talking to him is so easy and natural. We watched the lights of the city under the starry midnight sky, watched the purple clouds loom overhead, and kept an eye out for the stoic silhouettes of the Quarry Hills kangaroos. We lay on the bench at the lookout, holding each other in the bitter chill. It was not a good night for my cold but I didn’t even care, when I wasn’t coughing, because the coughing was actually awful but thankfully it wasn’t too consistent either.

We also had a very honest conversation last night about how naked we got on Friday. He told me on Friday that he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable or fearful in any way, and so I asked him if he had any questions for me about my poem because the content of my poem began to delve a little into my sexual history. Well a fair bit actually. I admit to not being a virgin in it for one, but there’s more to it than that. I also admit to experiencing sexual assault, a little. And I admitted that to him last night/this morning. I said I have had some bad experiences in the past with men, and with Ikaros, well actually I mostly just spoke (very vaguely, mind) about Ikaros. I’m yet to tell him about what’s happened to me out in the world, though I suppose we’ll have time enough for me to go into detail. Anyway, he was very respectful of me, naturally. And he said that he would like to have sex with me, which was quite forward but not unwelcome because I did say to him that I recognised that he was taking his time with me on Friday and that he was being respectful, but also that I thought he was being a little too respectful, I suppose. No, that’s not possible. Okay he said he didn’t want to take the lead too much, but it’s kind of a turn on for me, being lead.

Evan stayed with me until the sun rose, and we watched the sun rise from Quarry Hills. It was majestic, to say the least. Seemingly instantaneously, the sky burst into light and the whole city woke up, pastel and sleepy. We were making out for a while so we might’ve missed a bit of the transition from night to day, but when daylight came, it just made everything feel okay. The whole world felt alive and I could see the colour of his cheeks and the little freckles on his nose. I saw the gold and brown and red streaks in the wildgrass and I saw the wisps of the pine trees that stood in a scraggly row alongside the grey gravel path. I could see the kangaroos! And I pointed them out to them, the massive herd that sits in the valley between the lookout and the first crest of the hills. Evan fell in love with the place, and the whole time he kept saying that it was unreal, that the views were of such value to him and he feels they would also be of great value to his brother, that he’ll definitely have to take a trip to South Morang with all of their gear. It made me incredibly happy, that he could share the joy that Quarry Hills brings to me, because I have been talking about the Lakes and the park for a while now. When he came to see me, it just made sense to take him to Quarry Hills, and once we’d realised we could potentially be out late enough to actually see the sun rise, it just made sense to watch it from the lookout. I should stop writing for tonight. I need to right my sleep schedule by trying to go to bed right now. My parents and I are going to Warburton in the morning, I believe. It’s a shame that my sister’s not here, nor is my brother. It’ll just be me and my parents, and my grandpa. It’ll be a bit of a lonely trip for me, but it’s not like I speak too much in car rides anyway. And maybe going with them might give me some time alone at the temple. I can send some photos of the place to Evan and maybe convince him to come along. Is it weird that...I mean I don’t think it’s weird at all, but his parents are really keen to meet me and ammi (thathi doesn’t talk too much about it) is really keen to meet him. And I am actually really excited for him to meet ammi and thathi. I mean they’re awful parents, they would be the worst inlaws and I feel for Evan so much if we maybe ever get to that level in our relationship I mean we have only known each other for a month now, I know that this is incredibly premature BUT SO WAS SAYING ‘I LOVE YOU’ AFTER JUST OVER A MONTH OF KNOWING EACH OTHER, I mean generally speaking. It would seem far too soon to say that in any other relationship, I think. But the way we kiss, so intense but also so sparing, the way we seem to be so in sync emotionally and the way we share all the same value and priorities, the same interests too to some degree, it just seems cosmic. It seems like we were meant to meet and we were meant to spend this time together. He asked me another question at one point last night, before he’d said he loves me: ‘What are we doing?’. I told him after a brief moment, that we were doing what we like. He asked ‘And what’s that?’ because I was being vague, I’ll give him that. I said ‘Being together’.

Look, I’ve been talking about this too much now I know. I just don’t want to forget anything. But more than that, I just don’t want to stop talking about him right now either because I miss him right now. He fills me with so much warmth and hope and he validates me, he’s accepting of me. I really fucking miss him. And I will see him tomorrow ON MY BIRTHDAY. I know. I mean on the 27th. I only say tomorrow because it’s actually past midnight now and it’s Sunday. I have to sleep, goddamn. Let’s see if I can get some sleep tonight. Goodness, actually I just realised I’m at the end of my fourth page for today. Yeah I spilled way over today. I think to compensate for not writing for a week. Hopefully from today onwards, I won’t be missing any more of my morning pages. Though it’s hard to say what writing these are going to be like once uni’s started.

[gregsnormalchristianlife]

FEAR and a FALTERING FAITH

The other day, Lord, you gave me reason to calculate how long I have been running. Not the “one foot in front of the other” kind of running, but the Jonah kind of running. 

Six years.

Well, not entirely like Jonah for all of those past six years. For much of the first two, you were letting us walk in the shoes of Joseph. 

During the white spaces of those two Joseph-like years (Genesis 40:23-41:1), I was decidedly your captive. 2011-’12 were years of breaking. You both broke and built me. Because of what you did in those two years as you mercifully began to displace me from myself, I remember being terribly sad to see that precious, though painful, time in the rear-view mirror. This June 10, 2012 blog entry acceptably encapsulates your sovereignty in the midst of those first two of these past six years (please link to and read it if you have been directed to this entry).

So, it’s really like I’ve been doing the Jonah thing for much of the past four years. 

Well, not entirely like Jonah for all of those four years. I now see that the first two of those four you were lovingly allowing me to do the pre-battle, risk-fee preparatory work like the pre-Judges 7:15 Gideon. There’s nothing like being obedient during the night hours where there’s less exposure, less potential ridicule, less reliance upon you alone to protect and care for us (Judges 6:25-27). And there’s nothing like being bold in the preparations for the battle - when you’re not really yet taking those first, ‘no turning back’ steps in the direction of the Valley of Jezreel (Judges 6:33-35). There’s room to hedge a bit when ‘there is work to be done.’ There’s little fear when merely cocking the rod and reel behind the head. But faith is demonstrated in the forward movement, the actual casting of the line. That’s where trust lives. 

But, Lord, for whatever reason, you let me live in the relative safety of that second two years, following the first pilot group unveiling of the WTSU work in the fall of 2012. I tried to take the advice of those beautiful people who responded to that call for the first exposure of what you’d given me as I edited, re-edited and re-re-edited the content for ‘the next time.’ Indeed, every single time I touched the material in those second two of these past six years, even up through it’s renaming as of late, you met me in the midst of it, Lord. And our holy discontent-filled heart would begin to burn again. In fact, I’ll never forget editing the final words in the audio version of the 2nd complete makeover of the WTSU material. I was sitting on my motor coach on a Saturday in early November, 2013 on the campus of the University of Toledo. I remember it felt like I had exhaled for the first time in a year, since it’s first pilot group airing. I’m confident I can find the pictures I took that very day. It was an unexpectedly emotional moment. I was overcome with emotion. 

Yep, found ‘em. This was the view from where I sat. 

I remember it like it was yesterday. I must’ve sat there for 15 minutes, completely silent...spent...wondering what God was going to do with the last 12 month’s worth of effort. 

“Are you a crazy man?”

“For whom have you utterly spent yourself again, for months, in this same direction?” 

Sometimes it was a very lonely walk of obedience. But most of the time, I knew I had spent the hundreds and hundreds of hours with you, Jesus. You were working on and in me - on us, as much as anything. And if WTSU were to never again see the light of day, it was okay. I accepted that day that if it were only as an act of obedience in the direction of the holy discontent which you had been using to wreck me for the previous 30 months, that would be enough. As long as you were pleased with me. That’s all I needed to know at the time. And that was enough. You had, in your providential care, placed me in a humble occupation I would never have dreamed I’d be doing where I was given time to think, pray, write, and record what you were asking of me. I was being paid by the hour for at least 80% of the time we’d spent together developing the WTSU, BaSFL, and Rev3(2) trifectas of content...on motor coaches and in hotel rooms in towns from New York City, Washington D.C., New Haven, CT, Breezewood, PA and Toronto, Canada to volleyball matches, swim meets, and baseball, football, basketball and soccer games and matches in places like Richmond, KY, Rolla, MO, Panama City Beach, FL, Ann Arbor, MI and New Orleans, LA. I sat there amazed - and still. For a long time. 

I recall the sun had just begun to peak out from an afternoon of dark clouds and heavy rains. The visual backdrop of the moment was one I remember wanting to absorb - and capture. So I did. It was a bit of visual, poetic justice.

Furthermore, how could I look back at those pre-battle, preparatory, second two years with disdain when it was in those years between 2013-’14 that you wrote your Beginning a Spirit-Filled Life book in me? Our fellowship and growth during that 24-30 months between June, 2012 and January, 2015, was necessarily continual as we wrote, re-wrote, organized and worked seemingly endlessly on that manuscript - sometimes seven days a week while using every 15-minute pause for the cause. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. If I were you, I think I would have been twiddling my thumbs, wondering if that child of mine were ever going to be finished manipulating that material! I just wanted it to be as thorough a recollection of what you had taught me as possible in case you wanted other life-long Christians to discover the more “normal” Christian life you had intended all along for us when you went to abide by the Father’s right hand.  

But there’s no doubt that, both in seasons of that second two years and in seasons hence, you have now shown me that I have behaved strikingly like the pre-Judges 7:15 Gideon. And you seem to be okay with it. It also was a time I wouldn’t trade for much of anything. But thank you, Lord, that while in Judges this morning you kept me reading past chapter 7 and verse 15 to demonstrate that my Gideon-like tendencies can yet be met with an equal amount of decisive obedience and confidence, and that you are worthy of our absolute trust on the other side of fear and a faltering faith.

But when the recasting of the WTSU material was ‘good enough for now,’ and the book you asked that I tackle which chronicled what you’d taught me about the utter insufficiency of my old man and how our earth-side man is destined to settle for too little outside of your supernatural in-breaking, and you’d given me the outline purposed to call teenage students out of the mist and haze of our American, cultural Christianity and into a greater understanding of their higher calling as citizens of an eternal Kingdom by way of the Rev3(2) curriculum, I sat down...and waited.

And waited.

...and waited.

Sometimes I waited in frustration. Sometimes I waited with an eager anticipation of what you may be doing behind the scenes. But I decidedly waited, trying to learn from my past when I may have mistakenly pushed on in my own strength, my own timing, at my own initiative.

It was in early-mid 2015 that I began to feel the Lord was asking me to take a risk. For thirteen years I had lived in the wake of a disability, the extent of which very few people knew. At a time when the effects of our ’02 brain hemorrhage were beginning to pick up speed, I awoke to your Spirit’s challenge. I won’t forget it. For more than a decade, I refused to put “us” into a position where we may fail. I’d absolutely avoided working in an environment where rapid-fire mental capacity were going to be necessary – you know, like most people do every day without thinking about it. You asked me to trust you by being willing to step through a door of simple administrative opportunity with an awesome, committed Christian business man and my gifted cousin. 

In reality, I’d been waiting for something, someone to take up the sword and lead what you’d given me onto the battle field of our confused, post-Christian culture. Looking back, Lord, I now see I was acting as if I were powerless, forgetting that my relative incapacitation was no match for your power. Much like Gideon, I was being overwhelmed with feelings of responsibility for my family’s welfare and my feelings of inadequacy for the job to which you’d called me. Funny, it just came to me that I was perhaps operating in a Moses-like manner in knowing well my call, but waiting for an Aaron to grab the staff. Aaron ... where are you, Aaron? HELLO?!

For all intents and purposes, it was time to DO what you had required of me. You had pointed my heart and soul to delivering news to Nineveh, a lost and dazed place of self-sufficiency and self-destruction. But I ... I got in line for the boat to Tarshish.   

Lesli and I were weary of my continual travel from the previous four years. The pull of an 8 hour work-day with availability at night...together...when I wasn’t continually writing or recording or editing, or picking up hours on a second job...was strong. We missed one another terribly. During this third pair of two years, we were grieving over Caleb’s second ‘gap year’ away from Taylor University, a place and a people he truly loved, due to finances. We couldn’t ‘solve’ his problems, and our hearts ached. I mean ached. For these and other reasons I may never discover exactly, I just began to do life – satisfied for the line awaiting the boat to Tarshish. Or maybe I wasn’t really running from God’s direction for me by standing in the wrong line at all. It was more like I was sitting comfortably on a park bench at a crossroads, watching the boats to Nineveh and Tarshish come and go, come and go. While I - well, maybe while I pouted. Or healed - with Lesli. I don’t know which. Probably some of both. 

I suppose I’m just beginning to understand that I have been grieving over a great many things for the better part of two years, this third two year period. When you add to these things my noticeable continuance into less than optimal cranial endurance and capacity, without identifiable diagnosis, 2015 and ‘16 have been a decided pause. 

But even in the midst of these past 18 months, you have again done your work – in the midst of my folded hands on the matter of our holy discontent. For in these many little acts of obedience and trust in your ability to work through me, and in appointments with men and women from all walks of life, you have exposed me to two things: 

1.     A reintroduction to Tom Roy one day in Warsaw, IN, and his wise council to assemble a “personal board” around which you would be able to do your work through the counsel and assistance of other godly men, and 

2.     An increased comfort in sitting down with individuals while challenging them to dream about something I had to share. 

There have been a number of things you have brought to bear on my heart in the last couple of months. I think the first was when our business owner asked this question (in so many words) of our staff during a monthly “time out” at a coffee joint where we take time to focus on what God is teaching us. 

“If you could do anything of your choosing, what would you like to do? I’d like to facilitate that if I can.” 

While others may have thought that were an odd question, I think Jeff and I may both have known it was on the table for me to ponder. I could be wrong. But that rang in my ears for weeks until a couple weeks back when, in your great compassion, Lord Jesus, you yanked my gaze back in the direction of your power and ability, and not my own. You began searing two things into my heart and soul. One’s a question. One’s a fear greater than heading straight to my Nineveh because it stands to negatively impact others whom I love and have come to appreciate greatly, my co-workers at Servant HR. This first one was on the forefront of my mind one morning, clear as day. 

1. “My child, were I to guarantee you of my return in 2017, would you continue investing your time in doing what you’re doing today?”  

Whoa, that cut right to the chase. And it was way too simple for me to answer. Why ask that of me right now? My sheepish answer had to be, “No.” There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing with most of my day-time effort. In fact, it’s a really great thing in itself, with some incredible people doing great things! I just began to think about whether it’s what you have discharged into my care. And given what has been miscue after miscue recently with high percentage-to-close clients, some literally even going back on their word to initiate our servicing them, the next thought that just kept coming to the front of my mind was whether blessing was being withheld from Jeff, Mike and company because I was standing in the wrong line…the line to Tarshish. I cannot say I have been willfully going in the opposite direction from my Nineveh, Lord, but I have most decidedly not been facing our Nineveh, let alone boldly traveling down that road where you’ve asked that I go – into the center of what has been breaking both our hearts for years. 

The second ponderance has been this:   

2. “Greg, why are you still in line for the boat to Tarshish? I purposely put you into two years of Joseph-like stillness. I then gave you two years to prepare and gain confidence in our message before it was time to march into battle because I know how much you hate to march into anything before you’re really...I mean really prepared - at least in your own mind. I met you in those four years. You knew ‘the work’ was finished. I know this because you essentially sat down and folded your hands. But now? While I can and will take what you’ve been doing for the last 2 waffling years to enhance what I’ve given you to do, don’t just continue on your trek to Tarshish because it is more predictable or because you’re afraid of letting down your co-workers, or because you don’t see a practical way to both sell out to Nineveh and care for your family’s welfare. Others may begin experiencing the repercussions of your lack of faith to that which I have called you if you aren’t ready to listen to me.”  

And that one sobered me. What if you are just waiting to bless both parties, but I’m in the way - twice over? One thing is sure. There hasn’t been an overwhelming blessing on my activities of late! And, as I read yet again in recent weeks about how you brought Joseph out of his prison stillness by blessing all that he put his hands to, that didn’t help a bit!  

Yes, Lord Jesus, you have patiently met me in the midst of some Joseph-like stillness, some Gideon-like fear, and now maybe, some Jonah-like flight. But for the past several weeks, you have been renewing my vision and gaining in my confidence. 

“Why are you waiting on ANYONE else to advance the cause I’ve asked of you?” 

“Am I not enough?” 

Yes, Lord, you are enough. I know that full well. 

Thank you for already forgiving me on the cross through the covering of your blood for my lack of faith. Forgive me for waiting for another to blaze the trail to a destination toward which you’ve asked that I place my feet. The living out of much of the past six years of our life together has been patterned after some of the most challenging (Joseph-like) and faithless (Jonah and Gideon) times in these dude’s lives. And I see it now. No wonder I’ve been so depressed. When we live too long in stillness, fear and flight, we begin to become sick at heart. Proverbs 29 tells us that where there is no vision, people perish. But it is equally true that hope deferred makes the heart sick, and that the antidote for that sick heart is a longing fulfilled (Proverbs 13). 

In the fall of 2012, you had unquestionably given me something to begin shouting from the mountain tops, the original Will Truth Survive Us? material. At that time, 18 months’ worth of revealing, writing and weeping was given its first, blushing exposure to something very dangerous – public contact and critique. In the wake of that first pilot, you bore a vision out of overwhelming affirmation from those couples who attended – for 8 long weeks! But until about two weeks ago, when you reminded me that this was your call of me and not of anyone else, it had been a vision resulting only in hope after hope…deferred. And you most surely weren’t opting to bring me “an Aaron.” 

But in your great love, grace, patience and mercy, you have kept my heart afloat. Not only that, you have met me in these past six years like never before in my previous forty-five. And I know it is time for “a new planting.” 

It seems you knew I couldn’t do what comes next without a few straws to stir the drink, Lord. But with the recent challenges you’ve brought to the fore, as enumerated above, and affirmations like your bringing our first donation to this work in an ‘04, 236,000 mile, lovingly used Toyota Sienna through Reiners’ hands just this past Sunday afternoon, and like your nearly instantaneous response to my Gideon-like request in the shower early yesterday morning by way of Tom Roy’s Replanting blog post just sitting in my inbox to be my next fleece, I feel as though now must be the time for the sellout.  

Yep, as I stood in the shower yesterday morning, I felt like Abraham pleading for Sodom with one request after another. I felt like Gideon petitioning for just one more fleece to help gain in me the confidence to advance. 

I said, “Please forgive me, Lord, but…if you could demonstrate your direction here again today as I seek your Word and watch carefully throughout the circumstances of the day, I would be most grateful. I really cannot bear to move on my own again. I need you to lead.” 

And...BOOM. T-Roy’s Replanting blog entry. Thanks, Tom, for that timely entry. God used your obedience in inking that entry to be yet another fleece to a faithless Gideon.   

Lord, I would ask forgiveness for the lack of faith that requests of you these tangible affirmations, but you love us so much that you provide these affirmations even when we stammer in fear of that to which you have called us.  

And I’m also learning that you have people everywhere, God, if only we let ourselves be a little vulnerable. For the past two days, a man I just met this past Sunday has flushed God’s words into my phone, reminding me of what you have taught me over the past 6 years – that we must not live out our lives limited by this world’s wisdom and perspective. Rather, as I Corinthians 2:13 reminds us, human wisdom cannot be our foundation for life, but rather that your Spirit is to be relied upon to guide our steps. 

So I am ready, Lord. I think. You have “two-by-four’d me” over the head in the last 3 days. Nonetheless, I can only tell you I am ready...today. The flesh is weak. I know this full well. But if I have the guts to carry out the prayerful seeking out of a personal board for the development of myself and for accountability unto that which I am confident you have asked that I devote my remaining days, I know you will be faithful. I can stand on your faithfulness all day. Help me to do so, Lord Jesus, because experience tells me that tomorrow will be a new day. And in that new day, I will need your confidence, encouragement and presence to press us on toward our version of Jonah’s Nineveh, Joseph’s Egypt, and Gideon’s Valley of Jezreel. I am ready to be the post-Judges 7:15 Gideon. Right? 

When in June of 2012, and through the pages of the book that you’d asked that I write (audio version here) we began chronicling what you had taught me, you had finally loosened my grip from a life of self-confidence. I had finally…died. It took a while, but you got us there. You had taught me there was a world of difference between having a Savior and having a Lord. At the time, I knew and had accepted the fact that the future was not going to be predictable or controllable. And if you chose to grow my faith muscles, the future may not only be unpredictable, but perhaps scary, and definitely different. But you were going to be the author. And you authored in me an absolute trust that my life in your hands was far better than my life in my own hands. 

So… 

Here we stand, Lord. I feel we are at the next great cross-roads. Can I step into that which I cannot plan out? Can I step into the very fear of actually putting formalities into place that would actually expose my dreams to a personal board of guys who may laugh inside about what I might propose? I know with certainty that T-Roy was speaking wisdom nearly a year ago when we met for lunch and he recommended that we assemble this tight-knit, personal board. But I wasn’t ready to yet endanger this very personal and deeply emotional and experiential thing you had done through me by exposing it to too much light. What if it didn’t ‘work?’ What if I couldn’t see it through? 

Man, that fall of 2012 first pilot group was amongst the most scary things I’ve ever done, Lord! But even with the positive affirmation from those parents, why is it that I have continued to stammer in such a faithless posture, assuming I need someone else (someone else?!) to embrace and hold up the vision and request you have made of me? 

It is outside the normal, human experience to utterly rely on an intangible God to plan ahead for me, to help others understand, and maybe even to have others participate in what is yet little more than a vision. But you have called me onto the water. And so I will move forward now. I will need others to patiently work with a half-brain-fried guy who would rather walk in a fearful and vulnerable place than just live a quiet, predictable and comfortable life hereafter. I will have to trust you, God, to actually take care of the details. I stand on your word – for you tell us that you care for the needs of those whose hearts are steadfast upon you (Nahum 1:7). Faithfulness and trustworthiness is not something you do, but who you are. And you will walk with me in this. Shucks, you’re leading this whole deal, Jesus! I really believe that. What is there to fear? I’d rather walk in obedience than remain in the boat of my choosing, cruising toward Tarshish instead of Nineveh – while others in that boat may actually be experiencing harm due to my disobedience (Jonah 1:11-12, 15 and SHR). 

I will need others to take the role of helping me understand what a 501c3 is, and whether we should start one. 

I will need others to help me think through ways to supplement our income that wouldn’t too much detract from the mission. 

I will need you, God, to arrest the attention of some whose hearts you have prepared for such a time as this - to give generously, maybe even while I am developing these side income provisions that could possibly help untangle us from medical, school and other debts. 

Come to think of it, I’m really sick and tired of the enemy of my soul telling me what isn’t practical. Get AWAY! I serve the Almighty GOD! And YOU are ON MY SIDE! Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but I trust in the Name of the LORD my GOD (Psalm 20:7). 

So...without further ado, AND for further accountability, Lord, these are the men you’ve laid on my heart for this personal board T-Roy recommended. I see it as my first step forward and would like to include these thoughts in this ‘Crossing the Rubicon’ blog entry today. It would be good to have at least 4 guys, plus myself. I’d anticipate this not being a heavy time commitment, but will plan to get with T-Roy to talk more about the functioning aspects of his blueprint. 

John Esposito: John knows what it’s like to step out in faith. He’s seen you work in his life directly, Lord. He’s a first chair, first generation Christian who isn’t afraid to test water for buoyancy. It may be that his lack of proximity will make this an impractical choice, his living in AZ. But his prayerful spirit in this is important in the least. 

Scott Todd: Scott knows me…like for 35 years knows me. He’s close by. He’s a man whose stability and fight through tough things in life I have admired. I see Scott asking good questions and helping us think practically through things that would benefit from that. He’s a good man. 

David Greiwe: David’s one of the more contemplative, always learning, always consulting with other godly men kinda guys I know. He and Scott were both part of the first pilot of the primary and initial goal for this new venture, exposing the Kingdom or Culture content as broadly as possible. I believe he’d be one to hold me accountable to my goals and objectives. 

Matt Likens: From the first time I met Matt at a Men’s SOAP Bible Study, you asked that I get to know him, Lord. I’d like the perspective of someone who may not think like me, may not have had the same experiences I’d had growing up, and who has had various experiences in life different from mine. Also, when you don’t know a guy well but have reason to respect him, I think you naturally don’t want to fail him. I see his walk with Jesus being steady and insightful. 

Jerry Reiner: Lord, you have used Jerry to kind of be the straw that has stirred the drink in the last few days. He’s been my, “Look, I am about to do something new,” Isaiah 43:19 guy. He’s an encourager, has demonstrated his willingness to step out of the boat into the unknown himself, starting a 501c3 ministry about 10 years ago, and he’s pledged to be in your Word continually. His leading a non-profit may be different than what the Lord has in mind here for just myself, but surely there would be transferrables. He’s specifically been where I am going. 

Roger Beaverson: I’d like a finance guy who loves the Lord more than his skill set. Someone who shares an intense passion for seeing money the way God does – as a tool to be stewarded well for God’s jealous glory, while also seeing the value of it in practical ways, understanding that it has its role in this world. My thoughts were that this role would necessarily be played by someone I could trust with private knowledge of Lesli’s and my current financial picture, and one who won’t be easily overwhelmed, but can trust in God for great things. It would also be helpful were this individual to have had experience with other non-profits, having become familiar with how some operated well while others may not have operated so well. And while I initially believed it best to operate a personal board outside of immediate family, Lord, in a period of 24 hours, you kept asking that I be willing to consider dad. 

Mark Crull: Busy men are busy for a reason. Leaders are willing to lead. Mark knows my heart. Mark knows my passion comes from you, Lord. I’d love to have a man on this board who is connected to your larger Body. I think Mark thinks well. You know I need that, Lord! Mark has seen ‘programs’ come and go, both in his time with Family Life and now with Northview for a slew of years. And I know we’d benefit from a guy who could accurately perceive whether the trifecta of curriculums [Kingdom or Culture, BaSFL content, and Rev3(2) content] may find a place within the broader support for the Church. Plus, we really need a guy with an infectious laugh. 

So, Lord, I now conclude these thoughts and prepare to send a link to this blog entry to each of the men above. This is the first step. Give willing hearts to the men you desire to walk alongside us, Father. 

Amen.