#UNDER WHAT CONDITIONS MUST MAN BE EXPECTED TO TOIL

[cilantroodon]

leg day & the second day of your period should NEVER coincide. it should be cosmically prevented by benevolent spirits & the like

[zenosanalytic]

I just watched Amadeus(1984) on Netflix(SPOILERS: It's Wonderful), and I seem to recall hearing over the years ppl talk about the character Salieri(entirely ahistorical by the way, but the setting is simply that: A frame for telling a Good Story, which it does beautifully) as a man poisoned by envy, but my immediate reaction was that it's a movie about a man poisoned by pride.

His father accurately describes to him how Salieri's idol, Mozart, is abused by His father as "a trained monkey" to enrich and enfame HIMSELF, and hears only a denial of his own dreams for a career in music.

His father dies at a family meal, and Salieri sees only God answering his prayers for that career by striking his father down to remove him as an obstacle and free up his fortune to pay for that career. He doesn't spend a single instant on what condition that might leave his relatives, dependent on him and his inheritance for survival, in.

He looks at HIS OWN lifetime of hardwork and study and discipline and monumental success and sees only God favoring HIM, Salieri, God's Special Little Boy. Not one single instant given to considering HE made that for himself; HE wanted it, HE achieved it, HE suffered through the toil and struggle to make it real. No, it's not enough to humbly recognize his own agency: He Must Be God's One and ONLY Instrument; God's Chosen Voice on Earth.

He goes to a concert of Mozart offered by his Patron, the Prince-Achbishop of Salzburg, finds hundreds of people there drawn to and moved by Mozart's music just as HE is, and expects himself, Magically, to pick the man out of the crowd! No consideration that he doesn't know him, that the crowds are massive and obscuring, that what he is asking of himself is godlike knowledge.

There, secretly and by accident, he witnesses a young couple in a moment of juvenile, playful, and occasionally vulgar intimacy, only for the young man involved to be revealed as Mozart himself when he hears his music playing without him and rushes off. Salieri recoils at this: How can MOZART not be what SALIERI expects?!?!?! He doesn't spend one single instant thinking about the fact that this is how the man acts IN PRIVATE, not in public; not one single instant on the possibility that someone so different from himself might have lived a VERY DIFFERENT LIFE than he did; not had an inherited fortune as he did; the freedom to CHOOSE his life as he did; the SATISFACTION in his Life of being allowed to succeed on his own term, as he did.

After the performance he reads Mozart's sheet music, immediately sees its genius and innovation and beauty, and just as immediately rejects it as a fluke because HOW could that "CREATURE"(again the arrogance; denying him even his humanity merely because he, Salieri, finds his manner On First Meeting and Under Secret Surveillance distasteful) create such music, so beautiful it borders on divine? Again: not one instant spared to how Mozart has been FORCED TO MAKE MUSIC SINCE HE WAS AN INFANT, that it has been conditioned into him like Breathing; not a Smidgen of the barest humility needed to recognize that WORK and MAN are TWO SEPARATE THINGS and that HIS Feelings about either are NOT their reality, but HIM.

Again and Again and Again the movie shows us this: shows us Salieri interpreting everyone around him through the lens of his own life and mind, casting himself as the Protagonist of the World and Only Person in his every interaction, CONVINCED that the only story, the only LIFE!, worth telling or knowing, or indeed capable of even happening, is his own. Not One Thought spared, Ever!, for the interiority, context, and motivation of others. To the point that he can only interpret Mozart's "talent"(Read: The hard-taught Product of his childhood of constant Abuse) as GOD Picking a FIGHT WITH HIM(I mean: The GALL of that. The Utter self-involvement to think THE AUTHOR AND PILOT OF THE UNIVERSE created a whole-ass-other-life just to mock you; that THE OMNIPOTENT WILL BEHIND ALL THINGS ~gave~ you a whole-ass life of success and fulfillment just so it could, halfway through, piss on your feet about it).

Indeed, to the point that he can't even understand HIMSELF anymore. There's a part in the movie where, interpreting the hurt a diva he likes collaborating with felt at learning Mozart was affianced as evidence that they'd had sex(Salieri himself is "celibate" as part of the "deal" he thinks he struck with god for his success[again-again: The Gall. As if God were some fishmonger in the market and his beautiful life were a fresh trout he bought]), he concocts a plan to cuckold Mozart by extorting sex from his wife in exchange for influencing the Emperor to give Mozart a royal position. But of course: Salieri is "celibate". He has NO IDEA AT ALL what to do with a person who wants to have sex with him. He LITERALLY PRAYS TO GOD for her not to show up he's so scared of the encounter and when she does, he's struck to silence; unable to say anything; unable to take the lead she, trembling, expects him to take because HE IS EXTORTING THIS FROM HER; HORRIFIED as she, embarrassed unsure and scared but ready to do this thing she obviously abhors out of love and necessity for their family, undresses for him there wanting to get the sordid ordeal done. The only act he can muster: having backed away from her nudity in terror as if from DRACULA HIMSELF and stumbled into his piano, he rings a bell for his porter to remove her(of course, he's embarrassed by what he walks into and runs away). She cries herself to sleep on her marriage-bed racked to her soul by what she almost did; by the humiliation his cruelty and cowardice and refusal to see other people as PEOPLE JUST LIKE HIM has made her live through. He is Publicly as Staunch and True an admirer and Friend to Mozart as he is Privately his ruin, and can never Once -- not for a SINGLE MOMENT -- see through his own ego enough to recognize the obsessive DESIRE and FASCINATION(yes I am choosing this word for its latin associations) for Mozart which drives him. He drives himself MAD hoping for revenge from a dead person, Mozart, who in life never saw him as anything less than a kind colleague and supportive friend, and never felt anything less than fondness and love for him. This really cannot be stressed enough: Salieri spent his life boiling himself in hatred for this man who never failed to seek him out for aid, advice, and comfort; who loved him as the kind father he never had.

I think this is a wonderful movie. There are so many stories here stacked atop each other, richly implied and infuriatingly DENIED us by its focus on Salieri, which is excellently diegetic of the film's themes and Salieri's all-consuming arrogance. The cast does an astounding job helping to create this effect: F Murray Abraham is, of course and as always, Magnetically Compelling and his voice the very DEFINITION of an Instrument. His subtleties and ENORMITIES of expression and intonation do so much to make this film, and he Understands and Conveys this pathetically self-absorbed man to Vile Perfection. Tom Hulce, too, really GETS what they're going for here with Mozart; Mozart as a man stunted by parental abuse, torn btwn love and appreciation for his art wrapped entirely in the person of that abusive parent, and a Desperate, natural desire for freedom and affection; and accomplishes it with equal perfection to Abraham under the far more difficult circumstances of IMPLYING that past and interiority instead of showing it and explaining it, though unfortunately his performance hasn't gotten the attention I think it deserves, historically(looking at his wiki, he DID get a best actor nom for it, but all I ever hear or read anyone talk about this film is Abraham), and I can't think of any other movie roles of his after this one. Elizabeth Berridge as Constanze Mozart has an even MORE difficult task with an EVEN MORE Restricted part and handles it well, tho her delivery is a bit monotone(this is often a directoral issue, tho, and I dont know any behind the scenes stuff on this film). Jeffery Jones makes Emperor Joseph II a Marvelous Nonentity; an understated comedic performance of the pretentious pedestrianism of Bosses for the ages. I was VERY surprised to see Simon Callow in this movie, playing as he so often does a Theater Guy(in this instance: Emanuel Schikaneder) and it was a great "THAT Guy!!" character-actor-role, and a reminder that EVERYONE was Young and Beautiful Once.

Anyway: I thought this was a great film.

[softinkshadows]

Hot spring tales (Hisoka x female reader)

A Hisoka x female reader one-shot, with a sprinkle of Chrollo.

Situated in the HxH universe with canon timeline.

Disclaimer: nsfw, contains smut and explicit sex (but we know you're here for that)

Word count: 5000++ (wow did i just write 5000 words of smutty smut)

----

Pale, slender fingers tap against the phone screen. He finds the contact he is looking for and dials the number, raising the phone to his ear. Around him, dusk settles over the ragged terrain of the Gordeau desert. The wind gains in strength, almost pushing his combed black hair free.  The phone rings for a few seconds before the person on the other end picks up.

“Did you figure it out already?”

“Probably,” he says, his grey eyes catching the last wisps of fading light to the west. “The nen exorcist may very well be on Greed Island, which is East of York New. It seems you will need to enter the game as well.”

“Shall I procure one of Battera’s? He did buy all of the ones auctioned this time round.”

“No, that risks complicating things. What we need is a game privately owned by someone who is easily contactable, allows us to stay untraceable, preferably one who we wouldn’t have to kill and is reasonable towards helping…” he trails off, realizing that there is indeed someone who matches the conditions, someone who he would very much like to avoid for the time being… The irony of fate, he thinks, grimacing in irritation.

“It seems we will need to pay a visit to her.”

“Her?”

“I will send the address over to you. It’ll take me at least a day to get there, so you should start moving first. It would be better if you were the one handling negotiations this time round. And avoid mentioning my name, or the troupe’s.”

“Oh?” the voice on the other end piques with curiosity.

“We have… history. I’ll trust that you can strike a deal by the time I’m there?”

“Of course. After all, the chance to fight you is on the line.” He can almost hear the other man smirking gleefully through the phone.

“It’ll be dangerous, so try your best to be good, or our deal is off. Consider this a warning, Hisoka.”

----

You find yourself back at your quarters after dinner, alone in the large dressing room. Looking in the mirror, you arrange your hair neatly around your bun, making sure to tidy it for the next wave of customers tonight.

The underground auction has recently ended, and more people are flocking to your establishment. Kurohasu Onsen (Black Lotus Onsen) is renowned as the gathering-place for anybody who is somebody: a bathhouse that functions as neutral ground for politicians, powerful members of the mafia and hunters who have ties to the underworld to carry out business negotiations. A safe haven for murderers and thieves. All are welcome, although at a hefty price. The exorbitant entry fee is itself a gatekeeper of accessibility, and many have brought treasures and precious artefacts in the hope of gaining your favour. As weapons are allowed for protection, fights inevitably break out, but rarely do they erupt into something serious. All staff at the onsen are strong nen-users who pay close watch to customer behaviour. They have nen-restrainers on hand to subdue feisty ability users, and if not, there’s you, whose mysterious yet formidable presence is enough to elicit compliance. It is not uncommon to see off customers with missing limbs and near-fatal injuries, a warning punishment for breaking the establishment’s regulations. Furthermore, it is the iron-clad rule that the onsen is the one place where truce is enforced, upheld, respected. And you, the infamous proprietor, the black lotus of Kurohasu Onsen, are not someone to be crossed. Your customers are well aware of this.

You get up, ready to leave, when you turn to look at the mirror again. Your black onyx hairpin fits in and across your bun, easily reachable within seconds. Your eyes travel down to look at the black shimmering contours of your silk robe with its ornate floral embroidery, opening at two slits that end above the knee, the garment tied fittingly at the waist with a scarlet obi sash. Presentable, you hum in approval, before walking out the door.

Your secretary Esa is already waiting. “Give me updates,” You demand.

She follows you briskly down the corridor as you make your rounds to greet notable clients. Esa does this every three hours, reciting the list of new guests checked in since the last report, the rooms they booked, the meetings they have arrived for, and the fees paid. You remember everything, noting the ones who offer presents not entirely up to standard, or troublesome ones with a sketchy behavioural record.

“A while ago, a Hisoka Morow checked into the deluxe room. 50,000 Jenny a night for 2 nights, with a possible extension.”

The name catches you slightly off guard. You have never met the man, but from your intel he’s one of the most sought-after fighters at Heaven’s Arena. And a dangerous murderer too. But as far as you know, the man works alone and doesn’t get involved with politics. Why would someone like him be here?

“He has a meeting?” you turn to Esa.

“If he had, he did not say. Most likely for leisure, though. The onsen is famous for its baths too,” replied your attendant matter-of-factly.

You pause for a while to think, before calling over a male security staff with a wave of a finger. “Keep tabs on Hisoka. Let me know if he’s up to anything.” The staff bows and immediately embarks on fulfilling your order. You return to your duties for now, but the seed of suspicion and uneasiness does not go away.

---

“Ahh… now this is not bad,” Hisoka smiles to himself as he climbs into the water. He rests his head against the smooth stone edge of the outdoor bath, watching the steam lift gently from the softly rippling surface. When Chrollo told him about this place, he expected it to be dim and grimy, trawling with underworld scum. Instead, what greeted him was the pure luxury of mineral-rich baths, large clean rooms and 1000 thread-count sheets. He could get used to this. Not to mention…

His eyes wander over the bath, taking stock of the situation. Being quite late at night, most guests have retired to respective meeting rooms for drinks and negotiations, with only a smattering of visitors, mostly individuals or pairs, left lounging in the outdoor section. The only other people are the ever-present security staff, including one particularly persistent male staff standing at the private viewing balcony above. At least the nen users here are stronger than usual. A slight tremor of pleasure runs through his body, and he runs his fingers through his wet hair to shake the feeling before it builds into bloodlust. It’s been a while since he killed. He is still riled up from two days ago, thanks to the blond runt. And Chrollo, that damn bastard.

He observes the nen-users with half-closed eyes. 75… 80… 85… He evaluates. Not too shabby. Then he senses it. 97!! He feels the sudden presence, an impeccable zetsu with a tinge of icy smoothness and fiery calm toiling beneath its surface. It is enough for him to widen his eyes and sit up straight, a hot tingling sensation travelling down his spine, pleasure surging into his body for a split second, almost goading him into a fight right there and then. Well, what do we have here? He looks to the source of this pressure, golden eyes flashing and meeting yours, as you look down at him from the balcony above.

One look and you know he clearly lives up to his reputation. He is suppressing his power by default, but his presence leaves a slight prickling static in the air which only stronger nen users can detect. He also seems to have noticed you, judging by the slight shift his posture, the electrifying gaze beneath his damp red hair and the sudden tension in the air with his nen flaring, almost breaking its zetsu. Despite the distance, both of you lock eyes for a moment, each one feeling out the other, gauging abilities, locating motives. What the hell is his aim? You face the sheer intensity of his gaze with your own cold, calculating glare, both of you guarding your intentions yet attempting to penetrate through the other’s guise, staring each other down as if in a challenge. No one relents. But you can’t help but feel a rising irritation, that the man sitting naked in the outdoor bath three floors beneath you is getting under your skin, and a distracting kind of warmth creeps in... You look away. You nod to the staff to continue strict monitoring and return to your room.

Hisoka watches you leave, and instinctively his fingers run through his hair again, this time harder than the last. Oh, Chrollo… Don’t tell me that’s her? A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Oh, you were right. This is going to be dangerous.

---

You don’t hear any more concerning updates on Hisoka until later the next day. Besides using the baths for extended periods of time, and mild complaints from other guests of his lengthy and uncomfortable stares, he hasn’t caused any trouble. He hasn’t physically contacted anyone either.

“Come again?” you stop abruptly, mid-way through scanning the paper records of this month’s taxes and bills, glancing up at your secretary.

Esa clears her throat and speaks again. “Madam, Hisoka Morow has requested for a meeting with you today.”

Hmph. You scoff a little, your eyes narrowing to ponder the next course of action. You had expected something like this. There is no way someone like him would travel all the way here just to use the baths, let alone without engaging anyone. If his aim is to negotiate matters with you, it must be something quite serious, given that neither of you have gone out of your way to meet with each other previously.

“Shall I cancel?” Esa asks, ready to deliver the order and reject the fool that had the nerve to request a meeting with you on such short notice.

“No. Make it tonight at eleven, after I complete my usual rounds.”

“Understood.”

---

It is night, and the onsen quietens for the day. Only the soft rushes of spring water from the outdoor baths and the muffled sounds of late-night negotiations drift by. You find yourself finally seated across from him in one of your private meeting rooms, both of you silent but never once taking your eyes off each other, quietly assessing one another.

Now up close and clothed in a blue yukata, accentuating the red hair that falls close to his shoulders, you can’t help but find him just a little more attractive than you imagined. His golden eyes are calm, steady, even confident, a rarity for anyone for finds them in a room alone with you. Most people would have bowed their head in submission long ago. You keep your own icy composure. But the force of his nen suppressed under zetsu, his incredibly toned body beneath his yukata and that arrogant way he looks at you make your body feel warmer than usual.

When he sees you for the first time that night, seated on the far end of the room, he feels it again. That powerful presence that keeps goading him, that sends electrifying jolts through his body. You’re seated comfortably on the floor, almost reclining, yet the hard, murderous edge of your gaze shows you are constantly on guard. Simply exquisite. He almost licks his lips but controls himself. A fine opponent… to kill? No, no, much too soon… that would be a waste. Chrollo comes first.

The meeting hall is much too large for two people, spanning over 24 tatami in size. On both sides, paper screen doors open out into an elegant view of the autumn trees in the estate, shedding its red delicately in the wind. A long, low black lacquer table in the center of the room separates you and him, each of you seated on either end. Silence continues to hang in the air. A staff gracefully pours a luxurious blend of sencha into the cups, before she places the tea pot and tray on the floor, bows, and takes her leave quickly. You notice Esa hovering by the doorway to the room.

“Esa, you may go.”

“But Madam-” your secretary protests but stops as you give her a glare. She of all people would understand you’re probably the last person in the establishment who needs any form of protection. As her footsteps recede down the hallway outside, you turn back to the man in front of you.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of meeting you today?”

“It has come to my knowledge,” Hisoka finally speaks, and the slow, sly curl of his tone lights another fire in you, “that you are in possession of one of the most sought-after items in the world of late. I have a pressing need for it and would like to negotiate a deal.”

“I’m a collector of the rarest treasures, so you’re going to have to be more specific,” you scoff, taking a sip of your tea.

“I’m talking about a certain game.”

“Ah, Greed Island,” you retort indifferently, although inwardly puzzled. Why would he go to such lengths just for a game? Didn’t seem like the type. “What makes you think I’ll agree to your request? What is in it for me?”

Hisoka pauses, contemplating something before pushing onwards with a slight smirk. “I’m not sure if you know of a certain man by the name of… Chrollo Lucilfer?”

He waits for the intended effect and sure enough, you react. Immediately, at the mention of the name you’re hit with an unpleasant sensation that makes you grit your teeth, and your eyes blaze with a hint of fury. Without realizing, a cracking sound fills the room as the cast iron tea pot on the floor dents with the force of your nen.

Hisoka looks at the pot quietly before he smiles, lifting the tea cup to his lips, his eyes only growing darker as he trains his gaze on you. Interesting. “May I know, if it’s not too much to ask, the reason for your disdain of the man?”

“I’ve known him for a long time. He tried to kill me twice, once on purpose and the second time by accident. Clearly, he did not succeed,” you say, finishing your tea.

Beautifully exquisite. Another thrill runs through his spine, almost making him tremble with excitement. Perhaps it would be safe to suggest…

“I’m looking for Chrollo. He’s been running from me for a while now, and last I heard he has been spotted hiding out in the game. I would very much like to settle our score soon. Of course, perhaps to your advantage I fully intend on killing him, with pleasure,” Hisoka continues, waving his hand in the air with dismissive complacency.

“If only it were so simple,” you retort, knowing the full potential of Chrollo’s abilities. “And how can I take you for your word?”

“You can’t.”

You look up in mild distaste at Hisoka. What a bastard. You could slit his throat right now, with that cocky expression of his. And yet, your body feels a little hot when he’s looking at you, his gaze ruthlessly penetrating and his nen just on the edge of flaring.

“Name your offer, Hisoka.” You say his name for the first time, aware of how his gaze hardens when you do so, and your body burns with a strange desire which you suppress under the guise of irritation.

“I’m not offering.”

“What?”

“Allow me to use the game, or I will go on to kill everyone in this establishment, including your precious secretary and all your guests. It’s been a while since I had fun and I won’t stop when I do.”

The audacity. You slam your cup on the table and glare at him, your nen bristling beneath the surface. It was a mistake to let him into the bathhouse. And the worst part is that he is right. He could take out everyone except you here with ease, and you’d lose your manpower, your reputation, your business. Everything you worked hard for since leaving meteor city years ago. Perhaps it’ll be wise to dispose of him right here, right now.

In a split second, you draw the long onyx pin from your hair, leaping across the length of the table with such grace and speed that the tea in Hisoka’s cup barely ripples, as you aim for this throat, slicing the air in front of you. He dodges at the last moment, his eyes wild with a feral look as you nick of a few strands of his hair and the sharp edge of your hairpin draws a faint red line along his throat. He grins. He’s clearly enjoying this. He moves to land a counter-attack but you jump away. You’ve put distance between the two of you again; you grip your hair pin, calm and poised for another strike, while he similarly crouches, one hand reaching to stroke the mark you made on his throat.

“Now you’re just getting me excited,” his voice drops to a low purr.

Here you are, seconds after nearly killing him, and you feel your body reacting to his voice and his unapologetic desire. You know you have the power to end him, yet a tingling sensation creeps over the lower half of your body. You can feel sweat starting to gather around your stomach, while another warm wetness pools further below, between your legs. It’s been so long since anyone made you feel this way. Not since… Your thoughts are interrupted as he appears behind you, aiming for your head.

“Pay attention, darling.”

There’s barely any sound in the meeting room as you and Hisoka continue to spar in near complete zetsu, restraining nen to avoid alerting the attention of other guests and the security staff. His eyes gleam more with your every strike, his moves maintain its strength but do not get more forceful, and neither do yours. You feel the exhilaration of the near-misses, of your bodies brushing against one another before pulling away, the light friction of fabric against fabric, as if locked in a graceful dance that neither of you want to end. Moonlight cascades through the open balcony, and there’s a glint in Hisoka’s eyes.

“Let’s stop pretending we’re serious about killing each other, shall we?” he quips with a smirk.

His words register, and you halt. You weren’t noticing it before, but he is right. You weren't trying. You falter for a moment too long. Then he rushes you, pinning your body down onto the floor with his own weight, brute force mixed with excitement to the point that his nails dig into the straw of the tatami below, ripping it slightly. He raises a hand, about to spill your blood, when your control slips. Before, your brief exchanges saw your body feeling hotter, winding tighter as it did more cautious. But now, with him pressing down onto you from above, not pulling away, gripping with a strength that few possess and with a wicked look in his eyes, you can’t keep it down anymore. You let out a throaty moan as his holds you hard, feeling your underwear getting more soaked with every passing second. His eyes widen in surprise, and he pauses. You and him remain quiet like this for a while, the wind from outside gently caressing both your bodies, teasing out an answer.

Then, as if on instinct, both your mouths crash together. Neither of you are ashamed at the pure lust that erupts between the two of you, bloodlust still not completely abating which spurs you and him on even more. His tongue slips into you mouth, determined on stealing your breath, your hand clasped around your hair pin still trapped within his, his ferocious strength barely just surpassing your own as you do not back down, struggling against the restraint. It is still a fight, after all. Yet his other free hand trails down your silk robe, slithering between the open slits to your thighs before raising one of your legs to wrap around his torso. You moan into his kiss and move against his clothed body, desperate for friction.

"Patience, my dear." He pauses, giving you a sadistic grin.

You’re not going to let him keep staying in control. In a surge of strength you topple and roll over him in a flash, slamming him to the floor and stabbing the pin right into the tatami next to his head, at which Hisoka lets out a loud groan. You press and rub yourself against him, leaving small bites along his neck, your hair starting to come loose and fall to the side of your face from the exertion. The warmth between your legs grows, and it’s not just you. Hisoka is only wearing underwear beneath the yukata, and you feel his erection, hot and hard beneath your rolling hips. You feel your own slick starting to run down your inner thigh, and you ache to be filled.

You pull away and gaze down at Hisoka, who’s just starting to get a little breathless with desire, his eyes clouded with lust. You pull the hairpin from the floor and aim it at his throat. You command, your voice cold and edged with arrogance.

“Stop wasting my time and just fuck me already.”

At this, Hisoka lets out a low growl, flipping you on your back, almost tearing the obi around your waist to shreds with his hands. His mouth latches onto your neck and you cry out, as his hands reach under your bra to free your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, alternating between gentle strokes and forceful pinches. Your body shakes with pleasure and you grind against him, your hands fumbling to move his yukata out of the way. You cover your palm over his bulge, which is already straining hard against his underwear. He bites a little harder on your skin as you do, goading you on. You reach beneath the fabric, stroking his most sensitive spot, and you feel him shudder against you. Oh, to have such a powerful man like him at your mercy.

Before you have time to think, your pleasure increases ten-fold, white-hot and surging through your body as his fingers find their way to your slit, obscenely slick with your honey.

“Oh? This wet for me already?” he murmurs into your ear, sending shivers down your arms and making you moan.

He sits back a little, his piercing gaze boring into you as he lifts his fingers to his lips, licking it clean. “So sweet,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving you, almost taunting your state of helplessness before him, and you twitch with pleasure.

“Shut u-” you demand, stopping short with a intake of breath as his tongue circles your nipple and he thrusts two fingers into your aching slit, expertly thrusting, stroking, caressing, hitting all the right spots as you can’t help but moan and fist his soft, red locks. His thumb finds your bud and rubs, with increasing pressure, matching the circling motions of his tongue. Hisoka pulls away and looks down at you, panting and wriggling beneath his touch, your words incoherent but eyes still fierce with power and control, and he finds himself growing harder, unbearably hungry. You feel his desire through his nen, bristling with lust, fingers coaxing you to bliss and eyes ravishing you unabashedly for everything you are and you feel yourself pushed nearer to the edge.

“I’m close,” you gasp, and you see Hisoka smirk dangerously as he pulls his fingers out of you. The pleasure that builds now cuts short, tapering off.

“Kisama,” you mutter in annoyance as you ram his body against the side of the lacquer dining table, pushing him into an upright, sitting position. He chuckles at your urgency and vexation yet remains turned on as you clutch your hairpin over his throat as a warning. His golden eyes are glazed over and quivering, a sign he is properly riled up, his hair now a mess, and his breathing is slightly heavier than before. You pull his large erection free from his underwear.

“You bastard. I’m not going to give you any time.” You growl, and his eyes grow more piercing.

You lower your soaking, aching pussy onto him. The stretch makes both of you groan in unison, and you almost come immediately from his entrance. He is huge in both girth and length, and it takes a while before you’re accustomed to his size. It was so long since you had proper sex with anyone. After he is buried in you to the hilt, you pause, glaring at him with a look aggressive with lust and a need for control. He moans in pleasure and you feel his grip on you tighten considerably. Then you move, slowly first, then quickening your pace, rolling and rubbing against him so his cock enters you at the best angles. His hands reach up to grab your hips, steadying you while he snaps up into you, pounding with such speed it makes your mind go blank with pleasure.

“Ahh-h—h!” you moan, louder this time, shaking with the mounting pleasure as he enters you fast, viciously, more than you can keep up with. You get wetter with each of his thrusts, squelching and slapping sounds filling empty room as he pulls out and fills you completely again with each punishing stroke. You feel yourself nearing your climax, your body swaying and jiggling with the rhythm as your bounce on Hisoka's cock, pressing your fingers harder around his body.

He senses it too, and growls, refusing to take his eyes from yours. You feel his nails rake your hips, grabbing your ass, pain and pleasure intermingling as your near your end. Waves of white-hot pleasure wash over you as you moan into your orgasm, your eyes closed in bliss as you tremble violently, clenching tightly around Hisoka, muttering curses as you come completely undone.

Before you have time to come down from your high, Hisoka pulls out, his rock-hard cock dripping with your honey, before grabbing you and laying you down on the table, towering over you once more. Then he fully sheaths himself inside you in one go, making you cry out at the jolt of oversensitivity as he pushes towards his own end. Using the slick from your orgasm, he goes even faster now, relentless, his hands holding your legs wide apart so he can have unfettered access to you while he slams into you without restraint.

"You like this, don't you? You like being punished like this?" He purrs with forcefulness, a sign he is close, lustful gaze boring into yours while he pummels into you.

You can't help but shudder at his words, but you spit out through gritted teeth. "Don't get cocky. And don't you dare finish inside, or I'll kill you before you are even done."

His control snaps. You feel his cock twitch inside of you. Then he pulls out and comes, moaning with deep satisfaction in your ear, his warm load spilling onto your stomach. After he finishes, you both gaze as each other for a while, barely out of breath, sweat glistening against skin. Your clothes are both in a mess and disarray, his hands are still spreading you wide and bare torso pressed against you as you both bask in the afterglow, sharing a moment to take in the surreal pleasure of what was an extremely unplanned but steaming hot round of sex.

"So with this, do we have a deal?" He breaks the silence with a devious smile.

"I'm not that cheap if you think once is enough." You retort as you clean up, pulling your clothes back on. "At least three more times, with an additional fee of 300,000 Jenny."

"Aren't you a greedy one," Hisoka smirks, tying his yukata back in place. "Alright. It's a deal, not like I'm complaining. I might deliver more than you ask for." His golden eyes travel across your body once more before meeting yours, and you can still see a faint glimmer of lust, ready to be reignited.

"Enjoying yourself?" An icy voice comes from the darkened doorway.

You don't even need to look to know who it is, recognizing the voice immediately. Cold grey eyes gaze at you from a figure leaning against the entryway.

"Chrollo," you almost spit out.

"Ah," says Hisoka naturally, "you're finally here."

You turn to scowl at Hisoka, realizing his blatant lie from earlier. You wonder for a moment how Chrollo even got in to the onsen without your notice, given that him and the troupe remain high up on your guest blacklist. Then you sense his nen, or rather his lack of it, a blur void except for the vague tinge of someone else’s foreign nen around his chest. A contract, then. He's harmless now.

Chrollo steps into the room, dressed elegantly in a black yukata, his hair let down comfortably. "Seems like you taste in men hasn't changed. I took a gamble on that." His steely grey gaze, piercing, calculating and formidable in confidence, still make you tremble a little, despite knowing him for years.

You take a while to understand and chuckle, looking from Chrollo to Hisoka. "Seems like we both got played."

The latter narrows his eyes at Chrollo before running his hand through his hair, sighing. "Well, as expected of him. Again, not like I'm complaining."

"Hisoka, leave us for a moment," you order.

"As you wish." You feel him step out but loiter along the corridor, waiting to pick up on the following conversation. Now it's just you and Chrollo left in the room. He doesn't move closer to you.

"It's been long. Too... long." Chrollo speaks, his voice calm but you detect a tinge of nostalgia, affection, regret and caution all entangled in one.

You know what he means. You can even see it now, the times he drove you wild, nearly killing you with nen. You can see all the times his lips met yours, growing a steady fire with a kiss, his fingers grazing your skin and making you moan and whimper while you grasp his hair tight in your hands, your mind blanking and feeling the universe come apart and stitch right back together...

"You won't be able to handle me now, in your current state. I would break you. It wont be pleasurable for any of us," you reply coolly. You catch the sound of a stifled laugh from the hallway outside. "Once you get your nen back, I just might reconsider."

You stand up, letting your silk robes fall gracefully past your knees once more. You arrange your bun and slip the onyx pin back into your hair.

"You can use the game tomorrow. I'll have it prepared. Tonight, I'll be busy receiving my payment. In full." You pause a little next to him, giving him one last, long look, before walking out the room and towards your quarters, Hisoka trailing behind.

Alone, Chrollo's eyes are deep and unreadable. Unconsciously, his hands are balled into tight fists by his sides. Then he breathes deeply, chuckling to himself.

What a woman. "Hisoka, you'd better get the job done. Fast."

---

Notes: omg this took way longer than i expected to!!! I’m quite proud of this one ;) I got inspired by a mobage card of hisoka, chrollo and the phantom troupe at an onsen and decided to do this imagine piece! Hope you enjoyed my fellow hisoka simps, it was so fun to write ;)

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Deep and Rapid River, Ch. 7 [18+]

<- Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 ->

Summary: The horniest chapter yet. And the beginning of the end. 

Over the next few weeks, your arrangement works out smoothly—or it seems to, anyway. The creature remains hidden in the hayloft, undiscovered. As often as you are able, you are down in the barn with him, lying in his arms, sharing books and stories, or listening to the low, raspy panting of his breath in your ear and feeling the roughness of his hands on your bare skin. 

Sometimes you cry together, frustrated and isolated, wishing the world you lived in was kinder, gentler.

And sometimes you dare to ramble in the woods, breathing the spring air and the changing harmony of scents of each new crop of flowers brings, listening to bird songs, and trusting in the solitude of the forest to protect you from prying eyes.

Every day his wound heals a little more. The bone-shattering gun blast which would have taken a regular human months to recover from—if they recovered—improves at an astonishing rate. Each morning you open the barn door to discover more of your chores have already been done, the dark-haired creature grinning proudly at his work, until one day, he had finished everything. You try to convince him he doesn’t have to do all that work for you, but, rubbing his neck sheepishly, he explains that it’s not so much a favor as a way to get you to spend more time with him. 

You have to admit, it is much nicer this way. 

Some mornings, you lie with your head in his lap in a quiet meadow you discovered along a solitary bend in the river. You gaze lazily up at your protector, his eyes bright as he weaves together the delicate stems of flowers. You had shown him how to do that—at first his large hands and herculean strength made him clumsy, and you giggled in commiseration, but soon he was gliding through the task as if he were one with nature, while you still managed to snap the stems more often than not. So you lie back and watch him work, smiling as he adorns you with spring. A crown of daisies circles his black hair. 

How could anyone ever be afraid of such a gentle creature?

He still cries at every word of kindness you have for him. He still can't fathom how someone could show love toward an unlovable wretch—how you contradict his reality by telling him he is not unlovable at all, but loved. He still feels a sick squirming in his intestines at these incompatibilities of truth. Liar! Contemptible. Disgusting. Unworthy. LIES! his mind repeats at every compliment you bestow, but he swallows down the bile. Somehow, you find him pleasing, he reminds himself. He doesn’t flinch away as you touch his face, as you press mollifying kisses to his lips. He swore never to hurt you again, and he intends to keep his oath. 

With no more manual labor to toil through, you are free to proceed with your pet project, as promised: making your dear daemon look human enough to be accepted by polite society. 

Your theory is, the creature’s grim, unnatural complexion and titanic stature played only a small part in the terrified reception he received from everyone he had met (save you). His tattered, incomplete clothing, wild hair, and general state of dishevelment added to the bewilderment. People saw a crudely-dressed outsider emerging from the forest, of course they were afraid—they probably thought he was a cave troll! 

But if you could make him look cultured and dignified… 

After all, Lazarus Colloredo, whose half-formed brother protruded forth from his chest, exhibited himself at royal courts. It was common in any city to see humans with unusual physical characteristics begging on the streets, finding themselves unwanted in more sophisticated circles, but at least tolerated, and not feared or driven away. That would be enough.

People would tolerate your companion if they believed his condition were a natural one he was born with… if you could dress him to look like someone who had been born. 

This proves easier said than done. 

You find a few old clothes that fit him with a bit of tailoring, but you're not the best seamstress, so the finished result is only a small step above the rags he'd been wearing. And since you're not a cobbler, he still has no shoes. He looks disarrayed, and he needs to be perfect for this plan to have any chance of success.

Taming his wild mane is at least a pleasant task. After an initial battle with the worst of the tangles—filled with frustrated tugging and snagging of the brush, accompanied by his jolting and pitiful whimpering—you reach a comfortable, methodical pace. His whole body shivers as you run the brush through his hair, letting out soft noises of appreciation. The greatest impediment to progress is that he enjoys it too much. You’re no help, either. His noises encourage your hands to massage his scalp and purr words of praise to him, trying to draw more little breaths and groans from him. Soon he has flipped around and has you pinned under him, whispering sweet, sinful desires into your ear, grinding his tented pants against your thighs until you beg for him to take you right there. 

It takes a few tries, interrupted by his superhuman stamina and overly-human desire for touch, but soon his hair is smooth as black satin, and looks just like a courtly gentleman’s when pulled back. Though he doesn’t like it pulled back. It exposes too much of his face, which, he points out, still looks like a corpse’s, and no amount of grooming will disguise that. 

Reforming his appearance is not the only difficulty plaguing your idyllic life. 

   ***********************

Bess stops by the barn to see you one afternoon in late spring. With the creature’s reflexes nearly back at full strength, there is little risk of being caught—he hears her coming and disappears into the loft without a sound. 

“Come out to the dance tonight!” she implores. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know…” You fidget with your fingernails, trying to think of a normal-sounding reason you can’t make it. 

“Pleeease? I haven’t seen you in ages! Now that you finally dumped the loser,” she adds with a mischievous wink, “I've got a friend I think might be perfect for you.”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. She usually doesn’t push so hard to get you to socialize when you’re not in the mood, more of a you-do-you attitude. But she’s playing matchmaker now. “Oh, no,” you laugh nervously. “I'm not getting back on that horse yet, it’s way too soon.”

“It’s been months. You’ve waited an appropriate amount of time,” she crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side. “Nobody will think you indecent for moving on too quickly, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Is it getting hot in this barn? You pull at your collar. It feels like it’s getting hot in this barn. “It’s not that. It’s just, that whole situation was a disaster; I don’t want to go through it again.” There. That technically was not a lie. You’re not lying to your best friend. 

“Come on, don't give up!” she slaps your shoulders encouragingly. “Love can strike when you least expect it!”

“Now that I agree with,” you meant to state without emotion, but you can’t curb the secret smile blooming across your cheeks.

Bess picks up on it instantly, her mahogany curls bouncing in shock. “DID YOU FIND SOMEONE?”

“W-what? Nooo!” you backpedal unconvincingly. 

“Who is it? Someone I know? Where did you meet them?!”

“Shhh,” you hiss, looking past her exuberant eyes over her shoulder to try and see if your parents had magically appeared in earshot, like a pair of demons summoned by the sound of secrets. “There's nobody, just... shhh!"

“So that’s how it is, huh?” she raises an eyebrow. “Well, you better not be getting into anything scandalous, young lady,” she warns, putting on her best impression of your mother, before breaking character with a grin and a laugh, bouncing on her toes. “Oh please just tell me it's good. It must be juicy if you won’t even tell me. An errant noble? A gypsy lover? A married man? A woman? A married woman? Tell me tell me tell me!”

Eventually she lets it rest, and agrees not to pry (or say anything). But your secret isn’t safe. 

“Come to the dance,” she pleads with you, back to the point of her visit. “People are starting to talk.” You’ve been acting stranger than usual. Keeping to yourself. Talking to yourself. 

So that was why she was so adamant about you going. The romantic interest wasn’t the reason, it was just the carrot. 

There are rumors that since your near-death experience, you’ve been haunted by something that followed you back from the other side. Your soul cursed by evil or some such nonsense. Ferdinand has been furious, and only making matters worse, adding fuel to the flames. Why else would someone of your station break things off with him? It could only be madness. 

“Of course all but the most gullible of us knew Ferdinand’s ravings were just jealousy, but… A few people are claiming they’ve seen the beast he described lurking after dark. I don’t know, maybe he’s putting them up to it...”  

A dagger of ice strikes you in the heart. They weren’t just rumors. The creature would wander at night—the only time it was safe for him to be out in the open. Or not so safe. You realize with a creeping dread down your spine that you have not been as clandestine as you thought.

You force yourself to laugh dismissively. “I’m sure if there was a monster, it would have found me and gobbled me up by now, don’t you think? So silly!” Ha ha ha. 

“You’re so rational! To be honest, I would be terrified just by the thought some creepy demon thing might be after me,” she shudders. “You have to explain to everyone else what you just told me. Make an appearance, show everyone you’re fine.” 

At length you relent, and go to the dance. 

Everyone stares. 

Nobody talks to you. 

Ferdinand is there, and you spend the night avoiding him. 

You miss the creature. 

You wish you hadn’t gone. 

  ***********************

 When you finally get to see him again after the disaster of a dance, sneaking down to the barn in the pitch-black of night, he’s currying down the mule by lamplight. A bright smile splits his face when he sees you come in—wide, and showing rows of white teeth, which, you wonder, might seem terrifying to someone who didn’t know him very well, combined with hollow cheeks, dark-ringed eyes, and sallow skin pulled taut over the bone.

To you, he looks like a field of sunflowers on a summer day.

The animals seem to agree with your assessment. Even the mule, who used to rear up and bray at the sheer size of him, seems to have finally been swayed by his courtly manners. Now it snorts its disappointment as he puts away the brush to greet you. The chickens come running up to him, clucking for extra corn meal, one landing and perching on his head in a flurry of feathers. Barn cats swirl at his feet, and the cows are already lining up patiently to be milked, appreciative of his efficient hands and all-hours schedule.

You remember when you first taught him to milk. Now he’s more at home here than you ever were. 

Unsettled by the rumors Bess had told you about, you pray nobody finds him. You pray that this can last. That he can stay here, smiling, until you’re ready to make his presence known to the town. 

You long for a day you wouldn’t have to hide—that you could live together like a regular couple. You wish the world could see him the way you do, that this fantasy could become something real. 

How could anyone ever be afraid of him?

    ***********************

He bolts into the barn, cloak whipping behind him, and skids to a halt over the hay-strewn floor, shutting the door quickly behind him. His wild eyes dart around the structure, adjusting to the dim light. When they focus on you, his body finally acknowledges it has found safety, and leans, trembling against the wooden walls for support. A frayed bouquet of wildflowers wilts in his left hand, stems destroyed in his crushing grip.

“Someone saw me.”

The pitchfork you were holding clatters to the floor.

“Who?! Where? When?? Are they coming? Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” You rush to his side, searching for fresh injuries, brain reeling with all the ways you were completely fucked.

It was broad daylight!

He hides his face behind a gangling hand, and tips his head down to get lost behind a forest of loose hair. “I… I do not know. A hunter?”

“What did they look like?” You reach up to grab his shoulders, trying to get him to look at you. His eyes are panicked and unfocused. You groan. “Not that it matters. Nobody in this town will understand. We have to control the circumstances carefully to introduce you without causing a panic. This is bad… If they followed you—”

“Fear in their eyes…” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Everyone who ever looks upon me has fear in their eyes.”

He’s still shaking, his face twisted up and on the verge of tears.

Oh. 

He’s falling apart and all you can say is “This is bad”? This is no time for you to start panicking, too. You take a deep breath, and put a steadying hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s going to be OK,” you force a smile. “There have been rumors about you since I fell in the river—lots of people claim they saw you—this doesn’t change anything. We’re OK.”

“So much fear. That look of terror… Is that how I am meant to be looked at?” he collapses to his knees, letting his nails scrape down the wall as he sinks, the forgotten flowers dropping in a heap by his side as tears begin freely flowing down his cheeks. “How could I forget I am nothing more than a blot upon the earth? A sight to be abhorred.”

You wish you could swallow him up in your arms—cradle him like he does you. You give it your best try, spreading your arms wide and draping your whole body like a second cloak over his enormous, curled form. He rocks, continuing to mutter that he is a wretched thing made to be hated, while you whisper and hum soothing noises, rubbing his back.

“Look at me…” you whisper over his shoulder, gently tipping his chin toward you. He obeys, eyes dull and glassy as they meet yours. You smile, trying to pour every bit of love you feel for him into it, so even from whatever dismal well his heart has sunk to the bottom of, it will radiate affection to him like the sun.

For an instant, his tears stop actively flowing as he observes you. “Except for you. The way you look at me is so different.”

“This is how you're meant to be looked at.”

He chokes and turns away, rubbing his eyes. You circle around to his front, and lean your forehead against his. He looks at you again, a little calmer now. The adoration in your eyes is almost too much for him to bear, but he tries to smile back. The attempt shatters your heart. 

“Oh, you kind, benevolent angel, blessing this foul villain with such a favorable gaze.”

“My wonderful, powerful protector,” you coo softly. You move to sit, and he instinctively makes room for you on his lap—muscle memory of the way you fit together—holding you comfortably in his strong arms. “So sweet and gentle.” Your voice dips flirtatiously, and you touch a hand to his cheek, serenely caressing his jawline.

“How can you look at me like that, in spite of all my flaws?”

The answer spills from your mouth with an infatuated grin before you have a chance to think. “You don’t have flaws. You’re perfect!”

He frowns.

The frown deepens until it nearly becomes a scowl, and he closes his narrowed eyes against the feeling threatening to boil out.

“Please stop that,” he removes your hand from his cheek. “Do not pretend I am not what I am. It is… mockery.”

Shit. You got carried away. Of course he would take that the wrong way. You had to be careful about paying compliments to his body, they hurt him. The cruelest words of insult wouldn’t sting half as much as calling him handsome. But you don’t want to apologize this time. After all, you meant it.

“My beloved,” you stroke his face with the hand he didn’t have restrained, determined to beat down his walls of insecurity with relentless affection. His neck and the tips of his ears redden with heat. “I—”

“Do not flatter me with sugared lies, and ignore the truth,” he interrupts, the tremor returned to his voice. “I know what I am. Being pitied is enough for a wretch like me; it is enough that you endure this unsightly visage without hating its owner. Do not pretend you cannot see me. It is worse to pretend.”

Your throat tightens, and a prickling of tears threatens your eyes, but you don’t cry. It’s heartbreaking that he still thinks of his body as something you have to endure. That you only put up with it, rather than adore it as you do. But he is stubborn in his hatred for his creator’s work. To explain your feelings to him, you will have to choose your words carefully.

“It’s not that I don’t see you, or your scars. I have eyes. I know most people are frightened by your appearance, and I know you’ve suffered horribly because of it. I should have realized you would think I was teasing you to say you’re perfect, but… I mean it.

“You are my heart’s gleam, my gentle dove. My beloved daemon. To me, you are the most wonderful being in all of creation. I am so happy to have met you, and to have had you in my life these past months. There is no one who lights up my heart as you do, none whose face it pleases me to see more. I am never more comfortable than when I’m in your arms, and I never feel so beautiful as when you look at me, nor so important as when you speak to me as if my thoughts matter. Your intelligent mind and poetic soul fill my days with wonder, and you make me feel accepted in a way I have never been before.”

You are stroking his face and the sides of his neck with both hands now, and he is melting into your touch, breaths drawing in slowly and puffing out in shaky bursts. You twirl a finger around a lock of dusky hair.

“I have never wanted you to be any different from the way you are. So I must conclude that the world’s measure of beauty is wrong—for you are perfect. Entirely, completely perfect.”

His head collapses into yours, leaning his forehead against you. He grips you tightly with both arms, squeezing you into his chest like he’s trying to absorb you. Warm, agitated breaths fan your face, and you feel his shoulders convulsing; you think he’s weeping, but then you realize it’s laughter.  

“I sound wonderful,” he says, a hint of pride licking the edges of his voice.

“You are.”

He kisses your neck, awing that you let him press his lips to you, then buries his face against your skin. “In books there is always passion, but... this is far greater than that. You are so patient with me. What did young Werther and Charlotte truly share? What did Juliet know of Romeo? Only the impulses of desire. You offer friendship, and I should like to spend my life repaying the kindness you have bestowed on me.” 

You hum with excitement. “Oh my daemon, my dove, my flitter-mouse,” endearments fall from your lips like apple blossom petals. Goaded by your words, he hefts you up with a now-familiar (yet still shocking) ease, an impish smile sparkling in his eyes as he bridal carries you across the room, ignoring the petulant clucking of chickens scattering from his path. 

“You are perfect,” he kisses your forehead. He sets you down on top of a storage chest, your back supported the wall. “And wonderful,” he kisses your nose. From your new perch, your hips are close to the height of his, and the outline of something growing at the front of his pants tells you exactly where his mind is heading. “And you are mine, yes?” He asks, voice heavy. Instead of kissing you again, he waits for you to close the distance.   

“Always,” you answer, stretching up to grasp his lower lip between your teeth, nibbling and running your tongue over it. He gasps at the novelty, and a surge of heat flares to life inside him. He moans as you tug his lip away from his teeth, and he chases your mouth down, a hand at the back of your head preventing your escape as he envelops you with a smothering kiss, his thick tongue demanding an invitation which you happily give, caressing your own tiny tongue on the probing muscle filling your entire mouth, wrapping your arms around his back as he consumes you. 

Finally he pulls back, a string of saliva still connecting you, a wolfish hunger in his eyes. “You’re mine, and I love you so much…” 

Love. 

You pant, hands curling through his hair. Had you said that before? Had he? Well, yes, you had used the word to describe your feelings, but never so directly. Never in a way that couldn’t have been intended as general, familial, platonic love. You never obfuscated your camaraderie and affection… but this felt different. Pointed. 

I love you so much.

You shiver with pleasure as his corpse lips trace your jaw and down your neck. He leaves a trail of tender kisses all the way down your arm, lingering to suck at the soft skin on the underside of your elbow. A sudden tightness builds in your core, accompanied by a sinful wetness that urges you to wrap your legs around his hips, hiking your skirt up above your knees, and pull him close. The pressure of his clothed cock—now fully erect—pressing into your inner thighs makes the urge worse. You shift to position the bulge against your aching clit, and rock your hips mindlessly seeking relief as his soft kisses up and down your neck and arms drive you into oblivion.

“I love you,” you murmur.

He stands straight, which makes you whine with disappointment as his warm lips leave your body, but he’s looking down at you with the softest eyes. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “Those three words fill me with joy enough for a lifetime; and beyond even the veil of death, the happiness of that one utterance shall warm me for eternity. Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

A tingle of goosebumps spread up your arm at his sudden demandingness—the way he leans over you, a hand against the wall, voice thick, and low. 

“I love you.” 

“Again,” he commands, leaning in close to your ear, voice barely a whisper. He nips the flesh of your earlobe and your back arches involuntarily. 

“I love you,” the words brush against his cheek. 

“Again,” he sighs, before his lips fall on yours, swallowing your reply. 

You had been in the middle of refreshing the straw bedding for the cows when he burst in, and there is still a nagging at the back of your mind of what if he was followed? But no angry mob has appeared at your doorstep yet, and everything else can wait its turn. This is definitely… the most important thing on your mind. 

It is a soft kiss, as his usually are—gentle and careful with one so much smaller than he is—but grows in intensity, his tongue parting your lips, running across your teeth and plundering your mouth as you moan and twitch your hips. All his insecurity disappears with the noises and writhing he can draw from you, how eager and helpless you are under his touch. Every fear eclipsed by his burning need to bury himself inside you, and hear you scream out for him as he satisfies himself. 

His large fingers unfasten the lacing of your bodice with the same practiced ease as weaving flower stems, pulling down your blouse as his hot, sloppy kisses move from your mouth, over your jaw, and down your neck—this time leaving red hickies in their wake. You feel the direction of his mouth toward your exposed chest, and whimper in anticipation of the warm slickness in just the right spot. He kneads the fat of your breasts in his palms, his sucking kisses down your collarbone growing ever more needy, filling the barn with wet smacking.

With an electric jolt, his tongue finally reaches the sensitive flesh of your nipple, and you feel a flood of warmth surging through your body, curling your toes, and settling in the base of your spine. Your fingers curl into his hair, against his scalp, pulling him against the hardening bud, his lips closing over it, tongue making languid circles that make your head loll back, and your hips buck up to grind against him—but only meet the air. To bend his towering body enough to reach your chest, he had to adjust his hips away from you, and without the pressure of his erection to grind against your cunt felt desperately empty, aching for contact. 

“Ah,” you gasp, grabbing his hand and placing it between your legs, under your skirt, “P-please!” 

His lips pull into a smile against your breast, exposing his tongue as it flicks across your nipple, now bright red and sopping wet. A large digit runs down the length of your slit. You gasp and jerk into it, but his hand is already gone. He rubs the moisture between his fingers. “Hmm, already so excited,” he taunts in a velvety voice, switching to your other breast, rolling the first between his thumb and fingers. 

When did he get so confident? He used to follow your lead, waiting on you to instruct him. He was still terrified of the world, but with you… 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he purrs, sucking your nipple sharply to draw another gasp from your lips. 

In your private world, when things got like this… 

You let out a strangled whine, moving his hand back between your legs. He lets it rest there idly, ignoring your frustrated, pleading groans and clawing at his hand to do something. He pinches a nipple, delicately tugging at it, slowly drawing his tongue across the other. 

“Hmm? You must speak up. I want to hear your voice.”

...He could be such an arrogant little shit! It’s so hot. 

“F-fingers! Please!” 

“As you wish.”

With a possessive growl, his long finger plunges inside you, moving in and out, getting coated with your slippery wetness as he treats your breasts as his playthings. You can hear his breathing increase, too, each exhale a loud snarl. His hips begin jerking in time with the pulsing of his finger into you, feeling the twitch of your velvet walls squeezing him as he drives you toward your climax—he imagines it’s his cock inside you, and suddenly, this isn’t enough. 

“S-so good. You’re so good,” you whine, eyes closing as you lift your hips into his finger, deepening every thrust. The heat in your core is building, coiling, tightening… You stroke his hair, savoring the motion of his head and the wet sucking noises at your chest as he sends wave after wave of pleasure through you with his tongue. You run your hand over the striations of muscle in his shoulder, over his healed gunshot wound, the feel of his skin and the sound of his ragged breathing sending you over the edge—

His finger pulls out. His tongue moves away. 

The release so close on your horizon fizzles. 

“Wah!” Your eyes shoot open, complaints pursed on your lips. Then you see the hungry look in his eyes, and a shudder runs down your spine. Maybe he’ll fuck you right there. By the look of it, his erection is ready to rip through his pants.

“Patience,” he purrs, swallowing the tightness in his throat—the only sign of his slipping composure. 

He spreads open your legs, kneeling between them, strong hands on your thighs helping you balance on the edge of the crate. His chest rises and falls slowly as he inhales your scent. “S-stop it!” you blush, squirming but unable to budge from his firm grip. Why does he like to smell you so much? You close your eyes and look away from the lewd act. He’s really changed so much, no longer so eager to please you that he wouldn’t risk drawing things out, or embarrassing you. He trusts you, that you’re never going to push away from him in sudden disgust; he knows you enjoy every minute of his attention. 

He extends his long, thick tongue, and traces it along your thighs, teasing you with nips and kisses. Your body shudders at the welcome heat. He’s become an expert on your body, listening to your breathing and waiting for exactly the right moment to finally taste your dripping cunt. Your fingers clench in his hair, urging him on, but he takes his time with a long, measured, broad-tongued lap down your inner thigh, his eyes watching yours, studying your reaction and giving a self-satisfied smirk at your struggle to contain yourself. 

“Please… more.” 

Slowly, patiently, he finally dips his tongue into your quivering, saturated heat. He lets out a muffled moan into you, savoring you, hands clenching on your thighs as he revels in it. You can feel that tension start to coil again, but he’s still taking his time with such an indulgent, unhurried pace, you’ll never reach the orgasm you were denied.

Your fingers dig into the back of his head and your hips twist in his vice grip, helpless to create their own pace. “Faster.” You try to jerk your hips against his tongue again, to no avail. “You feel so good, my love,” you coo in a honeyed voice, hoping flattery will achieve results. “What must I do for you to let me come? I’ll do anything. Please—faster!” 

In a blur of motion, your legs are over his shoulders and he’s standing at full height, large hands holding up your hips to his mouth, your back resting on the box where your ass just was. It feels like the wind was knocked out of you—you can barely breathe as he points his tongue into a stiff rod and attacks your clit with incredible speed and vigor. You didn’t know tongues could move to fast! His mouth is working magic, and the angle he’s holding you at somehow makes it feel even better. Maybe it’s the blood rushing to your head, or the way you have to look up at him, holding you as you dangle helplessly at his mercy, but you can feel your climax returning in greater force. 

“I’m… going to finish already,” you writhe and moan, cheeks hot. 

He doesn’t stop this time. “Come in my mouth,” he instructs, licking and lapping you deeper, faster, his own moans of pleasure lost in yours, crying out louder, thighs clamping around his neck, pulling him in harder, deeper, until your muscles convulse and you bite your lip to silence your shaking scream. He thrusts his tongue deep inside you, feeling your walls twitch around him, tasting your hot release coat his tongue. 

“Fuck, you’re so good. So perfect,” you praise as you start to come down. 

He’s not through with you yet, however. Not by a long shot. 

He keeps writhing his tongue inside of your still-twitching heat, then brings his mouth back to your over-worked clit, ghosting his lips over it, flicking softly and quickly with the pointed end of his tongue. 

You cry out in surprise, an unpleasantly strong contraction ripping through your body in protest. “N-no!” you try to wriggle away, pushing your arms out against him, but from your upside-down suspended position, the only part of him you can reach is—your heart skips a beat as your hand grazes his throbbing steel shaft. A renewed surge of heat flushes between your legs, overwhelming the over-stimulation with pleasure. You swallow. 

“Do you want more?” he murmurs, drunk on you. You nod breathlessly. You need him to keep going. To put that in you. “Good.” 

You grope blindly for the inhumanly thick bugle in his pants, and lay your palm against it, feeling its incredible length. The heat it gives off is amazing. There is a sharp inhale, and a hiccup in the steady working of his tongue. Not so easy to stay cool, is it? You smile, finally turning the tables a little. You rub his clothed shaft until he makes muffled whines into your cunt, and his hips start rocking against your hand as you stroke him up and down. 

This is heaven. He could live between your thighs, drowning in the taste of you. He loves making you happy—seeing you shudder with pleasure from his touch���and the power he has over you in these moments makes an intoxicating combination. You belong to him. 

“Do I make you feel good?” he rasps. You stare back up at him—his tongue stopped. You pull at the back of his head with your legs, trying to get him to start again, to give you what your body desperately needs, but he only looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes and tips his head to the side. Fuck, he’s cute when he does that. 

“Y-yeah.”

Lick. 

Your hips buck into his mouth in appreciation, an electric pulse vibrating down your back. 

“Only I can make you feel this way?” 

Oh god, this is the game he’s playing? You’ll say anything to get him to keep going, but the only answer you can make right now is a pleading, affirmative whine and a nod. 

Lick. 

That was good enough. Your eyes squeeze shut. You were so close again! 

“Only me?”

“Please don’t stop!” 

Not good enough. “Say you’re mine,” he purrs, “That only I can make you feel this way.”

“Only you!” you cry, squeezing your thighs around him, trying to pull him back in, “I’m yours! Please!” 

He smiles, and gives you a delicate swirl of the tongue, tracing your clit, then plunges his tongue deep inside you, fucking you with the large muscle, pulsating and tasting you, filling your longing core up with its heat. Oh god, it wasn’t as big as his cock, but the way it could move inside you was so strange and delicious, and the wet, hungry noises his mouth made sent you over the edge a second time, your hands grasping for something to cling to—one clenching the edge of the crate, the other gripping the outline of his shaft. 

He slips his tongue out of you, dripping with a mingling of your juices and his saliva, and puts it back to work on your throbbing clit without pausing. In its place, he soaks two bony fingers in your empty core. The fingers are cooler and less slithery than his tongue, but make up for it with length and firmness, reaching deeper, and hitting nerves that his tongue missed. 

“R-right there!” you squeal, voice shaking as he finds your g-spot. He feels your muscles twitching and pulling beneath his hands. Sucking hard on your clit, he pumps his finger harder in and out of your drenched pussy, focusing on that sensitive spot that makes you cry out for him, until you come again, your walls clenching and unclenching around his hand.

You expect a break after that. Your body is exhausted and trembling, especially in this uncomfortable—if arousing—position. But, whether he’s working off his earlier panic, or he just has that much more stamina now that he’s healed, he doesn’t stop. Instead, he adds another finger, stretching you farther and making you moan with the feeling of fullness. You don’t bother to protest or try to wriggle away, only whimpering praises and encouragement, eager for more. He builds you up and sends you over the precipice again, and again, and again relentlessly until you can’t stand any more.

Only when you’re shaking and soaking, so dizzy with sensation you can no longer speak, does he release his iron-clad grip on your hips and lowers them back down to the top of the storage chest, sitting you up with your back resting on the wall. Breathing erratically, he presses a tender but sloppy kiss to your lips, the flavor of you on his tongue. 

“This is what… perfection tastes like,” he pants. 

Settling between your legs, he finally frees his unbearably hard erection from its prison, the unearthly member glistening with precum and throbbing with pent-up desire. 

The storage crate is tall enough that he barely needs to bend his knees to achieve the right height, and with little need for adjustment, he’s rubbing his giant cockhead along your entrance. It feels so good, but your tired muscles are too limp to buck your hips up to help push him in, so you merely bite your lower lip in anticipation of being filled with him. 

After being forced to wait for so long, his cock aches to bury itself up to the hilt in you with one thrust, but if he just pushed it in, he might split you in half. He is your gentle creature, needy as he may be, and he can wait just a little longer if it means not hurting you. He rubs his shaft along you, coating it in your slickness with his hand, making sure you’re ready to take him. He pushes the head inside. A gurgled moan escapes your lips at the satisfying pressure. He studies your face. 

“Do you want me?” His hands trace over the bone of your hips, kneading the fat of your thighs. You nod weakly, and he pushes in farther. He’s spreading you wide, filling you so magnificently. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Yet he still waits, pausing for your body to adjust to his size. “Are you all right?” 

You put your hand over his, marveling at how much bigger it is than yours, and squeeze. “I love you so much. Now fuck me.” 

He lets out a strangled whimper of affection at your declaration, and jerks his hips forward into your eager pussy. A cry of pleasure and brief pain tears from your throat. Those words were all the encouragement he needed to become ravenous, nipping at your neck, pinching until a trail of red bruises blooms over your skin. Suddenly, you’re in the air, still fully impaled on his prodigious length, and being slammed against the wall. He begins pounding into you hard and fast, hands squeezing your hips and shoulder, keeping you effortlessly off the ground, while your legs instinctively wrap themselves around his waist, holding on for dear life as he fucks you into the wall, the sloppy sounds of flesh striking flesh filling the serene bucolic air. 

You hold him close, running your hands up his back and around his ass, feeling the powerful jerking of his muscles beneath the skin as he thrusts into you. So big. Everything about him is oversize, his arms, his cock, all of the scars covering his body… the textured discoloration of his skin. He did look devilish—but he was so sweet, and kind, and so, so passionate for you, he was more like a prince. Or, at the very least, he was your devil. 

Even in his lust-fueled frenzy, he notices you noticing him. 

Your eyes are undisguisedly observing parts of him he would rather not think about, and suddenly he remembers what he looks like—self-awareness lost in the passion of the moment returning like a revelation. What you see whenever he mounts you is a monster… and you still let him. You still beg him to. You moan, and whimper, and plead for more of him, your body at his command.

His grunts grow louder and less controlled, and each thrust of his hips sends tremors through the entire barn, little trails of dust and hay falling from the rafters. 

“How does it feel to be fucked by a monster? To belong to me?” 

It feels warm. You can barely articulate an answer through the fog. It feels rough, hard, fast, tender, passionate… 

His breath hitches, a low rumble in his throat, and you realize you’ve been muttering out loud. 

“You’re so perfect. So big. You know exactly what I want,” you run your hands up the misshapen grooves of his chest, struggling to keep your voice smooth and seductive as he knocks the wind out of you with each thrust. Compliments can often backfire with the self-hating creature, but in moments like this, you can praise him like a puppy dog and it gets him more red-faced than… than the fact that you’re fucking!

“You feel so good inside me,” you keep singing praises as he pounds into you, his grip getting harder and harder until you’re sure you’ll be left with bruises. “You're so big, you're filling me up. Nobody can do the things you do to me.” 

Finally he buries his head in your neck and lets out a full-throated sob, as his hips meet yours in a powerful thrust, burying himself deeper inside you than you believed possible. You feel the warmth of his hot seed filling you, so much of it that it overflows out of you and drips down your ass.

He doesn’t move. He pants against your neck, practically growling, arms holding you in place possessively, pinning you to the wall. You’re not getting down just yet. He wants to savor his cock buried deep inside your warmth for a little longer. You sigh contentedly, closing your eyes and leaning your head against his sweat-dampened chest. 

Exhausted and sated, his senses begin to return. He stares at the huge mummy-like hands practically swallowing your small body, your skin so elastic, vibrant, and alive in contrast. Softly, he asks again, absent any passion-fueled bravado, “You love me?”

“I love you.”

“Foolish girl.”

“You love a foolish girl,” you tease, grinning. You grab both sides of his face, rubbing your nose against his. 

“I do.” 

You could get lost in the little world the two of you share.

Unfortunately you were so engrossed in your own little world that you didn't hear the hens clucking as they rushed to the edge of the fence, or the cows mooing a friendly greeting to a familiar face.

You didn't notice Bess standing in the doorway of the barn until she let out a blood-curdling scream.

[darakakimbey]

THE SECRET WAR by Darak Akim Bey

- Preface -

I took some time off of work, to get away from the labor. After six days I Am rested, refreshed, and rededicated. Only now with this revitalized strength I cannot pour it into my life freely. It has been sourced from Me by the Federalist. I see the Matrix, I Am in it and I have to get out of it. This is an experiment on an ongoing battlefield. I must write for My liberation. Writing is My liberation. I liberate My Mind and give insight to others. I have to write about Ayiti and the American Republic and my place. Through coercion, confusion and elementary conditioning I've been led to trust the colony with my life. I look over at Old Glory, fluttering, surveying in the wind and even She asks me, “Why?”

If it were to end today, would I fight for My oppression? There were some things I recognized, yet hadn't reconciled. I could feel the coldness and inhumanity of My tax dollars. I could smell the rotting corpse of Autonomy, still alive, but barely breathing. Being fed, but barely eating. Groaning loudly, yet rarely speaking. In a World where a land of high mountains and it's people are robbed, where we wrestle against wickedness in high places; a world where poverty is good for the economy, where bitter is for sweet. What is unthinkable?

My labor has been sourced from Me. By the sweat of My brow do I eat, I toil for the things G-d gifted Me, in this colony. I see the Matrix, I Am in it and I have to get out of it. Those bad habits I have are a matrix, my environment. That which is in My immediate control should remind Me of My true ideals and wills. Those patterns that I find Myself looping through are the things that I let program Me, instead of programming Myself. I recognize the cycles, I sleep walk at times, at least that's how I feel when I don't feel in control. Is it not otherworldly to inure a generation, a Child? This mystery system isn't so mystical, it's the exploitation of Human complexities and behaviors.

I used to believe that the government was corrupt by default, but how else would I expect the infiltrator, the illegal administration to treat Me. It is My power they value the most as long as My autonomy is not attached. "I need to feed My Child. I need care for My Elder. I need water to drink. I need sleep to breathe. I bomb Children. I lynch Elders. I poison Waters. I pollute the Mind. I pay My taxes." Perspective is everything. My taxes fund everything.

I visit Myself in the evenings and judge My actions of the day. There are things that haunt Me some days. I haunt Me some days. I know why You want Me to sulk, I see why You want Me to dread in My Youth. Conviction has become a familiar friend of Mine, born of Your intentions for My demise. I Am who they coerce to mine these mountains, clear these forests, and pave these roads. I Am who they strong arm to harvest this cane, separate this cotton, cure this tobacco. I Am the labor paying for their lavishness, enabling their greed.

I Am pulled in this direction, so that I don't look inward. I Am pushed that way, so that I don't look inward. I Am told to look there, so that I don't look inward. I Am told to wait for salvation, so that I don't find salvation within. I feel ashamed, having not lived up to who I Am. Being betrayed by Man does not excuse Me from cultivating who I Am. As a tree thrives on top of a mountain cliff I have to make use of Myself and the position granted to Me. My part plays a part in the grand remedy.I shouldn't be who I was yesterday. I shouldn't be doing the same things I was doing last week. I shouldn't be viewing life with the same mindset I had four seasons ago. I should be elevated in who I Am constantly.

Walking among the people in public spaces, I feel out of place. Is My strength My willingness to fight the false security of the illusionist or does it make Me a target in this occupation? Whether the novice can see the battlefield or not, it is real for Me. It is real and the war rages on. It is invisible, it is cold, but it is happening. I Am not a military lieutenant with legions at my command. My weapons of mass resurrection are My dearest accomplices. My humility to be resurrected is My nearest gift.

I see Myself within the context of the Lieber Codes, the Hague and Geneva Conventions. I see Myself within the articles of the Barbary treaties. I see Myself within the text of Papal Bulls. I see Myself where I was once blind. I see Myself within the context of scripts written by ancient Judeans. I see Myself within the hieroglyphics of Khemeth. I see Myself within the text of Vedas. I see Myself within. I see Myself where I could not see Myself before.

There were many illusions that I fought with and there are millions of artifices I fight with daily. I Am learning to trust My Intuition and to live in peace in My Mind. There is a voice, a comrade, who is a comforter to Me and then there are whispers from shadows, looking to cast a net. I pull back the curtains to see who's looking back, I check under the bed because I have a question for the boogeyman. I shine light down the darkest allies and reignite the fires of the dimmest hopes. I do so because I have to know who's with Me when I Am alone. I pulled back the curtains and it was My reflection I saw. I asked the boogeyman a question and it was I who answered back. I shined light into the deepest allies of My Mind and saw Myself. I did not put Myself here, I have never been alone, I Am Soul.

There is this country and that state, and that county and this city. There is this army and that navy, that guard and this militia. There is this church and that mosque, that synagogue and this temple. I was told the House of G-d was built by the hands of Man. It is said the Vicar is G-d on Earth. That He is a frail and soft spoken kind of Man. World leaders pay homage to this Vicar. It is said when in Rome to do as the Romans. It is obvious that Rome has been brought to Me. Yet, this War is not all about the fight. To live in purpose and true to The Most High G-d within Me is the greatest form of resistance I have. I have only one way to combat conquest, self-respect.

I recognize that My opposition is more covert than flesh and blood. The damage done feels as the burn of frostbite. I snipped the strings that My enemy had tied to Me. His every will for Me was to steal, kill and destroy in the hopes that I would never build. I notice the birds don't suffer the way I do and that the unjust receive the same breath of life that I do. I notice that the rain comes regardless of whose blood runs. I see the War for what it is and now it feels like I Am living. If I conform now, it would have been better for Me to take My own life. - The Secret War

THIS WORK IS COPYRIGHTED. ANY REPRODUCTION WITHOUT MY CONSENT IS SUBJECT TO LEGAL ACTION AND A $100,000.00 FINE

[lapis-lazuli-block]

Flesh and Bone

A little fic for @ask-elementalhermitcraft based off of one of Joe’s poems, Like Your Enemy (from his s6 ep96, Puttering Around).

Length: 2784 words

I made war on the sea and became the waves

The night was damp and warm, but that was to be expected; they were, after all, in the middle of a swamp. The stagnant water covering the ground reflected the clear, crisp white light of the moon above. In the water, she watched Iskall and Stress a full bit away making a routine sweep of G Team’s territory.

She and Ren weren’t supposed to encounter them tonight, and certainly not in the middle of a swamp, where both Iskall and Stress’ powers would nearly be at full height. But it was night, and the moon was shining on the swamp water. False and Ren were at the height of their power, too.

Still, a skirmish was less than preferable. They would be too evenly matched. She needed to find Ren, wherever the reckless man had gone, before the opposing duo found him first. Without moving an inch, she shifted her attention to her partner for the night. She didn’t have to look far before Ren’s image stared back at her from the water. His expression was as tense as False felt; he could see the enemy.

False was off, bow in hand, fast as she was able while keeping the sound of her feet splashing in the water to a minimum. She kept an eye on the scene through the mirrored surface of the swamp but she could only watch as Ren backed further into the underbrush and Iskall and Stress continued to draw closer. She passed a massive ravine; that, perhaps, would prove useful.

She slowed to a crouching crawl and then hid behind a tree once the duo came into her line of sight. Their backs were still to her, but it was colder now and the slimy swamp water covering her feet clung to her diamond boots. Across a wide—too wide—span of water and hidden within dense forest, False saw the barely-visible shine of Ren’s eyes glowing silver in the power of the full moon. Behind him, a massive ravine marred the terrain.

The night was still. The air was thick. The firm grasp of her element was familiar as she summoned a shield to encase her body.

Iskall and Stress attacked with not so much as a passing glance exchanged between them.

The speeding line of ice that Stress sent her way just barely grazed False’s feet as she leapt backward onto dry land. Instinctive reactions and years of training had her sending an arrow in Stress’ direction before she landed. Her boots were frosted over, but there was no time to think about how cold her toes were while Stress was sprinting towards her.

Get Ren. Stay out of the water.

Stress threw her hands out and False danced away from an array of ice spikes. Stress and Iskall were most powerful when they and their opponents were surrounded by water. False lunged forward and slashed at Stress with her sword. It didn’t make contact. Of course this had to happen in a swamp.

“Stay still, love,” Stress snarled at her as False dodged yet another attack. The biting cold might have affected her if it weren’t for her skin-like shield she kept up. In her peripheral vision, she could see Ren and Iskall battling it out, slightly closer to the bank where Ren had been hiding. She shot an arrow, quick as lightning, and felt more sick than happy when it met its target.

Stress cried out. The arrow stuck out from her thigh as False leapt back. Water splashed outward as Stress fell. False’s instincts, honed after years of battle, told her to go for the kill as Stress looked up at her in shock. Her opponent was on the ground, at her mercy.

False hesitated a second too long, because a blade met her stomach before she could make another move.

Iskall’s sword shattered her shimmering shield and the impact knocked her to the ground as well. Her sword was in hand and raised for a second strike despite her fall, but she only caught a glimpse of Iskall’s face twisted in rage before Ren’s body slammed into the one-eyed man and the pair fell flailing to the ground.

Ren’s growl matched the look in Iskall’s sole eye in intensity, but his next move was to lunge toward Stress rather than continue to engage Iskall. Determined to protect his friend, Iskall leapt to his feet to intervene, but False swung her blade and stepped between him and the pair.

Iskall was a force to be reckoned with under normal conditions but this, with the water freezing and slime sticking the soles of her feet to the ground, plus his own increased speed in the swamp, this was simply unfair. False found herself fighting to keep her sword in hand and a magic shield in front of her only for it to break with one swing of his blade. Iskall was angry and, she had to admit, that was almost as terrifying as Doc angry.

>Rendog fell from a high place

False felt her blood turn icy, and she knew it had nothing to do with the ice elemental in her vicinity. Stress and Ren must have reached the ravine. Of course he’d been the one to fall. False was on her own now, against Iskall and Stress.

Iskall knew, too. False stumbled, the intensity of the moment finally getting to her. The Swede before her lunged and she fell once again, flat on her back, drenched in murky water.

They weren’t even supposed to engage tonight.

Iskall stalked forward. Behind her, False felt the chilly presence of Stress approaching, but she never took her eyes off of the imminent threat before her.

A plan formed in her mind; risky, deadly, but a plan. There was little choice but to attempt it. She’d exhausted all other options.

Iskall’s sword was coming down and False felt the tell-tale cold of ice rushing toward her back. She formed a small shield behind his legs and moved, quick as a whip, rolling forward and kicking outward to trip him and leap forward onto dry land in one smooth motion.

Iskall fell face-first into a foot-deep puddle of water that froze over immediately.

“Iskall!” Stress rushed forward, icicle already in hand to chip away at the ice covering him, but False wasn’t about to stick around to figure out if it would work.

She darted off, back towards her home base where Ren had surely respawned, leaving the pair behind her. She was out of the swamp with Team STAR’s base in view when the death message announced the result.

>Iskall85 drowned

I made war on the peaks and became the stone

There was a razed path of destruction through the world, a gruesome scar cut from the battleground of the two bases straight to the sea. The sun was rising over the water in the distance, though the fires all around burned bright enough that it might as well be day already.

Cleo stayed back, and perhaps that was cowardly, but her powers worked best from a distance. Jevin and Tango played tank, engaging in brutal, direct combat with Wels and Impulse, respectively. Cleo could barely see Mumbo through his cloud of redstone on the opposite side of the battlefield, identifiable as the source of dusty red waves that spawned deadly machines and weapons that activated on their own. The landscape was a mess of fire and iron, torn up by redstone machinery and levitated terrain.

Cleo’s undead army of zombies and pigmen, amassed from days of concentration next to a portal and an enormous glass containment pen, didn’t seem to be doing much harm to any of their three enemies but they did make decent targets for Mumbo’s machines. She could feel the dull aches all over her body as her forces were cut down by arrows and pistons and lava and for the first time in the fight that was lasting hours, the impacts were too difficult for her weary body to ignore.

The sun finally rose from the water. Cleo felt the uncomfortably warm sensation of her hundreds of mobs catching flame; with control of so many, she couldn’t stop them from burning. Lucky for her, Mumbo was tiring too, his cloud of red dispersing and thinning to the point where she could see his form kneeling on the ground. His machines were weaker and more sparse.

Cleo turned her attention to the continued fight between Wels and Jevin. The slime was no longer exhausting energy on freezing Wels’ arrows and the edges of his physical form were beginning to warp. Wels had dropped the swords that once circled him and his armor was no longer changing in response to Jevin’s attacks; it was simply spiked. They were beginning to tire. Anyone would be; this had to be the longest, most exhausting battle she’d been part of. They were too evenly matched. The sun had set and now risen again and yet not an inch of ground had been given or taken. The only result of their fighting was a stain on the surface of the world.

And yet, in the center of it all, burning the terrible path, two beacons of scorching heat clashed with what felt like a bottomless well of energy. It seemed as if Tango and Impulse were incapable of exhaustion. Cleo couldn’t even imagine it.

It hurt to watch. Literally—the brilliant light they were emitting burned her retinas—but in more ways than just physical; they were best friends. The sight of the two of them at each other’s throats was a horrible testament to how far out of hand the war had gotten. Hands burning, bodies glowing, the pair pulled apart and then rushed back in, an endless cycle every time they came face-to-face now. Flames licked Impulse’s mouth every time he opened it and the whip of fire in his hand lashed like a snake with a mind of its own. Tango’s hands were ablaze and the ground around his feet glowed red-hot with every step he took. The identical looks in their eyes were nothing less than ferocious.

As the sun rose behind her, Cleo allowed herself to take a step back and witness the battle. Her body shook with the toil of it; her armies ablaze, Mumbo all but motionless on the ground, Wels and Jevin locked in exhausted combat, Tango and Impulse forging a hideous inferno.

Joe, in all his infinite kindness and wisdom, had told her this was a mistake. Maybe they all had known that the whole time. And yet, even he had chosen a side. Whatever had caused this, even he wasn’t immune. She turned around; she needed a moment to collect herself.

There was a figure silhouetted by the sun in the distance, standing atop the highest mountain surrounding the scorched, upturned valley. Cold terror shot through Cleo like an icy knife stabbing her spine. Friend, or foe? Come to help the G Team or STAR? She didn’t know which option she feared more. It didn’t matter, she supposed; either way, it meant the end of this grueling battle.

The figure didn’t move. The mountain rumbled.

It was then that Cleo realized who it was. Neither friend nor foe, it was the reclusive Tinfoil Chef, emerging from beneath the earth for the first time in months.

She didn’t even have time to process that thought before the world went black. Her body crumpled and her lungs filled with filth as the surrounding mountains collapsed and the dirt beneath her feet gave way. A tidal wave of earth filled the valley, crushing the six hermits battling there.

>ZombieCleo suffocated >Mumbo suffocated >Tango suffocated >Welsknight suffocated >iJevin suffocated >ImpulseSV suffocated

I made war on the heavens and became the sky

In the month since the war had begun, every hermit had come to recognize when Doc and Grian were fighting. It wasn’t particularly hard to tell; the moment the two were in proximity and aware of each others’ presence, it was as if the sky itself was at war, as if the heavens were being ripped apart. A storm would hover low overhead, bolts of lightning streaking in jagged, violent paths from the clouds to the ground, accompanied by the crack of thunder and the wind howling angry ramblings as it sent rain sideways and upwards.

Doc stood on the roof of the ghast tower, trident in hand, eyes locked on the sky, searching for Grian’s faint form swooping through the clouds.

“Show yourself!” he roared, and the sky flashed white as a bolt of lightning arced through the clouds to hit the earth in the center of no-man’s land.

A winged man was silhouetted in the brief light. Doc lifted his trident, feeling its weight in his hand. It buzzed with energy that danced between the prongs and sent static running along his body. He aimed at the figure, knowing Grian was long gone, and shot into the air.

The feathers on Grian’s wings stood on end as a bold of pure electricity passed by where he’d been mere seconds before. His hand gripped tightly around his sword, his knuckles pale, his heart giddy as the man below shouted to the heavens:

“Face me, coward!”

Grian’s snicker was carried enough by the wind that Doc could hear it from where he stood down below. He grit his teeth, trying not to channel too much energy into his trident. Fights with Grian were more often than not long and painful, and pacing was key, especially because the man he was facing had far more stamina than him. At times, it seemed like Grian lived in the air. There had once been a time when Doc found his endless flight charming, but now he only felt a desire to ground the man with a vicious bolt of electricity.

Even from high above its source, Grian could feel the air tingling with electrical energy. It smelled of ozone and rain, and there was a sort of giddy thrill about him that he recognized as his element; the air was normally benevolent, if slightly reckless. Something about this war, though—perhaps the power that went along with fighting everyone—made his element more excited than normal.

He could feel it start circling before he commanded it to, but he paid no mind, and simply urged the forming tornado along. The sky lit up with another bolt of Doc’s lighting and Grian allowed himself to be illuminated by the blast. Below, Doc was alight with crackling energy on the roof of STAR’s ghast tower. The wind howled as Grian began his descent.

It was foolish to assume that any singular battle would end this war. It almost felt, at this point, that the entire thing would never end. At times like these, though, when it was one-on-one, and the conflict felt all the more personal and all the more deadly, it was easier to fall into the misguided hope that taking out the leader would stop the war.

Doc’s trident lit up with electricity, crackling and sparking, the scent of ozone pungent in the air. Wind swirled around Grian, a miniature hurricane surrounding him as he gained speed. Doc took aim as Grian swooped down, gaining momentum.

Doc’s eyes widened. At the last second, he sidestepped, and Grian sped straight down past him, grazing his wing on the corner of the ghast tower. The sting caught him by surprise, but the noise he made was nothing compared to the scream Doc let out. He caught the slightest glimpse of the man’s body alight with crackling energy before he was gone. It was far too late for Grian to try and stop himself; he simply closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable crash into the ground.

The energy surging through Doc was agonizing and brilliant. His entire being was electrified. Grian’s personal tornado had yanked his trident from his hand just as he was about to shoot the menace, and his own lightning had backfired on him. He could feel himself burning from the inside out, though he could hardly say the sensation was unfamiliar. He caught one final look at Grian’s falling form, and was filled with a sense of cruel satisfaction, knowing the other man would soon be dead, too.

>Grian experienced kinetic energy >Docm77 was struck by lightning

I made war on my neighbor and died, flesh and bone

[hotrod402]

  7 Circles of Hell in JRTC                A Soldiers Dante's Inferno (The Not So Divine Comedy)

    A Satirical Observation By: Armando J Rodriguez III, SGT, US Army

    Down in the deep south, just north of the bayou lies place spoken with dread and disdain.   A land that ignites a certain misery and a terrible mythology, only those who’ve endured within its’ gates will be able to relate and understand. As horrid and disheartening as the place may be, it serves an overarching purpose, to forge and temper us soldiers into the people we need to be whether you like it or not. Some of those not strong enough are broken as they never grasp its purpose of why a place of such infamy exists. It exposes the weak and emboldens the strong, although results may vary. It tests the very fortitude that makes up the glue that binds us men and women of the armed forces, as it ensures that together we succeed divided we fall and have to come here to do this dumb shit all over again. And just like a wise woman once said, “Ain’t nobody got time for that”.

The lessons learned are vague and steeped in mystery as its custodians are just as corruptible as every man can be. Yet the land itself and its vassels are deviously unwavering as the sadism is exhibited regularly with no remorse. This land tests your spirit and tortures your soul as you trudge your way through each of its 7 deadly circles. Unforgiving and unrelenting to the soldiers is the land of Fort Polk, as this is the indomitable Hell known as JRTC, for which it consumes each and every soldier who passes through. For those soldiers who’ve endured this Hell more than once, to our horror, it’s a reminder of how fragile the human mind truly is. You will witness the most formidable man break under its inexhausted pressure, and the weak toil in the dirt praying for the punishment to stop. But for those with the tenacity and courage to look destiny in the eye and take fate by its horns, they will solidify their legend in the memory of those soldiers who look to their heroics for inspiration as mortal men did to Hercules while performing his 12 Labors. Let’s take this journey into the Mouth of Madness and suffer in this God forsaken underworld together, for its to forge us to be either a pitbull or a poodle.  

 The Desert of Envy (The 1st Circle of Hell):  Our perilous journey begins at the very moment every soldier arrives in ole Fort Polk Louisiana. The envy sets in almost immediately, for as the soldiers notice something very distinctive about  the presence of rental vehicles driven by the nobility, granted every enlisted(peasents) soldier is wondering how in the living fuck did the officers aquire a rental in the first place let alone find the time to even get one since we all got off the plane together and we had to set up the living spaces before anything. The truth is all apparent since the nobility do have their personal household of serfs to set up the cots, tents and unload all the equipment. But from the outside, the soldiers see this pompousness and crave the same level of comforts, access to many luxurious resources, and freedom to venture out instead of the meager and peasant like living conditions a majority of us endure. Although the enlisted(peasants) only see the nobility living much more cush and lavish, as lavish as you can in the field, the nobility are envious of the enlisted’s(peasants) lack of burdening responsibilities and expectations. Some of the nobility do produce many opportunities and assist in the better conditions for morale, yet that is only some and that doesn’t stem the tide of envy since no matter what they tend to be ignorant of the heavy tax on the enlisted(peasants) they impose due to their poorly thought out decisions. The Desert of Envy is more like a vast desert with rolling sand dunes that go as far as the eye can see, much like the Sahara desert. It’s unrelenting and imposing with little to no vegetation to feed on, not to mention the lack of water. As a soldier, the nobility are very much like the Beduin nomads turned oil moguls that have survived in such a vast desert and prospered yet us soldiers are much like the city kid that's never left his moms couch to only be left out in such a desert with nothing more than a case of monster and a bag of jerky. Over a little bit of time you’re gonna want to know where to get water, but when you find these nobles, they say hi ask you if you need anything and speed off with everything you just said you needed making damn sure you see that they have it. And all you can say is screw these douchebags, turning you into a damn hater making you wish you had what they had knowing all too well that they will remind you that they still have what you want but just cant have. The Desert of Envy starts as soon as you arrive in Fort Polk until you leave the box.

The Oasis of Lust (The 2nd Circle of Hell): The cravings, the Monsters, the PX runs, Pizza Hut, and the endless need for tobacco. All of your field pogey bait and compulsive needs are within your reach. A soldier will easily blow through their money on random snacks and gadgets that for some unknown reason assume they need yet will never use let alone know how to use. The Oasis of Lust is very much like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory only far less trippy. Gatorade here, can of dip there, giant bag of jerky yet fuck cutting your god damn hair. You can walk around and just witness the financial travesties occurring regularly all around you as if some form of dark magic is forcing them to make compulsive decisions to buy all types of products. In The Oasis of Lust, all soldiers are under its spell and the strongest soldier fall to the circles call. Its solitary inhabitants seduce you only with what they have and can offer, definitely not with their looks. They will have you like a crackhead on a Xmas all you can smoke sale. The Oasis of Lust appears much like a magical oasis with tropical fruits and sexy sultry people with the ability to seduce and entice your every need as you buy and indulge your every desires. And as you indulge yourself, little do you know it's only a mirage and it's all a damn lie knowing all too well you don't need any of this shit you just got, too late for buyers remorse dumbass. Over time when you come to your senses, you see the reality for what it is, an opportunity to make a cash grab on the vulnerability of soldiers that want the comforts like “good” food, stock up on tobacco, buy case upon case of energy drinks, and splurge on meal team 6 tactical gear only looking like a real “Fobbit” with all this gear that they themselves will never use only to look like a complete moron in the end. We’ve all been there though, no one is immune to the compulsion and nonsensical urge to splurge. This kind of circle typically occurs a couple of days after arriving to Fort Polk and lasts until you enter the “Box”.

The City of Greed (The 3rd Circle of Hell): Still trapped in the Desert of Envy, you come across the City of Greed. All soldiers that just “jumped” into the “Box” after escaping the clutches of the Oasis of Lust, are still gilded will all of their goodies they have freshly acquired from the trolls that seduced them. Like any big city though, cash is king. Whether it be actual cash money, a monster, or a pack of cigarettes. Everyone has something someone else wants, and like a shark in the water sniffing for blood, some are willing to do whatever it takes to have more of what they want. Like on Wall st, it’s a dog eat dog world, and the City of Greed blinds you to the point where you lose yourself in your own wants, needs, and ambitions. The soldiers start stealing from each other and then begin hoarding snacks, drinks, and MRE’s as if they are preparing for the Apocalypse. This circle begins to expose each individual soldiers selfish need of self preservation and exposes their personal lack of integrity. Each soldier experiences the City of Greed differently be it becoming the predator or the prey. Many soldiers are just natural predators and will be the opportunist as they will constantly search for every opening to seize something of worth at any given moment. Very early on, the sociopathic tendencies start taking hold as if they never had the chance to get their own goods, but they don’t need or have an excuse on why they steal, they just do. Some treat it as if they didn’t steal, they would die, all i have to say is, “Motherfucker this shit ain’t that serious, and what did your mom tell you about touching whats not yours, don’t fucking touch it”. The City of Greed is a dark and cold, despite being in the Desert of Envy, it slowly drains the life out of you as you lose something important to every soldier, that is trust. When a soldier begins his/her predation, they typically don’t go after the enemy, yet they go after a much easier less suspecting target and that is their brothers and sisters in arms. Those who do this violate a sacred trust between all of us and exposes themselves to everyone that they cannot be trusted and if you are on an actual battlefield, how can you depend on that person when the going gets tough. Their greed and selfishness degrades the units overall effectiveness because now everyone questions each other. If you are willing to do something like this here then what else are you willing to do. The City of Greed starts on the initial jump to the second week in the “Box”.

The Caves of Wrath (The 4th Circle of Hell): Just like anyone who’s lost everything at Las Vegas or made a shit trade on Wall st., those must be some really angry people stuck in a deep dark hole that they are desperately trying to get themselves out of. This hole is like a dark damp cave that you must navigate to conquer and make your way back home. This is about the time soldier run out of all the comforts and goodies that keep soldiers sane and level-headed. All of a sudden you have a soldier that ran out of dip, cigarettes, and caffeine which definitely remind you of the movie Gremlins when they get wet or feed after midnight. Every little thing can set any soldier off. Short fuses are everywhere, will power being the only savior from absolute unit self annihilation. Only the strong leaders can ensure unit integrity during this damaging time. The effects of The City of Greed are still apparent and the Caves of Wrath only exacerbates its writhing effects. The anger becomes unnecessary fighting, and slowly becomes a soul searing resentment that may last long into old age enduring as a grudge that may never die. Inept leadership lacks the foresight to navigate such a treacherous period due to their inability to understand or relate to their soldiers. The lack of creature comforts mixed with anger/frustration topped off with nonexistent morale baked like a cake of command desperation is not just a powder keg, but a powder keg with the explosive power of Tsar Bomba. If there was a time to question if the Army is something you can do, Wrath does this in spades and it just ran a Boston on your ass. It may be a week long but it continuously proves its point time and time again. The Caves of Wrath suck you deeper and deeper into the dark underworld that is your psyche and pulls you into the deep end after dead end until you lose all sense of self. The Caves of Wrath basically dissects you and breaks you down by asking yourself, “Why are you so angry, and what do you think being so angry accomplishes?”. Nevertheless, The Caves of Wrath breaks you down to the core and slowly eats you up inside, cannibalising your sense of reason to satisfy the insatiable need to project your anger. Its only up to you to come to the realization that your the only person that has the ability to control your fate and escape your own madness. The Caves of Wrath start on the last week of the “Box” and lasts until you exit the “Box”.

The Fields of Sloth (The 5th Circle of Hell): You just escaped The Caves of Wrath and jumped out of the “Box”, so now you’re in the homestretch. The Caves of Wrath has tortured your mortal soul into submission. You’re finally able to see a semblance of civilization, and those hunger pains for real non-prison gourmet DFAC food has been calling your name. Pizza Hut must have made some form of deal with ole’ Lucifer to be able to have such a monopoly over here and with all us gluttonous idiots standing in line for a whole pizza like a bunch of pigs stuffing our faces. You’d think we never ate before. There’s no shame and all of us must be glad we don’t have height and weight the next day, and if you do then shame on your unit for taking advantage of you in this vulnerable time. The Field of Sloth is almost endless with so much food to gorge upon the never ending orchards and fields of grain. You will see soldiers buy pizza after pizza and still will want to go to the PX to buy more food from the food court. It’s pretty disgusting on the ability one person can eat so much food, yet still function without going into a coma. You can eat what you want, but the lack of self control and discipline allows the soldiers to feast in order to satiate their ravenous hunger. Like the Oasis of Lust, The Field of Sloth is seductive and enticing but its horror is how it reminds you that you will not be satisfied because you are still not home. It tortures you with time and the endless cravings for the comforts we so aimlessly take for granted. It forces you to miss the little things that we don’t take the time to appreciate. And when you are so close to going home, the relative peace of being out of the “Box” is a just a misguided hope that makes you feel like you out of the woods. The time continues to torture you, the drowning sensations you feel in the lines at the prepo turn in yard, or the miles turn in since every minute feels like a hour and a hour feels like a day. Repacking all of your gear and getting your containers ready for the UMO to clear you to seal your container or if you’re based out of Hawai’i, get ready to convey all of your equipment back to port in Texas. There’s more then the constant hunger in The Fields of Sloth, it’s the craving for comfort the feeling of being home safe and with your family. That feeling of being so close to home scouring in your mind feeding the slow droning maliciousness of The Field of Sloth’s desire to tear at you by drawing out the effects of the horrors experienced in The Caves of Wrath. Pulling and tearing at your mind, laughing as you navigate The Fields of Sloth, you must drive on to fight the hungers to make you way home. The Field of Sloth starts from the jump out of the”Box” until you finally leave Fort Polk.

The Mountains of Pride (The 6th Circle of Hell): After all those trials and tribulations, damn near everyone has something to pound their chest about. Some have a good reason, most definitely don’t. But many in command positions, they are the most boastful and ignorant of what actually transpired. The overwhelming stench of self importance in the air of self proclaimed superiority permeates so thoroughly that it actually induces nausea. The level of pride a unit inspires is correlated to its cohesion and ability to generate and maintain morale. But the pride should be felt and reverberated throughout the unit to the soldier at the lowest level and exemplified by the commands ability to reinforce while absolute certainty why the unit should be proud of it’s accomplishments as a whole. Yet this is Hell, that almost never happens. Instead the unit is basically forced to listen to the boastful rants of how well the unit performed saying “ this is the best unit I’ve ever seen”, as you can see everyone’s complete bewilderment with everyone all say to themselves in one way or another “we looked like a bag of hot sweaty ass”. As you listen to them tell us how much better we performed the other units, you can actually see the dumbstruck look of disgust and utter confusion on everyones faces as we all wondered what fucking unit were you watching cause it wasn’t us, the audacity of these fools. Although they may boast on how well the unit performed, they are completely ignorant to the idiotic shenanigans and pointless policies they impose on their soldiers, therefore amplifing the effects of the other circles of Hell. The Mountains of Pride are jagged like the Himalayas, it has its ups and downs. In Hell though, its like scaling the tallest mountain only to see that is neverending in a futile attempt to reach the gates of heaven. You just have to find a way to ignore the revolving BS the educated idiots love to conjure up. The Mountains of pride are seemingly overwhelming and almost impossible yet terrifyingly treacherous. Never underestimate the dangers of The Mountain of Pride for it buries even the strong and it is extremely unforgiving. Many choose to brag about the seemingly inconsequential and most basic of tasks. The senior leadership ensures that the hardship of The Mountain of Pride is never forgotten by making sure that all the dumb shit we all love to hate is repeated over and over again, never bothering to ask why its dumb because they are too proud. They feel as though as their knowledge is paramount but their arrogant foolish pride prohibits them from learning any lessons that actually allow them to reach the wisdom they are seeking to be great leaders. The Mountains of Pride begin on a couple of days after we leave the “Box” until we leave Fort Polk, like a true mountain range, The Mountains of Pride are an all encompassing range that also follows along side The Fields of Sloth yet in order to escape this Hell you must traverse its peaks and valleys.

The River of Vanity (The 7th Circle of Hell) : The River of Vanity or The River Vain(vein), is the only true constant circle of hell that lasts the whole entire JRTC exercise. Yet no matter what you do, you follow it because it is the only way you can truly navigate thru all the circles of hell since it is the entity that guides you. During JRTC, we are all looking to do our very best and leave our mark on our units in this journey. Yet in our pursuit for success, we tend to make very nonsensical and poorly thought out decisions. You find yourself sometimes alienated or alienating people within unit. No matter what you do, there’s always a shit decision to be made regardless how big or small. But our vanity sometimes prevents us from being the good leaders we strive to be. It’s the ambition that clouds your judgement and transforms you into that person that make JRTC unbearable. Perception is reality that you can’t avoid, yet for some reason or another, we seemingly cling to the sometimes inept “military leadership” style as the only way to lead soldiers only to find out it exacerbates the miserable effects of being in JRTC. Following along The River of Vanity highlights the inadequacies within yourself that you otherwise ignore or are never able to notice. The River Vain continuously causes us to doubt and question ourselves. In our vain pursuit of excellence, we over commit and over compensate with overconfidence. Like a river that gently flows, whilst being the introspective reflection, The River Vain is what guides us, enlightens us yet tortures us slowly unlike The Caves of Wrath. It humbles you as The River Vain forces you to look inward to see your true self and all your flaws and reminds you that your only human and we are never going to be perfect so you might as well as fucking stop trying because that ain’t going to happen. With all the tortures The River Vain guides you and shines upon you, many fail to recognize the overarching theme of its lessons, which is one person is not an army but its a collection of completely different individuals striving towards one common goal, and one persons vanity and ambitions is not that goal, leaving those who chase their vanity, allowing themselves to fall in battle as we’ve seen in the past, ie. Napoleon Bonaparte or Alexander The Great, causing their armies to fall in the process wasting the lives of the men who serve the country, not the individual. The River Vain sees you through it all as you journey through the Desert of Envy, Oasis of Lust, City of Greed, Caves of Wrath, Fields of Sloth, and the Mountains of Pride. The River Vain flows through it all unnerving and unstoppable, so will you as you endure our Inferno in Fort Polk Louisiana.        

As we survive our misery, we lick our wounds. As we recelect or failures and revel in our victories, us soldiers strive to persevere past the ordeals we all wish to never live through ever again yet will never be able to forget. The memories we continue to relive pulsate through each one of our psyches, off and on as we actively try to forget the traumas experienced that saturates our instincts like a computer trying to fight its’ programing. With the sweltering heat and the suffocating humidity drowning beyond our sorrows, knowing our experiences will stay with us makes some feel trapped in the hell and trembling fear of the notion of ever returning. So many soldiers will look back at the enduring misery they have survived and only see the damnation but never truly allow themselves appreciate the noble and hard learned lessons from the hell we must fight through. The gauntlet of trials and tribulations teach us how to deal with instances we’d rather not deal with. This may be a hell but it should be admired as the crucible that takes the uninitiated from iron and turns them into steel, hardening us for the true horrors that is war. You either crack under the pressure and or slowly peel apart to the bare bones feeling lost and confused wondering why this is happening to you. I’d rather have a soldier do that in this crucible instead of down range in the true hell in combat away from home, all the ones you love and comforts you hold dear. In this hell, we see the good, the bad, and the utterly stupid but we must remember that this is the training we need to be ready for the worst. Us veterans know one absolute aspect of combat and surviving this particular type of hell, and that is you never forget those you suffered with and survived with. They can be the best of friends and worst of enemies yet together you can sit down and laugh about the stupidity you dealt with or the hard times that you got each other through. Each other these circles can solidify those memories as you will never forget how you got a friend threw lust, greed, or wrath. Strengthening relationships, and units are an amazing by product of this place but they are hard earned. Yet in this inferno, this crucible of chaos, the 7 circles of hell are the hell we need to survive the horrors of combat. May we all remember the circles for what they are and be able to identify all our brothers and sisters in arms enduring each of the circles, laugh a lil bit at their expense and help them through. We are all in this hell together, pay Charon his toll and enter those gates with resolve and be the soldiers and people of the world and our country needs us to be.

[atomkrp-blog]

WELCOME TO XAVIER’S, KIM JIHOON !

… loading statistics. currently aged twenty-three, entering first semester of xavier’s in seoul, south korea. decrypting files… mutant has the following records: strength +5, durability+5, agility +5, dexterity +6, intelligence +4. currently, he is classified under tier omega.

BACKGROUND.

i. the frozen march battered by grey skies and harsh snowstorms, finally pulls back as he takes his first breath. his mother likes to tease him, telling him that his first smile carried with it their first taste of sunshine in months.

ii. his parents are opposites, two halves of the same coin. his mother is soft, as gentle as in the incoming tide. his father, a brash and loud military man, as pulsing as the thunderstorm he carries beneath his skin. they are a family of fishermen, spanning back generations and it’s evident early on that he’s too delicate, too fragile for the toils the sea demands of him.

the sea lives in his blood, and so he learns to adapt as best as he can. summer months are spent fighting back seasickness brought on by the tossing and turning of the boat at the mercy of the waves. he learns to hold his breath and fight against the curling of his stomach when standing by this mother in their stall at the fish market.

iii. the kim siblings are a year and a handful of months apart in age. but he, and everyone else, notices very early on the distinct differences between. his brother is younger but he’s clearly been blessed by lady luck, and everything he touches shines bright and golden. he’s the apple of his father’s eye and jihoon can’t help but to be filled with jealousy. for everything that jihoon fails at, his brother excels; the ridge between them growing ever wider. his mother tries her best to quell the arguments, to soothe hurt feelings and bruises. but his father, he encourages it, insists that sibling rivalry will make them stronger in the end.

but while jihoon loves his family, loves his brother, it does nothing but sews the seeds of contempt deeper inside of him.

iv. and because as fate would have it, nothing is ever as simple as it seems. for as hard as he works to try and live up to his family’s expectations, struggling not to collapse under the weight of the world on his shoulders, life and fate throws him a curveball.

in the summer of his 13th year after an intense argument with his father, while struggling to remember to breathe he catches the sight of blue sparks of pure electricity dancing along the small slopes of his fingers. he panics, fighting to stop whatever is happening to him, his voice catching in his throat as he shakes his hands and fights not to scream. with a chest tight with something and too quick of a movement, and the energy is moving up and out, frying electronics in his room and shutting down the power for the entire house.

jihoon learns quickly to play dumb, to keep whatever this is a secret.

v. but secrets never last forever. at 16, jihoon buckles under the weight of the future and worries of disappointing his father. for as perfect as his brother is, jihoon is far from it. his mother quietly worries from the sidelines, asks him to give up in only so many words, but never steps in to defend her sons against her husband. and whatever lies they’ve been playing at with their happy family routine are ruined in the span of a night.

it happens on a saturday night. his parents pack up and head to his grandparents for the weekend. he spends the night alone in the house with his younger brother, making sure to avoid pushing each other’s buttons. but what should have been an easy choice in what to have for dinner, ends up in a screaming match, a brawl right there on the kitchen floor. and jihoon, upset and not thinking, loses control for just a second. face red with anger and tears of frustration, he feels his brother’s fist collide with the skin of his back and he lets go, sparks emanating from him, shocking his brother, and colliding with the surrounding appliances. it happens in an instance, his brother drops the grip he had on his shirt, his hair and suddenly the house is flickering. something somewhere, old and ancient buzzes and shortly bursts into flames.

vi. jihoon remembers the look of fear on his brother’s face. he remembers the confusion among the firefighters and neighbors. he remembers huddling beneath blankets with his brother on the front lawn, waiting in the dark for their parents to arrive. he remembers the look of fury in his father’s body language as he slams the car door, the anger clear cut across his face. he remembers the words ‘killer’ and ‘monster’ savagely falling from the lips of his parents, terrified at the person they thought was their son. jihoon remembers his father ushering his younger away into the safety of the car and his mother shoving her wallet at him in her flurry to follow after them.

vii. 17 and homeless, jihoon struggles to provide for himself on the harsh streets of seoul. he meets a thousand strangers, some sympathetic to the hungry looking boy with the small frame, but most avoid his eyes, avoiding coming into contact with him. and then there are those that he finds, just like him but different.

there’s a whispering of a place out there, for people like him. and jihoon feels like he can finally breathe for the first time in forever.

MUTATION.

it is the ability to create, shape, and manipulate electricity from the movement of charged particles. it comes to life in the form of energy released primarily through his hands, using his limbs to as a conduit to create or re-direct pre-existing electricity.

STRENGTHS.

jihoon is able to charge objects with a brush of his fingers, leaving them charged with little volts of energy, heated, or to act as a conductor for more electricity.

with a quick flick of his wrists, jihoon is able to physically expel the electricity through the form of a blue bolts toward his intended targets. allowing him to deliver a rather nasty shock to enemies or to be used to physically pull and move objects towards him at short ranges.

jihoon is also able to generate small bursts of electricity from his hand to propel himself forward small distances. he typically only uses this ability in pursuit of targets and in areas with large expanses of space.

WEAKNESSES.

water is especially deadly for jihoon. the more water, the less control of his ability he has, leaving everyone including himself susceptible to being shocked. and if he’s the one who is soaked, it shorts him out leaving him completely unable to use his ability at all.

objects that he touches to pass on his electricity must be made of certain materials such as metal or small bodies of water, which he can only use to move electricity through.

storms are particularly lethal for jihoon. he attracts lightning and one bolt with more volts of electricity than he can handle and it could potentially blow him up from the inside out.

jihoon must be in peak physical condition to generate any type of electricity. if he’s sick, tired, or injured, he won’t be able to produce even the tiniest of sparks.

jihoon’s ability demands a lot of energy when used. because of this, he’s only able to generate so much before he’s left drained and in those instances, he’s prone to fainting.

although jihoon can produce electricity from his own body, it only reaches a small distance of 152 centimeters, anything past that will be unaffected by his range of limitations.

[numberonefrancisforeststan]

My prompt isn't part of the hug list and is kind of really angsty so feel free to ignore it if you want! XD I've read a lot of stories where the authors had Spock act like an asshole to make Jim run into Spock Prime's arms and it always makes me sad because I feel that it's unfair to expect Spock to act like his counterpart when SP had decades to accept his human side (1)

(2) so here's my prompt. Spock catches SP and Jim in a intimate situation (kissing or acting intimately or other situations) for whatever reason of your choosing (Spock and Jim had a fight, SP melded with Jim and the emotional transfer made them both act strangely...). The rest is completely up to you :)

it’s finally done!! this was a trip, man. at first i had /no/ idea what to write, how to write it, what you wanted exactly. then i started and it was slow and odd and then it began feeling good as long as i was careful, and now i’m SO PROUD OF THIS!! it’s my new favorite fic (sorry @ His Silver Lady)

i hope you like it though, it’s completely different from what and how i usually write, and i researched some interesting stuff (hey did you know they finished the golden gate bridge in 1937? and did you know there’s already a concept for roads to be replaced with solar panels?? the more you mcfreaking know i guess)

so, without any further ado:AOS Spirk, mentions of AOS Jim Kirk/Spock Prime, mentions of sex, established TOS Spirkwarnings for: a metric ton of sadness and Spock Prime whump, also references to suicide ideation; misuse of Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, ABBA, Pacrim 2, The One With The Whales and a fuckton of odd metaphors

Rating: probably T??Wordcount: 4742

(it’s under a cut because it’s so damn long)

How can I then return in happy plightThat am debarred the benefit of rest,When day’s oppression is not eased by night,But day by night and night by day oppressed,And each, though enemies to either’s reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee?I tell the day, to please him, thou art brightAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven;So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild’st the even.     But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,     And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

How do you know something is missing? Something you never had - how do you know you’re missing it? You feel displaced, a bit empty, searching, maybe. It’s certainly not the best feeling there is, but it’s also far from the worst.

Because the worst is having been searching for all your life, and then you find what you were looking for - love and acceptance, given completely unconditionally. And then you lose it.

Of course, you had it. For a while, you were happy. You had everything you could wish for - and more.

And then you lose it.

You lose it and there’s no replacement, because that thing is gone. Forever. It’s not coming back, you can’t get a second one, no second chances, no winning in life.

You’re alone, lost and broken. Forever.

*∞*∞*

Blue. It’s the first thing he notices. Blue, like … like a summer sky. Like a warp trail. Like a science uniform, like the eyes of a dear friend. On the wrong person maybe, but still … still …

Well. He doesn’t quite know what to say. Not … right, certainly not, more like jarringly wrong, like an atrocious deformity. Everything is wrong about the stranger. He’s too tall, too slim, too different, too wrong, not sunshine-and-honey, more starlight-and-ice.

Perfectly wrong, perfectly right.

He’d thought he’d die here, alone, in the cold, finally, maybe, because he’s not entirely sure he wants to see what this universe becomes, out of time out of space out of order infinite entropy in infinite combinations different and wrong and perfectly, perfectly right after such a long time. Like coming home to a new place.

A difficult concept to explain or grasp, without a doubt.

    “James T. Kirk.”

The confusion on his face is all wrong, epidermis scrunching up in the wrong places. It’s perfect.

    “Excuse me?”

He found him.

    “How’d you find me?”

Not that he’s surprised, exactly. This is a Kirk, after all.

    “Whoa, whoa. How’d you know my name?” Confusion, worn so beautifully. Not what he wants to see, of course - not how he’d like to see it, certainly! - but … he’s grateful for everything by now.

    “I have been, and always shall be, your friend.” It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t break. Or maybe it does, but can you blame him? Miracles like this don’t happen.

He’s not alone anymore, not lost, not broken. Not anymore.

*∞*∞*

My glass shall not persuade me I am old; // So long as youth and thou are of one date.

They have no place in this universe. Or, well, he doesn’t. Jim, Jim, beautiful Jim - he does. He deserves so much. He’s so young, so bright, so fearless, so, so beautiful.

Spock found his missing half again. His t’hy’la, his sun, his everything. Like the universe falling back into alignment, a pendulum with unending weight and no mass.

And then it swings past.

There’s a marvelous ship launching, a goddess in her own right, and her crew is beaming sparkling smiles, turning their backs on Earth with no regrets.

Is this what an abandoned pet must feel like? Watch those it loves and admires turn their backs and walk away, not a glance spared?

His knees want to buckle under the merciless weight of the stars, of years and years lived and forgotten and never happening. Because - because they never were.

Six sets of eyes, blue, brown, golden-sunshine-and-laughter. They never were. And nobody remembers, because they never lived.

Now, they are brown, they are green, they are grey, and a bright, burning blue. Like a shooting star: can’t touch, can’t feel, but all you want to do is latch on. It won’t let you.

What is there to do, when you have nothing? Nothing left, everything taken. Nothing ventured and nothing gained - but. What to venture for? What is there left to fight for?

For the first time in his life it seems like maybe giving up is the right way to go. Maybe - maybe it was enough.

The thoughts don’t come at night, under glittering stars, so far away, held dear in memory. The thoughts don’t come at day, under burning sun, merciless. The thoughts are already here and they won’t leave.

You become used to it.

Have you ever tried reaching out to the stars? Even if they aren’t yours, all wrong because they are exactly the same -  have you tried touching them? Fingers stroking over a cheekbone. The eyes should be phoenix-gold, but they’re a morning sky. And the memory is but a dream.

“‘Let me help.’ A hundred years or so from now, I believe, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He’ll recommend those three words even over ‘I love you.’”

So he will help. If nobody ever knows who for, then so be it. He can’t chase after a lover that was never his to have.

*∞*∞*

    “Do you genuinely believe he likes me?”

Sigh. “He is me, and I do know myself. Yes, Jim. Spock likes you.”

    “He doesn’t act like it though.”

So different. So much less calm. Exactly the same.

A smile the other man surely doesn’t see often from him - or his counterpart.

    “Vulcan education doesn’t make it easy to act on our feelings, if we even admit we have them.”

    “But - he doesn’t even use contractions when speaking! Hell, he told me off for using them in official reports! And you - I’ve heard you parody Bones’ accent!”

    “Jim, all I can ask of you is to give my counterpart time and ample supply of possibilities to change. I am over a hundred and ninety years old, and the majority of that time was spent in Human company. It … wears you down, eventually.”

Jim flips the stylus he’d been fiddling with. “I did everything you said though! We’re playing a lot of chess, we have dinner together, I ask to hear him play the lute, I get him little trinkets, I’m trying to be as respectful as I can be, I’m practically flirting with him non-stop - how many more situations should I needlessly and weirdly bend over something? How dense can a guy be!”

    “Always so impatient - ack!”

He’s so close all of a sudden, invading a personal bubble that hasn’t been invaded in a long, long time (actually, never. Because it never happened), smelling and feeling wrong, and exactly right.

Feelings are a confusing thing, but is there anything that’s quite as good?

    “What’s wrong?”

A hand on his elbow, and bright blues looking worried. A momentary lapse of control, and suddenly it’s so much harder to regain his balance, externally, internally, eternally. Of course it’s his presence that set the timer off, tick-tocking towards doom, the shallow contact on Delta Vega, the most intimate connection, a mind recognizing its counterpart, no matter how distorted.

    “Spock. Talk to me!”

    “Selek.”

    “No, you’re - you’re Spock!”

He sits up again.

    “Jim …”

    “Is it a medical condition? Do you need a doctor? Oh god, I’ll call Bones right-”

    “Jim.”

    “Yes?”

    “It is, in fact, a medical condition of sorts, but nothing modern medicine can help me with. Or you.”

    “What do you mean?”

Sigh. He doesn’t want to lie - his body craves the relief, the closeness, like a starving man craves food, the most delicious buffet laid out right in front of him.

If he touches it, it will wither away, leave, run, snarl in disgust. He won’t be able to survive that. The other alternative - abstinence, depriving himself - seems almost better.

Selek - Spock has never been strong. His mental restraints are mainly born from self-hatred, indoctrinated into him at a very young age. It makes it easier to deny himself.

But it has been so, so very long that he almost wants to give in.

Weariness goes deep - to your skin, after a long day. To your bones, after years. To your soul, after a lifetime of almost only mourning.

    “Tell me what’s wrong, so I can fix it.”

Let me help.

‘The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself’, after all.

    “I can’t let you. This is something I have to bear myself.”

    “No. Nobody is ever alone. Let. Me. Help.”

*∞*∞*

To have known him, to have loved himAfter loneness long;And then to be estranged in life,And neither in the wrong;And now for death to set his seal—Ease me, a little ease, my song!By wintry hills his hermit-moundThe sheeted snow-drifts drape,And houseless there the snow-bird flitsBeneath the fir-trees’ crape:     Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine     That hid the shyest grape.

Giving in is, in a way, always harder than abstaining. It opens up places inside of you - deep, dark, horribly twisted places. Of why you shouldn’t have given in, ever. Of why you shouldn’t have abstained, ever.

Sensorimotor memory is another fascinating thing. It digs deep and leaves grotesque scars, and touching them again shakes you to your very foundations.

*∞*∞*

The first day feels like happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness. Like seeing the sun for the very first time in your life.

The second day is bittersweet. You can already feel it ending, a bit, even though you’re just cresting the highest peak.

The third day is regret and lack. It’s already over, almost. Sanity is returning.

Hour zero, day zero, ground zero afterwards is disgust. Not normally, no. But in this case - golden head on a pillow, bare shoulders and back covered in marks, a picture of utter exhaustion - it was wrong.

When you’re very young, and your mother tells you off for stealing your sister’s treats, and you’re unhappy and angry with yourself that you did something, took something you had no right to, already loathing the bliss you found in it.

This Jim, with this blue eyes and bright smile - that one hadn’t been meant for Spock. And he took him anyways.

He stands there, in the open bedroom/living space, mug of tea in his hand, looking down at the sleeper, and he resents every mark on the pale skin, every memory revolving around those marks.

There’s a chime at his door and he knows, instinctively, who it is. He allows admittance. There’s nothing to hide. Like a thief caught red-handed.

His counterpart barges in, chock-full with questions, and he stops dead in his tracks.

There’s shock, then there’s realization, and then there’s anger.

Selek watches him. He doesn’t have anything to hide, all his crimes out here in the open for Spock to judge.

    “You - you - he.”

Is there anything quite like fury choking your every word? Spock has every right to feel cheated, betrayed, stolen from.

And then his features fall.

    “It was you. Not me. You. He wanted you.”

Selek shook his head. “No, Spock. He wanted you. I’m sorry.”

    “Why?”

    “Why I did what I did? I’m old, Spock. I’m old and foolish and I���m alone. I don’t belong here. I’m weary. I don’t know whether giving in made it worse or better; it doesn’t matter. He’s not meant for me. And he only wanted to help. He doesn’t want me.”

    “But … you are more than me. Why - why wouldn’t he choose you?”

    “The simplest explanation I can give you is that he’s not my Jim, and I’m not his Spock. There’s a Jim and a Spock in every universe, and they belong together. But … this isn’t my universe, Spock. This isn’t my Jim. My Jim … was different. I’m sorry.”

Spock stares down at the golden head on the pillow, fighting emotions that remain unseen. Selek knows them all.

    “I need you to leave,” he chokes out, and Selek nods. Of course.

He dresses himself, puts on shoes, makes for the door.

    “There’s a dermal regenerator in the bathroom,” he says. There’s no answer. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

*∞*∞*

Spock sits down, hands shaking, knees suddenly unable to bear his weight. Jim is still motionless, deeply exhausted from -

Something ugly rears its head in Spock, dark and snarling. From servicing his counterpart, taken like some kind of whore. Jim is his, his, his alone, and he wants to hurt Selek, make sure he never lays a hand on Jim again. Illogical? Yes. But justified. Jim is his! Selek should have taken better care of his own Jim, then he would not be alone.

He trails a hand over Jim’s shoulder, fighting the urge to dig his nails in and mark Jim. The Human moves under his touch, pressing against it. Yes. Jim knows who his Spock is.

It is terrifying, if Spock is honest with himself. This urge to mark Jim, claim Jim, like his consent is of no importance.

    “Sp’ck?” He’s turned his head, lashes fluttering open and revealing crystalline blues.

    “I am here, Jim.”

Jim rolls around more, until he’s on his side. He stares, and then his eyes widen.

     “Spock! I - I can explain!” He scrambles to sit, bedsheet pooling around his waist.

    “There is no need.” It comes out colder than Spock wanted.

    “No, listen, I need to explain. Please!” Jim rubs a wild hand over his face and through his hair. “I - I - I don’t know how to say this, but please listen to me!”

Spock cocks his head.

    “I - oh god - I didn’t mean to - look, I had no idea how to interpret the signals I was getting from you, and Selek needed help. Spock, I couldn’t just - I couldn’t just let him die. But … I - Whatever we had, I -” He swallows harshly. “I destroyed it, didn’t I? Everything we could’ve had.”

    “I didn’t know you wanted - anything.” Spock exhales. There’s something in his chest, tight and loose at the same time. “I didn’t think you’d want … me.”

    “I did. I do. If you still do then I’m, I’ll.”

Spock closes his eyes. He had always tried to quench optimism with realism, or pessimism if his heart grew too bold. He had not dared hope - but he had thought. Had thought of Jim, just Jim, with him. As if nothing else mattered. (It didn’t.)

    “I do.” Said quietly, screamed across the rapidly shrinking distance between them.

Jim is smiling. Their foreheads touch without either of them consciously allowing it, so close together.

    “I do,” Spock repeats, watching the tentative smile on the Human’s face turn brilliant.

*∞*∞*

It’s an interesting trait, Human sentimentality. Certainly one of the greatest flaws and greatest strengths of their race, decidedly not to underestimate. Take this bridge, for example. 323 years old, it would be considered a waste of space and resources, logically, and would be set for destruction. Maintenance and continued safety checks cost a fortune that could well be invested elsewhere.

If you would propose that same course of action to any of the locals, you would decidedly not endear yourself to them, but the fact remains that the upkeep of the bridge doesn’t follow any kind of logical way of thought.

The paint alone, specially synthesized to protect the ancient materials, costs a fortune. A colorful metaphor for Human sentimentality.

If Selek were another man, one and a half centuries younger, not yet worn down, he would surely have chuckled. A joke. He doesn’t make those very often, the references he makes with his punchlines far too obscure for anyone to understand, and, as in this case,  they never happened in the first place.

The sidewalk isn’t made from concrete and stones anymore - a series of large remodeling projects allow all of San Francisco to be powered exclusively by solar panels that have been integrated everywhere. Roads now have a dull shine to them, looking far more finely fashioned than cracked concrete.

Selek wishes for the concrete. Watching where to step, careful to not bump into the man beside him, no matter how much he may want to, yearning for something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

‘Admiral.’ - ‘You used to call me Jim.’

He  used to, yes. In another time.

Now, it doesn’t hold the same meaning. Now, it’s a hollow ache, desperation, a void refusing to be filled except with unjust, unhealthy appropriation.

It used to be the warm glow of belonging.

And the yearning for it is a Human feeling, through and through. Sentimentality.

The pier is more or less deserted - it’s hardly the weather for a nice stroll. There’s only one person, ahead of Selek. They’re leaning over the little wall between the walkway and the stony shore, robes flying in the wind.

It’s for the better. As though less people would see Selek’s shame.

It was a selfish act, meant to resurrect whatever he once was and making it about himself. Selek has lived for other people. It used to be his primary enjoyment, fulfilling him.

A life, devoid of meaning now. And for how much longer? Physically, Selek doesn’t feel that old yet, and his luck has been bad. How much longer? Twenty years? How do you live twenty more years after almost a lifetime without your heart, briefest glimpse of happiness, those few years, so long gone?

    “And Quoth the Raven “Nevermore”!” the stranger exclaims, pushing away from the little wall. “Oh, you Humans. Always so doomy and gloomy. Find some enjoyment in life! Live a little!” He clasps Selek’s shoulder. “Oh, apologies. You are half Vulcan, after all. But do you hear yourself think? There’s more humanity in you than anything else.”

    “Can I help you?”

The stranger winks. “Oh, maybe, yes. Do you happen to know a man by the name of … Admiral James T Kirk?”

Selek stops dead in his tracks.

    “How -” His voice fails. “How do you know that name?”

    “About 5’10’’, brown eyes, brown hair, a bit curly … used to be blond! He likes horses, Shakespeare, flowers, astronomy … Do you know him?”

    “Who are you?!” There’s an age-old anger shaking in his chest, at the name seemingly used in vain by this stranger.

The stranger smiles like a cat that got the cream. “I am one of the Q.”

    “What’s your name? Who are you?”

    “Q.”

    “How do you know - how do you know that? Him.”

    “Mmmmmh, let’s just say I have my sources. But if I may: You two were fantastic for each other. A perfect fit.”

I know.

    “But then, he had to step on the, what was it, Enterprise-B and, well, the rest is, as they say, history. What a sad story. Such a bright, bright man, and he gets himself killed before his time. Pity.” The stranger grins, entirely too off.

And then he leans close to Selek. “Or did he? He was presumed dead. Did he die, Spock? Did you ever see a body? How do you know that he’s really dead? The bond? What if it broke because he’s inside a singularity that transcends dimensions?”

    “What do you want?” Selek is shaking by now.

    “It’s called the Nexus. I’m pretty sure he’s still alive in there!”

Selek starts walking again, trying not to shake, not to stumble, keep his lips pressed thinly together and blinking away the overboarding emotions, throat weighed down with ‘Ambassador Spock, sir, apologies for interrupting, but there has been a message from the USS Enterprise-B.’ on top of the scalding emptiness of knives in his heart, memories, memories, loss, over and over.

The hand on his shoulder almost makes him buckle; the bridge offset in dark, garish red against gray skies bleeds away into lush green, a garden, wild, but beautifully maintained, with crops and flowers; a chestnut horse nibbling on some grass, a black cat with a red spotted cravat prancing after butterflies.

    “Spock? Spock! There you are! What a feisty kitten! Come here!”

It’s a voice Selek would have recognized anywhere. His heart stops, free-falling; whether it’s relief or breaking, hollow sadness he couldn’t say, nostalgia and fear and yearning and ecstasy mixed together.

The caller comes into focus and Selek can’t help himself but reach out. Just one touch. One fleeting press of fingertips against fabric, against skin, against hair, and he would be content for eternity.

The vision fizzles and fades, replaced instead by the heavy gray around. It’s started to rain. Q is nowhere to be found.

*∞*∞*

    “They were thigh-la,” Jim says absent-mindedly, running his fingers over the fabric of Spock’s robe. It is not as though Spock minds - he has waited far too long for this. But Jim’s statement is perplexing.

    “They were what?”

    “Thigh- Thigh-la? It’s a term Selek used, I think it’s Vulcan.”

    “There is no such term. Perhaps you misheard.”     “No, no, it’s a thing! Um, they were like … it’s going to sound stupid, but they were - soulmates, so to speak.”

    “Oh. You are referring to the bond of t’hy’la.”

    “Yeah! Exactly!” Jim sits up to face Spock, excitement sparking from his eyes. Spock finds he misses the warm weight of the Human’s torso against his. “What does it mean, exactly?”

    “Like you said. Soulmates.”

    “Oh.” Jim leans against Spock again, tethering him back to the universe that is wide open and, for the first time, welcoming. Smiling. Like coming home to a new place.

Then: “Are you angry at him? Selek, I mean.”

Spock allows himself a deep exhale, Jim’s pulse loud in his fingertips on his neck.

    “I think … I think I am lucky to be unable to understand his motivation.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Selek is … broken, beyond words. I cannot imagine - such a life, only so few years with your counterpart, and then all the time spent alone. I cannot be angry at him for - for being desperate. For wanting.”

    “I wanted to help him. I really did. I still do. But … unless we find my counterpart, there’s no helping him, is there?”

    “I am afraid not.”

    “So he’ll never know love again.”

    “No. And not even - what you gave him, Jim, though well-meant - it was not the love he needs. You are not what he needs, even though it is of course easier for him to delude himself to think that you are. I do not blame him.”

*∞*∞*

They see Selek again for their departure, the first time since, well, since. The Enterprise is set to a set of coordinates that presumably hold a singularity, and Selek will be coming with them. Presumably. Dear Creator, Humans certainly are one of the most delightful species.

Command hadn’t given them a reason for any of this, and it hadn’t seemed like any of them even know why the Enterprise needed to go there. The Humans find it odd, but have decided not to argue.

Jim’s only barely keeping himself from touching Spock. They’re not exactly out - Spock had felt the need to inform Nyota, and Jim had of course told Leo, but to everyone else they were still Captain Kirk and Commander Spock, nothing more. Delightful in their insecurity.

Selek holds himself differently, even more of a paradox than he’d been before, more straight, more lively, but like someone else was pulling the strings. Hm. As easy as all these little beings are, they certainly are fascinating. You can never really know how they’ll react.

    “I’m happy to have you on board,” Jim ventures. He’d been worried about the old half-Vulcan, but then pre-departure-preps had hit him and he hadn’t found the time to check up on him, and in true Human fashion he had resigned himself to hoping that he was alright.

Selek reaches out to touch his shoulder, and Spock steps closer to Jim, warning, threatening.

    “I learned my lesson, Spock. And I’m grateful you didn’t take it amiss. Learn from my mistakes, Spock.”

Selek keeps to himself. The Enterprise shoots through the stars, brimming with eagerness as she always does, always did, in every universe, in every dimension, a beating heart bright like the sun, a beacon of hope. They all hope, each for their own sake, and the ship carries the hope out into the void, a cheerful resistance against inevitability.

Oh, they have no idea.

A flick, a flimmer of thought, and the Enterprise stops, dead, out of power, shining brightly among the eternal night.

Inside, there is mayhem.

They can’t see it of course, but the Nexus is there, waiting. Not an entity that had endeared itself with kindness usually - it’s a grotesque, ugly thing, devouring, feeding off life energy, the immortal souls trapped within. Paradisical for lower lifeforms, no doubt - that was, after all, the Nexus’ spiel - but for anyone with a bit of a mind to see beyond the veil, it appeared more of a parasite.

Its maw was gaping, tongue trying to reach out to the tiny silver ship braving its edges, like a predator in waiting. Thank the Creator for chaining it at the Junction; otherwise, it would’ve been unstoppable.

The old half-Vulcan doesn’t seem to be interested in the when’s and if’s and but’s presented in increasing desperation by the Enterprise’s crew.

    “It’s where I have to go. Please, let me. Allow me this one last thing.”

Ah. So he can feel it then. Splendid.

Jim Kirk doesn’t cry as he allows Selek a shuttle and wishes him farewell. Maybe there’s a part of him that understands.

And then the shuttle takes off, a tiny speck of silver, a shooting star, falling right into the abyss,  the beast’s open maw. The Enterprise crew doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear it, only the shuttle’s life signals cutting off as though it never was. In a way, it wasn’t. The nonexistent prime timeline dies with Selek - Spock. This one will be different. Far, far different, except for the constants that vein every timeline, every universe, every dimension, a tether to the greater order.

Perhaps it is only merciful to give the Enterprise something to explore here. The Nexus can’t touch them anyways. Their time hasn’t come yet.

So, an oddly colored nebula sparkles into existence, flickering in and out, a proper scientific problem. It will let them discover several properties of dark matter instability years before they should have that knowledge, but then again it’s nothing but a drop in the ocean.

*∞*∞*

The shuttle begins gradually fading away, mattering less and less in this - wherever, whatever. Then, there’s only the forest. Trees rushing in the wind, birds singing, golden sunshine and bright green, stones and leaves crunching underfoot.

The path is narrow but worn, boot prints and hoof prints engraved deep into the ochre soil. Around a bend and over a wooden bridge crossing a stream, until there is a small artfully rusted gate. It swings open easily.

The garden is lush green, wild, but beautifully maintained, with crops and flowers; a chestnut horse nibbling on some grass, a black cat with a red spotted cravat prancing after butterflies.

    “Spock? Spock! There you are! What a feisty kitten! Come here!”

There’s the call again.

The rusted metal is real under his fingers; the roses smell lovely and the leaves are green. It’s like coming home to a new place. Different, but home.

*∞*∞*

Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove.O no! it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.     If this be error and upon me prov'd,     I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

there we go that was it!!! i really, really hope you enjoyed it, and i’m sorry for the super duper long wait. i’ll post it to ao3 some day, i think, as soon as i manage to come up with a title 

thank you for that wonderful prompt, anon!!

if you found every reference and stolen quote, let me know :D

also, disclaimer: i’ve seen the first four eps of tng, that’s how well i know q. i’ve never seen generations, of the poems i used i only ever analyzed one (the last one, aka my favorite). AND ofc it’s not beta read at all or anything, yikes!!! :DD

i think @gumballgladiator wanted to be tagged in this when it’s done? if anyone else wants to be tagged in stuff lmk!!

bye i’ll go to the gym now, i’m mentally exhausted :p

[ariel-herman]

Frost Methane is targeting arctic methane release to avert climate catastrophism.

  It’s a sunny morning in Alameda, California. Olya Irzak and Ethan Caleff carry the white octagon draped with seaweed over their heads, up the path towards the USS Hornet Naval Museum. The prototype is a white tarp bound to a PVC octagonal frame, and the seaweed is from their initial launch from the beach into a strong headwind. Olya flashes a wicked smile as they march to the pier opposite the USS Hornet where a small, retired Icelandic ferry called the Maritol is moored. From their micro puffies, sports glasses and sharp jogging shoes, they look like happy campers toting a tent to another site. Olya and Ethan walk the prototype to the edge of the pier. On three, they drop the 8’ diameter prototype over the pier into the San Francisco Bay behind the Maritol.

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Unfortunate for us, the human race cannot simply move campsites at this stage of our development. Global warming has caused thawing in the Arctic Circle, releasing stored methane from the bottoms of over 150,000 previously frozen lakes. If CO2 is a single-walled tent in direct sunlight, methane (which is 28 times more insulating than CO2) is the rain fly sweltering the inhabitants alive. The mid-range and long term effects were reiterated in this report, which was subsequently declared false by the Trump Administration, highlighting the need for stronger political will to address the climate crisis. In a short few decades, climate refugees are all but certain. According to a World Health Organization report from earlier this year, millions of lives are at stake.

And so, Olya Irzak, Ethan Chaleff and Laughlin Baker are launching Frost Methane to mitigate climate change by capturing arctic methane and igniting it before it hits the atmosphere.

  Creating a Team and a Technology

The ferry’s rear loading hatch is open to the bay and the team is sorting through equipment. The interior of the ferry is something straight out of a Neal Stephensen novel. Where commuters once parked is an electronics shop with hundreds of parts in numerous drawers. In the very back is an extemporaneously decorated lounging area with bits of bedding and tapestry beneath a ramada. There are stations with optical equipment and soldering guns beneath the oceanic viewing ports, and the chandelier is some kind of geodesic with every point connecting to every point across the interior.

Olya suits up in her neoprene as Ethan and Laughlin motor the zodiac beyond the stern of the Maritol to scout the deployment. The team attaches milk jugs for positive buoyancy and free weights for negative buoyancy to control ascent and descent. Their prototype is shaped like a patio umbrella with vacuum hose in the center. The hose leads to a 4″ cylinder where the electronics will be housed at the water’s surface.

Water gently laps against the hull of the quiet ship. The team co-directs the slow descent of the white tarp into the emerald green waters of the San Francisco Bay. The vacuum hose noodles from the middle of the baggy tarp, extending out to a methane collector and ignition unit. It is designed to be deployed concavely over a methane breach in an arctic lake. The collector will communicate through satellites, reporting on the amount of methane captured and ignited. Carefully, the team ascends the device, and lugs the components to the loading bay.

The entire time, I have listened to them communicate to enable the best ideas to be found by solution-based thinking. Today was a relatively problem free, but success is still far away. The following week, the team will attempt a second deployment. This time they must attempt to assemble on the water. They will need to know how to launch the disassembled device from two kayaks and a dingy at their test site near Kotzebue, Alaska.

Laughlin and the USS Hornet. Alameda, California.

Frost Energies. Circa 2018. Alameda, California.

Olya and Ethan. Alameda, California.

Sunlight ripples off the water beneath the flight deck of the USS Hornet. The flags of the USS Hornet lift to an urgent whip. On the pier, the octagonal white tarp catches the wind in long swells, simultaneously rising and falling like sand dunes crawling across the deserts. Olya, Ethan and Laughlin assemble the prototype as tourists enter the decommissioned aircraft carrier.

Olya walks over to Ethan and Laughlin toiling over the flapping corner, “What can I do to not be useless?” she asks. They ziptie the white tarp to the frame. Ethan inserts the exit port at the center, securing it with blue duct tape and more zipties. They origami the now 35’ diameter prototype into a bundle and descend into the Maritol.

On the water, the stronger current and high wind create issues for the team. Connecting the elbow joints proves difficult at this scale. Components begin to sink before they are connected. The entire rig is pushed against the pier as the two boats manipulate the piping and tarps.

The team moves quickly to even out the descent. Their hands become cold in the extended deployment. With so much at stake, there is nothing as reassuring as strong teamwork in the face of small details, all of which the team addresses with support and deference to the best ideas being offered up. They are even kind enough to let me unprofessionally chime in. My specialty, really. The desire to feel helpful is difficult to resist.

Second prototype deployment. The team folds the tarp for deployment from the Maritol. The wind makes this task a bit unruly. Alameda, California.

The team descending into the Maritol with the folded gear. Alameda, California.

Beginning deployment. Alameda, California.

The larger design created difficulties for the team. As the tarp was opened, it began to sink under its own weight. The team is shown here working quickly connect the PVC frame and buoyancy control devices. Alameda, California.

The evening light diffuses in the San Francisco fog. Shadows soften and disappear. Today was a success, in the sense that redesigns were identified and protocols were reality tested. In two weeks, the prototype will be on its way north of Fairbanks for testing in far colder conditions.

Olya gets out of the kayak and goes below deck to change. “Evaporative drying is a bitch,” she says with a smile, shivering in her wet suit. The team breaks down the components and debrief over a spread of Thai food. None of them eat meat for carbon and health reasons. They sequence their experiences, creating an education for themselves based on what went wrong. Their chemistry is easier for me to appreciate than the technical aspects of their discussion. Ethan feels organically like a big brother, Laughlin like the negotiator middle sibling, and Olya the silly younger sister; with the addition of professional respect as peers. They agree to scale down the prototype for the field test in Kotzebue, Alaska.

  Perseverance and Lost Permafrost

The effects of climate change are already here. Two years ago, the Mendocino Complex Fire destroyed 459,123 acres of woodland in Northern California. The next year, we saw the deadliest yet with the Camp Fire, where 86 people lost their lives and 18,804 structures were destroyed. The cause is thought to be a combination of human intrusion into woodland areas as well as a 3° Fahrenheit increase in California over the past century. My home, Sonoma County, is already redrawing topo maps to account for the potential rise in sea level.

Firefighters back burn the forest east of Kenwood, California, in order to stop the Tubbs Fire, October 2017. Sonoma County, California.

The trip to the Arctic Circle taught the team what the field conditions would require. Unable to attend due to a wedding at Burning Man (my own, alas), the team agrees to make daily logs of their experimental deployment in Alaska. Olya and Laughlin spend many hours debugging the electronics. Ethan punch-drunkenly reports the daily toils and the numerous obstacles. In areal footage, the team demonstrates the collapsing of the shoreline due to the loss of permafrost.

It is a bewildering sensation coming back from your own high-carbon footprint wedding to the video logs of three scientists in the Alaskan bush, explaining how microvolts fried  the iridium modem (but they had a backup!) in their save-the-world prototype, not to mention the meta-encounter with a reporter from the Washington Post doing a story on this very subject. Do follow that link for a professional summation of this topic.

Each log entry reminds me how frustrating these small steps can be. No matter how good a collaborator you are, camping food is always bad. And although a persevering attitude is important in the creation of reliable technology, don’t forget to bring a shotgun in case a bear decides to attack your only computer scientist, too.

Everyone seemed tired yet optimistic by the end of their trip to Kotzebue. Their last video correspondence was from a bar in Seward, Alaska. Everyone agreed it was more work than they’d expected. The asymmetry of the tarp caused the gas to collate unevenly and escape out the sides rather than at the port in the middle. As Ethan put it, it was not a #success. His tarp design needs to be more conical, and Laughlin’s electronics and batteries could be lighter. The team was able to measure the flow rate and uplink to the satellite, which was a huge bit of progress and not to be understated.

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Frost Methane is drawing nearer to a design that could be part of a global solution to climate change. According to a critical report by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (the UN’s body for assessing science related to climate change) we have 12 years left to avert global disaster. In the back of our minds is the same understanding – The time to triage climate change, like cancer, is before it metastases.

Frost Methane could be among many future companies that can curb greenhouse gas emissions — provided an economic incentive, such as a carbon tax, is available. In a comforting display of rational self-interest, a hedge fund representing 32 trillion in global investments demanded governments do more to mitigate the global rise in temperatures by implementing carbon taxes, among other measures. For every ton of methane eliminated, Frost Methane could be paid from these carbon tax revenues. Such potential revenues are essential to incentivize broader investment in climate change mitigation.

For Olya, hacking the problem is their first goal. Frost Methane’s priority is rapid deployment to avert an increase in global temperatures. For them, the business side seems to be a means to an end more than anything else.

  Update: This article was written almost a year ago. With the confluences of seasonal flooding in and new babies in the author’s hometown, it was not edited and published until August 2019. Since then, Frost Methane has made significant progress in their organization and refinement of the technology underpinning this critically necessary advancement in planetary stewardship. A potential followup article will address those updates.

A Startup to Save All Startups Frost Methane is targeting arctic methane release to avert climate catastrophism. It’s a sunny morning in Alameda, California.

[coolblog2stuff-blog]

Be all God has created you to be

Commencement Address delivered by Rev. Dr. Jerson B. Narciso, CPBC General Secretary, during the CPU Senior High School 2ndCommencement Exercises held at the Rose Memorial Auditorium on April 15, 2019

CPBC General Secretary, Rev. Dr. Jerson B. Narciso encouraged Centralians to a life that glorifies Jesus.

“I beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” – Ephesians 4:1-3

Our University President, Dr. Teodoro C. Robles, members of the CPU Corporation and Board of Trustees, CPU Faculty and staff, parents, guests, honoured graduates, ladies and gentlemen, good morning. I am indeed honoured to have this wonderful privilege to speak on this very important occasion in the lives of our graduates. First and foremost, allow me to congratulate you, your parents and families for this very significant achievement in your life. You have passed one of the many road marks set before you in this life and we are all very proud of you. We seek God’s guidance and blessings on you as you move forward to pursue your dreams.

Yes, I supposed the journey was not easy. But you have grown in different and beautiful ways. You have learned so many things that otherwise you may have not learned under comfortable conditions and circumstances. Indeed, making it through 6 years of high school took a lot of toil, time, money, and hard work on your part. It involves dealing with some very real and difficult challenges. And as we all can testify, making it through life will include continuous struggles and challenges that we must have to deal with. But the wonderful thing about facing all these challenges is that God has endowed us with gifts and power to overcome and succeed.

Today, you will begin another chapter in your life’s journey. And usually, this is the time where we, as adults, place the burden of high expectations upon your backs and watch to see you succeed. We usually put so much, and sometimes unfair, expectations on our graduates by wanting all of them to become leaders of our industries and institutions. But the reality is that God has not created every person to be a leader, and in placing unrealistic expectations on these graduates, we are actually setting them up for failure. Today, I suggest that we place but one expectation upon these graduates. “To Be All God Has Created Them To Be.” Some of them may be created by God to be leaders of the industry, or to be doctors, nurses, engineers and some other specific vocations. But we as a community must support them in whatever direction and vocation God intended them to be.

Our dear graduates, we look at you this morning as young men and women who have been blessed with life, wholeness, vitality and promise. But remember, the journey that you are about to take is long, dusty, even dirty at times. They are filled with adventures and wonders, challenges and triumphs. Your feet will get dirty along the way. It is the human condition that we all have to bear and share. As someone said, “As you walk down the road of life, watch out for traffic!” There is the unknown future in front of you.

And so, as you embark on a new journey, I’d like to share some principles which I hope would serve as your guiding light in your pursuit of a meaningful, enriching and fruitful life ahead.

The first principle is, Know Yourself. To succeed in life we need to have a sense of self-understanding and purpose. The stoics believe that the first and cardinal rule in leading a successful life is “know thy self.” It is based on the assumption that one could not make any significant progress in their lives unless they understand and know themselves. This first rule is implicit in what we read in Ephesians 4:1-3. It says, “I beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called…” In this passage, the Apostle Paul admonishes us to understand ourselves in relation to what we have been called for because our vocation in life is better understood in the light of how we assess and look at ourselves. Vocational identity is found in discerning who we are. We need to understand how God has made us, how we are unique, how God has enabled us to serve, what are the abilities God has endowed us with, and where is God calling us to make a difference in the world.

I understand that many of us hesitate to hear this call to self- knowledge; something blocks us. We have been taught all our lives to ignore ourselves and to focus our attention on others. Well, don’t get me wrong. I’m not telling you to become selfish or to adopt the “mind your own business” mentality. Yes, we need to be concerned about other people’s lives. But you know, we cannot serve with love and we cannot make a difference in the lives of others if we refuse to understand ourselves. To know ourselves and to be true to ourselves is to be true to God and others. To be true to ourselves is to be true to how God has made us, how God has crafted our personalities, how God has given us ability and talent. God calls us to make a difference in the world. However, this calling should always be consistent with who we are. I think it is helpful to think of self-knowledge as something that we gain when we respond to four questions:

What are my gifts and abilities?

What is the deepest desire of my heart?

Where do I personally sense the needs of the world?

What is my unique personality and capability?

Knowing ourselves does not only include identification of our abilities and talents but knowing our heart’s desires. What is it that I long for? What brings me joy and a sense of fulfilment? Yes, the desires of our heart matters. We always think of our hearts desire as evil. But the Psalmist assures us that God longs to give us our desires: “Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart (Psalm 37:4). Our desires can be twisted and self-destructive when they are shaped by greed, insecurity, a longing for comfort and ease, or an inclination to control or manipulate others. They can be rooted in pride rather than humility, love, and kindness. But when we are right with God and genuinely long to respond fully to him in a way that is consistent with his call on our lives, then we must acknowledge the desires that he has placed in our hearts.

Now, let me ask you, what do you long for more than anything else? Do you aspire to that which is noble and honourable? If you could only be one thing and do one thing in your life, what would you want it to be? When you set aside your longings for security, wealth, comfort, fame and even acceptance, what do you long for? It is worth noting that we will only be effective in fulfilling our vocation if we joyfully do what we are called to do. Without joy we cannot be effective. It is therefore important that we come to terms with what it is that gives us joy, even if it means giving up comforts or wealth, fame or power. Today a lot of people are complaining about their job. For them, work has become a drudgery, a mere compliance, a mere source of income or for a living. It is not uncommon to hear about employees who are always absent, always late and some are even sleeping on their job! Why? The reason is simple. They don’t find joy and meaning in what they do.

In our journey, it is important for us to know and remember who we are, who we are becoming, why we are here and where we are headed to. These questions are necessary because they remind us of what is most important and they keep us focused on our deepest goals. Today, people are motivated by a misguided sense of significance that makes them think that if a person is highly educated and well informed, he or she must be wise and important. And yet, if we are honest, we will see that underlying all our so-called amazing human achievements in the field of education lies an inevitable awareness that we have begun to lose a sense of what our actions mean and ultimately what our lives mean.

You see, this generation has more access to information about the universe, human personality and about anything than all previous generations combined! High school graduates have been exposed to more information about the world that Plato, Einstein and all other great men in human history were deprived of. But with all of our knowledge, society today is peopled with a bumper crop of brilliant failures. You may begin to plot out your goals and figure out things you want to pursue in college. You may get yourselves busy accumulating a lot of information about anything. You may become more concerned about how you can get a high grade and a scholarship or whether you are going to graduate with honors. But if you fail to understand the meaning and purpose of life, you will end up achieving nothing. Skills and knowledge are not enough to face life’s challenges and problems. We need wisdom and discernment to understand who we are and what God wants us to be.

Second, the journey requires on our part a clear and God-centered vision. You know, the most valuable thing that I have learned from CPU can be summarized in the word EXCEL. For me, this word stands out quite prominently and this has been the driving force that prompts me to achieve my goals. I think every normal person desires for excellence. Here at CPU this desire for excellence is embedded in our vision of excellent Christian education for life that caters to the total development of every person, that every individual will become mature person who lives fully Christ’s life in the world. Now, if we want to excel and if we want to become successful in life then we must put God at the center of our goal and in all our endeavors.

I know of a man in the Bible with a clear and Christ-centered vision. His name is Apostle Paul. Paul’s dream was to live for Christ alone and for him—the somum bonum or the highest goal in life is to know Christ. In Philippians 1:21 he says, “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.” Oh, what better goal there is than to live for Christ, our Saviour, the one who died for our sins? As the saying goes: “Only one life ‘twill soon be passed, only what’s done for Christ will last. Everything we do for ourselves won’t last for eternity. Even heroes and heroines and their heroic deeds will soon be forgotten. Only things done for Christ will last for eternity. Very often, our goals are self-centered rather than Christ-centered. Instead of making him the center of our lives we push him aside. Instead of being the director of our plans we simply ask him to put his stamp of approval to things that we have already decided. We treat God as a spare tire

The book of Proverbs reminds us of the futility of planning and doing things apart from God. Proverbs 16:1-3 says, “Man makes his plans but it is always God who has the last words. Commit your plans therefore to the Lord that he may bless and make it successful. And then Proverbs 3:5, 6 says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not in your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him. You see, regardless of how much experience and knowledge we have, there’s still a lot we don’t know, and when it comes to God, there are things we will never know or understand in this life. In going forward, humility will be absolutely necessary.

And so, we must submit our lives to God, and as we come to Him, we need to honestly admit our limitations, our brokenness, our pains, our doubts, our fears and our frustrations, allowing Him to mould us and shape us according to His perfect plan and purpose for our lives. Yes, here we are reminded of how much we need God to sustain us, and we come with open hearts and minds to be nourished and strengthened by God.

Third, to be successful in our journey, we need to learn how to walk harmoniously with significant others. We are part of a larger community. There are others who are also journeying with us. It is important to stress that our self-knowledge and self-awareness happen in community. We come to know ourselves not in isolation from others but as part of the body of Christ. Saint Paul wants us to realize that we will see who we are within the context of the community of which we are a part. We all fulfil our vocations as members of a community.  It is in our communal associations with others that we find ourselves. It is in community that we come to an appreciation of our gifts and abilities. It is in community where we share our gifts and talents for the well-being of others. It is in community that we see how we are unique and how the desires of our hearts are different from but complimentary to the desires of others. It is in community that we grow in appreciation of the needs of other people.

This crowd here is very diverse. We come from different places representing different cultures, traditions and perspectives. We are uniquely different one from the other and yet, we are one. And if there is one common thread that binds us as one, it is God’s love and our common calling to serve him and our fellow human beings. Here, we are united by God’s call in loving and serving others. As we seek to serve and encourage one another, the Gospel image that should motivate us is that of Jesus kneeling on the floor, towel wrapped around his waist, as he washes the feet of his disciples.

My friends, I want to let you know that my hope and my commitment to respond to God’s call to love and serve others is strengthened and sustained by the awareness that I have known you, and that I have co-travelers in this journey. They are there to support and encourage me along the way. To become successful in our journey, we need to support, sustain and nourish one another. Being mutually dependent, brought together, and sustaining one another in love is the characteristic of our calling, and that is what we are experiencing here at CPU. That is how I understand the Central Spirit that we always orient ourselves to. It should give us hope. Yes, we have different personalities, different backgrounds and perspectives, endowed with variety of gifts and talents. Yet, it is the same Spirit that works in us and we are called to work together as members of the same body, the body of Christ, growing together toward unity of faith. Paul admonished, “I beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”(Ephesians 4:1-3)

We are called to build together the body of Christ, a community of faith where healing occurs, strength is renewed, and new growth takes place until each individual bears the fruit of the Spirit. Remember, we are called for a purpose. We are called to serve God and humanity. And so we are expected to translate our skills and knowledge into concrete actions in a way that our lives would become a blessing to others.

As you go forward from here, may you be assured that the Lord of the journey is always with you. Perhaps, at times you might be overwhelmed by the trials and difficulties of life. But faith in God can help you look at life positively and give you hope and joy in the midst of challenges. Stay strong and keep the faith. If you do so, the word of God in Isaiah 52:12 gives you the assurance that “you will go out in confidence and joy, and be led forth in peace; the mountains and the hills before you will burst into songs, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.” So go on your way, with open hands. Follow God’s leading as you continue your journey of life. And may the God of ultimate power, grace and love bless you on your journey. Again, congratulations and God bless!

[theworstjedi]

The Past’s Aftertaste - Two and 1/2

Elutherius stayed locked in a rigid silence until a muscles twisted sharply within his body. He fell forward onto the slick metal. Rain splattered and cooled the open burn wound in torrents that tormented him as much as it relieved. He gasped against the landing pad on the apartment balcony. The condensation of his warm breath fogged up his wet skin.

A heaviness settled behind him. The metal bowed by fractions of atoms under the Massassi’s booted feet. They rested by his squirming calves as Elutherius squirmed and kicked at the ground.

One foot gained purchase on the balls of his feet. The flat of his palm pushed at the ground. He arched into a broken bridge. A gasp grated his throat as the slick durasteel gave under the sandal sole. His teeth clicked as his chin bit the ground.

Elutherius squared his shoulders. His left side sagged to the ground. The muscles fell limp. He was surprised by his body’s own heaviness as it struggled to understand being permanently rent. tendons severed from bone and burned away. A silent crisis. Elutherius pressed his palm firmly against the floor until the bones in his hand ached. The stiff ligaments in his fingers stretched backwards. Pain was a recourse from pain. 

Black spots swam at his eyes. His dim unseeing eyes staining the world a watercolor of navy blues and grays. But as his consciousness ebbed from this world, a clarity washed over him. It washed from the bruised bones in his hand up his arm. Elutherius shoved, and he rocketed up. His figure twisted in a crooked shape against the stark outline of lightning. An inhuman shape, but it was apt; he’d become something more.

The wounds screamed ragged and raw over the back of his ribs, but Elutherius stood on pigeon toed feet. His back locked into jagged heaving shapes. A strange buoyancy filled him. Invisible cloth packed into his wounds, filling them painfully with whispers that clouded his head. Somehow it remade him whole.

“It still--” he gasped. His lips were wet, but his mouth was dry. Elutherius straightened himself, one limb popping at a time. He hadn’t realized some of his convulsions had thrown his shoulders out of alignment until they slotted back into place by force. “It still hurts,” he rasped. He stretched his back, and though a wave of sickening sear filled him, the black faded from his vision, the world coming into a sharp focus.

Elutherius’ lips parted as he stared out over steep blue spires cold against a hot sky. Steam rose form the dark clouds winding its way against the edges of the city. 

“I--” Elutherius stepped forward and his body followed in perfect rhythm. Hot nasty pain followed it as naturally as blood did the pumping of the heart.

“This is power, Apprentice.”

Elutherius turned to look at his Master for the first time. He was as dark as wine, but his features chiseled themselves into a high arched face as proud and cruel as it was aloof. He stepped forward. The thick matte cape flared gently in the misty downpour. Elutherius reached to touch it as he drew level. Leather. This was what leather looked like. He stroked it absently.

Elutherius’ back was still warm and quivering from blood, but it was okay. He felt something enter him for every drop he lost. Something more solid.

“Pain leads to power for those strong enough to grasp it. You are only as humbled as you make yourself.” He placed a heavy clawed hand on Elutherius’ shoulder. “This lesson used me to inflict its meaning. Pain, you must remember, is not the absence of love.”

“Yes Master,” Elutherius said breathlessly. He glanced up warily and wondrously at the large brooding Sith Lord framed against the light polluted skyline. A strange thing to be told by this man after such a long complicated history, but in seeing his Master for the first time, Elutherius realized that pain and the endurance of it also won favor if one survived.

He looked back out over the great city, spread in glorious freefall below. He shook with pain but knew he’d keep his feet underneath him now. Defiance of limitation. 

He’d not survived. He’d thrived. Elutherius thrived in defiance of debilitation. Poverty. Death. Pain. He’d stared it all in the face and spat.

Friyr sat on the bed of the medical bay and bit down on the leather strap as heavy alien hands twisted him. Under the skin he could feel the gap where the flesh sagged over missing muscle. His chest lay flat into the bed. The weight on his hips increased until they had turned sideways. A swollen deep knot pulled against his ribs, and Friyr cried out. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he curled. Only the muscles down the right length of his body responded. The left side was dead as the day His Master’s lightsaber had cut through it.

The hands released him.

There was a sigh from above him. The medical ward was sterile. Quiet except for the beep of machines.

“At your mark,” the deep rumble of a voice said. 

Friyr had never quite heard anything like it. It was startlingly inhuman while also being clinical - a quality he was unused to in alien intonations. Cathar, Friyr remembered the doctor had disclosed.

Friyr pushed his right arm under his body, and winged as sore muscles began to cramp. He pressed his hand deep into the mattress. It sank under the weight he exerted, but pain was not forthcoming from the cotton. No matter. Friyr locked his shoulders and pushed up. He didn’t get half-way before the conglomeration of knots tightened into a festering nest. He seized and fell. Cloth drowned his gasps of pain.

Another patient sigh followed large hands pressing his frame flat. Pressure dug its way into the screaming points of pressure. Friyr whined, high and drawn out as the anger dissipated slowly for a cathartic type of pain driving them from each point of contact. He twitched as he loosened.

“At your mark means at the mark of your body,” the voice snapped. 

Friyr made a wordless sound through tears fogging his already dead vision.

“Quite frankly, O’m surprised you’re alive if this has been your version of self-sustenance though it  does explain your condition; let me tell you summat: it’s not a werking one. The muscles you do haff, you’ve ground down to what looks loik permanent nerve damage. I cannae blame them fer wanting to stick you in the-- what? Jedi Service Corps? You cannae fight loik this; you cannae continue to live loik this. I dayn’t kno’ who told you you could, but they lied.”

Friyr shuddered into the pillows and curled tighter. The clear heat undercoating Frizz’s tone came with the expectation of being collar wrenched up, tight grips of frustration, sedation. Slaves were not well-cared for in the Empire. But perhaps that wasn’t it. He clutched the pillows because his perceptions of his family, the person he’d wanted to believe cared for him slipped his grasp as easily as a slick metal landing pad did feet. 

“On your mark, Padawan Illustratum,” the voice addressed him again. More patiently. “Oi’ll do my best to get you the mobility you’ve wanted fer all these years.”

Lord Ignolis had made him a weapon and had kept him well oiled, pressed to stay at a hair-trigger. He’d loved the way Friyr moved. The way he’d bloodied his hands, but he’d never cared about the cost because it was Friyr’s bank account. The account was long overdrawn, and Lord Ignolis was nowhere as he repaid it.

Friyr closed his eyes. “My mark will take a while to come.”

“That’s fine.” The doctor kicked a stool underneath himself at Friyr’s bedside. “The nice thing about this job is that it’s slow enough that I can avail myself.”

Friyr relaxed against the bed and breathed deeply.

The city sparkled wide and magnificent as Friyr gazed with his eyes. One failing. Ones optical nerve cut. A smile found his face. He wasn’t naive; he knew that Ignolis was using him to build the Pureblood’s throne up from the desertion of an heir, but Elutherius was used to shouldering the weight of others on his newly bloodied back. This bleeding only represented years of struggle. Toil. In  physical form.

This wasn’t the love he’d ached for as a boy; It was harsh. Already tainted by Lord Ignolis’ prior objectification. It would continue to be cruel. But it was the kind of love Elutherius knew how to reciprocate. 

Well.

That wasn’t entirely true.

There was a face he could write features into, like missing words in a love note. Elutherius knew his emotional bond to Quirt was good conditioning taken a step too far. Elutherius blamed his queer predilection towards men and having been forced into a confused adolescence around someone he’d been charged to take care of. But-- 

He shook droplets from his long wet hair plastered against his face.

Perhaps he had cared as a slave to repress his heart, but as a free man... this was what he’d been saddled with. As a free man, though his devotion was only operant, he could explore something once unquestionably unprofessional.

“Imagine how surprised Quirt will be when he sees me,” Elutherius murmured to keep the words from swelling his lungs and the wound. Lord Ignolis’ head flicked to him out of the corner of Friyr’s vision. The new stimulus made him jump, and he stared back wide-eyed at the displeased grimace.

“You’re entirely too concerned with Quirt’ansilm, Apprentice.”

And the feelings that Elutherius had locked behind a complacent neutrality as a slave turned his lips upwards into the first soft smile. A bloom in spring.

“I know.”

His Master’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing.

[malikriazhussain-blog]

Malik Riaz Hussain - Fund For the Pakistani Common Man (An Open Letter)

May God’s mercy and peace be upon us all. God Almighty has bestowed upon me the honor of being one of the most successful businessmen in Pakistan. I feel no shame in admitting that my name, identity, and that of Bahria Town wouldn’t exist without Pakistan, and it’s all thanks to the grace of Almighty God and our beloved nation. We have enjoyed the bounties of our country for generations, and today at the age of 62, I feel I am indebted to our country and its people. If I am unable to repay this debt, on the Judgment Day I will stand before the Almighty as the accused, and with no defense. He provided for us plentifully, and we must show gratitude by being compassionate to others.

Some material possessions make my life more enjoyable, but many, however, do not. I like having an expensive private airplane, but owning half a dozens of homes, for example, would be too much of a burden. Too often, a vast collection of possessions ends up possessing its owner. I am certainly not the only one indebted to Pakistan. My other billionaire friends such as Sir Anwar Pervez, Sadarud- din Hashwani, Nasir Schon, Haji Abdur Razzaq, Mian Muhammad Mansha, Rafiq Habib, Tariq Sehgal, Dewan Yousuf, Sultan Ali Lakhani, Seth Abid, Mian Muhammad Latif, Jehangir Tareen, Iqbal Z. Ahmed, Bashir A. Tahir, the Dawood family, the Sheikhani family, Behram Avari, Rafiq Rangoonwala, Aqeel Karim Dady, Jehangir Elahi, the Shirazi family, the Noon family, the Shahzad family, the Yunus brothers, the Ghani family, the Sehgal family, and scores of others are equally indebted to our country and its people. It’s time that we realize our duty towards Pakistan. If we are unable to see the imminent consequences of our continued ignorance, I am scared that not only our families but also our businesses will fuel a bloody revolution that is brewing due to poverty, lawlessness, unemployment, corruption, and terrorism. This is a clear warning to land barons, waders, the wealthy, politicians, bureaucrats, and industrialists to shed their sloth and wake up before all is lost and there is no place to hide.

I humbly appeal to my billionaire friends to develop a platform to provide sustainable employment. Today in Pakistan, 90 million youngsters are unemployed, low-income citizens are forced to reduce their consumption of flour by 10 percent, 75 percent of Pakistanis are categorized as poor, and more than 60 million people live below the poverty line. What else could we expect a bloody revolution? Will they not try to slaughter the rich who are living the high life? Will they not set our palatial homes on fire? Will they not destroy our limousines? I have concluded that they will resort to any cruelty to take revenge that would surpass our imaginations. If we do nothing today to pacify their hunger and don’t provide a sustaiable social and economic system, believe you me the day is not far away 14 when they will deprive us of our peaceful sleep and trouble-free lives.

You will agree that the difference between the rich and poor in Pakistan is the same as mountain peaks and the ocean depths. In our country, where more than 60 million people cannot manage to find two meals a day, the rich spend millions of rupees each day on their personal comforts. If we don’t do something to reduce the gap between the rich and poor, the deprived majority will take everything from the fortunate few. Our wealth, our peaceful lives, our comforts, and everything else will be snatched up. Realizing my own responsibilities to our nation, I, therefore, appeal to all our billionaires to step forward with an initial contribution of PKR 50 million for a new fund. This fund will be to help poor Pakistanis living below the poverty line. To replenish the fund as it’s spent, we will need to continue contributing PKR 2 million a month. This is peanuts for us but will make a remarkable difference to the lives of millions. Initially, billions of rupees will be contributed toward this fund to develop a platform for sustainable programs for free food centers, free education, clean water, health and sanitation, and most of all for skills enhancement and basic training centers to prepare the poor to find employment. I am reminded of the famous Chinese proverb: “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish you feed him for a lifetime”. Our fund will provide immediate relief by establishing hundreds of “Dastarkhwans” throughout Pakistan, where 20 to 30 million poor people can eat each day in dignity. Pakistan’s rural areas desperately need small and mobile hospitals that can provide basic healthcare and medicines to the millions of poor people. Our fund will establish Vocational Training Institutes, where millions of unskilled laborers will be turned into a skilled labor force capable of earning billions in foreign exchange by exporting skilled labor to the West and the Middle East. Through our fund, we can advance small interest-free loans to the poor, like the “Grameen Bank” of Bangladesh, to enable them to earn their own living and create cottage industries. Overall, this small step towards helping others �� and in turn ourselves — will change the lives of millions of Pakistanis. We can also use our fund for social change. The fund will be known as “FUND FOR THE PAKISTANI COMMON MAN”. We will be the pioneers of this fund. Our generous contributions will encourage the upper and upper-middle class to contribute as well, as every little contribution helps.

I know the people of my nation, they have a great deal of capacity to do good. We should not hesitate for a moment to contribute towards poverty alleviation. The contributions will be financially supervised and audited by a third-party accredited chartered accountancy firm. We should remember that by helping others, we are only helping ourselves in this world and beyond.

I have no regrets in accepting that our country’s wealthy people sleep in air conditioned bedrooms set at 18 degrees with a comfortable imported blanket, while our workers relentlessly toil in 46 degrees. We are accumulating heaps of wealth, while it’s increasingly difficult for them to feed themselves and their families. These workers not only toil for us under the scorching sun, but also pray for our well-being and our health. But who is praying for their well being and health? Is it not our responsibility to do? Are we not duty bound to look after their well-being and comforts? Hazrat Umer Farooq (R.A) stopped the use of honey and meat under such conditions. Why can’t we share our honey and meat with our country’s poor? A King of France built a palace for himself called the “Chateau de Versailles,” which in those days was the biggest and most expensive ever made. Like us, the emperor used to sleep in the palatial palace, while the poor of France lived a life in the hell of poverty and hunger. Look what happened? The poor, hungry people of France tore the king’s descendants to pieces in front of the very same palace. Will history repeat itself in Pakistan? Are we not sprinting toward the same fate? The fate of the wealthy of Iran in the 1970s is known to everyone. These people used to invite thousands to celebrate the wedding of their dogs. At the same time, the hungry masses of Iran marched on the roads. What was the result? The filthy rich are now embracing death in America and other European countries, and are unable to return to their homeland. They are even trying to be buried in their homeland but cannot? I appeal to my friends to sacrifice a few million. This sacrifice will save you, your business, your wealth, your family, and our beloved country. The other option is that the poor will take everything by force.

Let us appeal to those who have only Rs. 1,000 in their pocket to help those with only Rs. 100 to survive so we all collectively move to save our country from disaster. Our religion propagates that “….. if anyone saved a life, it would be as if he saved the whole humanity (Surah 5, Verse 32)”. I am personally taking a step towards this noble cause by offering a contribution of PKR 50 million. I appeal to all who have become billionaires and millionaires thanks to our country and its people. Let us all step forward collectively for our country to save Pakistan from the fate of a bloody revolution such as in France and Iran.

I request all my friends, in particular those who I’ve mentioned earlier, to form a committee for our fund. This committee should open and operate an independent bank account for this purpose, and share its details to all concerned, to take the first step in a long journey towards eternal peace and prosperity.

MALIK RIAZ HUSSAIN CHAIRMAN BAHRIA TOWN

[pqadt]

time to reveal the next big preview! you already know the membergroups, but the sub-classifications make up the other half of each citizen’s identity. so, are you ready to start brainstorming your characters? ☆ﾟ°˖* ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

if there is something you were hoping to see but don’t see, let us know! we can’t make promises, but we’d love to hear any input you might have! there is a possibility that more sub-classifications can be added in the future! but i really hope that we have here ignites a spark of interest and inspiration!! im so nervous!!

further details on each group’s abilities will be shared soon. 

i can tell that everyone’s eager to start brainstorming the character(s) you’d like to create, so i thought it was time to provide a little peek into each individual sub-classification. more information will most likely be added onto these groups when it comes time for the site release.

instead of battle scars, you have shadows under your eyes from sleepless nights. you don't know what's going on in this town, but nothing seems quite right. oh, little one, i know there are days when the air tastes bitter in your mouth. when this greedy little world turns you inside out. but remember this, and remember it well: you do not need any special gifts to unleash your own hell.

ignorant and frightened sheep, building gates to keep out the wolves, the bears, the horrors of the night. they are the prey. and they cannot be saved by a mere bedroom nightlight.

the bereft are powerless, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t consider them dangerous. humans are more enduring that most give them credit for. in the end of things, they can band together. they can create war.

most of the bereft are entirely clueless as to the true happenings here, and happen to be either visiting, or recent arrivals to town. however, there are still quite a few who are aware of what is happening around.

there are some cases where the offspring of supernatural individuals is a bereft: powerless and alone. some of the most powerful influential couples have had children who never develop any special affinity, never have talent grace a single bone.

if only mother could see you now. kingdoms bloom beneath your feet and if you wished it, the world would bow. they will tell stories about you. how you tore magic from your veins and built yourself anew. oh, little witch, there is so much you can do.

but there lies the problem: power is a tasty thing. it energizes, it excites, but in the end, it will sting. that fire fueling your veins can one day become too much. you must learn to contain it, wild one, before it consumes you up.

it’s not all boil boil toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble. anyone walking past on the street could carry a little more something than you’d expect. if you suspect the pizza delivery man, then you would be correct.

“witch” is considered a gender-neutral term. at least, in this town, that’s what you can confirm.

each have a particular talent or ability that they excel at. despite storybooks, there is no green skin, no black cat. but all of them are the same in the fact that what they can do is both a product of practice and a trait from birth. it’s not all spell-casting either, and some think that because of their lineage, they have more worth.

(bewitching is more or less a catch-all group for anyone who displays inhuman abilities; not all witches are into spellcraft or divination. while there are some talents that are more common, such as enchantments, abjuration, or elemental manipulation, there are some rare individuals who develop an affinity for things beyond the normal. this could pretty much be any ability: ranging from something like weather manipulation to telepathy to even shapeshifting.)

they were once a minority here, but over the years, they have since become the largest demographic. they make up the majority of this town’s traffic.

due to the usefulness of their powers and their surprisingly large numbers, most hold very prominent positions within the working community. not everyone is happy about this because it takes away so many opportunities.

it’s the same old tale, the same old tune: you crossed the wrong witch one late afternoon. see, the problem with this story is that it always ends the same way: the cursed is left with nothing but the hope that it will resolve itself someday.

but what did you do to become like this? surely you should have found something amiss. there are so many others like you: trying to shake out the edges of your silly wishbone limbs and become something greater than who you are. but now you’re different, you’re wrong, you’re something truly bizarre.

the bewitched are not necessarily bestowed special abilities, but cursed with more of a condition. curses can affect anything from one’s appearance, to their environment, to already existing abilities -- they are always targeted to put one at a disadvantageous position.

(individuals can really be cursed with anything. surprisingly enough, there are quite a few town residents cursed with such things like even lycanthropy or vampire physiology.)

anyone can be on the receiving end of a curse -- even a witch themself -- but curses are time-consuming things to construct. thus, while some guy off the street could trick you into buying something that gives you temporary bad luck, the truly nasty stuff isn’t called into play unless someone's feathers have really been plucked.

listless, lost, lonely. who turned you into this thing? a shadow of a person, hanging on by a string? it hurts to think how daffodils bloomed along your skin. their carcasses now lay across your chest like an echo of what could have been.

how did you become like this? carved, peeled inside-out, an echo of somebody people now miss. here you are, floating closer and closer to the great abyss. little ghost, you are but a haunted house of ruin and want. you've turned into something that can only daunt.

if there’s one thing that any corporeal being knows: you don’t ask a ghost how they met their untimely end. not only are most known to be exceedingly sensitive about their deaths, but many are very skittish, and you do not want to offend.

they exist in between the physical realm and whatever lies beyond it. truly unlucky souls, they linger due to suffering a traumatic death or because of “unfinished business”. but be careful: some of their appearances will do more than make you grimace.

ghosts are generally centralized to one object or one area. it's all a matter of death and its circumstances, but beware: some are trapped in hysteria.

[ghostsandgod]

…the City cannot be built otherwise than as God has built it; society cannot be setup unless the Church lays the foundations and supervises the work; no, civilization is not something yet to be found, nor is the New City to be built on hazy notions; it has been in existence and still is: it is Christian civilization, it is the Catholic City. It has only to be set up and restored continually against the unremitting attacks of insane dreamers, rebels and miscreants. OMNIA INSTAURARE IN CHRISTO [TO RESTORE ALL THINGS IN CHRIST] The same applies to the notion of Fraternity which [the Sillonists] found on the love of common interest or, beyond all philosophies and religions, on the mere notion of humanity, thus embracing with an equal love and tolerance all human beings and their miseries, whether these are intellectual, moral, or physical and temporal. But Catholic doctrine tells us that the primary duty of charity does not lie in the toleration of false ideas, however sincere they may be, nor in the theoretical or practical indifference towards the errors and vices in which we see our brethren plunged, but in the zeal for their intellectual and moral improvement as well as for their material well-being. Catholic doctrine further tells us that love for our neighbor flows from our love for God, Who is Father to all, and goal of the whole human family; and in Jesus Christ whose members we are, to the point that in doing good to others we are doing good to Jesus Christ Himself. Any other kind of love is sheer illusion, sterile and fleeting. Indeed, we have the human experience of pagan and secular societies of ages past to show that concern for common interests or affinities of nature weigh very little against the passions and wild desires of the heart. No, Venerable Brethren, there is no genuine fraternity outside Christian charity. Through the love of God and His Son Jesus Christ Our Saviour, Christian charity embraces all men, comforts all, and leads all to the same faith and same heavenly happiness. … And now, overwhelmed with the deepest sadness, We ask Ourselves, Venerable Brethren, what has become of the Catholicism of the Sillon? Alas! this organization which formerly afforded such promising expectations, this limpid and impetuous stream, has been harnessed in its course by the modern enemies of the Church, and is now no more than a miserable affluent of the great movement of apostasy being organized in every country for the establishment of a One-World Church which shall have neither dogmas, nor hierarchy, neither discipline for the mind, nor curb for the passions, and which, under the pretext of freedom and human dignity, would bring back to the world (if such a Church could overcome) the reign of legalized cunning and force, and the oppression of the weak, and of all those who toil and suffer. … We wish to draw your attention, Venerable Brethren, to this distortion of the Gospel and to the sacred character of Our Lord Jesus Christ, God and man, prevailing within the Sillon and elsewhere. As soon as the social question is being approached, it is the fashion in some quarters to first put aside the divinity of Jesus Christ, and then to mention only His unlimited clemency, His compassion for all human miseries, and His pressing exhortations to the love of our neighbor and to the brotherhood of men. True, Jesus has loved us with an immense, infinite love, and He came on earth to suffer and die so that, gathered around Him in justice and love, motivated by the same sentiments of mutual charity, all men might live in peace and happiness. But for the realization of this temporal and eternal happiness, He has laid down with supreme authority the condition that we must belong to His Flock, that we must accept His doctrine, that we must practice virtue, and that we must accept the teaching and guidance of Peter and his successors. Further, whilst Jesus was kind to sinners and to those who went astray, He did not respect their false ideas, however sincere they might have appeared. He loved them all, but He instructed them in order to convert them and save them. Whilst He called to Himself in order to comfort them, those who toiled and suffered, it was not to preach to them the jealousy of a chimerical equality. Whilst He lifted up the lowly, it was not to instill in them the sentiment of a dignity independent from, and rebellious against, the duty of obedience. Whilst His heart overflowed with gentleness for the souls of good-will, He could also arm Himself with holy indignation against the profaners of the House of God, against the wretched men who scandalized the little ones, against the authorities who crush the people with the weight of heavy burdens without putting out a hand to lift them. He was as strong as He was gentle. He reproved, threatened, chastised, knowing, and teaching us that fear is the beginning of wisdom, and that it is sometimes proper for a man to cut off an offending limb to save his body. Finally, He did not announce for future society the reign of an ideal happiness from which suffering would be banished; but, by His lessons and by His example, He traced the path of the happiness which is possible on earth and of the perfect happiness in heaven: the royal way of the Cross. These are teachings that it would be wrong to apply only to one’s personal life in order to win eternal salvation; these are eminently social teachings, and they show in Our Lord Jesus Christ something quite different from an inconsistent and impotent humanitarianism.

Pope St. Pius X, Apostolic Letter Notre Charge Apostolique

[araitsume]

The Desire of Ages, pp. 547-551: Chapter (60) The Law of the New Kingdom

This chapter is based on Matthew 20:20-28; Mark 10:32-45; Luke 18:31-34.

The time of the Passover was drawing near, and again Jesus turned toward Jerusalem. In His heart was the peace of perfect oneness with the Father's will, and with eager steps He pressed on toward the place of sacrifice. But a sense of mystery, of doubt and fear, fell upon the disciples. The Saviour “went before them: and they were amazed; and as they followed, they were afraid.”

Again Christ called the twelve about Him, and with greater definiteness than ever before, He opened to them His betrayal and sufferings. “Behold,” He said, “we go up to Jerusalem, and all things that are written by the prophets concerning the Son of man shall be accomplished. For He shall be delivered unto the Gentiles, and shall be mocked, and spitefully entreated, and spitted on: and they shall scourge Him, and put Him to death: and the third day He shall rise again. And they understood none of these things: and this saying was hid from them, neither knew they the things which were spoken.”

Had they not just before proclaimed everywhere, “The kingdom of heaven is at hand”? Had not Christ Himself promised that many should sit down with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of God? Had He not promised to all who had left aught for His sake a hundredfold in this life, and a part in His kingdom? And had He not given to the twelve the special promise of positions of high honor in His kingdom,—to sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel? Even now He had said that all things written in the prophets concerning Him should be fulfilled. And had not the prophets foretold the glory of the Messiah's reign? In the light of these thoughts, His words in regard to betrayal, persecution, and death seemed vague and shadowy. Whatever difficulties might intervene, they believed that the kingdom was soon to be established.

John, the son of Zebedee, had been one of the first two disciples who had followed Jesus. He and his brother James had been among the first group who had left all for His service. Gladly they had forsaken home and friends that they might be with Him; they had walked and talked with Him; they had been with Him in the privacy of the home, and in the public assemblies. He had quieted their fears, delivered them from danger, relieved their sufferings, comforted their grief, and with patience and tenderness had taught them, till their hearts seemed linked with His, and in the ardor of their love they longed to be nearest to Him in His kingdom. At every possible opportunity, John took his place next the Saviour, and James longed to be honored with as close connection with Him.

Their mother was a follower of Christ, and had ministered to Him freely of her substance. With a mother's love and ambition for her sons, she coveted for them the most honored place in the new kingdom. For this she encouraged them to make request.

Together the mother and her sons came to Jesus, asking that He would grant a petition on which their hearts were set.

“What would ye that I should do for you?” He questioned.

The mother answered, “Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on the left, in Thy kingdom.”

Jesus bears tenderly with them, not rebuking their selfishness in seeking preference above their brethren. He reads their hearts, He knows the depth of their attachment to Him. Their love is not a mere human affection; though defiled by the earthliness of its human channel, it is an outflowing from the fountain of His own redeeming love. He will not rebuke, but deepen and purify. He said, “Are ye able to drink of the cup that I shall drink of, and to be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” They recall His mysterious words, pointing to trial and suffering, yet answer confidently, “We are able.” They would count it highest honor to prove their loyalty by sharing all that is to befall their Lord.

“Ye shall drink indeed of My cup, and be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with,” He said; before Him a cross instead of a throne, two malefactors His companions at His right hand and His left. John and James were to share with their Master in suffering; the one, first of the brethren to perish with the sword; the other, longest of all to endure toil, and reproach, and persecution.

“But to sit on My right hand, and on My left,” He continued, “is not Mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of My Father.” In the kingdom of God, position is not gained through favoritism. It is not earned, nor is it received through an arbitrary bestowal. It is the result of character. The crown and the throne are the tokens of a condition attained; they are the tokens of self-conquest through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Long afterward, when the disciple had been brought into sympathy with Christ through the fellowship of His sufferings, the Lord revealed to John what is the condition of nearness in His kingdom. “To him that overcometh,” Christ said, “will I grant to sit with Me in My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father in His throne.” “Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the temple of My God, and he shall go no more out: and I will write upon him the name of My God, ... and I will write upon him My new name.” Revelation 3:21, 12. So Paul the apostle wrote, “I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8.

The one who stands nearest to Christ will be he who on earth has drunk most deeply of the spirit of His self-sacrificing love,—love that “vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, ... seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil” (1 Corinthians 13:4, 5),—love that moves the disciple, as it moved our Lord, to give all, to live and labor and sacrifice, even unto death, for the saving of humanity. This spirit was made manifest in the life of Paul. He said, “For to me to live is Christ;” for his life revealed Christ to men; “and to die is gain,”—gain to Christ; death itself would make manifest the power of His grace, and gather souls to Him. “Christ shall be magnified in my body,” he said, “whether it be by life or by death.” Philippians 1:21, 20.

When the ten heard of the request of James and John, they were much displeased. The highest place in the kingdom was just what every one of them was seeking for himself, and they were angry that the two disciples had gained a seeming advantage over them.

Again the strife as to which should be greatest seemed about to be renewed, when Jesus, calling them to Him, said to the indignant disciples, “Ye know that they which are accounted to rule over the Gentiles exercise lordship over them; and their great ones exercise authority upon them. But so shall it not be among you.”

In the kingdoms of the world, position meant self-aggrandizement. The people were supposed to exist for the benefit of the ruling classes. Influence, wealth, education, were so many means of gaining control of the masses for the use of the leaders. The higher classes were to think, decide, enjoy, and rule; the lower were to obey and serve. Religion, like all things else, was a matter of authority. The people were expected to believe and practice as their superiors directed. The right of man as man, to think and act for himself, was wholly unrecognized.

Christ was establishing a kingdom on different principles. He called men, not to authority, but to service, the strong to bear the infirmities of the weak. Power, position, talent, education, placed their possessor under the greater obligation to serve his fellows. To even the lowliest of Christ's disciples it is said, “All things are for your sakes.” 2 Corinthians 4:15.

“The Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give His life a ransom for many.” Among His disciples Christ was in every sense a caretaker, a burden bearer. He shared their poverty, He practiced self-denial on their account, He went before them to smooth the more difficult places, and soon He would consummate His work on earth by laying down His life. The principle on which Christ acted is to actuate the members of the church which is His body. The plan and ground of salvation is love. In the kingdom of Christ those are greatest who follow the example He has given, and act as shepherds of His flock.

The words of Paul reveal the true dignity and honor of the Christian life: “Though I be free from all men, yet have I made myself servant unto all,” “not seeking mine own profit, but the profit of many, that they may be saved.” 1 Corinthians 9:19; 10:33.

In matters of conscience the soul must be left untrammeled. No one is to control another's mind, to judge for another, or to prescribe his duty. God gives to every soul freedom to think, and to follow his own convictions. “Every one of us shall give account of himself to God.” No one has a right to merge his own individuality in that of another. In all matters where principle is involved, “let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.” Romans 14:12, 5. In Christ's kingdom there is no lordly oppression, no compulsion of manner. The angels of heaven do not come to the earth to rule, and to exact homage, but as messengers of mercy, to co-operate with men in uplifting humanity.

The principles and the very words of the Saviour's teaching, in their divine beauty, dwelt in the memory of the beloved disciple. To his latest days the burden of John's testimony to the churches was, “This is the message that ye heard from the beginning, that we should love one another.” “Hereby perceive we the love of God, because He laid down His life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.” 1 John 3:11, 16.

This was the spirit that pervaded the early church. After the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, “the multitude of them that believed were of one heart and of one soul: neither said any of them that aught of the things which he possessed was his own.” “Neither was there any among them that lacked.” “And with great power gave the apostles witness of the resurrection of the Lord Jesus: and great grace was upon them all.” Acts 4:32, 34, 33.