#for long irresolute years‚ until

[gendzl]

looking through the quote photos I took last time I read Rilke's Book of Hours, and now I need to reread Rilke's Book of Hours.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 17: Call Me Ciabatta In A Cistern The Way I'm Well-Bred

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Varney squeezes awkwardly into the summer-house alongside Charles and Flora, interrupting their romantic moment. He explains that he only wished to get out of the rain, and further that he is visiting the house in order to see Henry. Henry soon arrives, along with George and Marchdale, in response to Flora's cry of alarm. Flora is adamant that Varney is the one who attacked her, but no one can bring themselves to accuse such a polite and gentlemanly man of such a thing. Varney offers to lead Flora elsewhere to rest, as she is clearly freaking out, which of course only makes her freak out more. Charles ends up dropping her off with her mother before meeting back up with the rest.

Henry and Charles make forced small talk with Varney. Varney tells them that he was curious about the portrait in Bannerworth Hall that supposedly resembles him. They take him to see it, and he stands underneath it and strikes the same pose so everyone can see how similar they look. Charles attempts to weasel information out of Varney, but is thwarted by Varney's imperturbable poker face and impeccable manners.

Varney asks Henry if he's made up his mind about the house yet; Henry replies that he needs more time to think. He offers Varney a glass of wine, which he accepts but only pretends to drink. He is not even remotely trying to hide that he is a vampire, and Charles finally calls him on it, at which point he calls Charles' sanity into question.

Henry has finally had enough, and challenges Varney to a duel. Varney's mellow, gentlemanly demeanor suddenly drops, and he enters a rage state and offers to duel Henry to the death. Marchdale hastily intervenes, and the duel is called off. Varney leaves, and Marchdale follows him to make sure he doesn't remain skulking about the property somewhere.

Meanwhile, someone is furiously ringing the bell at the gate, but no one in the house is paying attention.

This chapter is so fucking good oh my god. Chapters 13 and 14 Varney was only getting warmed up; now he is serving his FULL cartoon villain best and every word of it is fantastic. The whole chapter is just one outrageous vampire insinuation after another. The protagonists' hapless conformity to Polite English Manners turns the whole thing into a comedic farce, as Varney winds everyone up more and more until they snap. Apologies in advance, I suspect this commentary will run long; there are simply too many fun details to talk about. Let's dive in, shall we?

The stranger stood in the irresolute attitude on the threshold of the summer-house of one who did not wish to intrude, but who found it as awkward, if not more so now, to retreat than to advance.

In the modern day we're all primed for an association between vampires and thresholds. Vampires Must Be Invited In, that's the Rule. Don't be fooled, though - we are 50 years out from Dracula. The Rule does not exist yet. Varney can trespass as much as he wants - and indeed, has already done so multiple times in this story.

"I very much fear that I am an intruder here. Allow me to offer my warmest apologies, and to assure you, sir, and you, madam, that I had no idea any one was in the arbour. You perceive the rain is falling smartly, and I made towards here, seeing it was likely to shelter me from the shower."

Not 5 sentences into the chapter and he's already sopping wet.

Varney bowed to the new comers, and was altogether as much at his ease as everybody else seemed quite the contrary. Even Charles Holland found the difficulty of going up to such a well-bred, gentlemanly man, and saying, "Sir, we believe you to be a vampyre"—to be almost, if not insurmountable.

Here it is, the central conflict of the whole chapter summed up in 2 sentences - a rare moment of conciseness from Rymer.

The only one not bothering to conform to social etiquette is Flora, who understandably is not about to play nice with the guy that drank her blood. There is some very Victorian sexism at play here with her being the only one unable to control her emotions, but I also think her response is a reasonable one.

"The vampyre!—it is the vampyre!" "Are you sure, Flora?" "Do I know your features—my own—my brother's? Do not ask me to doubt—I cannot. I am quite sure. Take me from his hideous presence, Charles." "The young lady, I fear, is very much indisposed," remarked Sir Francis Varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. "If she will accept of my arm, I shall esteem it a great honour." "No—no—no!—God! no," cried Flora. "Madam, I will not press you."

Varney, meanwhile, is fully aware of the effect he has on everyone and milking it for all it's worth.

Flora is shuffled out of the scene, which might seem unfair to her but at least she got an excuse - George and Marchdale simply drop off the face of the earth until the very end of the chapter.

Varney's command of social situations at times seems to border on a supernatural ability, and it's hard to say how much of this ought to be ascribed to his own charms versus the habits and values of the characters he interacts with. I'm tempted to give this one to Varney, simply because he has so little going on in the magic powers department.

Charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy, although his mind was so full of conflicting feelings as regarded Varney; but there was no avoiding, without such brutal rudeness as was inconsistent with all his pursuits and habits, replying in something like the same strain to the extreme courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre.

"Is he a vampyre?" he asked himself. "Are there vampyres, and is this man of fashion—this courtly, talented, educated gentleman one?" It was a perfectly hideous question.

There's a bit of a "Jonathan Harker asking Count Dracula about vampire myths" vibe to the idea that being a courtly gentleman is somehow at odds with vampirism. The setting of this story, of course, well predates the first appearance of the aristocratic vampire in literary fiction. The characters have no way of knowing it's a trope.

"You allude to the supposed visit here of a vampyre?" said Charles, as he fixed his eyes upon Varney's face. "Yes, I allude to the supposed appearance of a supposed vampyre in this family," said Sir Francis Varney, as he returned the earnest gaze of Charles, with such unshrinking assurance, that the young man was compelled, after about a minute, nearly to withdraw his own eyes. "He will not be cowed," thought Charles. "Use has made him familiar to such cross-questioning."

Charles fares rather better than Henry in Varney's social mind games, but is still playing at a disadvantage; he, too, is bound by social etiquette. The same rules which Varney plays to his advantage hinder the protagonists at every turn.

"I am much attached to the softer sex—to young persons full of health. I like to see the rosy cheeks, where the warm blood mantles in the superficial veins, and all is loveliness and life." Charles shrank back, and the word "Demon" unconsciously escaped his lips. Sir Francis took no manner of notice of the expression, but went on talking, as if he had been on the very happiest terms with every one present. "Will you follow me, at once, to the chamber where the portrait hangs," said Henry, "or will you partake of some refreshment first?" "No refreshment for me," said Varney. "My dear friend, if you will permit me to call you such, this is a time of the day at which I never do take any refreshment." "Nor at any other," thought Henry.

And now Varney begins to really ramp up his insolence. Just you wait, he's still only getting started.

Henry pointed to the portrait on the panel, saying— "There, Sir Francis Varney, is your likeness." He looked, and, having walked up to it, in an under tone, rather as if he were conversing with himself than making a remark for any one else to hear, he said— "It is wonderfully like." "It is, indeed," said Charles. "If I stand beside it, thus," said Varney, placing himself in a favourable attitude for comparing the two faces, "I dare say you will be more struck with the likeness than before."

This fucking guy. He's so outrageous. I love him.

Charles continues to attempt a cross-examination of Varney, and receives a heaping helping of sarcasm for his trouble.

"And yet entertaining. I am rather amused than otherwise. The idea of being a vampyre. Ha! ha! If ever I go to a masquerade again, I shall certainly assume the character of a vampyre." "You would do it well." "I dare say, now, I should make quite a sensation." "I am certain you would. Do you not think, gentlemen, that Sir Francis Varney would enact the character to the very life? By Heavens, he would do it so well that one might, without much difficulty, really imagine him a vampyre." "Bravo—bravo," said Varney, as he gently folded his hands together, with that genteel applause that may even be indulged in in a box at the opera itself. "Bravo. I like to see young persons enthusiastic; it looks as if they had some of the real fire of genius in their composition. Bravo—bravo."

(The lack of dialogue tags is a perennial problem for this story. For clarification's sake, the first speaker here is Varney, and the second is Charles.)

The author briefly refers to Charles as "Charles Howard". Mark a tally on the "Rymer gets his own characters' names wrong" board.

Charles and Henry continue to press Varney. Charles tries to glean Varney's age; Varney dodges the question. Henry offers Varney a glass of wine, to see if he will drink it. Charles then commits a continuity error:

Then wine was ordered, and Charles took an opportunity of whispering to Henry,— "Notice well if he drinks." "I will." "Do you see that beneath his coat there is a raised place, as if his arm was bound up?" "I do." "There, then, was where the bullet from the pistol fired by Flora, when we were at the church, hit him."

You were not at the church, Charles. The church expedition was in chapters 7-8, and you didn't get here until chapter 10.

Varney continues to up his creepy vampire behavior, and finally succeeds in getting the others to snap.

He raised the wine to his lips, and seemed to drink, after which he replaced the glass upon the table. Charles glanced at it, it was still full. "You have not drank, Sir Francis Varney," he said. "Pardon me, enthusiastic young sir," said Varney, "perhaps you will have the liberality to allow me to take my wine how I please and when I please." "Your glass is full." "Well, sir?" "Will you drink it?" "Not at any man's bidding, most certainly. If the fair Flora Bannerworth would grace the board with her sweet presence, methinks I could then drink on, on, on."

Personally, I could watch him do this all day, but Charles has had enough. He finally accuses Varney to his face, and Varney effortlessly shifts into gaslight gatekeep girlboss mode and suggests that Charles may be touched in the head.

"Then I say we believe, as far as human judgment has a right to go, that a vampyre has been here." "Go on, it's interesting. I always was a lover of the wild and the wonderful." "We have, too," continued Charles, "some reason to believe that you are the man." Varney tapped his forehead as he glanced at Henry, and said,— "Oh, dear, I did not know. You should have told me he was a little wrong about the brain; I might have quarreled with the lad. Dear me, how lamentable for his poor mother."

[twirls a lock of hair around my finger] he's soooo infuriating.

"I defy you to your teeth, sir! No, God, no! Your teeth!"

This line made me laugh.

Now, however, the etiquette trap has sprung - this story takes place in an era in which it was socially acceptable to challenge someone to a deathmatch for insulting you.

Which is exactly what Varney does.

Sir Francis, in spite of his impenetrable calmness, appeared somewhat moved, as he said,— "I have already endured insult sufficient—I will endure no more. If there are weapons at hand—" "My young friend," interrupted Mr. Marchdale, stepping between the excited men, "is carried away by his feelings, and knows not what he says. You will look upon it in that light, Sir Francis." "We need no interference," exclaimed Varney, his hitherto bland voice changing to one of fury. "The hot blooded fool wishes to fight, and he shall—to the death—to the death."

The institution of the duel is what binds all these characters to such restrictive standards of politeness. Behind every social interaction is the threat of ritualized physical violence; it isn't just rude to accuse your neighbor of vampirism, it is potentially life-threatening. A conversation such as the one in this chapter is a delicate dance, each party treading the line of what is acceptable to express without provoking the other. Engaging in dueling, too, can be harmful to one's reputation, despite its ostensible connection to honor. Varney, as a vampire, has therefore a remarkable advantage over the other characters; he has nothing to lose. His reputation cannot be damaged worse by dueling than by the very nature of what he is, and he need not fear death by sword or by bullet. He is thusly free to tread on as many toes as he likes; dueling has no real consequences for him.

It sure gets annoying, though.

Next: The Admiral joins the party

[mariacallous]

According to recent U.S. government estimates, approximately 315,000 Russian soldiers have either been killed or wounded in the ongoing war in Ukraine. In comparison, Kyiv has lost a smaller number of troops than that on the battlefield—as many as 200,000—but has probably suffered just as many overall losses when civilian casualties from Russia’s indiscriminate bombardments and shellings are taken into account. The pace of the bloodshed in 2023 appears, by the best unclassified estimates, to have been similar to that of 2022.

For some, these numbers would suggest that Ukraine, with only about 1/4 the population of Russia within its borders today, cannot achieve victory or even sustain this conflict much longer. As a BBC journalist put it flatly, “time is not on Ukraine’s side.” Reports of corruption within military recruiting commands have intensified concerns, prompting Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky to replace many of his senior military recruiters this past year in response. By November 2023, after 20 months of fighting, the average age of a Ukrainian soldier had risen to around 43 years old—a stark shift from the average age of 30 to 35 years old just one month into the conflict in March 2022.

Ukraine is now considering lowering its minimum draft age from 27 to 25 and whether it should try to grow its nearly million-strong military by an additional 50%. Ideally, the proposed mobilization could break the current military stalemate in 2024 or 2025, while also allowing some of those who have been on the frontlines over the last two years, to get a break or finally conclude their service and return home to their families.

Our reading of the demographics and of military history suggests that Ukraine does indeed have a serious problem on its hands. Demographic trends aren’t in Ukraine’s favor and wavering Western support casts a huge cloud. Yet, despite these challenges, Ukraine is not facing an acute and immediate manpower crisis and is not at short-to-medium-term risk of losing the war due to a hollowed-out army.

It’s crucial to acknowledge that troops and society-as-a-whole, are exhibiting signs of fatigue. Yet tiredness must not be misconstrued as readiness to surrender, nor should lower morale be mistaken for irresoluteness. This is not the moment to make Ukraine’s projected long-term challenges a self-fulfilling prophecy of defeat.

Consider some analogies from past wars. By summer 1864, Union troops in the American Civil War were due to reach the end of their three-year enlistments en masse. General Sherman had yet to take Atlanta; Generals Meade and Grant were losing battles to General Lee on a regular basis. Relative to Ukraine’s current plight, Union forces represented twice as large a share of the nation’s population and were suffering fatalities at roughly five times the annual rate per capita. As historian Bruce Catton wrote of the nation’s military manpower system, “Once it brought in the country’s best men, and now it brought in the worst.” Yet the Union prevailed.

In World War I, a conflict of which the current Ukraine war evokes memories for many, loss rates for each of the major parties were several hundred thousand fatalities a year—roughly ten times greater than in the current catastrophe. Yet no major military started to break until three years into the struggle. No one is wishing a similar fate upon Ukrainians or even Russians today. Nevertheless, the capacity for human resolve in the face of immense suffering should not be underestimated, especially when the cause is just, and national survival is at stake.

Kyiv does not disclose official troop or casualty numbers, but Ukraine is believed to have raised nearly one million troops out of a population of about 37 million (excluding refugees who have left the country) by relying on volunteer fighters and a draft that includes healthy men between the ages of 27 and 60. Meanwhile, it has been losing about 100,000 troops per year as casualties. Sustaining the force at its current size—or even enlarging it—will likely not be possible absent a change in policy.

Approximately 215,000 Ukrainian men will turn 27 this upcoming year. However, many of the most qualified individuals have already volunteered, while many others have health issues or nationally required professional specialties that preclude service. And yes, some will try to game the system to avoid service, as we have seen in most of America’s wars, too (even the most righteous, like the Revolution and Civil War). Considering these factors, Ukraine will most likely struggle to find 50,000 recruits this upcoming year, based on past trends.

But the situation is a far cry from the prospect of imminent defeat. Kiev has options. Lower the draft age to 25, as officially proposed in a draft bill by the Ukrainian cabinet. This change could potentially render up to 395,000 men turning 25 and 26 this coming year eligible to be conscripted, in addition to the approximately 215,000 Ukrainian men turning 27. Lowering the draft age to 21 would make approximately 685,000 more men potentially eligible and lowering it to 18 another 490,000. Create more incentives for women to join. Address claims of mistreatment of soldiers. And, if Western aid will support it, pay troops better so as to increase the proclivity to serve (we do not consider it inappropriate to employ such tools within America’s own military, nor should the Ukrainians). With such steps, Ukraine could, if necessary, sustain the current fight through the decade.

None of this is to suggest Ukraine should fight this war indefinitely, of course, and at some point, Ukrainians may decide that an imperfect peace (if negotiable with Russia) is preferable to more carnage. But in a fight for Ukrainian national survival, we should be reticent to make that judgment for them just yet. And nothing about core demographic fundamentals suggests they should feel forced to reach it themselves anytime soon.

[encirclet]

⟨ josha stradowski. cis man. he/him. 29. ⟩ we welcome cregan stark to dorne , the prince of the north. keep an eye out for their irresolute nature, they tend to cover it up by acting shrewd. rumor has it they are for the peace treaty, and their loyalties lie with houses stark and the citadel. you’ll know it’s them when you get flashes of a single glowing window in an otherwise darkened castle, coloured shadows cast across your face by stained glass, dark eyes clouded with distrust.

🔗    »    basics​  :

name:  cregan stark title: prince of the north, acolyte at the citadel. nickname(s): creg, but he’s highly adverse to being called that. however, he won’t say anything so who’s stopping you really? alias(es):  for as long as he remained a novice at the citadel (with no links), he was treated like a dimwit alongside the rest of the novices, which earned him the nickname of cregan the cloddish. age:  twenty nine traits:   ascetic, irresolute, shrewd, disciplined, resourceful, no rizz height:  6′2 notable features: he has that stark red hair

🔗    »    ties​  :

alliances: house stark, the north and its allies (the vale, the riverlands), the citadel (loosely, now) mother:  former queen melina stark née tully, deceased at 57 father:  former king tylon stark, deceased as of the beginning of arc ii at 60 siblings:  king harrion stark, princess lyanna stark, princess alexia stark extended:  prince jon stark marital status:  unmarried, was formerly betrothed to lady alicent royce (now arryn)

🔗    »    into the blizzard  :

following harrion in birth order, cregan has always been quite comfortable in his position in the line of succession. in his youth, he was a chronic daydreamer, preferring to spend his time off from lessons drawing or writing about the worlds his mind came up with. he never took to combat skills, despite the efforts of both his father and their lord commander. second in line for the throne until harrion had children of his own, cregan was left with the seemingly sole two options for second sons — knighthood or the citadel. he chose the latter, easily, and left winterfell for oldtown just before his sixteenth name day.

the reach is a ways away from the north, so cregan’s presence in winterfell has been scarce for almost half his life, returning only when his father sent him raven messages requesting his presence. the distance has never been easy for cregan — winterfell, with its sheltered isolation from the rest of westeros, only became more of a paradise in his mind as be began to observe what the rest of the realm had to offer. that said, he’s what some might consider overly devoted to his studies, so his returns have been few and far between. 

his most notable return was following harry’s disappearance from winterfell, throughout which cregan was forced to accept that he might have had to sit on the throne — which is literally his worst nightmare. at first, he expected to stay for only a few weeks, but harrion did not return for years.

it was shortly after harrion returned that tylon took advantage of cregan’s presence and announced his betrothal to lady alicent royce of the vale. despite having no desire for marriage, cregan has never been argumentative, especially when it came to his father’s wishes. however, lady alicent broke off the betrothal suddenly to marry rodrik arryn instead.¯\_(ツ)_/¯ things have been slightly awkward since, but no bad blood lies between the two.

cregan has forged six links so far in his time at the citadel: black iron for ravenry, red gold for sums and numbers/managing of accounts, silver for medicine, steel for smithing/metals, brass for herbalism and iron for warcraft.

since his father’s death at the hands of grand maester walder, cregan has grown skeptical of the citadel and the maesters with which he has been living for a major chunk of his life. with his father murdered by one of the men who taught him in his youth and fostered his love for learning, cregan is no longer certain whether or not he will ever complete his chain. he returned to winterfell upon his father’s death and has not left since, accompanying his siblings to dorne from the north. thus far, he has no plans to return to oldtown upon their release from sunspear.

like his siblings and the rest of the starks, cregan has had a dire wolf since he was a child. her name is moonface, named for her white coloured face that contrasts with the rest of her dark grey fur. she has been at the citadel with cregan throughout his time there, but now that they have been summoned to dorne, he left her in winterfell so that she would be in a more comfortable climate.

[theminecraftbox]

Have a very brief and unedited cake fic I wrote while waiting for today’s stream. 🎂🍰

/dsmp rp

What Dream has is not a kitchen, not precisely. He doesn’t need one; consequently, he has not had one in a long time. What he does have, though, is more than he’s had in a year. A chest, a corner of the room, these he had. But here he also has ingredients and a furnace.

He has not baked in… he cannot remember.

He remembers the recipe, though, even if it takes him a second to dredge it up. Dream’s always been good at remembering instructions.

Ingredients. Most are close to hand. The stunning and disconcerting ease of reaching out and taking hold: all this food, any time he likes. This variety. Not that he needs it; since his escape, he’s subsisted nearly entirely on steak and golden apples (and mushroom soup, bland and tolerable when richer textures make him sick).

Batter. Flour, sugar, salt, combine, sift. Milk, spice, vanilla. The aroma is abrupt, alien, pleasant. Old memories, something stirring? Maybe. Unimportant. Eggs: beat them, whip them, take tools to them, hard and fast and violent until they are transformed into something new and useful. Combine, wet into dry, fold, stir, pour.

Bake. First the furnace must heat: lava for fuel, efficient and hot. The bucket singes fingers, bearable and familiar sting, old friend. Into the oven. A blast furnace, burns to be reckoned with: he does not blink as it opens, as the hot air punches at him. He does not flinch from scalding metal. Fire cannot touch him. The cake goes in loose and wet and irresolute, and it will come out forged in flames, firm and ready.

Cool. The smell, strange and sickly sweet. It makes Dream’s stomach rumble, even though he’s already eaten today and does not need anything more. He licks frosting off his thumb and fights down nausea.

Decorate. Icing, berries. This cake is a vessel. This cake has a purpose. Presentation is key. Sam will see it, Sam will appreciate it.

Dream carefully boxes the cake, wraps it, and pictures the look on Sam’s face. He imagines Sam watching him with careful, hungry suspicion, wary if not quite afraid, and then Sam’s eyes going wide with surprise and delight and gratitude. It will go like this: Dream will place the cake on the ground, and Sam will crouch to take a huge slice and eat so greedily, so desperately.

Such relief. Such joy.

It will be enough to make Dream smile.

[stupendousconnoisseurpuppy]

The son's warmth

Yandere! Hinata x Reader

Notes: This is my entry for @seijorhi's Deal with the devil collaboration~

Warnings: DARK CONTENT, Violence detail, injury detail, manipulation, kidnap, yandere.

Please refrain from reading if you are uncomfortable with the above!

That said, please enjoy!

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

Generosity. You suppose it could be a bit of a double-edged sword.

Although in hindsight, all you had wanted was to care for the exuberant ball of sunshine you had believed was dealt a bad hand. Parents and younger sister deceased, orphaned at the tender age of 14 and placed in a less than ideal environment - one devoid of love.

You had always been one of a large sympathetic capacity and it had always been a goal of yours, born of the principle’s kindness and compassion, passed on by your parents and sanctioned by your entry into adulthood; allowing you to action your desire to care for a young child struck by tragedy…

You’re not exactly sure, however, how that’d landed you in the basement of your own house with a broken leg and shattered kneecaps.

It was to be expected you'd reasoned at first, you had defied common sense and made a deal with a less than savoury entity.

Too bad you hadn't considered the fact that demons could come in the shape of fair seeming, walking tangerines with an aptitude for overbearing affection.

To his defence (something you’ve now come to consider a very ironic concept) Hinata wasn’t exactly - as far as signatories go - the one you'd even made this... deal with. It had been his orphanage, an institution shrouded in fraud and doused in the bitter aroma of embezzlement that had sealed your fortunes in the form of crisp white adoption papers.

You didn’t mind his clingy nature, the crushing strength of his grip when his hand found - sought - yours… actions that could and would have seemed to untrained eyes like a misplaced and overwhelming sense of desperation, like the shock of betrayal carved upon his features when your focus wasn’t solely trained on him, or the unnerving intensity pooling beneath glittering brown iris’ whenever they met yours during his volleyball matches. Again, this was something you’d chalked down to an amalgamation of a passion for the sport, desire to win and an appreciation for the fact that his beloved mother had come to show him the support he had clearly lacked in the early stages of his teenage years.

After all, what was a guardian without unconditional devotion to their child?

He was the coolness of your eyes whilst paradoxically, providing an all-encompassing warmth (much like the sun) and with an ostensibly boundless supply of energy. Such was the ardour that made your heart swell with pride. It was just a terrible pity – in your case at least - that this energy he had was now being put towards severing your contact with the outside world.

Wanted to go outside? He’d want you to help him practice.

Meeting someone? He’d pout and complain.

How could you refuse? You’d naively attributed such possessiveness to the trauma of losing his family and would excuse such behaviour in consideration of the circumstance. It was only natural. You’d decided to be there for him, accepting the responsibility as soon as you’d inked your name on the dotted line… if he needed a little more attention, that’s what he’d get.

And so, the story progressed until towards the end of his third year of high school, he’d decided the affection you were providing him with, however plentiful, wasn’t nearly as satisfactory as he knew it could be. For you still to be surrounded by others must mean his slice of the pie was diminished in size and a growing boy such as himself needed all the nutrition he could get. He’d reasoned that the entirety of said “pie” belonged to him, anyway. Surely no one could chastise him for exercising a due right over his own property?

He didn’t want to be the occupant of most of your time, he wanted all of it… And it was to be brought to your attention as soon as he arrived home from school.

No sooner had he entered through the front door than he was skipping towards your location (in the kitchen) with a blinding smile on his face, proceeding to grip onto your shoulders with a force that clearly betrayed his cheery demeanour.

“What’s wrong Shoyo?” You queried.

He’d went on to detail how neglected he felt whenever you enjoyed the presence of anyone other than him “It feels like you don’t love me anymore!”, like he’s not good enough, y’know? But it wasn’t your fault, all you needed was the chance to see that he was fully capable of being the only one you needed to depend on.

You were, at first, inclined to think of such proclamations as some silly prank, followed by laughter, declarations of how well and truly you’d been fooled and fabricated in boyish mischievousness. You’d managed to ask as such, but the speed and surety of his response had you becoming increasingly concerned.

“Nope!”

You forced out a nervous puff of laughter, clutching at the rapidly burning straws of denial because surely, he couldn’t be serious, but your dismissal had only served to become the source of his irritation and he squeezed you harder, fixing you with a determined stare that could only have been described as no less than peering into your soul.

You had ignored the red flags and were getting your just rewards.

“Sho- stop that hurts!”

“Reeeeeally Okaa-san?!” He quipped with insincere concern “It hurts more when you don’t care for me…”

It was at this bitter intonation that you’d scrambled back in shock and had prepared your body’s primal function of flight in the direction of the nearest exit.

But were you really going to run away from him? Shoyo, your own child, the coolness of your eyes and springtime in the haggard winter of your life?

Yes, yes you were.

And you would have gotten away with it too, had not the subject of your internal conflict taken advantage of your moment’s irresolution. For in a ginger blur of motion you were on the ground, he had taken a hold of your leg…

SNAP

He roughly covered your mouth to silence the scream, pinning you down with the weight of his own body as hot, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. The pain was excruciating, but you wouldn’t feel it for long, as with a swift hook to the jaw you were out cold. It hurt for him to have to utilize violence on the one he cherished; however, it’d seem a tad counterintuitive for him to give you the opportunity to run away.

You’d forgive him, you’d come around. You always did.

He’d swept you up and carried you to the large basement of the house, gently placing you on a worn settee; sickly ochre in colour - the one you’d been meaning to dispose of for years. His actions were soft and caring and his thoughts clouded almost entirely with his overwhelming love for you.

In passing hours he observed your peaceful state mindfully as his core pulsated in the cosy warmth of his rib cage, imagining what a future found solely in each other’s embrace would hold… eventually you’d stay of your own accord, he reasoned. He’d have no need to harm you or to keep you under the low, flickering lights of the basement. Defiance would become a thing of the past. You’d realise how happy you are he’d made the decisions for you, both of you, together…

“Why?” That was a question you sometimes took to asking yourself; more out of pure, unadulterated boredom than anything else. Something you’d already explored the answer to but thought it better to keep your mind occupied with trivial matters than to succumb to insanity (or the intensifying ache of your battered legs).

On that same note, though, contact with the world outside wasn’t the only thing he’d severed.

At the time, such an observation had very nearly made you laugh (and you could probably blame it on the fact that you’d always been quite partial to the more gruesome forms of satire). It was in an impulsive burst of inappropriate and rather facetious humour that you’d wanted to entertain yourself in the recital of depressing hymns (expected, given the nature of your surroundings), to congratulate your stupidity and wallow deeper into the marshes your own self-pity; only to be met with the simple fact that you didn’t have the option.

Your tongue? Gone.

And it hadn’t been the work of the proverbial cat, but your own son, who – cheery as always – had explained that it was another necessary action to stop you from hurting yourself, done behind the ever-wise teaching that prevention was indeed, better than cure. Could you not see he only wanted what was best for you?

It was then you were sure he’d dangerously distorted his self-awarded role as your protector and had lost his mind.

“Okaa-San, Its aright…” He beamed whilst you’d engaged in silently cursing your weak will “You won’t feel a thing!” - he flashed a guilty smile - after I knock you out…again.

And you didn’t. He’d sutured the wound (with what you really didn’t want to know) and made sure you didn’t choke on your own life juices, patching you up like the loving, doting son that he is… It was your job not to worry about the extremity of his actions, as a mother that should do everything in their power to put their beloved’s mind at ease.

Saved from the fate of Exsanguination… shows how much he adores you right? Not that you'd had half the courage or audacity to end your own life in such a macabre fashion, but even if you hadn’t been relieved of the burden of speech; you weren’t one to shatter another’s fantasies - especially if they were high school athletes with inhuman amounts of strength.

In the passing weeks, your mind had dawned upon the realisation that no one was coming to save you - and did you even need saving? – for your parents were far too busy, friends far too distant and dashing officer that’d do everything in his power far too non-existent. Shoyo was the only one who had cared for you, providing you with physical and emotional sustenance you’d never thought you needed - maybe for the reason that he had made himself the only source.

Another thing you’d come to realise, this time regarding unintelligible murmurs, is that they are very much open to interpretation. So even though his barrage of saccharine words were met with your limited arsenal of what might be considered responses, they been understood as absolute agreement, alongside the reciprocation of his affections. Which, to be honest, wasn’t that far off from the truth, as it was by that point, you’d learned the path of resistance was futile and that you were beginning to get used to (and even bask in) the flattery and praise he showered you with, silently and psychologically solidifying the notion that he was yours and you were his.

“You’ll stay with me forever right, Okaa-San?”

He giggled, placing a soft, lingering kiss upon your lips as if he were certain of your answer. And so were you. However, when he looked at you, tenderly caressing your form there was something amiss, a dormant hunger that hadn’t been there before, one that when coupled with the intensity he’d always regarded you with gave birth to towering waves of nausea and accentuated the persistent throb of your injured legs as if in subtle warning…

But you could deal with that later.

Because, despite the fact that his, short, brilliant orange hair had grown long and luscious with time and his scrawny figure had evolved into a mass of lean muscle, he still looked to you … like he did the first day he entered your care. Young, innocent and without fault. Unfairly dealt a bad hand and with you tasked to be the provider of everything he never had. So, as per the contract signed…

You nodded.

After all, what was a guardian without unconditional devotion to their child?

[angxlyxn]

forever - eren x f. reader

summary: Eren comes bearing a gift for his love.

warnings: mentions of abuse, blood, descriptions of wounds/bruises, kidnapping, yandere content but its sorta soft(ish)

a/n: I wrote this for a friend, and I apologize if its ooc :/ I don’t know Eren’s character that well because this story is centered around older Eren (season four), and I haven’t read much of the manga.

word count: ~1.9k

How long had it been?  

How many weeks had you been here, under his “care”?

Whether it was months or weeks, or maybe even years, you did not know.  All you were able to discern was the cold tile beneath your body, as well as your stiff limbs that were spread out upon it.  Your eyes fluttered open, lashes grazing against the bruise that sat comfortably on your left eye, the gradually yellowing mark feeling more like a brand than a black eye.  You rubbed your restrained palms against each other in an attempt to create just a bit of heat for yourself, but all that you really accomplished was gaining a few more rope burns on your wrist.  You shifted your bound ankles, trying to gain back any sense of mobility as you lay stagnantly upon the uneven flooring.  Looking down at your legs, you saw the various bruises and lacerations dotting them, shades of violet, red, and yellow dancing over your previously spotless skin.  Your glossy eyes were glazed over, about as void of life and awareness as your mind was.  It was as though you had undergone infantilization since you had been with him, you had lost touch with reality and become so useless because of his insistence on doing everything for you.  It made you sick just thinking about it.  You hated feeling inept, and you despised the feeling of powerlessness.  There was only one thing you hated more than these things though, and that was Eren.  

Eren.  His name felt far too familiar in your mind, the word a fleck of dirt upon your otherwise at ease brain.  The boy who you used to be so close to, the little kid who couldn’t intimidate a fly even if he tried.  You had gotten into your fair share of fights as a kid, but you always ended up being far too small to ever win any.  With Eren, it was half and half.  He would lose some, and win some.  Most of the ones that he would win would be the fights which you would team up in, what with your stealthiness and his anger.  That was one thing that certainly hadn’t ever changed about the boy.  As a kid he was more direct, more predictable.  His bouts of rage came in patterns, and you were usually able to subdue his more unsavory emotions relatively swiftly.  But now, as one might be able to infer from the sorry state of your crippled body, he was erratic, his temper having turned years ago from formulaic and obvious to completely incalculable.  You hated it.  You hated everything about his personality.  You hated him.  

Although, you weren’t entirely sure if you could bring yourself to completely loathe the brunette.  It truly was a complicated situation.  Feelings of affection and fondness for him left over from your childhood were still persistently blooming within you, rising through your lungs and up your throat and choking you out.  You could say that you hated him a million times over, scream it at the top of your lungs, but you weren’t sure if it would ever be true.  It couldn’t be.  A shred of the boy you used to know must still be within him, buried beneath layers and layers of cruelty and unfeeling.  He had to be there.  And when you think about his old self, his stable, grounded words and determined being, you cringe a bit whenever you so much as think about hating Eren.  

You just couldn’t believe how much he had changed.  

As if on cue, a lock clicked, and a stream of light shone over your body, the harsh brightness of the sun pooling around your form.  A rough hum of approval echoed throughout the room, the tired voice bouncing off of the walls and flooding your mind, the simple sound somehow being enough to make your ears ring.  Another click, this time the door being shut and bolted behind the tall brunette.  Your body involuntarily shivered as he began to approach you, your frame jolting off the floor with each step he took.  He crouched before you, his form nothing more than a silhouette in your tear-filled vision.

The boy placed what appeared to be a tissue-wrapped package down in front of you, shifting onto his knees and tilting his head at your tears.  A calloused hand gripped your jaw gently, yet in a manner that still demanded your attention and obedience.  

“Angel,” he murmured.  He never talked much these days, with the exception of whenever he got angry.  “I went into town.”

You finally brought yourself to look up at him, shifting awkwardly until you had propped yourself up against the wall behind you.  You hesitantly gazed at him with glassy eyes, your expression inquisitive and slightly pained.  

A few moments of silence passed between the two of you, the only sound being the methodical ticking of the grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the otherwise desolate cabin which you were stuffed away in.  He averted his eyes, breaking eye contact with you in favor of looking down at the package that he had brought in.  He mumbled something under his breath about money as he nudged the parcel towards you, retrieving a small switchblade from his pocket after doing so.  At the sight of the glinting blade you began to shuffle away from him, your bare feet catching on the billowy dress that Eren had picked out for you and scraping pathetically against the floor.  

Before you could get too far, however, he grabbed your shoulder, his scarred fingers wrapping around your creamy arm with an iron-clad grip.  He pulled you forward with a great force, causing you to tumble onto your stomach and fall before him, face pressing uncomfortably into the flooring beneath you.  He wrestled with your hands, pulling them in towards one another and grasping your wrists together.  You squirmed feverishly under his grip, wondering what you had done to make him want to hurt you.  Bracing yourself for the pain, you squeezed your eyes shut and kicked your legs pitifully as you felt the blade grow closer to your arms.  

However, all you felt was the release of your wrists, oxygen hitting the open gashes that had formed all over your lower arms as a result of rope burn.  As he brought his blade back into his chest, the tip of it nicked the side of your forehead, which was still pressed down into the ground.  Tears sprung from eyes as a bit of blood poured from the wound, the crimson substance dripping down your face and mingling with your crystal tears.  

“Sit up,” he said as he looked down upon you.  You complied with a bit of irresolution, your body faltering as you shifted to sit, using your numb hands to shove against the stony tiles.  After you had resituated yourself, he grasped both of your hands between his.  You flinched away, pulling your hands into your chest at the foreign feelings of his warm palms against yours.

He glared at your action, eyes darkening over and brow furrowing in contempt.  

“Y/n,” he said in a warning voice.  “Hands.  I went to the trouble of getting something for you.  Let me give it to you.  Please, my love.”

You reached out your hands to him, allowing the brunette to grasp your small fists between his disproportionately large ones, pressing the package tenderly into your hands as he did so.  Tentatively, you allowed yourself to gaze down at the parcel, your eyes drifting over the slightly crinkled tissue paper.  One of your fingers grazed over the gift, pulling the tissue up from one side of it to reveal a gleaming object.  You tore open the rest of the package, the silence filling the room still incredibly deafening.  

Words still did not find you as you revealed the gift, which was a small brass hair clip with a metal flower fastened to the end.  You discarded the tissue, instead opting to hold the barrette loosely, the cool iron brushing up against your warmed hands.  You averted your eyes as you felt his palms come into contact with yours once more, grasping the hair clip and twisting it between his slim digits.  

You felt a bit of hair being moved from your vision, the tangled locks effectively pushed out of your face by your captor, who only gave a small smile as he readjusted your tresses.  He clipped the barrette onto your hair, the heavy clip pulling slightly against your scalp after he let go.  He leaned back, his eyes shifting from jaded to soft, pupils dilating and lids opening a bit as he drank in your appearance, which couldn’t have been pleasant.  Weeks without being let out of your binds had caused some dirt to clump in your hair, and your face had surely become weathered and deadened.  

Yet he still looked at you as though you were God himself, like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  You reckon that Eren used to look up to you when you both were younger, his eyes lighting up ever so slightly every time he would come into contact with you.  But this was different.  While you were in the Survey Corps, combat training with him always consisted of him holding back on fights that should have been balanced and him murmuring something about ‘not wanting to break you’.  You always took it with a grain of salt, thinking he was just being cocky by restraining himself, but it seems you were wrong, on more than one account.  It was now apparent that he seemed to think of you as some prized possession, one that was “far too good for the outside world”, as he would say.  

He still hurt you though.  “Even Goddesses need to be kept in check” was always what he said as he cut into your skin, or hit you around whenever he had a particularly shitty day.  Honestly, his treatment of you was far more confusing than it was cruel.

But maybe it was better that way.

You were brought back from your thoughts by the feeling of something rubbing against your cheek, namely Eren’s hand.  He brought his fingers up to your eyes, brushing away the tears that sat upon your lashes, and then the blood that had dripped down your face.  His touch mingled the two substances together, painting the skin on your face with a shade of watery red as he dragged his digits down your cheeks.  

Pulling his hands away, he looked at your uncomfortable form, your quivering lips and shaking hands making their presence far too obvious.  

Yet he still looked upon you gently, his mouth twisting upwards into a smile.  

“You’re always so beautiful for me,” He said, his words impassioned, yet soft.  

“I’m so glad that I get to have you, forever.”

[mnetha]

You many unassaulted cities: Have you never yearned for the enemy? Yearned that he might beseige you for long irresolute years, until in hopelessness and hunger you receive him? He extends like the land beyond your walls, and he knows he can hold out longer.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (tr. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

[sabra60]

A beautiful love poem to God:

You many unassaulted cities:

Have you never yearned for the enemy,

that he might besiege you

for long, irresolute years, until

in hopelessness and hunger you receive him?

He extends like the land beyond your walls,

and he knows he can hold out longer.

Look from your balconies:

there he camps. He does not tire

or diminish in size or strength.

He sends no messengers to threaten

or to promise or persuade.

He who will overcome you

is working in silence.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

[hyuckshaze]

Drowning in the Distance | Chapter XVI

✩‌ haechan ‌x‌ ‌fem!reader‌ ‌|‌ terminal illness au! series ✩

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ confined to a life of detachment from the only people on earth who understand them, the patients of saint evangeline’s can only watch as those around them drown in themselves, in more ways than one, while they themselves drown, in a much more literal sense. haechan is tired, tired of moving from place to place with no real chance of getting better. y/n is tired too, tired of living solely for the purpose of staying alive. maybe, just maybe, despite the space that separates them, they can guide each other to a life worth living.

WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ ongoing theme of terminal illness (cystic fibrosis); talk of christianity, the afterlife, heaven/hell, death; ongoing mention of surgeries, scars, medications, drug trials etc.

CHAPTER WORD COUNT ⇾‌ 3.71k

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

XVI | Donghyuck

✩‌

I stare out at the twinkling lights in the distance, my legs dangling over the side of the roof, my fingers reaching to replay the voicemail that she left me after her surgery. I play it over and over and over again over the last few days, just to hear her drowsy voice on the other end. I can recite it word for word now. I miss her. Her lame jokes, her cheerful presence, her stupid laugh, her bossy attitude. All of it. My gaze falls unconsciously, down four stories to the window of room 302. The room is dark except for the soft light from her desk lamp. She sits at the desk, her brow furrowed in concentration as she fiercely taps at the keys on her laptop, her wavy hair tied in a really messy up-do, neither a ponytail or a bun. I frown slightly. What is she doing this late at night? It’s getting late, she should take a break. I let my eyes trace over her features, taking in her skin, her lips, her eyes. Is she still thinking about me? I feel a prickle of cold upon my forehead, glancing up at the sky as a gentle flurry of snow is starting to fall and add to the already thick blanket that coats the city. I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of icy flakes landing upon the skin of my face. With all my moving around, I must have been on the roof of at least 20 hospitals over the years. I’ve looked down at the city below, watching the world go by and leave me behind, experiencing the same thing at every single one, regardless of the country or the scenery; a feeling of longing. An irresolute yearning to be walking through the streets alongside the people who parade them, or swimming in the ocean with the unknown creatures that inhabit it… A longing to live life in a way I’ve never had the chance to. My entire life, I’ve been wanting something that I couldn’t have, something that was out of reach. But now what I want isn’t out there. It isn’t a thousand miles away. It’s right here. It’s close enough to touch. But I can’t. Until now, I didn’t want anything serious. I loved not catching feelings and moving away before anything could develop further. Honestly, I don’t think I believed in love, as sad as it sounds. I certainly didn’t think or even know that it was possible to want something so bad, to have so much desire for something that you feel it in your arms and your legs and in every breath that passes through your lungs.

 I’m pulled from my thoughts when the sound of her voice in the voicemail cuts out for a moment, a dinging sound coming from my phone. I look down, ready to flick the notification away, only to see a notification from her app, a tiny cartoon bottle dancing next to the words: Night-time meds! I don’t swipe it away. The notification eventually times out and the voicemail starts back up, the animation passing and I’m left staring at my reflection in the black screen as she finishes speaking and ends the call. I can’t even explain why I’m still doing this. I truly don’t know why. I allow myself to look down at her, appreciating her moonlit beauty for a moment before I stand, pulling myself over the ledge and onto the roof, striding over to the door and grabbing my wallet, as well as a newly-folded note, before the metal slams shut behind me. I slowly make my way down the stairs and back to the third floor, peering out of the doors and looking to my left and right, ensuring that no one is in the hallway before sneaking back into the ward and down to room 315. I pull my door shut, as quietly as I can so that I don’t alert anyone of my return and, therefore, my absence. I cross the room and stand in front of the med cart, mixing my allocated meds together in a cup of pudding, taking them just the way she taught me. As I swallow down a spoonful of chocolate dessert and pills, I stare at a drawing on my desk. It’s one that I did earlier today, depicting myself as the Grim Reaper, the blade of my scythe reading: “LOVE.” My eyes wander up to the drawing of Y/N from the yoga room, still pinned up above my desk. I can’t bring myself to take it down, nor to give it to her. I take a deep breath, throwing the empty cup into the bin over by the door, when my phone pings loudly. I pull it from my pocket, seeing a text from Wendy.

You still doing okay?

With a loud sigh, I pull my hoodie from my body, throwing it over the back of the chair by my desk, and send her a text back, fingers moving to press the letters and send before I can even think about what I’m writing. I scoff at what’s left on the screen and throw it onto the bed. What a load of bullshit.

Yeah, I’m fine.

I set up my G-tube for an overnight feed and climb under the sheets of the bed. I grab my laptop from the side table and open it, typing in my password and waiting for it to start up. Once it does, I pull up a tab and open YouTube, clicking on a suggested video of Y/N’s that I’ve already seen twice. God, when did I become so pathetic, wallowing in self-pity like this? Johnny and Wendy wouldn’t even recognise me now. The guy who said he didn’t want to be hung up on any girls, the guy who said that feelings were a waste of time because I didn’t have much time left, the guy who insisted that he didn’t really believe in love. Honestly, if you’d have told me a month ago that I’d be doing what I’m doing now in just four short weeks, I’d have laughed in your face. I’d have told you that you’re crazy, that I’d never do anything like that, that you must have the wrong person. But here I am. I watch intently, studying the way her tongue pokes at the side of her cheek either when she’s concentrating super hard or when she’s irritated and the way she throws her head backwards when she laughs that stupid, contagious laugh that makes your heart flutter in your chest. I watch the way she looks at her older sister, when they’re singing together or when they sit together pre-surgery and Yeji sings her the song. I watch the way she cares for her parents, trying not to worry them when she talks about her procedures and the pain she’s in, knowing that they’ll watch the videos back later. I watch the joy in her eyes as she messes around with her friends, running up and down the halls of hospitals and giggling in their classrooms as they pass notes. I watch her and all the things she does… But, most of all, I watch the way that people love her. I watch, and I see it in more than just her parents, her friends and Yeji. It goes further than that. I see it in Jaemin’s eyes, and Doyoung’s eyes, and Irene’s eyes, and in Dr. Moon’s eyes. I see it in all of her classmates. I see it in every doctor and every nurse and every person who has the absolute pleasure of meeting her. Even her fucking YouTube comments are all complementary, unlike on every other video on the site. The truth is that Y/N L/N is everybody’s joy, their light. She inspires everyone, day in, day out, and makes those around her fall in love with her without even realising. I feel my eyes prick, my throat closing in on itself as emotion wells up inside me. I close my laptop, putting it on the side table once more, and turn off the light using the switch next to the bed. And then I lie there in the moonlight-bathed room, staring up at the ceiling and breathing deeply, feeling every beat of my heart individually, hearing it in my head, loud and unyielding.

  The next day, I stare out of the window from the chair beside my bed, watching the late-afternoon winter sun slowly setting, inching closer and closer to the horizon in a beautiful array of orange and yellow, the steady oscillations of the AffloVest thrumming away at my chest. I reach one-handedly for my phone that sits on the side table, startled to see a text from my mother. She hasn’t contacted me in nearly two weeks. I stare at it, blinking in confusion. She’s checking in with me, instead of my doctors, for the first time in a really long time. It’s when I click on it and read it that I don’t feel as shocked, her text blunt and slightly backhanded.

Heard you’ve been doing your treatments. Glad to see you’ve come around.

I roll my eyes, not really wanting to respond and give her the satisfaction of a reply, but I don’t want her to forget. If she did, I’d be walking out of here the second I turn 18, not even waiting for the end of the drug trial. I think I’d go crazy being stuck here for any longer without it. I need a distraction.

Yeah, whatever. Remember to bring my guitar when you come.

With that, I toss my phone onto my bed and lean back into the chair. I stare out of the window once more, watching as people down in the courtyard trudge through the snow that covers the walkways, occasionally turning away and hacking a mass of mucus into the pink bedpan that I’m holding in one hand.

 It can’t have been more than five minutes since responding to my mother’s text when there’s a noise from the other side of my door. I peel my eyes away from an elderly couple who walk hand-in-hand and glance over at my door. I see the shadow of someone standing on the other side, my brow furrowing in confusion. I’m not expecting anyone to visit and it shouldn’t be Dr. Moon or Doyoung. I watch as a white envelope slips through the gap between the bottom of the door and the linoleum floor, my eyes flickering back to the door as the outline of feet disappear and head back down the hallway. I look at it as it lay there, stagnant and unmoving on the tiles, my name written in neat handwriting across the front of it.

I know that I shouldn’t be happy about it, that I should ignore it, but my hands are moving to unhook the AffloVest immediately, placing the pink bedpan on the side table and the AffloVest onto the bed. I stand from the chair, walking around the bed and crossing the room towards the door. I reach out, fingers grasping around it and standing from my crouched position, carefully opening it. From the envelope, I pull a meticulously folded sheet of white paper, the edges perfectly aligned with one another. I unfold it, opening it all the way to divulge a drawing, done entirely in hospital crayons. My eyes scan over the page, taking in all the details. A taller boy with brown eyes is standing directly before, and facing, a shorter girl with wavy hair, black writing at the bottom of the page identifying them as ‘Hyuck’ and ‘Y/N’. They’re stick figures, no more than a childish scribble, but an overwhelming feeling of appreciation washes over me and makes my chest tighten. She drew this. For me. A smile tugs at my lips when I notice the tiny pink, orange and yellow doodles that float above their heads, encompassing them in a cocoon of multi-coloured hearts. My eyes trace across the giant black arrow in between the two of the figures. Sitting atop of the arrow, big, bright, fire truck red letters read:

FIVE FEET AT ALL TIMES

Evidently, she didn’t inherit or possess the same art skills as Yeji, but it’s still cute. It’s really cute. But I don’t really get it… What is she trying to say? And five feet? It’s six and she knows it, as does every other CFer on the planet. I rack my brain, trying to figure out the meaning of it, but my thoughts are interrupted when the open laptop on the desk dings behind me. I spin around and dash over to it, crossing the room once again. I sit at the desk, dragging my fingers across the touchpad to see a new iMessage. From Y/N. No words or explanation, only a link to a YouTube video. With a confused tilt of my head, I click on it, watching as it takes me to a new video on her channel, posted only two minutes ago. ‘B. cepacia—A Hypothetical.’ My eyes narrow at the title, watching intently as the video starts. What is she doing? Y/N waves to the camera with a big smile, her hair in the messy up-do that I saw last night from four stories up, licking her lips before speaking.

“Hey guys! So, there’s something a little different I want to talk to you about today. And that something is Burkholderia cepacia. The risks, the restrictions and the rules of engagement.” I watch, confused. “All right, so, B. cepacia is a hardy bacterium. It’s so adaptive that it literally feeds on penicillin. So, our first line of defence is…” She pauses, reaching down to pick up a pocket-size bottle of liquid and holding it up to the camera. “Cal Stat! Now, don’t let its appearance fool you. This is not your average hand sterilizer. This is hospital-grade, a.k.a. what the professionals call ‘the good stuff’. That’s a fact, just so you know. Apply liberally and often!” She brushes over the lame joke and snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves, wriggling her fingers around to get them on properly. If I were there, I’d make a joke about her being a proctologist, like I did that day when she came to my room for the first time. She’d probably roll her eyes and try to hide the fact that she’s smiling, dismissing it with a change of topic. She gets them on and continues. “Next up is good old fashioned latex, tried and true. Used for protection in-” she gives the camera a look and a mischievous grin “-all kinds of activities.” I choke on absolutely nothing at all, the air getting caught halfway up my windpipe. What the fuck did she just say? Did Y/N L/N just make a joke about sex? I shake my head, a disbelieving smirk creeping onto my face.

 I watch as she grabs a handful of surgical face masks from somewhere off-camera, holding them up so those on the other side of the screen can see.

“B. cepacia thrives best in saliva or phlegm. Fun fact! A cough can travel six feet and a sneeze can travel up to two hundred miles per hour, so try your best to not let one fly in mixed company. Especially if anyone in your company is terminal!” That’s a really fast sneeze, I think. Well, it’s a good thing I don’t have allergies, or the entire ward would be done for. I mean, really, what are they thinking putting us all in one place? Not that I’m complaining. If I’d have been somewhere else, I wouldn’t have met her. “No saliva also means no kissing.” Her voice is slightly downcast, almost sad as she takes a deep, wheezing breath, her gaze travelling straight through the camera and into me. “Ever.” She finishes, looking down at her hands. I exhale, nodding solemnly to myself. Yeah. That fucking sucks, no two ways around it. The thought of kissing Y/N is… I don’t even have the words for it. My heart beats five times faster in my chest at just the thought of it. I know that we’ll never be able to, though. Of course I know that. I shake my head. “But, truthfully, our best defence is distance. Six feet is the golden rule.” Y/N says, before disappearing from the frame. She pops back up no less than two seconds later, hands latched tightly around a- Wait what? Is that a pool cue?  “This is a pool cue.” Yes, I think, yes it is. Where did she get a pool cue? There are many questions I have both for and about Y/N L/N, and this has just joined the bottom of the list. “It measures approximately five feet. Five. Feet.” She speaks slowly, seemingly in deep thought. I glance down to the cartoon drawing of us, still gripped tightly in my right hand, the bright red letters lurching off the page and straight at me. I look back up at my laptop as she holds it out in front of her, staring at it with remarkable intensity. “I’ve given a lot of thought to foot number six… And you know what? It made me mad.” She looks up at the camera. “When you have CF, so much is taken away from you. We live every single day according to treatments, and pills, and schedules, sticking to the strict regimens that our illness confines us to.” Her voice grows in volume, her frustrations becoming evident. I blink at the screen, feeling the same anger bubbling in the pit of my stomach. She exhales deeply before continuing. “Most of us can’t have children, and a lot of us never live long enough to try. Only other CFers know what this feels like, and it’s… Shit, it’s complicated to explain but it’s even hard to fall in love.” She stands up, turning the camera around to show her as she moves, her back to her door. “So, after all that CF has stolen from me, from all of us, I don’t mind stealing a little something back. This isn’t just about the CFers… It’s about everyone: those of us who know people with CF, who love people with CF, those of us who wouldn’t mind loving someone with CF, those of us who look beyond the sickness.” She holds up the pool cue boldly, hitting the floor with it as though planting the first flag on the moon, fighting for every one of us in a way that I’ve never seen anyone fight before. Her voice is strong, confident. Tears glaze over her sparkling orbs, but a grin is plastered across her face. “I’m stealing three hundred and four point eight millimetres. One foot. One fucking foot of space, distance, length- whatever you want to call it, I’m stealing it.” I stare at the video in total admiration, my jaw hanging open. She looks ethereal under the shitty hospital lighting, her skin radiant, her eyes twinkling like stars, her cheeks lifted upwards in a beautiful smile. “Because cystic fibrosis…” She pauses and I use this moment to take in her every detail. The nose cannula, the bump of the G-tube through her shirt, the dark circles that hang under her eyes, her cracked lips, her skinny arms and legs. She’s fucking beautiful, never more so. “You’re not the thief anymore.” She lets out a breathy laugh, an exhilarating laugh that makes me feel breathless. She points at herself with one hand, the other holding the cue out between her and the camera. “I’m the thief now.” She says, an air of finality lingering as she becomes silent, and in that silence, I swear I hear a cheer somewhere on the ward, uniting with her and her words. She edges closer to the camera, the pool cue still held out towards it, only centimetres away now as she looks over it, directly into the camera. Directly at me. I sit at my desk, dumbfounded and speechless, staring at her defiant smirk as she stands five feet from the camera. My heart lurches and skips a beat in shock as three loud knocks on the door resound through my room.

 I leap from the chair, rushing to cross the room and get to the door. Without even a second of hesitation, I tug open the door and there she stands. Alive and radiant as ever, Y/N. A smirk playing on her lips, she holds the pool cue out, pressing the tip of it against my chest lightly. She quirks her head to the side, eyebrows raising in challenge.

“Five feet apart, Hyuck. Deal?” Exhaling deeply, I shake my head, my eyes not leaving hers. God, it’ll be so hard. Her speech from the video already makes me want to close the space between us and press my lips against hers, to feel her skin against mine, no latex gloves, no distance, no masks… Just her. She feels my reluctance to answer, to say it out loud, knowing that it’s going to be difficult. The smirk melts from her face, and now she looks at me with parted lips and big, doe eyes, filled with intent. “Are you in?” She asks. This time, I don’t hesitate. After all, who am I to say no to that face?

“I’m so in.” I whisper, staring at her in amazement. Her eyes light up, a smile tugging at her lips. She lowers the pool cue, holding it beside her body and leaning her head against it.

“Atrium. Nine o’clock.” With that, she turns on her heel and practically skips down the hallway. I watch her back as she walks the entire way down, excitement, exhilaration and anticipation overwhelming the doubt that sits heavy in the pit of my stomach. A laugh escapes my lips for the first time in four days as she holds the pool cue above her head in victory, smiling back at me before disappearing as she slips into room 302. I take a deep breath, nodding and staring at where she stood only seconds ago. 

Cystic fibrosis, you’re not the thief anymore.

[feydravthaa]

‘‘You many unassaulted cities: / Have you never yearned for the enemy? / Yearned that he might besiege you / for long irresolute years, until / in hopelessness and hunger you receive him?’’

Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (tr. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)  

[neenahnah21]

Find my Way Back Home XII

Summary: Bucky Buchanan Barnes is smitten to a four insignia military officer—you. How do you think things will unfold? 

 Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

 Word Count: 2,232

 Warning: Swearing?

When Bucky left your office you felt like your body triple its weight and you can no longer stand. You can't help but bring your self to reminisce your time back in the days.

"Sergeant Barnes? What the hell are you doing in my tent at Zero dark thirty?"

"Scratch that, you're not even allowed in here unless something is urgent and important? And do you even know how to ask permission sergeant? You even forgot to render a salute" you reprimanded. On Bucky's defense he can't really render a salute considering that both of his hand were occupied.

Instead of feeling guilty and bad though Bucky only plastered you a cheeky smile.

"Thought I might bring you a coffee" he simply said, like this is the most casual thing to do when in fact this is highly inappropriate.

"You've come here at this godforsaken hour to deliver a coffee?" you asked incredulously. Bucky waited no further invitation and took it upon himself to sit on the chair opposite to your table offering you the mug which you hesitantly took.

There was a comfortable silence embracing the surrounding, in all honesty you appreciated the coffee—and the gesture. And him.

"Well I thought I might pay you a visit General, you were freakin' glorious in the field so I figured out you might be restless" you could feel his solemnity and sincerity through his words and you were glad there was a table between you two, giving you sufficient distance that disables him from hearing the thumping of your heart— how it was beating so fast that you could swear it will breaking your ribcage.

"Don't worry, 'probably the only one noticed it. You still look hot as hell" he remark and winked at you. How bold of man he is to say it to you—his superior. Nevertheless, it is one of the those reason he manage leave a mark of himself to you, make you cease from relinquishing his wake on you. Perhaps, it's one of Bucky Barnes' charm.

You playfully glared at him and reprimanded him from his vulgarity but his expression was never altered.

"That was indeed a very bold of you to say to your superior Barnes"

"Hmm, wouldn't have it any other way though, or else I won't be your favourite Sergeant" you couldn't help but laugh. He was certainly not your favourite Sergeant, you don't have favourites, but you can't deny the certainty of your fondness to this ocean blue eyes Sergeant.  He's someone you will certainly remember.

Bucky cleared his throat and brace himself, gathering all the courage he might to execute what he really came for— or main reason why he came into your tent.

Bucky might be a confident man but when he is before you he was weak on his knees.

"We're are being deployed tomorrow" he asseverate. This is something you knew already, prior to the other soldier. Something you're aware before the memo could even reach him.

You hum in understanding. It doesn't mean that you knew it beforehand it will ease the anxiousness you were feeling. It baffles you to be honest, this was part of your job, sending troops, battalion and  crops on the field, deploying them to make them do what they're made for—but for some reason deploying Bucky and his troops feels like something else; something different from the rest. You almost felt fear and resort to being irresolute, like you almost wanted them to stay at where they are—safety. But a soldier was never a soldier to feel safe. A soldier must be the one to feel anxious for him to secure the safety of others—their self were the last receiving end of their deed for they were the Forlorn Hope.

Bucky gazed deep into your eyes almost pleading and begging that whatever he was about to declare you may be in his favor.

"And I thought I might ask you on a date" certainly not what you've hope nor anticipated for. You didn't really know what you were expecting but definitely not this. In your career field, there's no room for these things.

"Come again soldier?" you reaffirm. You saw him swallowed deep and once again muttered "Please go a date with me, tonight, today , right of this moment" he said boldly.

"I know I should've of have asked you earlier, spend time with you longer but I was a coward mess and I can't find my shit to asked you out" you looked into his eyes to look for some sort of trace of ridiculousness but it was all solemn.

"This might be the only time I could do it so I'm taking my chances" he said hopefully.

You have to put down the mug of coffee in your hand or it might slip from your grasp.

"I'm sorry Buck, but I must refuse your offer" you said pitifully.

"It's just not the place" you added.

Bucky prepared himself for all the possible scenarios that might occur and this was one of those—he brace hisself for this. He prepared to armoured his ego and his heart for this, the possibility of you crushing it; and he thought he did enough but it wasn't. He thought that he was ready for the blow but he didn't expect for the actuality of it to hurt this much, just the thought of it was excruciating and he didn't thought experiencing it raw can make it ache any further.

You saw the hurt and disappointed crawled his feature and it wrenched your heart beyond words you could muster.

"Oh" was all he could respond and you understand. "I'm sorry for bothering you ma'am, I think I must keep going now" which you only replied with a court nod.

When he was about to reach the opening of your tent, back facing you, you decided to bid him your good-wishing.

"Sarge" you called last minute and Bucky was quick to turn around. You get up from your sit and walks towards him. Bucky knows the drill. At every deployment, a general would usually bid their farewells, and good tidings. Bucky couldn't be ungrateful though, he knows he would take anything from you any day even it as a small nod or attention—as long as it was from your. The dame he desperately yearned for, like a star in the sky which he couldn't quiet reach but he knows he would still gaze up on it and dream of it, quiet satisfied with even gazing upon it. That's all enough for him, he could work for that.

"Put you head on the swivel Sergeant Barnes, stay alive and come back home from the war" Bucky could only smiled at this, still flustered even to the smallest trace of concern you would display. Flattered even, that you would spare him even a modicum time of your day.

"I know you're a green eyed beast so come back home and consider it a date" you said smugly, the smirk on your face never ceasing to leave.

Bucky couldn't explain the delight he was feeling and he literally leapt his way towards you closing the distance between the two of you. Without second doubting he crashed his lips to yours, full of passion and promised, the feeling you were sure to cherish till the dawn of time. Bucky deepen the kiss and there's nothing left to do but to let him have his way on you, completely savouring this moment with him. After the kiss he gaze deeply into your eyes, unspoken pledge and sweet promises were made, you know the risks of it being broken but you were willing to held unto it will all your might and faith.

This will surely hurt you, not that you could care as of the moment, Bucky Barnes was worth it all.

"You bet I will" he said and his remarks makes the both of you chuckle and that was the last moment you shared with him before his departure.

In the year 1945, nothing devastated you more than the news that reached your quarter on the day of January; the news that bear about the fall of the Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

The only promised fulfilled on the night of your sweet pledges for one another was the heartache you've anticipated.

You wanted to take his offer earlier. You really do. It was extremely tempting to do so but as much as how selfish it is you wished that he would ask you to go on a date because he remembers that he promised you in the 40's the he would. But looking back at him earlier you knew just right away that he didn't.

You need to be honest when you hear about the Winter Soldier escapade and when you saw him, you wished that he would finally come back and go look for you, but he didn't. And you figured what they have done to him. How they've racked his brain to forgot and manipulate him you beat yourself for the first couple of months, blaming yourself for not being able to save the love of your life from the hands of those monsters.

Then this mission came, you thought and highly hoped that maybe if he will see you he will finally remember, Steve did, so maybe he would—but he didn't. Yes, you could see his eyes lingers to you, you can notice how he purposely let his body and skin touch yours every chance he got, the concerns in his eyes, but never the trace of recognition.

So when he asked you, you refused. Until he remembers, he's nothing but the Bucky of the 21st Century and not your Bucky back in those days. You don't necessarily want him to be the same man, no. That would be hypocritical of you. You just want him to recognize and remember you. Know that after all those years and decade he still remembers your like how you haven't forgotten him even a single day.

Your silent reminiscing were halted when Bucky immediately barged in into the room without knocking nor saying anything. Because of the intrusion you were jolted and now standing. When Bucky got a glimpse of you he waste no time at ceasing the distance between the two of you, crashing directly his lips into yours and enlacing you with a bone crushing embrace. His left arm immediately snaked at your waist and the other one holding your face gently but firm like an instinct.

"Well that was such a bold move Sergeant" you said in between the kiss when you were trying to grasp up some air to make up for the air lose during the kiss.

"Didn't even bothered to knocked. That was a left hand salute"

"Well are you gonna reprimand me?"

"Are you gonna finally listen to me?" you've retorted.

"That depends, do you want me to be a good soldier because I think I knew you prefer me bad" he answered back, his smug never leaving his face. But a moment pass and it was altered by a loving and adoring one.

"Well aren't you such a bold and vulgar, Sarge"

"And I think that's why I'm your favourite" he said proudly which earned a chuckled from. Definitely.

"I thought you forgot" you said solemnly looking in his eyes longingly, not really fully grasping that you were finally in his arms once again. Never you've thought this dream of yours will still come into a reality.

"And I couldn't believe I didn't remember"he said sounding so regretful.

"How could I forget" he stated—more to himself.

"It doesn't matter though, you've come home, you've finally came home and remembered" you said placing both of your hand unto his face, reassuring yourself that you were not dreaming, you need to feel his warm skin that always comforts you to reassure yourself.

"Yeah, I'm home, and I think I owe you a date" you couldn't help the smile that is creeping its way to your face.

"You're late" you release and laughter that lingers fondness. Oh how music it is to Bucky's ears.

"Almost a century late" you said feigning solemn.

And then a smile breaks again "but that's fine, I can probably make an exemption . Like a certain soldier asserted, you were my favourite Sergeant" and laughter from the both of you were emitted in the four corners of the room.

"Who would of have thought you would make a dame such as I to wait for less than a century for a date" Bucky chuckled at your remark and stare at you with all fondness, making up for all the time he loss and failed to show it.

"In my whole long century life, never have I met such a remarkable women as you are"

"And in my whole century being never have I met a century old man that still possess such virility"

And Bucky could only laugh at your vulgarity, remembering how cheeky you were back in the days. Oh how he have longed to be in his dame's arm. After a century long, he have finally found his way back home. He is finally home— and you're his home.

Always and forever—till the end of the both of your times.

[yaboylevi]

I love Zevi but the sauna cover not having Zeke and Levi not talking makes me think Isayama's editor could have rquested Isayama for levi to be saved just for the fanservice moment of the promise. Though I was surprised in the good way how the fans dont want levi to be fanservice anymore, to me the whole levi vs Zeke is ruining Levi (not Zevi) and Ereri is still the biggest ship so why, Isayama. I hate the promise plot

Hey there!

First of all, let me just say that, yay, Zevi is such a nice, fun ship!! I still remember fondly all of their funny moments after the timeskip… I wish we could have more, because I feel Isayama’s humor really shone through!

I’m glad it wasn’t ruined for you, though it was for me a bit. Maybe it’s simply because the focus was shifted away, or because of how… disgusting the torture scene was for me. Either way, since I feel less positive for Levi, even my love for ereri has dwindled a lot. So, good for you!

I am not sure I would call the promise “fanservice”. Well, to be fair, I am not even sure why Levi’s character was reduced to that. He has always had important links to various characters. The link with Eren, the family bond with Mikasa, the mentorship with the 104th, his friendship with Hange… some of these require a solution - in the form of a talk most probably. When in the past the 104th were hesitant, he was of great help. The ackerbond and his family legacy with Mikasa very clearly need resolution. Both Hange and Armin have been irresolute, constantly comparing themselves to Erwin, when Levi finally being honest about him would’ve solved it. Levi has been one to understand and accept Eren’s true nature since the beginning, his insecurities as well because they hit home, so he could’ve talked to him and alleviated part of Eren’s burden by lending a non-judgmental ear.

I get why all of this didn’t happen. Drama and conflict were needed to keep things…lively, so their resolution will be more satisfying in the end (I would like to believe this, but I also believe the journey should be entertaining, and it isn’t for me personally).

So, anyway. I would hope these things about Levi’s character will be touched upon by the end of the story, in a believable, interesting way (not like Connie’s arc, or Armin’s, Magath’s - they were lackluster or underserved or totally disappointing). I think his obsession with the promise was a way to stall him/keep him away from the “main problem” for the reason I explained above. It’s his setback, the thing that he needs to come to terms with, because he’s been stuck on it to the point that he’s become even physically stuck, by getting heavily injured and unable to move.

I don’t think it’s the editor’s fault. Isayama chose to do that to Levi. After all, what would he have struggled about after the timeskip (aside from Eren angst, which is the common denominator for everyone)? If you think about it, all of the characters have had their little side-struggle, beside the Eren-related one. Isayama decided to render Levi useless by making him obsess about dead comrades and revenge, which is in line with his character’s nature.

I don’t know what the fandom thinks anymore. I am glad if they are finally seeing the faults in their reasoning until now. Especially if it’s about him killing Zeke, which is something I’ve been against for so long… especially since he got caught in the explosion, that gave me actual, factual proof that it wasn’t gonna happen. I’ve been saying since that chapter (114-15? so 13 months ago…) that he won’t fight because of the injuries and so he needs to find another way of thinking that is not all about violence and revenge, but I remember people stubbornly wishing for the opposite (someone even tagged my recent art with wishes for zeke to be killed by levi...makes me wish i never posted that lol). However, if they are starting to change their minds about this, well, hooray!

(this might sound controversial, but I really don’t feel ereri is the most popular ship…hasn’t been for a while, actually. that’s what you get for neglecting their relationship in canon for 3-4 years, after all - no matter how much people insist on ereri existing only bc “fujos are horny”, our passion for the ship is mostly based on canon…)

[theplumsoldier]

INEBRIATED [1]

PART 1, PART 2

Summary: you friend has finally come home and you go out for a drink, you getting a tad too much being nervous you wont have the guts to seize the chance you so have been waiting for

Pairing: ari levinson x reader

Word count: 3414

Warnings: eventual smut, explicit language, vulgar language.

It was not long ago Ari had come home. You hoped it was for good this time, seeing as he had an ex-wife whom he was to agree on the terms and condition of their child with, howbeit even before getting into the bar to meet with him, you had brazed yourself to be let down, knowing full and well he was not one for settling.

You had not seen him for scarce three years. He had been busy playing the hero of his dreams, one of yours as well, even if you could not see it from your position in the IT-department of the law firm you worked at. As an old friend of his and surely nothing more than that, you fully supported him even if you disagreed on how he fulfilled those goals. Perhaps it was selfish of you to want him in your life than not, but you could not help it—and in more ways than one for in all the years you had known Ari, he had been nothing but charming and unruly.

You had spent the hours after work getting ready for your reunion. Showering, putting on a nice attire and putting on make-up, careful not to overdo your appearance seeing as you knew you were not going to be the only of his friends for this was a reunion of the whole gang. James, Debra, and Anthony and since Anthony had seen you earlier at work, he would know if you had dedicated an excessive amount of time on your look tonight.

Entering the bar you so often had found yourself in, you were greeted by the familiar stench of a wide range of liquor and noise. The people present for an after-work pint were loud, a game on the hovering screens, cheering and booing while others were simply joyous in the company of friends. You spotted your own people in a stall in the back of the room where you found Ari sitting in the middle, the center of attention as per usual. His hair had grown and the same with his beard, his mien was austere, his eyes watching the drink in his hand, mind places it should not be. At the sight of his missed figure, you felt your heart beat faster, a lump in your throat forming. As you set marching toward the booth you took notice of his lour.

It was Anthony that detected you striding to the table, cheering your name and Ari’s head craned up. Immediately his eyes widened with glee and a big grin veiled his face, a glint of happiness flashing behind his stunning orbs and Ari had to inhale deeply to restrain himself from jumping over the table and embracing you.

You would have taken rounds of greeting each present party, yet once Anthony let you go Ari managed to get out of his seat and his arms pulled you close, giving no indication of letting go as he leaned his head against yours.

“I can’t believe I’m finally seeing you again, it’s been so long!” managed Ari and moved his head so he could get a look at you. His grin only grew wider and his teeth clenched in a big, fat, goofy smile. “Oh God! Look at you, you look so grown up!”

Laughing your hands slipped from around his shoulders, to his arms. They still were enormous, if not larger than last you had managed to get a feel. “I certainly would hope so. I’ve only been an adult for half my life.”

The sound of your voice made him weak in the knees and his grip around you tightened, pulling you close once again, discreetly inhaling your scent. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you! Oh, you have no drink—c’mere let’s get you a drink!”

. . .

“Goddamnit, Ari, I’m so sorry I’m so fucking wasted,” whined you as you did your best to gain your balance, wondering how your feet had suddenly stopped functioning.

“Don’t worry. Duck your head,” replied he with a chuckle and put his hand on the top of your head, carefully urging you into the car.

“No, really, Ari, I’m sorry like I don’t know—” rambled you on, oblivious he had already shut the door on you and was making his way to the other side as you continued. “I was just so nervous for tonight and it’s been so long and I was afraid it was gonna be weird and I figured if I could just loosen up a tad it would all go much smoother. I didn’t mean to actually get this shitfaced, I mean I know I’ll wake up in the morning with major regret and I have work at 10 and shit—”

“Y/N, Jesus, sit still,” begged Ari, leaned over you in attempt to buckle your seatbelt. It was not until you realized how close he was and you slumped back in the seat, inspecting his features carefully. He looked so beautiful. His locks of blond and fine-looking beard, the crease knitting his eyebrows together as he himself did his best to focus while being this close to you.

You heard the buckle click and hummed as he looked up at you, eyes focused on his pink lips and you smiled to yourself, shaking your head.

“Hey, let me drive, you’re drunk,” insisted you in a serious tone and assuring gaze, hand sliding down your side to unbuckle and Ari laughed, stopping you.

“What? You’re the drunk one, I’ve been drinking water for the last two hours!”

“Huh,” hummed you and sat back again, watching him intently and closed your mouth.

Ari’s eyes took in your grimace and he could not help but chuckle, sucking in a deep breath. He ran his hand through his hair and gave you a curious look. “Do you want me to get a cab instead?”

“No, no, there’s no need. I trust you with my life, you know.”

Although your words undoubtedly were not supposed to mean much, they halted in his mind and had you looked him in the eyes you would surely have seen hearts for at that moment he looked at you as if you were his world. You were inebriated and unable to think clearly, he knew what it felt like and he knew how it always made one speak either empty words or those finished hibernating, spilling all one’s deepest thoughts. He could not categorize them, not like this so he turned the ignition instead and music began playing.

It encouraged you to shift and lean forward and open the glove compartment, rummaging through the glove compartment for his music. In it was a flashlight, at least five CDs, a pack of cigarettes, folded paper which seemed to be a map, a brochure, a couple of condoms and a belt. Curiously examining one of the foil packets you tipped your head to the side, eyes squinting and you went on to get the pack of cigarettes. Ari’s eyes constantly diverted to your actions but while he saw you so rigorously scrutinize the condom packet, he candidly had no idea what to say to you. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, driving the car to where he remembered your apartment to be located. Finding Judas Priest’s Sad Wings of Destiny album you inserted the cd and held your finger in the air, as if to tell Ari, who already was being uncharacteristically quiet, quiet and you closed your eyes, preparing yourself for the overwhelming sound of the majestic fade-in dual guitar passage. Ari grinned at this and made a turn, leaving the road on which the bar was situated.

Your right arm was thrown over your head and leaned back in the seat blowing smoke into the car, you had a difficult time remembering when you had last felt this relaxed, felt this good. Tilting your head in the slightest, unobtrusively watching Ari in awe, only falling deeper for this man and you cursed at yourself.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothin’,” brushed you off and wrapped your lips around the cigarette. Most of your lipgloss had worn off so it did not stick to your lips as you pulled it away, though a shade of red was left.

Ari reached over to take the cigarette from you and you went to roll down the window, leaning your head against the side, hair tossed by the wind. The street lights seemed so pretty at this time. It had to be midnight by now and people were out on the streets having fun, celebrating weekend finally had come. Tonight you had celebrated something else, someone else and it was someone special. The thought he likely was to leave again soon distressed you and perhaps there was, in fact, nothing to celebrate. He could be going back there, he could get hurt. And it hurt you so bad, being so close to him and able to plead for him to not leave you behind again; for you knew you had no choice in that matter; it was not up to you.

“You alright over there?” quizzed Ari, casting glances your way after you had been quiet for a while.

“Ari, I can feel the Earth moving.”

He laughed, eyes on the road. “That’s the car, Y/N.”

“No, I’m serious—like the actual rotation. . . Wow,” whispered you, holding your hands to the sides of your head to keep it from spinning.

You were beginning to feel nauseous and closed your eyes again, but quickly found out it would not help your case, if not exacerbate the situation entirely. You rolled the window further down and retreated the cigarette.

“So are you staying this time?” asked you bluntly and adjusted your pencil skirt, gaining Ari’s attention and as he came to a red light he carefully looked at you, wondering if you wanted him to stay. Then your boyfriend came to his mind and he could feel his chest rise instinctively, the very thought putting a bitter taste in his mouth.

His lips parted, irresolute. “For some time, yeah.”

To be honest, Ari did not want to. He had little that was waiting for him here, even his child and ex-wife had learned to see little of him and if he could not even be frank about his feelings for you, he saw no meaning of wasting his time away in a place he could not help anyone. It was one of the chivalrous traits you always had admired, his selflessness and although it accounted for a larger fraction of his personality, you had so wished he sometimes would take the time for himself. He deserved to settle at some point, lean back in his seat and be content with what he had accomplished for it was worth the Nobel prize you thought. Another attribute was that his boss had told him to take some time off. For once had he not gotten fired for recklessness, so that must have counted for something, howbeit Ari understood he was not getting back in the field until he had taken some time to contemplate.

“Sick, then maybe I don’t have to get into a loop of thinking how desperate you are to avoid me seeing as you’re always away for fuckin’ years at a time,�� you tone was hostile, though the layer of humor that was laced in your tone, let him know: no hard feelings.

Ari laughed and you had to hold yourself upright, to gain what balance seemed a stranger to you.

“Please don’t think that Y/N,” chuckled he and when you looked back to him his eyes sparkled so beautifully, the various lights of the streets reflecting and Rob Halford’s soothing voice did nothing to make your knees any less weak. You smiled at Ari, his glee so contagious and you felt your face flush with red. Your head fell in a shaking manner, the smile slowly fading while your eyes softened and looked at the dark sky, the blue canvas sprinkled with shining stars. Observant as ever, Ari was quick to notice your changed demeanor. “You don’t actually think that, do you?”

Once turning your head your lips parted to respond, but his face held a concoction of all melancholic. You offered him a wistful smile, eyes growing heavy by the minute and trailing down his body. “Of course not.”

Settling with a dubious nod in forbearance, Ari could not keep his mind from wandering, trying his best to not conjecture a wild deduction.

He then decided to change the subject, mentally scolding himself as soon as the words escaped his lips for surely that was not someone he wanted to talk about. “So how’s Dan?”

“Dan?” You took a minute to process the name when a flow of memories lit in your mind. “Oh, Dan! We’re eh. . . I thought you knew, we’re not together anymore.”

Admittedly you felt as if your heart punctured at the very thought of a longlasting relationship. Your previous partner, Dan, had been the one to introduce you to Ari and while you had known him for a large part of your life, your love had faded over the years. It was inevitable and his wicked nature could never have been something you could adapt to, neither did you want to. He never physically had hurt you, which was a sort of problem for if you were to talk to anyone about your problems, that seemed to be what mattered. Not the fact that he was possessive, dangerously toxic and emotionally abusive. It was something no one could picture him as for upon barely knowing the guy, he was the kind you would look to for comfort and for help, although when engaged to him he was the closest thing to a monster you had ever met. Your parents especially were a party unable to comprehend your decision, excited for the blooming family and resolute on having granddaughters- and sons within the next decade. To think they scolded you for ending an unhealthy relationship was beyond your comprehension.

“I didn’t,” murmured Ari quietly. He was not proud to admit it but his heart was running wild as he realized this was the first time you were single in all the time he had known you. He thought it made him a bad man, to think you would be ready to jump into his arms after ending a long relationship. While you were ready for just that, you knew you could not just do such a careless thing. He had enough on his plate, you were certain. The last thing Ari needed was the remains of his old friend’s wreckage ex. “When was this?”

“A couple of months ago,” responded you, lifting the cigarette to inhale before flicking the stub out of the window. Beside you, Ari merely let out a hum, so you went on, feeling almost obligated to defend yourself regarding your wise decision. “But to be honest I had wanted to break it off for a long time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” mumbled you, fiddling with your nail polish. “We just didn’t. . . Click anymore.”

“Y/N, Dan never—” Ari paused his surely overconfident words, choosing carefully how to phrase himself. He knew it was not in his right to show his curiosity, but he could not deny Dan always had been rather violent tendencies. “Mistreated you, did he?”

Gulping at the very thought, you sucked in on your cheeks and looked back out of the window. Swallowing the lump in your throat, Ari noticed how you uncomfortably shifted in your seat. Whether it was the want for pity or need to be honest with someone you hoped with all your heart could understand, you decided to not be completely secluded.

“Not physically, no.”

Ari bit down on his lip, feeling his ragged breath through his nostrils. A moment passed before spoke. “Are you happy?”

You smiled and looked over, his eyes already waiting for you. “I’m happier.”

“Good.”

. . .

Stumbling inside your home, you threw the keys on the table and went directly for the kitchen while Ari closed the door after you. You filled a glass with water and found some pills to prevent the headache you would experience in the morning. Tripping over your own feet, Ari took the time to stop you on have you against the table.

“Hey, hey, let’s get these off before you sprain your ankle,” adviced he on got on his knees before you. You could not help but chuckle at the sight, dropping your head back and closing your eyes.

Pulling the heels off of your feet you felt the cold floor on your bare skin and shivered to look back down. His head was pointed down and his blond hair fell gorgeously in front of his face and to get a better look at him, you sat on the floor before him, once again he hovered you.

“What are you doing?” grinned he a funny look on his face.

You took another sip of the water, eyelids nearly closing as you looked at him through your eyelashes. “I just wanted to get a better look at you. While you were away I feared I would forget you.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah. Can I kiss you?”

With shock at the sudden ask Ari’s eyes widened, a line forming between his brows in puzzlement. “What?”

“Please,” coaxed you and put your hand on his chest, yet made no move to connect your lips.

Stunned, Ari at in a daze, unsure whether to do what he had only ever dreamed of or tell you off. You were unequivocally inebriated and would it not be wrong of him to make his advance in such a vulnerable state? Did you even want to kiss him, or did you simply want a kiss? Ari knew what being lonesome felt like.

A monosyllabic laugh fell from his lips and you distanced yourself, giving him a look. “Let’s get you to bed, Y/N.”

Groaning as he helped you to your feet, you let him lead the way to your bedroom.

“I can walk fine by myself,” proclaimed you and just like that, Ari gave you a doubtful look and let go subsequent to you nodding your head avidly. You fell right to the ground and breathed out. “Can’t help but think you did that on purpose.”

“Come on,” laughed he and got you back up, this time holding you closer to his body and you leaned your head on him as you allowed him to lead you in the dark.

Getting you unharmed into the bedroom, Ari turned on the lamp on the bedside and sat you on the bed. Before doing anything else, you fell back and exhaled deeply, beginning to unbutton your dress shirt.

“Uh, Y/N—”

“Won’t you stay with me tonight, Ari?”

While he emitted a guttural sound Ari drew his hand through his hair, then scratched at his beard. “Uh, I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t think you would be comfortable with me here in the morning.”

You moaned out, hands dropping to your side as you gave up on the impossibly small buttons. Pushing yourself up by your elbows, you were leaned back and looked so inviting as your eyes locked.

Truthfully, Ari could not tell if you were purposefully toying with him or what was going on, but he could not wrap his head around the fact that you for once gave yourself to him in other circumstances than those of his fantasies.

“No, I would, I just—I promise I won’t do. . . Anything you don’t want, just—I don’t want to be alone.” So it was simply loneliness, thought Ari despondent. “You don’t even have to stay here all night, just. . . Just please, I hate being alone.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Ari looked around himself, as if to make sure no one was around and he shifted on his feet. Your eyes were watching him with care and it was then he heeded the glossy coating on your eyes. His jaw clenched and unclenched and he sat down beside you.

Pushing yourself up fully you found his delicate gaze.

“I’ll stay. Only to make sure you don’t drown in vomit.”

A smile crept up on your lip, curling it mischievously and you leaned back on the mattress.

[keishiko]

Rewrite

It’s never too late to change your mind.

[Oneshot <3,000 words  |  Rated: Explicit (but only for a short bit)  |  Angst/Romance  (Natasha x Steve)  |  Spoilers: “Endgame”]

.

. A chill wind howled across barren rock as he haltingly climbed the last few steps.  He shivered in the cold.  No, he corrected himself.  His suit was designed to insulate him comfortably even from subzero temperatures.  This cold seeped from emptiness, bit to the bone, clawed inside his skull.

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He glanced around but there was no sign of life or movement.  Perhaps, with the loss of the Stone, its red-skulled guardian had gone as well.

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Recognition squeezed the breath out of him as he turned his gaze to the two craggy spires and the desolate ledge beyond.  Shuddering, he willed himself to approach the edge of the cliff, one heavy step at a time.  His mind seemed to be planets away when he noted a blackened, blasted hollow where one of Hawkeye’s arrows must have detonated.  After what seemed an eternity, he reached the edge and, with another supreme effort, looked down.

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A long, long way down to where the horrific drop ended in nothing but blank, gray stone.

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He forced himself to keep looking, keep his eyes open against the rushing wind.  Where was she?  He had begged Clint to describe her to him.  Clint hadn’t wanted to.  But he had alternately yelled and pleaded and the two men had nearly come to blows until Clint broke down and told him what would ever after haunt his dreams.

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Steve peered down, down, down into the wasteland chasm, searching in vain for a broken black-suited figure at the very bottom, porcelain skin white like death, fiery hair streaming like blood.

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He deserved to be haunted, he told himself.  It was the least he could do for her memory, if he never slept again.

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It was only when the wind blew icy across his face that he felt the tears searing down his cheeks.

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He’d almost forgotten what he’d come for.  He fumbled for the tiny, slippery thing that thrummed in his hand, blazed against the black of his glove.  For a moment he stood at the cliff’s edge, suddenly irresolute.

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Then he flung it into the void.

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He stared as it bounced off the rock—once, twice, three times—and then sent up a blinding ochre glow that suddenly flooded his vision...

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“Lost something, soldier?”

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He would know that voice anywhere.

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He whipped around, heart in his throat, hope making him light-headed.  She stood in front of him, smiling, looking for all the world like she had just made another peanut butter sandwich at the compound.  He staggered forward, frantic with gladness and relief.

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“Nat!”

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He stopped short.  He could not get closer.  She remained just out of reach, smiling at him sadly.

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He couldn’t think of anything else to say.  He found himself tearing up again.  “We won.”

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Her gaze serene, she was as beautiful as ever in the golden haze.  “What did it cost?”

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His response tore out of him in a sob.  “Everything.”

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The glow dimmed.  He reached for her again, but already her smile was twisting into a snarl and then she was Red Skull, blazing with fury, lunging toward him.  The glow abruptly faded and Steve felt himself slip on the icy rock as it crumbled beneath his feet and then he was falling, falling, falling—

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“Steve!”

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He opened his eyes with a gasp.  His throat felt raw.  He found Peggy’s brown eyes on him, still dull from sleep.

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“I’m sorry,” he rasped after a moment.  He was still trying to catch his breath.

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“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”  Peggy pressed a kiss to his cheek—wet with tears, he realized—and lay back down beside him, draping her arm comfortingly across his chest.  He sighed, burying his nose in her dark curls.

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His return of the Soul Stone had been much less eventful.  No, he hadn’t seen Natasha’s body anywhere.  He had tossed the Stone into the abyss.  It had disappeared.  

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And then nothing had happened.

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After a few minutes of waiting—hoping, praying, wishing—he had reopened his eyes to find nothing changed.  He was alone on the cliff.  The wind still whistled around him.

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As he started to descend the stone stairway he saw, out the corner of his eye, a dark figure materialize on the ledge behind him, a hostile energy begin to burn.  But he heard nothing, felt nothing.  He reached the bottom of the stairway unmolested.

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When he had returned the last Stone to the Ancient One he had hesitated.

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She had then asked him if, perhaps, as a small gesture for saving the world, there was anything she could do for him.

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Now he settled back in the too-soft bed, stared up at floral wallpaper and shadow-flecked ceiling, and told himself to go to sleep.  His hand tightened on Peggy’s elbow; he breathed deeply of the smell of her hair.  All he’d ever wanted.  All he’d ever dreamed of, all he’d hardly dared to dream of, for years and years.

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The future—cozy and quiet and peaceful—stretched before them.

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“How you’ve changed,” Peggy mused, as if to herself.

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He started guiltily.  He’d thought she’d fallen asleep.  “How’s that, Peg?”

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She chuckled, patting his arm.  “Nothing important.  Sweet dreams, Captain Rogers.”  

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He waited, but she said nothing more.  When she was in a mood like this, it would not be shaken.  Soon, despite his unease, he found himself nodding off to her quiet breathing and the susurrus of the wind in the tree outside their window.

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A small echo of her voice drifted to him from what seemed like very far away through an impossibly misty fog, as he tipped over the cliff’s edge into slumber.

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“She must have been somebody very special.”

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.

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It was a much harder landing this time around.

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From streaks of gold and chrome light the world outside his helmet flashed into blurry darkness as he tumbled end over end on what felt like a hard stone floor, slammed into some kind of wall, and crumpled in a daze.  Gasping for breath, he deactivated his helmet.  As he struggled to reorient himself he became dimly aware of several indistinct faces gathering around him in the gloom, curious, staring.

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Then came a panicked shout from somewhere he couldn’t see, in a guttural, familiar language—

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A dark shape flew through the air, crashed into the wall above him.  He twisted just in time not to be crushed by what turned out to be an inert human male.

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Before he could react, another limp body toppled onto him.  He had barely worked his head free to breathe when another body tumbled onto him, then another, and another.  Chaos had erupted inside the half-lit chamber as his senses finally regained focus.  Harsh shouts of command or warning, gunshots, shrieks of pain; the crunch of bone, the pop of joints.  The thrum and crackle of blue-bright electricity.  A faint smell of burned flesh drifted in the dank air.  Horrified, Steve struggled to get up under the growing pile of not just bodies, but debris: a fallen filing cabinet, a broken metal crane, a huge, splintered desk.  But the quantum leap had weakened him and he found himself straining futilely under the weight.

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He realized dimly the noise had ceased.  A last scream choked off with a sickening snap of sinew.

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He wondered if he should call out.  

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Then he felt above him the weight being shifted, shoved off of him, pushed aside.  He tensed, willing energy and strength to return to his muscles as he waited to be discovered.  It hadn’t sounded like there were very many people carrying out the attack; only two or three at most, stealthy, practiced, sure. ��If they weren’t enhanced, maybe he could still get out alive.  He bided his time, sensing the last few bodies being laboriously hefted from on top of him.  This person was not as strong as he was.

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There was a soft, feminine grunt as the last weight was rolled off him.

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He stared up at green eyes, green eyes he’d know anywhere, green eyes he’d missed like his heart and soul had been ripped out of him, green eyes he’d longed to see again even lying in bed next to the love of his life in the long, quiet nights of suburbia.

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Green eyes mirroring his own shock.

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“Steve?!”

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He was dreaming.  He pinched himself.  She laughed at him.  While crying.  Still a dream.

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He was afraid to call her by name.  Maybe he’d wake up.

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Before he could say or do anything she had shushed him, ushered him through a corridor, a cabinet, an air vent; a tunnel, a catacomb, a sewer.  A manhole.  A side street.  A blind alley.  She propped him up against a brick wall, panting from the exertion.

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Sunlight, fresh air.  It reminded him, ironically, of his and Peggy’s neighborhood.  He blinked at her, still dazed.  Still hoping against hope.  “Nat.”  It came out a plea, not a question, not a statement.

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She pulled off her cowl.  Dark hair tumbled down her back.  But the smile was the same.

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“Steve,” she breathed, and she kissed him.

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He crushed her to him, and when they ran out of breath they broke the kiss and just held each other laughing, tears streaming down their faces.  

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“What happened with Thanos?” she whispered.

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“We won,” he told her.  He would explain later.

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They picked up supplies, with mute exchanged glances slipping with long-practiced ease into old covers of boyfriend and girlfriend.  This was convenient, too, as Steve found himself unable to stop touching her, keeping hold of her—lightly, fearfully, as though she might disappear if he clung too hard.  He grasped her arm, held her hand, entwined his fingers with hers.  At first she stopped and looked at him searchingly, but there was no time for questions, and she squeezed his hand back.  

.

As night fell she led him to her safehouse, the basement of a run-down apartment building in a decrepit area of town.  She shut and secured the front door behind them and he dropped down onto the bare concrete floor, leaning up against the wall, suddenly exhausted.  She smiled at him fondly, already on her way to the refrigerator.

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“Let’s get some food into you.”

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She had always been a competent cook—she tended to succeed at everything she tried, he reminded himself—and soon the tempting smell of soup roused him from weariness.  As he came to her little dining table he found himself looking over her small but cozily furnished space and almost laughed aloud at the sense of relief that abruptly washed over him: Her bed had only a single pillow.  There was only one mug (chipped).  There was only one photograph, set up on a cluttered bookshelf, showing her with a dog.

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“What’s so funny?”  She was smiling at him, he realized belatedly.  He must still be so damn transparent to her.

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He tried his best to lie anyway.  “I didn’t know you liked dogs.”

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She turned back to the refrigerator with a smirk.  Humoring him.  “Belongs to a friend of mine.”

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Soon he was savoring a steaming bowl of hearty soup with excellent brown bread.  Almost as hungrily he devoured her with his gaze as she sat down at the table next to him with her own meal.

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She flushed under his scrutiny as she talked quickly but gently, oriented him in time and space as if she were merely debriefing another agent.  Steve almost laughed at the thought, then found himself blinking back new tears.  The familiarity felt good, as good as nothing had felt in years.

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She had woken up, she said, in an abandoned facility in Belarus, twenty-one days after that fateful snap of Thanos’s fingers.  Knowing the timeline had been compromised, she had kept a low profile in the years since.  Establishing a discreet new identity had been easy enough, but she had soon found herself falling into old habits, picking up on intel despite herself, and now ran what self-imposed missions she could to uproot or expose clandestine new terrorist or paramilitary organizations.  

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“What you arrived in this afternoon, practically by sheer accident, was the underground lab of a Neo-Hydra cell based outside Nuremberg.”  She ladled a second helping of soup into his empty bowl even without his asking and he couldn’t help smiling to himself.  “Some months ago Pym and Van Dyne’s research was stolen, so I’ve been monitoring this group and a few others in case something would turn up.”  Her grin turned teary-eyed.  “I didn’t expect that you would.”

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He shook his head.  “Our turn in the quantum realm won’t happen for another few years yet.  I’m no physicist but I’m guessing those bastards did something right.”

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She laughed, even as a tear ran down her cheek.  “Too bad I killed them before I could thank them.”

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He chuckled back.  “Maybe next time.”  Without thinking, he reached out to wipe her tear away.

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She stilled under his touch, lowering her eyes to the table.  “Steve...”

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“Natasha.”  He luxuriated in her name.  He hadn’t said it out loud in a very long time.  She hesitated, then clasped his hand in both of hers, cradling it against her cheek for a moment.

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“What happened, Steve?”  Her eyes on him were urgent, her tone deliberate.

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She needed him to be honest with her, he knew.

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“I missed you,” he said simply.

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He’d always been honest.  But he had never been so forthcoming.  Steve, in his old age, was done waiting.

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They made love tentatively in the shower, exploring each other tenderly, retracing old paths, discovering new ones.  They had slept together in the past a few times, sought comfort, sought relief.  They’d been careful to keep up boundaries, respect the limits of their friendship.  But this time Steve was focused, devoted.  He could sense Nat’s surprise—her surprise and her heightened pleasure—and cursed himself for never having really paid attention before, never actually noticing how earnestly she met his every move, how her face glowed with passion when she looked into his eyes.

.

They nearly fell out of her single-sized bed more than once, each time melting into smothered laughter; with teeth and tongue she plotted the delicate shift of muscle and vein down his neck until he could stand it no longer and pulled her down for a growling kiss.  He remembered to deadly effect how she wanted his mouth between her legs and she came helplessly, sobbing, holding on to the headstand for dear life, because it had only ever really been him.

.

Maybe it was the super serum, maybe it was too much energy after what felt like a lifetime of lonely duty.  Heck, maybe it was the soup.  But he found himself lying awake under her softly snoring form, not restless, just thoughtful.  He watched as the approaching day splashed ever-lightening blues and purples on the wall across from her only window.

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For the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to the sunrise.

.

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fin

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[The Russos want multiple timelines?? Let’s give ‘em multiple timelines!!  (I actually can’t bring myself to watch “Endgame” a third time, just for the heartache...💔)]

[pamphletstoinspire]

Let Sorrow For Sin Help You Overcome Your Sins

“For I know my iniquity, and my sin is always before me.” - Psalm 50:5

The more accurately we appraise God’s sanctity and the consequent completeness of His condemnation of evil, the more deeply shall we know the malice of sin, and hence, the more sincerely and enduringly shall we repent. But true repentance forces its way down to the soul’s profoundest consciousness very slowly. In the hardened sinner especially, the moral sense is only gradually quickened to anxious sensitiveness over the commission of his sin.

What uncertainty, what vacillation, what irresolution, what doubt, what dimness of vision, what partial hopes, what slow, fitful enlightenment, what conflicting struggles attend such a soul’s effort to rid itself of sin! God’s mercy works to free the soul from its slavery, and sin ever strives to keep it within the narrow confines of its deceitful captivity; God’s grace ever seeks to illumine it, and the darkness of sin ever deepens, to blind its eyes; the soul yearns to be released from its merciless  thralldom, yet is so attached to sin, so mired in sin, as to fear that God will not release it. But grace by degrees refines the soul’s moral sense, clarifies gradually its vision, until it beholds, to the full extent of its limited powers, the hideousness of sin and God’s ineffable mercy; and smiting the soul, as it did St. Paul, with the consciousness of its desolation, grace finally snaps asunder the chains of its degrading slavery.

What an experience was the sense of our first sin! Perhaps our dormant powers were awakened to the consideration of our diseased state by a sermon, by the death of a dear friend, by “the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns,” by a sudden illumination of grace piercing the darkness, and causing the scales to fall from our souls’ eyes.

But what a change was effected in our spiritual lives! Even souls schooled in the art of self-discipline, insistently “mortifying by the Spirit the deeds of the flesh,” daily subjecting the natural to the supernatural, have experienced this ever memorable smiting of their spiritual sensibilities over the commission of sin.

How lasting and how profitable is the undying remembrance of such a crisis! How eventful the change wrought by it in the soul’s life! What a complete conversion it worked in the soul of the slave of sin, deciding for him, perhaps, his eternal salvation! What a renewal of fervor, what a stimulus to progress in virtue, now seizes the regenerated soul!

The crisis has instilled the spirit of self-reproach, which, in its sincerity—beholding the soul’s sinfulness, and realizing that there is much more to be repented of and that to bring to light hidden sins is a positive sign of growth in holiness — broadens and deepens the penitential spirit. The soul now realizes that its past sorrow has been without the depth that would enable it to atone for its sins, and it loves God all the more from the conviction born of the knowledge of the guilt of these lapses, and God’s infinite patience with them. And as the soul’s love of Him becomes purer from the consciousness of its guilt, so likewise does its repentance ever increase.

The touchstone of remorse is sorrow of soul inspired by the conviction of sin. It is a sorrow which beholds sin with a vivid and unchanging appreciation of its malice, which constantly contemplates the pain and anguish that sin caused the Redeemer, which gazes with fixed vision on the eternal consequences of sin. This indispensable prerequisite of the true penitential spirit is ever active in the soul to deepen its detestation and sharpen its vision by associating it more closely with Christ’s vision of sin, thereby increasing the soul’s hatred of the guilt of sin; this hatred of sin grows with advancing years and becomes perfect only when the soul enters God’s eternal court, where sorrow shall be no more.

Godly sorrow aroused by the power of grace working remorse in the soul may be transient or permanent. When the conscience of the sinner is first smitten with the sense of sin, he is impulsive, restless, morose, yearns for self-denial, and almost blinds himself to the mercy of God through a false idea of His justice. This unreasonable sorrow soon passes, under the powerful stimulus of grace, into sorrow that is reasonable and permanent. The soul foregoes its violence and grows calm; its fear of God is no longer slavish, but reverential; it becomes more patient with, although not indulgent of, itself; its grief is now silent rather than assertive, because it has penetrated beneath the surface.

Secure in the possession of Him who cannot change, the soul is not eager for fitful sensible fervor. Grounded in humility, it is more vigilant, but also not dejected when it falls. Wholly diffident of itself, it clothes itself with the very strength of God by its childlike trust in Him. Sorrow springing from remorse may, in its twofold aspect, be likened to a river swelling and overflowing its banks, sweeping all before it in its fury, but by degrees subsiding as it sinks into the absorbent soil.

But permanent sorrow has its stages. Even in its advanced state, there is often a trace of the force and assertiveness of its first manifestation. As the soul becomes more keenly receptive to grace, its sense of sin grows, and bitter sorrow makes itself felt at the sight of even slight faults, as it formerly was convulsed by poignant grief for serious sins. The soul’s consciousness of sin has been so quickened, its vision is now so sharp, its appreciation of the sanctity of God and the severity of His justice is now so true, that it is transfixed with fear at the least violation of His law.

In the warmth of growing faith, habitual, quieter, and deeper sorrow gradually gains the ascendancy, and, slowly but surely, it leads the soul to the heights of holiness.

To suppose that sorrow does not exist because it is not demonstrative is a fallacy. Sorrow is very much akin to love. In its first fervor, love is vehement, yearns to express itself, is urgent to prove its sincerity. When it grows calm and wholly possesses the soul, becoming an unfailing source of kindness, self-sacrifice, and inviolable fidelity to duty, love is then the soul’s sublimest passion. At first, it was only a fleeting emotion; now it is a fixed state following the dictates of reason, and thus befitting an intelligent creature. Likewise, sorrow for sin, which divests repentance of excitability and makes it conform to the stern law of duty, far from languishing, acquires a more secure hold on the principles of the higher life.

The striving of the soul to rid itself of sin is the best evidence of the progress of its remorse. We are more certain of our sin than of our penitence. We know our sin directly; only by inference from its practical results can we prove our penitence. Only when the conviction of our sin is so rooted that it touches with healing the very source of our sin — only then are we sincerely repentant.

The sinner, however, no matter how depraved, does not love sin for its own sake. As the intellect clings to error, not because of the error, but because it beholds at least a modicum of truth in it, so the will consents to evil because it appears good. We are enamored, not of sin in itself, but only of the effects of sin. The man who circumvents his neighbor loves, not the trickery involved in deception so diabolical, but the result of it, the gain that he thinks will accrue to him. The acquisition of wealth is very powerful in its appeal to the man who is sordidly materialistic, but the duplicity and dishonesty that he may resort to in amassing a fortune cannot but be distasteful to him.

In short, man may long to gratify his passions, but not for the sake of the sin implicated with such indulgence. The desire to please self is so strong in him that it may stifle all his revulsion to sin and plunge his soul headlong into it. He is attracted by the pleasure the sin gives him; he loves the fountainhead and source of the sin. The satisfaction of his passions urges him on, driving him to trample on grace and its fruit, the desire to please God, which is entirely inconsistent with self-gratification.

Not the malice of sin in itself, but rather, the love of self-indulgence, is the reason for sin. The hatred of sin in itself is not therefore the essential difference between true and false repentance.

True repentance is easily discerned. Mortification is its soul. When we repeatedly resist our ruling passion, when we remove the causes that stir it into action, when we lay the axe to the root of sin, when we are proof against the alluring voice of self-love, which ever seeks to discredit the claims of conscience, when we bridle the triple concupiscence of the world, the flesh, and the Devil, when we are guided by the divine philosophy of the gospel and not by the uncertain, shifting maxims of the world, when the spirit of self-denial has so thoroughly woven itself into the fibers of our religious life as to make us impervious to the poisonous exhalations of worldliness, sensuality, and pride, when there is a substantial, not an accidental change in our attitude toward sin in its complex guises, when the Cross is for us the test and measure of success, when we learn the secret of sanctity from its greatest exponent and exemplar, Jesus Christ, who “did not please Himself,” when we “rend our hearts and not our garments,” and turn wholly to the Lord, our God — then and then only are we truly penitent.

The soul sincerely repentant appreciates the force of Christ’s words: “Watch, and pray that you enter not into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Such a soul is ever watchful, keenly conscious of the many subtle distempers of the human heart, ever ready to fight courageously against the passions that may, in an instant, be kindled into a mighty conflagration within it, ever on its guard lest the enemy surprise it openly or lead it covertly into the occasions of sin, deepening its confidence in God by increasingly distrusting its own strength. On the contrary, the soul that is not truly penitent still hankers after the seductive sweetness of sin; it flees not its devious paths; its enchanting spell still lulls the soul to sleep; self-love, and not the love of God, still rules supreme.

With such a soul, amendment is not a firm, efficacious resolve, but a mere weak wish that is powerless to withstand the stress and storm of temptation. The soul in this state, without the abiding conviction of sin, cannot renounce itself nor arouse the spirit of self-denial so essential to sincere repentance. The supreme need of such a soul is a strong sense of the sanctity of God, and of His consequent detestation of sin as revealed in the punishment which He reserves for it hereafter.

The essential difference between true and false repentance shows the indisputable necessity of sincerity with God. Our service of God must be free from duplicity. Christ enforces this truth: “He that is not with me is against me.” God cannot tolerate any compromise with sin: “He that gathereth not with me scattereth.” The man who tries to bargain with God is a weakling.To confess and not to change is treason against God. The eye of the soul must be sound. To the conviction that we are sinners, we must add honesty in dealing with our sins and in addressing ourselves to God for their pardon. Grace not only can reveal to the soul its characteristic weakness — without the cloak in which dishonest self-love would hide it — but also can counteract the deadly poison of sin and give the soul the moral strength to overcome the treacherous tempter.

Just as the vividness of the sense of sin is the measure of the growth of penitence, repentance is the great law of spiritual progress for both saint and sinner. But paradoxical as it may seem, the penitential spirit is more fully developed in the saint than in the sinner. The saint’s foundation of holiness is laid, and its superstructure mounts higher through watchfulness, prayer, and fasting. These are the means he uses to prevent carnal darkness from curtaining the eyes of his soul. He is convinced that he bears in his flesh the seeds of sin. He realizes that he carries about with him a body prone to sin.

Constantly reflecting upon the records of human corruption in the world about him, he beholds with the power of ever-broadening vision the sources of sin within him. He knows that his heart is a miniature of the great heart of humanity, and the melancholy monuments along the high road of history which he daily beholds are cautionary signals warning him against the snares that threaten his own spiritual ruin. Conscious that he is a child of sin, he checks his vicious tendencies and restrains his passions by drastic self-discipline.

Such penitence is essentially progressive. As the soul quits the haunts of sin and grows in virtue, its sorrow for sin must increase because, under the searching rays of truth that enlighten the soul as it tries to reach a higher plane of moral rectitude, it sees the essential difference between the oppressive darkness of its former sinful state and the pure, invigorating atmosphere of sanctity which it now breathes, and it better appreciates the miracle of mercy performed by God in working so marked a change in it. The soul inured to a life of repentance, ever maintaining its empire over the infirmities of the flesh, will utter its act of deepest, most godly sorrow at the hour of death. As long, however, as the soul lingers in its prison, regardless of its advances in sanctity, persevering penitence is absolutely necessary.

“Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord. Converse in fear during the time of your sojourning here. With fear and trembling work out your salvation. He that thinketh himself to stand, let him take heed lest he fall.”

These words are addressed to both saint and sinner. The fear of the Lord, the crown of all the gifts of the Holy Spirit, is an essential part of the penitential spirit. Christ our model availed Himself of this gift, “who in the days of His flesh, with a strong cry and tears, offering up prayers and supplications to Him who was able to save Him from death, was heard for His reverence.”

The possibility that we may lose our souls is a thought well calculated to strike terror into our hearts. Fear must therefore be the sustaining nourishment of our sorrow. If we fear God, He will hear our sighs, and we will swiftly proceed along the rugged but royal way of repentance until we arrive at the mountain of God.

Habitual penitence is the infallible test of growth in holiness, of the depth of its penetration, and the sincerity and consistency of its profession. The spirit of self-condemnation and of profound abasement must be the food ever feeding the energies of our resistance and self-denial, renewing our powers of self-discipline, restraining our tendency to indulgence, which is born of self-love, and strengthening us in the hour of trial by tightening our hold on God.

In the light of these truths, Lent, the season of serious thought and solemn penitence, should exert a dominant influence upon the soul aspiring to closer union with God. During this sacred time, the Church bids her children to scrutinize with care the plain, bare, searching truths of her sublime moral code. Somber in penitential garb, she invites them to contemplate the “Man of Sorrows” and to lay the deep foundation of veritable repentance by meditation on what it cost Him to redeem us.

The voice of God, during these forty days, seems to speak more clearly, perhaps because the ears of our souls are more sensitively attuned by grace to catch its faintest whisper. It gently chides us and thus awakens within us the power of remorse. It strengthens our conviction that we are sinners and, opening the sluices of our sorrow when we confess, wafts the wail of our heartfelt grief to the throne of God. We hear the echo of God’s forgiveness in the words of absolution; and the smile of God, appeased again, illumines our souls. Whether smiting us directly or sharply reproving us through its divinely appointed oracles, it is the voice of love.

What more singular proof of God’s mercy to sinners than His perennial pursuit of their souls? Now He speaks to them sternly through mental anguish or bodily pain; at another time, He humiliates them to the dust by the loss of earthly possessions or the coldness of ardently cherished friends. Thus He rouses them from their spiritual inertia to the serious consideration of the ravages of sin within them and the danger of eternal loss; and so, inspirited with the fear of the Lord and made “wise unto sobriety,” they forsake sin and adorn their souls with the virtues that will render them precious in His sight and be the pledge of their eternal union with Him.

BY: CHARLIE MCKINNEY