#he could hate all the gods without making distinction and have every right to do so

[reginrokkr]

𝐂𝐗𝐈𝐋. Given Dain's high standing in the military of Khaenri'ah, I am still debating whether he knew or not about its dark side (which is huge and lasted for millennia if we take as a solid point of timeframe when Phanes threw the sapphire nails to mend the land from the Apocalypse, one of which landed in Dragonspine and the author of one of the stone tablets already talked about a nation without gods being built somewhere) and in case he didn't and by then he was already destined for greatness —be it by being tied to Irminsul already or something else, thus already gauging a greater picture outside Khaenri'ah, but of the world—, if he was forced to make a decision to not do everything in his power to do something for Khaenri'ah or do something else to think about the future and not so much about the shorter term (if the darkness that spread from Khaenri'ah to the rest of the world were to be left unchecked, the whole world could've gone to poop easily) and come empty-handed because what could he possibly do against the gods?

Whatever the case is, what I want to address is that chances are that in the heat of the moment, he did hate the gods when Khaenri'ah's fall happened but not even that would blind him to see things from perspective (I will touch on this a tad later). Assuming that he came to witness that even Khaenri'ahns themselves could summon the rifthounds, not so much that perhaps it was the only choice the gods had to keep all that consuming darkness at bay from the potential danger of spreading to the rest of the world (as it ended up happening anyway) because sooner or later, that would've spilled on the rest of Khaenri'ah's civilization and would be cause of serious danger to the citizens— but because people who had nothing to do with the festering obsessions for thousands of years were also brought into the equation, full blooded Khaenri'ahns or not. And what's worse: not only the gods had to destroy their home but they had to cast that bloody curse that, regardless of the purity of people's blood, was horrible in many ways.

However, and as I say, not even this blinds him to the greater scheme of the world at large if we come to think that, assuming that the first nation of Teyvat he resurfaced on was Sumeru, in helping Zurvan alongside the one-armed sage to purify that area and dispel the Sign of Apaosha he cooperated indirectly with no less than three goddesses: Rhukkadevata, Egeria and Nabu Malikata. Considering how early on after leaving Khaenri'ah that was and his still very fresh inner turmoil, there is a great strength in pulling himself together to do something like that and rise as a hero in that area, even if it was so those who continued to come to the surface would have somewhere safe where to stay or so no other innocent people would have to suffer some major consequences— let alone brought by the same people he pledged loyalty to.

In view of this and coming to a more present time where he must have an even bigger view of the great picture than he must've had in the beginning of the Cataclysm, I will say that Dain doesn't hate gods or at least, he doesn't hate them in general and is capable of directing that hatred to the actual puppeteers in a play where the Archons are the marionettes. Of course, that doesn't mean he won't be critical of them as we've seen with Venti, Zhongli and Ei so far, with Zhongli the most out of the three— but just as he criticizes them he also stays on his lane when he doesn't have anything bad to say about some of them such as Nahida and Focalors.

[rockrosethistle]

If there's one thing TGWDLM fans are gonna do, it's think about the implications. And the implications of the opening number are crazy.

So. We know that the show isn't completely chronological since the opening number takes place before the meteor hits. So that song is a sort of "flash forward" moment. But when you think about it, we don't really know how far in the future it takes place.

What we do know is that by the time it's happening, Emma is infected. She has a little solo in it singing about how Paul is pining over a barista

And we know that this is meant to be an infected Emma specifically. Lauren had other characters in the show, if they wanted to avoid the Emma implication they would've just dressed her as one of those.

So we know this is meant to be Emma.

And Emma isn't infected until the very end of the show. She's dragged off stage during the credits. So since she's infected in the opening number, we know the number takes place after the events of the show.

Another important detail is that Paul is infected before Emma. He's the one that passes it on to her.

So back to the opening number, Emma is infected. Which means by just following a simple timeline, Paul must also be infected. He should be singing and dancing, right?

But that's not what happens. Paul misses his entrance.

If Paul is infected, then there's no reason he should be missing his entrance. Furthermore, if he's a part of a hive mind, there's no reason other members of the same hive mind shouldn't know where he is. They are literally all connected by one brain, and yet both Mr. Davidson and Bill express they have no clue where he went.

What I'm saying is that Paul is not infected. He was infected (again, we know that because Emma is infected and he was infected before her) but now he's not anymore.

I'm saying there's a way out of the hive, and Paul found it. That's the only explanation that makes sense given the facts of the situation. Sometime after the events of tgwdlm, Paul is able not only to break out the hive mind, but to hide from it.

And if he broke out, others could do the same. Maybe even Emma.

Edit because a countertheory has emerged: Yes it's possible that everyone is infected the entire time and the show itself is just Pokey replaying the events for the fun of it. But it seems unlikely to me. First of all, each of the Lords in Black has a distinct personality. They all are evil, but within that they seems to fall somewhere on a spectrum of "silly billy" to "prick." For example, Tinky is more of a silly billy. He toys with humans without much of a motive and more for just shits and giggles. But in every instance, Pokey's more on the extreme side of prick.

He's one of the few with an actual motive behind what he does. In Yellowjacket, it's confirmed that Pokotho hates the sound of anyone's voice except for his own. The events of TGWDLM don't happen because Pokey is bored, they happen because he is executing a plan. So I don't think that he would just have them play out their little scenario just to entertain him, especially just one small island? I just feel like he'd be more focused on world domination.

If the theory is that all this is happening after Pokey's already taken over the whole world, no one was successful in stopping him, then yes it's plausible, but still weird. There are a strange amount of things in that show you just think an eldritch god wouldn't include.

Edit 2: New evidence has emerged???

The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals is loosely based off of Invasion of The Body Snatchers. Paul's last name is even a nod to the main character, Matthew. At the end of the film, Matthew survives, and continues living among the infected, pretending to be one of them. And wouldn't that be just such a fun little parallel...

Obviously it doesn't prove anything but the source material doesn't lie folks.

[kaeddehara]

EX BOYFRIENDS — NSFW

kaeya + heizou + cyno

♱ warnings | nsfw content, slight hate sex (kaeya/heizou), jealou sex (cyno), breeding, size kink(kaeya), implied sir/general kink(cyno/kaeya), bondage(heizou) |

♱ notes | kinda lazy posting cause i’m been so busy with work and school; also just sad cause i haven’t seen my boyfriend in 2 weeks ;( |

| KAEYA |

“k-kaeya slow down”,

you struggled out as he roughly continues taking off your clothing. the smell of alcohol distinct on his breath even when he so much as breathed next to you. all of this was wrong, every single aspect about it. but it’s not like either of you cared right? just a quick fuck for both of you right?

“you look just how i remembered you, pretty thing”

he teased while pulling at your hair, causing your back to arch at an almost painful state. not like it mattered though not when the feeling of his girthy cock filling you up over and over again made you overwhelmed with pleasure. kaeya always had such a tender touch even with how rough and often times uncaring it seemed, you could tell he did it out of the feelings he had for you. he noticed you drifted off a bit thinking his pace wasn’t enough for you and graping at your hips with ease. pulling you on his cock and making you take every last inch inside your tight, sensitive pussy.

“god so big…”

“bet you missed it didn’t you sweetheart?”

you could only bite your lip and nod in agreement, letting kaeya manhandle you just how you both like. you couldn’t even think. not when you’re getting pounded by your drunk ex who doesn’t know when to quit. his stamina was unmatched in every way, you couldn’t even imagine how debauched and ruined you’d be after the captain was finished with you.

“slow down sir kaeya”

as if on cue, he slowed. not because you asked but more because of that damn pet name only you would call him in bed.

“don’t call me that”

“come on kae i know you like it”

he huffed at your annoying comments, still making himself at home inside of you. and god it was so easy to do so. all of it he remembered so clearly and if it wasn’t until now, he may have just had to keep imagining you in hopes it would be somewhat adequate to the rest thing. even down to how you smelled, he missed it all. everything. maybe it was the alcohol talking, but a sudden twinge of regret and conflicting feelings mixed each other up inside kaeyas mind.

“just shut up and take it”

after the many rounds kaeya went through with you, you both found each other lying next to one another in his bed. you’d long since pass out from how tiring it all was, mentally and physically. although kaeya was exhausted too, he couldn’t help but continue to think about you. kaeya wishes he could just talk with you just so you could see eye to eye. maybe a talk over some breakfast cooked by him in the morning would do <3.

| HEIZOU |

“you couldn’t even go a couple of months without this huh?”

heizou jeered at you in an attempt to rile you up. he was oh so good at that. making you reach a certain breaking point which how badly he got into your head.

“s-shut up already..”

you weakly replied back, hair messy and face slicked with sweat. he smirked at your response, only tugging your cuffed hands which were placed behind your back towards him. your body lifting up in the process of him pulling you so harshly.

“i even tied you up just how you like and you still wanna tell me to shut up?”

a loud array of whines and protests escaped from your lips as his thick cock continued to roughly pound you over his work desk. such a dirty place to do it and even then, why not let you come in to his office and let him relieve some stress. it’s no surprise you both missed doing this within the privacy of heizous office.

a loud slap could be heard soon after he asked you that question. his hand leaving a red mark on the fat of your ass just to get something out of you. we’re you always this stubborn when you were with him?

“just because we’re not together doesn’t mean you don’t get to listen to me slut”

“you never stop talking…”

your head was dizzy and only filled with thoughts of getting fucked stupid your obnoxious ex. it wasn’t like heizou wanted anything more than just this right?

“ah-fuck that feels so much better than i remembered…”

he groaned in a low tone after cumming deep inside your tight pussy. not even bothering to pull out cause he knows you love getting filled with more cum than you could take. he patted at your side, touching you so gently even after all the things he said and rough treatment he gave your pussy.

“let’s get you to bed, we can talk later alright?”

| CYNO |

the quiet room of his office wasn’t so quiet anymore with the constant sound of hips hitting yours. back laid out on his desk making his papers all messy and join the other items once adjourning his desk on the floor. not that cyno cared though. all the mattered in the moment was you, you, you. cyno couldn’t even make himself look up at your face, not with the shame in his heart what would probably be written all over his face if he did look into your sweet, tear ridden eyes.

“she’s not my new girl, i could never replace you even if i tried”

your face contorted into a shocked one while silence filled the space. cyno was taken aback too by his sudden confession but that didn’t stop him from continuing to fuck you, head piece covering his eyes so neither of you could see the shame written on his face.

“you mean that cy?”

he huffed as small, low growls escaped his throat at the feeling of your warmth engulfing all of the thick, sensitive veins his cock missed.

you both were referring to the conversation you both had after you met cyno outside the academia. seeing him earlier with another woman his age, you didn’t know why it drove you insane other than the fact that she was with cyno and not you.

“just focus on this alright?”

he whined out as he rutted even harder into you as to not allow you to respond to him. faster and faster until he knew you were about to cum. he heard what sounded like a giggle come from your lips. we’re you laughing at him?

“sure thing, general”

cyno clenched his fists at the title. he knew what kind of game you were playing, honeying your words up to tease him after he’d had a long day. almost reminded him of what you used to do when you’re together…didn’t matter though.

he remembers exactly how you sound when you do. taking his hand off your waist, he rubs his thumb gently against your clit to help you out. your hands grip onto his lean arms, nails digging into his pretty tan skin.

“fuck cyno—i’m gonna-!”

you cut yourself off as you came with a sudden rush, your body twitching and spasming around his while he pushed himself in to a hilt. you huffed yourself back down and gained some control back over your body after an orgasm you’d hadn’t felt in weeks. and in that moment, cyno looked at your face. how pretty you looked in the afterglow and how much he missed taking in that look and kissing your lips after.

“didn’t want to cum inside cyno?”

you asked, disappointingly. cyno snapped back to the reality before sighing at your question and looking down at where you both were connected. noticing the thick, creamy halo around the bottom of his cock.

“i wouldn’t want myself getting addicted to that feeling again”

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism Shopping headcanons

Thinking about the spectrum of shopping hc - my quad of Johan (hates), Gun (tolerates), Jake (likes), Goo (loves)

Johan

Warning: shop with this guy at your own risk.

Absolutely does not enjoy it in any way shape or form. You wouldn't find him shopping on his own and god knows why he wanted to come with you, guess his clinginess won out.

Sulks the whole time, acting like a kid forced to follow their parent for the day.

At least with children you can placate them with toys or ice cream. Even your presence or attempts at bribery doesn't get him out of this funk. He has no interest and zero money.

Doesn't just steal people's shoes and coats, everything is up for grabs after a fight. What's the point in shopping and using money when it's all just there for free?

Very light-fingered even if it doesn't involve a brawl. Turns out he wasn't completely brooding the whole way round, he did notice your interest in that little something or other. Just don't ask how he acquired it.

Gun

If time is money, then he prefers not to waste both.

Gun knows the importance and power of a well fitting suit and dressing for status but shopping isn't a process he particularly enjoys. Especially not when there's fights to be had and successors to be found.

Executive assistants at HNH and premium personal shoppers take care of shopping and tailoring for him.

It's not a bad job, he has a pretty distinctive style and he's got a great body so he wears most clothing well. But if something isn't to his taste, expect either a pile of discarded clothing on your desk or for it to be just binned. Brand new, with tags - yes even that limited designer shirt.

Grooming and hygiene products are the only things he dedicates more than a passing thought to. High-end clothing is one thing, it's all the same after a while, but this is too personal to leave to others. Once he finds what he likes, very rarely changes it.

Doesn't mind shopping with you, eventhough there are other things he would prefer to be doing. Don't push it though - you're really stretching his patience if you insist on trying on everything.

Jake

Eh, money. It's not that he doesn't have it, he just... doesn't have a lot of it. And any that he does have spare, he prefers to keep in a rainy day fund for Big Deal. (Too bad it has been pouring for nearly the past year.)

If he's with you though, then it becomes infinitely more enjoyable. Another chance to spend time with you rather than the activity itself.

Doesn't allow himself to indulge in gratuitious purchases. If he needs something, he would find it on clearance. Otherwise, he can just do without.

Guilty that he can't treat or spoil you the way you deserve. He still tries to get you small things here and there but Big Deal finances takes priority.

Makes mental list of things that he would like to buy one day. Oh that shirt would suit Brad. Jerry would like that backpack. Jason could do with a new pair of shoes.

Only luxury is giving himself a small allowance to keep himself groomed. Cologne, hair products, skincare. Big Deal No.1 does have appearances to keep up, y'know.

Goo

What's the point of making all this money if you can't spend it? You can't take it with you, right?

Loves to look good and feel good. And what better way is there to remind Goo of his success than with some retail therapy. Having store assistants wait on him hand and foot gives him a kick too.

Treats clothing as an extension of his status, and also his personality. So what if that shirt is loud and garish? He's loud and garish too, and it also enhances his already buff shoulders? He'll take it!

Cologne for every occasion and mood, and then some. Need to flex on his inferiors? Sniff sniff. Yep this one. Going to be stuck in the car all day with Gun? Oh this one will definitely give him a headache!

Shopping trips with Goo are almost always fun and he's generous to boot. Asks for your opinion but if he likes something, then it doesn't really matter what you think.

[positivelybeastly]

Just a question regarding the whole fall of x depiction of the x-men. Do you think they deserved to fall? If so, then why?

In my opinion (and sorry for the rambling) I believe most deserved it but definitely not everyone. *cough cough* Quiet Council *cough cough*. But going beyond their…mess, teams like X-Force and Legionnaires I felt don’t deserve it completely. While yes the actions of beast prime did make their reputation that much dirtier it could’ve been avoided if there was therapy for mutants. All his and many others “evil” actions could be been avoided if everyone wasn’t like light years apart from each other despite being in the same area at the same time. Even then there just byproducts of a crappy system of lies and neglect from the stupid quiet council that only makes things worse some how. But that’s my thoughts…maybe you could change them.

Question for Hank in general. What are five words you would use to describe love in your life? It could be: friend ships, romantic relationships, or even (and probably considered a little confusing to others) your relationship to your work.

"Five words to describe love? Quite a task, considering what Ewan McGregor had to say on the subject."

"Oh, no. NO, NO, NO - !"

"All you need is love!"

"Love is just a game!"

"I was made for loving you, baby, you were made for loving me!"

"The only way of loving me, baby, is to pay a lovely fee~"

"Just one night, give me just one night~!"

"There's no way, 'cause you can't pay~"

"Oh, there he is! In the naaaaaame of love, one ni-ght in the name of love~!"

"You crazy fool, I won't give in to you~!"

"Don't - leave me this way, I can't survive without your sweet love, oh baby, don't leave me this way~"

There's a sound - Dark Beast is violently banging his head against the wall.

"Please. God. Please. Make. It. Stop."

"All right, fine, fine, we'll take it easy on you . . . five words to describe love in our life . . . nourishing."

"Regular! Skilful, too."

"Anchor."

"Betrayal."

"Oh, well, thanks for lowering the tone there, guy . . ."

So, I think a distinction does have to be drawn between X-Men and mutants, because the X-Men are a superhero team with various spin off groups, and the mutants are a race/community. For the most part, no, I don't think the mutants deserved to fall, and I don't think most of the teams or groups did, either.

Joe Public on Krakoa was just living their lives after said lives were rudely interrupted (if they were resurrected victims of the various massacres) or they were set to be persecuted by a world that hated and feared them. They didn't do shit to deserve being dive bombed by Nimrod or hunted down by Orchis fuckwads, they're just people living on an island utopia and trying to have a good time.

The Quiet Council, however, was a completely fucked system of government and everyone realised it way too late, so pretty much everyone involved in that institution deserves a smack upside the head and a long time away from any leadership position.

Yes, that does include Kate, Emma, Jean, Kurt and Ororo. They were all complicit in, at the very least, allowing X-Force's actions to go unmoderated, to say nothing of every other fucked up decision they signed off on.

I don't give a fuck if they stood in the Quiet Council chambers and said, oh, I miss when Hank was fun, why's he so unethical now - YOU'RE MEANT TO BE HIS FUCKING FRIENDS, CUNTS, ACT LIKE IT. Or at the very least, act like the fucking superheroes you're goddamn meant to be! Talk means nothing if it's not followed by action!

They didn't address the rot. Everyone in major leadership positions on Krakoa, yes, everyone, has to carry some of the blame for what happened to Krakoa. No, it wasn't just Beast, or Mr. Sinister, or Moira, all of them carry some responsibility for fumbling the bag and not addressing fundamental inequalities on their little happy island nation.

But 90% of the X-Men teams, who didn't have that knowledge, didn't have that power, who can't be held accountable for that stuff? Yeah, they didn't deserve what happened. Jubilee did not deserve to be crushed by Nimrod, no matter how you cut it, she simply did not. Same with every other member of that X-Men team, just to name one example.

X-Force, though . . . so, take all of this with a grain of salt, because this was quite possibly the worst written book of the era, and I know no-one was in character, BUT.

In-universe, with what is, unfortunately, canon?

Yeah, fuck those guys. All it takes for evil to flourish is that good men do nothing, and while no-one on that team can call themselves a good person, good god did they insist on doing a lot of nothing.

"Hmm, our leader was running a space Nazi prison, what should we do? Silent treatment. Brilliant."

Kill Quire a few extra times just for that. And for that shitty Ghost Calendars arc, while we're at it. Colossus, you're on my shit list for breaking Chronicler control and not telling anyone what was going on until the last second. Sage, you're an idiot, you and Logan both had the power to stop shit long before it got to the point it did. Domino, you . . . actually, Domino, Black Tom and Omega Red might get a pass here? I can't really blame them for what happened.

. . . Anyway! Mutants don't deserve genocide or the loss of the little scrap of the world they carved out for themselves. The Quiet Council and the leadership of X-Force, however, deserved everything they got, and quite possibly a hell of a lot more. That's the long and short of it.

[fictionkinfessions]

Anonymous asked:

The way I want absolutely nothing to do with other Hearts in any way shape or form bc it makes me question how valid I am compared to them (among other reasons) even tho I know for a FACT there's only one of me 😭😭😭😭

My kintype is just so distinct in its lore and how different it is to other ones…… Becoming "Whole" was abandoned centuries ago, "taking control" is becoming God-like, we didn't live in any "headspace" we lived in a city between worlds!

And yet I'm still so connected to being Heart, in-spite of all that. I may be unimaginably distinct, but I will still hold every consistent quality that makes me Heart: hating Mind, being the emotional side, association with purple, black, night and the Moon, bad eyes, pretty much everything personality and appearance-wise, and boy, oh boy, do I love to walk.

I feel bad because sometimes I meet CCCCkins who I genuinely think are cool, but it's like they have someone apart of them who identifies as Heart, or a hearttype (heh) of Heart, or even so much as a synpath of Heart and I just want nothing to do with them after that.

In all honesty, I just wanna see Soul again. He was always fed up with me, sure, and he was very emotionally distant. But he was what I could only imagine the closest someone like me could feel to a father.

I don't get parents. I don't understand them. Even in this life, parental love is something I cannot comprehend.

He was my Host. I was his parasite. It may not seem like there was something there, but by the burgundy stars in our galaxy it mattered. Someone of authority, someone I could worship, respect, listen to, bask in the light of, what a marvel! No human could ever understand the pure ecstasy of having someone you live to impress, yet still find gravels of affection bitten between the apathy.

Even Mind I find myself missing at times. I just want to hear the ire in his robotic voice, pronounced like cold iron scraping on concrete as his rancorous words tear from the module on his throat.

Oh, and Soul Two was canon to my source too. That's… that's a bit awkward, but trust me, he was pretty neat too. A boring fella but one with a sharp wit and humour darker than the eternal night that enveloped our city.

I think I just needed to mindlessly ramble a bit. Nothing about this miserable world is right. It's just hounds and goats snapping and wailing for their sad little place in an even sadder even smaller world. And yet here I lie, indistinct from them. Without a Host. Without a purpose. Alike all the others of my kintype, yet distinct at cyclopean levels. Orphaned from the brilliant light of its Morningstar.

I really wish I could go back. I'm not meant for this world. I don't want to be human. This isn't my biology.

Where is my mind?

~The Heart - Chonny's Charming Chaos Compendium, mixed with the Robber from Chonny Jash's Ain't no Rest for the Wicked ("Villain Heart") @blogurl

(Also I wasn't lying about loving to walk. It's an obsession. My legs are cramping. I walk so much in a day that I used to triple FitBit's daily goal every day. I've been doing this years before I kinfirmed Heart. I truly do love to walk.)

the rules page https://fictionkinfessions.tumblr.com/rules

Source calls. This is not a call blog. Here is a list of call blogs. [blog page] [blog post] Don’t sign confessions with blogurls or @/mentions. Don’t leave social media links to oneself, such as discord IDs, twitter user names, etc. Don’t ask people to reblog, comment, like, or interact with ask messages in order to make contact with others. These messages will be deleted.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

18th June >> Fr. Martin's Reflections / Homilies on Today's Mass Readings for Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time (Inc. Matthew 5:43-48): ‘But I say this to you: love your enemies’.

Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

Gospel (Except USA)

Matthew 5:43-48 Pray for those who persecute you.

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘You have learnt how it was said: You must love your neighbour and hate your enemy. But I say this to you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you; in this way you will be sons of your Father in heaven, for he causes his sun to rise on bad men as well as good, and his rain to fall on honest and dishonest men alike. For if you love those who love you, what right have you to claim any credit? Even the tax collectors do as much, do they not? And if you save your greetings for your brothers, are you doing anything exceptional? Even the pagans do as much, do they not? You must therefore be perfect just as your heavenly Father is perfect.’

Gospel (USA) Matthew 5:43-48 Love your enemies.

Jesus said to his disciples: “You have heard that it was said, You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your heavenly Father, for he makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what recompense will you have? Do not the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet your brothers only, what is unusual about that? Do not the pagans do the same? So be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

Reflections (9)

(i) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The Sermon on the Mount is probably the most challenging part of Jesus’ teaching and today’s gospel reading is the most challenging part of the Sermon on the Mount. ‘I say this to you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you’. It seems to go against every natural instinct to ask people to love those who are out to destroy them and to show their love for them by praying for them. How could the Ukrainians who are suffering so much be expected to love those who invaded their land and have caused and are causing so much misery? The love that Jesus calls for here is not an emotion. No one could have any other emotion but extreme anger in the face of unprovoked aggression. The love Jesus asks for resides in the will. He asks us to want what is best even for our enemies. We are to desire, to hope, to pray, that our enemies would come to embrace the path that God wants for them and that will bring them happiness in this life and in the next. We are to hope and pray that they would be delivered from the evil to which they have succumbed, and we are to do whatever is in our power to help bring about such deliverance. In other words, we are to be instruments of God’s saving purpose for their lives, in whatever small way we can. Jesus mentions praying for our enemies, and that may be as much as we can do at times. However, such prayer for the enemy surely falls within the ambit of Jesus’ wider promise elsewhere in the Sermon and the Mount, ‘Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find’.

And/Or

(ii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

Unconditional love does not come naturally to us. We tend to love people when certain conditions are fulfilled. This even applies to the most intimate of human loves. In particular, we expect those we love to love us in return. If they do not, our love for them can easily wane. In the gospel reading, Jesus speaks of God’s love as a love without conditions attached. God does not only love those who love him. Rather God loves ‘bad as well as good’, those who return God’s love and those who do not. In this consists God’s perfection, according to Jesus. God is perfect in that his love is unconditional and, therefore, embraces all. What makes distinctions between people is how they respond to God’s love, the extent to which they allow God’s love to transform them. In the gospel reading, Jesus calls on us all to be perfect as God is perfect, to love unconditionally in the way God does, and that will mean loving even our enemies, those who would wish us harm. There are outstanding examples among Jesus’ followers of this kind of indiscriminate love. Such people are often to be found in the setting of war, precisely in the context of being badly treated by their enemies. They are an inspiration to us. They show us what perfection, what holiness, looks like. They remind us of the good we are all capable of, with the Lord’s help, even in the face of evil.

And/Or

(iii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

I like that poem of Joseph Mary Plunkett, one of the leaders of the 1916 rising, which begins, ‘I see his blood upon the rose and in the stars the glory of his eyes’. Nature spoke powerfully to him of the person of Jesus. It is clear from the gospels that nature spoke powerfully to Jesus about God and God’s way of relating to us and our way of relating to him. When Jesus noticed that the sun was shining and the rain was falling on all people equally, regardless of their moral standing, it spoke to him of God’s love which was given equally to all. Just as the sun and the rain do not discriminate between the good and the sinner, so God’s love does not discriminate between the morally good and immoral. God loves all equally; what differs is people’s willingness to open themselves to this love and allow it to transform their way of being and living. In the gospel reading Jesus calls on his disciples to be God-like in the way they relate to others. We are to love indiscriminately. How we relate to others is to be shaped by how God relates to us rather than by how others relate to us. This is how Jesus understands perfection. He himself embodied fully this way of relating that he calls for in the gospel reading. He loved others as God loved him, regardless of how others related to him. He prayed for his friends and his enemies alike. In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul prays that Christ would live in our hearts through faith. This is the essence of our baptismal calling, to allow the Lord to live in us and to love through us. When that happens we become perfect as God is perfect.

And/Or

(iv) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The Sermon on the Mount puts before us some very challenging teaching and no more so than the section of the Sermon we have just heard in this morning’s gospel reading. Jesus calls on us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. The second part of that call makes the first part more concrete. We love our enemies by praying for them. Praying for others is always an act of love, whether we are praying for our friends, members of our family, those who in need, or, in the case of the gospel reading this morning, our enemies, those who wish us ill. Of the four evangelists, it is Luke who presents Jesus as doing just that. As he hung from the cross, he prayed, ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they are doing’. That prayer of Jesus - and all prayers in the spirit of Jesus’ prayer - displays an extraordinary generosity of spirit. Jesus calls on us to pray for those who persecute us because that is the kind of person that he is, and more fundamentally, that is who God is like. God’s love does not discriminate between the morally good and the morally bad; he makes the sun to shine and the rain to fall on honest and dishonest alike. God’s love is the same for all; what differs is the response of people to that love. In so far as our love for others is not dependent on how people respond to it, we will be as perfect as God is perfect.

And/Or

(v) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The most demanding call of Jesus in all of the gospels is probably to be found in this morning’s gospel reading. There Jesus calls on us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. We would be tempted to say, ‘Surely, it is not humanly possible to love your enemies and to intercede in prayer for those who persecute us’. Jesus rounds off that teaching by calling on us to be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect. Again we would be tempted to ask, ‘how can we be as perfect as God? Surely it is unreasonable to expect that of us?’ We might be so taken aback by the challenging call that we could miss the fact that Jesus is saying something very important about God there. He is saying that God does not discriminate between friend and foe, that God loves those who dishonour him as much as those who honour him. The only human life which fully reflected such divine love was the life of Jesus. Yet, Jesus clearly believes that the lives of his disciples can and must reflect something of that same love of God which makes no distinctions between friend and foe. For that to happen, we need the help of the Holy Spirit, as the feast of Pentecost reminded us. We need to keep on praying, ‘Come, Holy Spirit…’

And/Or

(vi) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

In yesterday’s gospel reading Jesus calls on his followers not to take vengeance on the enemy. In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus goes further and calls on us to love the enemy. As one commentator on this passage puts it, ‘Who else is left to love, after one has loved the enemy?’ The love Jesus speaks of is not just a feeling but finds expression in active service. We might think of the parable of the good Samaritan, in which the Samaritan renders loving service to the injured Jew, who would have been regarded by the Samaritan as an enemy. Such a love of the enemy will also find expression in prayer for the enemy, as when Jesus asked his Father to forgive those who were responsible for his crucifixion. The human tendency is to focus our love on those for whom we have strong feelings of warmth and affection. This is natural, but according to this morning’s gospel reading, it is not exceptional. Jesus calls on us to stretch beyond those our love would naturally embrace. This is one of the gospel texts that does indeed stretch us. Jesus is calling on us to reveal, by our way of relating to others, the God who in love causes the sun to rise on bad people as well as good, and the rain to fall on honest and dishonest alike. This way of life that Jesus calls us towards is only possible in the power of the Holy Spirit who lives among us and within us.

And/Or

(vii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The word hate when applied to people always has a troublesome connotation. When someone says that they hate someone, it leaves us somewhat disturbed.  The natural objects of our hate are those whom we perceive in some way or other to be our enemy. Perhaps they stand for everything we are opposed to, or, maybe, they are responsible for some harm that has been done to us. In the gospel reading today Jesus declares that there is no room for hatred among his disciples, not even hatred of enemies. In fact, Jesus makes the extraordinary demand of his disciples to love their enemies. The love which the Jewish Law called on people to extend to their neighbour is now to be extended much, much further, to embrace the enemy. The kind of love that Jesus speaks about here is a divine love, a love that does not know how to discriminate in any way, a love that embraces the enemy as much as the friend. This is what the gospel reading refers to as perfection. ‘Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect’. Perfection consists in loving as God loves. We can only do that with the help of the Spirit that God gives.

And/Or

(viii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

In today’s gospel reading Jesus’ call on his disciples to ‘love your enemies and to pray for those who persecute you’ would have been shocking at the time. It retains its shock value today. Jesus is calling on his disciples, calling on us, to be loving people, full stop. We are to be as loving towards those who hate us and wish us harm as we are towards those who love us and wish us well. The kind of people we are is to be shaped not by how people relate to us but by how God relates to us and to all humankind, the God who causes his sun to shine on good and bad alike. There was a bishop in southern Mexico between 1960 and 2000, named Don Samuel Ruiz. He was well known for having empowered the indigenous people of his diocese and for his role as mediator in the conflict between the Zapatista rebels and the Mexican government. For this work, he had received many death threats. In an interview he gave before his death in 2011 he was asked how he had come to live so completely the command to love one’s enemies, when he had so many. He replied, ‘I have no enemies. There are some who want to make themselves enemy to me, but I have no enemies’. Here was certainly someone who related to people out of something much deeper than how they related to him; he related to all, even his enemies, with a divine kind of love. He lived to the full the calling of Jesus at the end of today’s gospel reading to be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect.

And/Or

(ix) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

In today’s first reading, Saint Paul calls on the church of Corinth to give generously to what he calls ‘this work of mercy’. He is referring to a collection he is taking up among his churches for the Jewish Christian church in Jerusalem, who were materially impoverished, relative to the churches Paul founded. To motivate the church of Corinth to give generously, Paul mentions how generous other churches have been to this collection, in particular the churches in Macedonia, in northern Greece. As an even greater motivation, Paul puts before the church of Corinth the generosity of Jesus, who, as Paul says, ‘was rich’ but ‘became poor for your sake, to make you rich out of his poverty’. In what sense was Jesus rich? He was rich with the life of God. However, in becoming human, he became poor, giving himself over to the limitations of the human condition, surrendering himself even to death on a cross. As Paul says in another letter, Jesus ‘emptied himself, taking the form of a servant’. He did this, according to Paul in our reading, to make us rich out of his poverty. Jesus’ becoming poor, through becoming fully human, enabled him to pour the Spirit of God, the very life of God into our hearts. We have all been enriched through Jesus’ generosity, his voluntary poverty. It is only because we have been enriched with the life of God, the Spirit of God, that we can respond to the demanding call of Jesus in today’s gospel reading, to be as perfect as God is perfect, to be indiscriminate in our loving as God is. If we are to respond in some way to this gospel call, we have to keep opening ourselves to the riches of God’s life, God’s love, that Jesus continues to pour into our hearts.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[winter-soldier-vibes]

Hello can u do a bucky x reader where reader feels insecure and doesn’t have sex with him bc of her stretch marks and our bucky boi finding out and offering comfort and kisses as a result? Love you tysm❤️❤️❤️

Bucky x reader

Word count: 1325

Warnings: brief mention of being intimate (no smut), insecurities, stretch marks, this is mostly comfort and fluffy. Readers are responsible for their own media consumption.

A/N: I love this idea so much! I kept this on the fluffy side but i really hope you enjoy it!

You won't like what you see

���Hey, can we - can we stop?” you said, slightly out of breath as you broke away from Bucky. The two of you had been kissing and Bucky had pulled you closer to him, bringing his hands to the hem of your shirt.

Of course, he immediately stopped and nodded, looking at you with concern. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

You shook your head, making sure your shirt was pulled down all the way. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it. It’s not you, I promise. I’m just gonna go take a shower”

And with that you had walked away, Bucky watching after you worriedly.

Bucky was never upset that the two of you hadn’t been intimate together. Being from the 40’s where it wasn’t uncommon for people to save themselves for marriage made him understanding. But that didn’t seem to be why.

You made an effort to show how much you loved him, you cared for him, you were with him through everything. The nightmares, his insecurities, the flashbacks, pushing him to keep contact with others even though “you were all he needed” - you were his rock.

And Bucky knew that the two of you could have a relationship without sex, and he was perfectly content with what the two of you had.

But he noticed that you didn’t seem to be.

At first he thought it might have been his fault. He had been self conscious of his metal arm, especially where metal met skin, but you had made it your mission to get Bucky to accept himself. All of him. He was your everything, and you needed him to know that and feel it too.

Anytime you caught him staring at himself in the mirror, you would walk up from behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, meeting his eyes in the mirror. No words would be exchanged, but you would press soft kisses to the scarring on his left shoulder.

He thought maybe you didn’t have interest in him, but the heated kisses and lingering touches pointed otherwise. It all stopped when his hands reached the hem of your shirt.

Every time he got too close to you, you seemed to get uncomfortable. And Bucky wanted to know why so he could fix it. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander to if someone had ever hurt you in the past, making his blood boil.

He wanted you to tell him what was wrong so he could help you like you had helped him.

You had walked into the bathroom, locking the door and turning on the water. You turned to the mirror as you let the water warm up, cursing yourself. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be closer with Bucky, it was that you were insecure of yourself. You took off your clothes and saw what you didn’t want Bucky to see.

Your stretch marks.

You knew that it was silly to be so upset with them, that many people had them. During growth spurts, gaining weight, having a naturally wider build - they were at the bottom of your stomach, the insides of your thighs, your chest… all the places you didn’t want them to be.

You sighed, turning away. You had tried different products that delivered empty promises. Some of the marks had started to fade but they were still distinct. It was ironic in a way, how you wanted Bucky to trust you with his insecurities and you wanted to know when it bothered him so you could help him, yet you couldn’t show this to Bucky. Not only did you feel weak for letting it bother you, but you couldn’t get past the fact that you were so self conscious. All the articles and body positivity people saying how “stretch marks are normal” didn’t help you much.

It wasn’t that you didn’t think a person could be beautiful with them - in fact pretty much everyone was perfect the way they were. Except for you. Stretch marks are fine and normal - but when you have them they seem ugly.

You noticed that steam had fogged up your mirror, realizing you had spaced out while critiquing your body. You sighed and turned back to the shower, stepping in and letting the water wash over you. You were quick, not wanting to be standing there with yourself for longer than necessary. You finished and turned off the water, drying yourself off before stepping out so you wouldn’t be tempted to stare in the mirror again.

You got dressed in your pajamas and stepped out of the bathroom to find Bucky also in bed. You gave him a soft smile which he returned, though you would still see some of the worry in his eyes. You sat down on the bed and he sat up next to you.

“Sorry, about...earlier.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said reassuringly.

There was a pause before he added, “Can I ask what happened?”

You looked down, embarrassed.

“I just...if it’s something I did I just wanna know so I can fix it.”

Your head snapped back up to him, turning to face him. “Oh god, no, Bucky it’s not you, I promise I just…” you shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He took your hands in his. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding.

“I can tell something is bothering you and I just want to know so I can help you,” he said gently.

“It’s embarrassing,” you said.

“I’m not here to judge you.”

You took a deep breath before looking down. “You’re not gonna like what you see,” you say softly.

That took Bucky by surprise, so much so that he didn’t know if he had heard you properly. “What do you mean sweetheart?”

You took another deep breath. “You know how sometimes I catch you staring in the mirror too long, judging yourself and being insecure with your arm?” you ask and Bucky nods, not following along. “I get like that a lot too,” you said softly.

“Why?” he asked softly, still not understanding how you could be insecure about yourself.

“I’m not what society wants me to be. I’m larger in all the wrong places and I have stretch marks everywhere. I don’t like the way I look and I’m afraid you won’t either. It’s so stupid because I know it’s normal but I just hate it so much.”

Bucky tilted your chin so you could look at him. “You are the most beautiful person I have ever met. I understand being insecure, I really do. But you always told me to never hide it. Why did you?”

You shrugged. “Most people have stretch marks. I felt stupid for being so upset.”

“So you’re saying I have a reason to be insecure?”

“No, Bucky, come on...You went through hell. All I did was grow too fast. You hold a lot of horrible memories with that arm. You were tortured. All that happened to me was that I compared myself to models on Instagram or in magazines. I don’t have a right to be upset.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head before pulling back to look at you. “You have every right to feel the way you feel. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about society these days is it’s all an act. Everything you see is staged and it’s what they want us to see.” He smiled slightly at you. “The only thing I know is that you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, and that’s enough for me. Fuck what society says.”

You smiled shyly at him and he leaned his forehead against you. “You’re so beautiful. A few marks isn’t gonna change that.”

You nodded slightly, leaning forward to kiss him. “Thank you Bucky.”

‘No need to thank me when all I did was tell the truth.”

-------

tags: @babydaddy-buckybarnes @buckys-blue-eyes @barnesplums @abitgryffindorky @freigeistundanderes @bucks-bunny @thatfangirl42 @broadwaybabe18 @mardema

[ethereaiin]

2B likes to carry Reader but doesn't like to admit it?

changed your rq a bit since i wanted some comfort fluff. also this reignited my motivation to write for my nier fic so thanks <3

features; you and 2B + some bonus 9S.

[au]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Being the only human left in the world meant a lot of things.

The weight of responsibility weighed heavily on your shoulders. There was never a day that went by you weren’t reminded of how precious your life was and how losing it meant the end of humanity. The androids you’ve come to know and love never let you forget that fact. You were their salvation; their hope and most of all, their most cherished person.

2B was especially fond of you. While she was reserved with her emotions, opting to use actions to display her care, you knew that she held a soft spot for you. She treated you as if you were the most delicate thing in the world; like the slightest harm against you would break you completely. Compared to an android, of course you were weaker. Yet 2B was maybe a little too cautious.

“Is this really necessary?”

You say with a slight pout as 2B lifts you from the ground and you immediately wrap your arms around her neck. At this point, she’s done it so many times that it felt more like an instinctual habit rather than something you did to ensure you wouldn’t fall. Knowing her, it was unlikely she’d ever let you slip through her grasp. Her wary nature wouldn’t allow it.

At this point, you were somewhat used to the coldness of an android’s body. They were different from humans and they didn’t possess the natural heat you exuded. When you clung to her, it felt no different from any other person, yet the lack of warmth was like a gentle reminder. Nothing here was the same as you remembered it to be and the beings that you were surrounded with on a daily basis that appeared so human were, in fact, anything but.

2B makes no verbal sound of irritation at your question and she answers you as diligently as she always does. “Of course. We can’t afford you getting sick or hurt.”

Though she rarely ever spoke with emotion, you could still hear the tinge of concern in her voice. It only made the heat in your cheeks feel especially warmer. “A-At least let me ride on your back! You can’t fight like this with me here!”

“You’re fine right where you are.”

Your lips part to protest but quickly close when you recall the promise you made to her earlier that day. It was her condition that if you were to roam about the city, you needed to listen to everything she told you to do. No matter how you felt about it. Even if it was a little embarrassing.

Yet, this wasn’t just a one-time occurrence when it came to 2B. No matter where you were, 2B wanted to be in some form of contact with you. At the camp, she’d sit so close that you could feel the brush of her sleeves against your skin, and whenever you were given the chance to roam about, you always found yourself either in her arms or on her back.

You thought it was nothing more than android curiosity. You were the first human she’s ever interacted with after all and it wasn’t as if it were any different for you. You couldn’t deny that you too were interested in androids, especially how they all came to be. For them, they’ve always known humans as their elusive creators, but for you, it felt as if the androids seemingly came from nowhere.

You couldn’t remember much of your old life before you woke up and for now, the desolate and decrepit city you wandered in was your new home. At least until you regain the lost memories 2B promised she’d help you recover.

“So, where are we going today?” You finally ask after a brief walk in silence.

2B’s stride doesn’t break and you feel almost lulled by her rhythmic steps. She didn’t even seem the least burdened with carrying you. She was stronger than an average human, it was something you came to learn after watching her mercilessly beat down a hunk of sentient metal. Just with her fists alone she was able to put a dent in steel. To her, your weight was of little consequence.

Often, you wondered what you felt like in her arms.

She glanced down at you, visage half shrouded by the blindfold around her eyes though the curve of a smile on her lips shows her excitement. “. . . You’ll see.”

She doesn’t say anymore after that and the both of you continue on in silence. Not that you minded it too much. 2B was never a conversationalist, she relied more on actions than words to convey how she felt. You liked that part of her. Her actions were always well thought out and held meaning, Whether she knew it or not, it made every little thing she did for you feel a little more sincere.

From your place in her arms, you took in the sights of the city. As dilapidated and broken as the world around you seemed, it was oddly beautiful. Never had you seen so much green in your life. Flora grew from the cracks between the roads and overtook the concrete buildings towering above you. Looking up towards the sky, you could see flocks of birds flying towards a destination you would never know, their distant calls an interruption to the silence. You don’t remember much of the old world, but you knew this city was never meant to be this quiet.

You desperately wished to regain your lost memories, yet there was a part of you who wasn’t so eager. Often the thought crossed your mind; maybe you were better off without them. Remembering would only leave you with the desire for a world long gone along with the total realization of your unfathomable luck. You, the last of your kind, were left all alone while the world died and withered without you. If there was a god, surely they wouldn’t have condemned you to such a lonely fate.

“Look,”

At the sound of her voice, you glance up at her only to direct your sight towards whatever she was referring to. While you were deep in thought you hadn’t noticed the direction she was heading in and you found yourself atop a wooden bridge placed just behind the walls of what looked to be an amusement park. From where 2B stood, you couldn’t see much, but you were given an incredible view of the distant castle.

“I-Is that an- Woah!”

The words died right on your tongue as an explosion of color suddenly took over the sky. Even from the great distance between you and the park, you were able to hear the crackling of fireworks. The sky, which you thought the sun would never set for, was darkened with the smoke from the war 2B and 9S constantly talked about. The colors were brightened against it, making their visibility clearer and their colors vivid. With your eyes locked onto the sight before you, you tapped on 2B’s shoulder as a silent request to be let down. She complied, allowing you to step near the edge of the bridge to take a closer look at the fireworks.

You thought you couldn’t remember anything from the old world, yet the moment you gazed upon the fireworks lighting up the sky; you remembered them instantaneously. You remembered their putrid smell, how loud they could be, and the fear you used to harbor for them when you were younger.

Even if you used to be scared of them, even if you thought they were too loud and hated the way they smelled; at this moment, you thought they were the prettiest things you’ve ever seen.

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes and it was only until you felt them run down your cheeks that you paid them any mind. Though before you could even attempt to wipe them, you felt the distinct sensation of leather gently running across your cheek.

2B stood at your side, looking down at you with a small smile on her face, one you gladly returned. She doesn’t ask you the reason for your tears, nor does she look hurt by their appearance. She lets you be, standing at your side for as long as you allow her whilst providing unspoken support. It warmed you to the deepest part of your heart. Her kindness, although silent and unvoiced, was always apparent to you. She cared deeply for you. You didn’t need her to say it for you to know.

Your hand slips into hers all too naturally and under the crackling fireworks above, you think of only the promising future.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

extra:

“Why do you like to carry me so much?”

The question was asked more straightforward than what they were used to hearing from you. If there was anything 2B and 9S learned from their journey with you so far, it was that you never said what you felt. You looked for gentler ways to word your questions as if your care would be understood by androids who had no grasp of discretion.

2B, like always, never fails to leave your question unanswered and replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you’re warm.”

2B’s forthright reply even shocked 9S who was walking alongside her. “2B! Don’t you think that’s a little. . .”

You blushed slightly at her reply, burying your face against her shoulder as if that would take away from your embarrassment. From your place on her back, you were unable to see what kind of face she was making. As if that damned blindfold would give you the opportunity anyway. Though you doubted she would feel even a pinch of shame. 2B spoke nothing but the truth and that only made her words all the more brazen.

“What? You don’t agree?” She pauses in her steps, turning towards him which then forces you to face him as well. “Have you never touched her?”

You felt as if you would just die right then and there, yet you can’t help yourself from timidly peeking out at 9S from over 2B’s shoulder. He looks like he’s in thought for a moment, with a gloved hand on his chin and his lips twisted to the side. There’s only a moment’s delay between 2B’s question and his answer.

“Well. . . yeah, you’re not wrong. She’s even nicer to hug.”

Having enough of this conversation, you raise up your head to throw 9S a light glare. “Guys, can we please just get back to camp already?”

Throwing his hands up, 9S cheekily grins at you before continuing down the road towards the resistance camp. 2B follows shortly after him, her lips spread into an equally amused smile. While it might have been normal for 9S to show emotion resembling that of a human’s the feeling that stirred in 2B’s chest was quite foreign to her. She didn’t know what to call this feeling, but she didn’t hate it. It was a delightful buzz, one that she often felt around you and only you.

“Humans are softer than I imagined.” She added, her smile brightening at the sound of your muffled groan.

9S didn't hesitate to tag in on the teasing even from his place further ahead of you. “You know, I think we should include that in our report to the Commander. . .”

“Guys!”

[chiwhorei]

gun bunny

pairing: mafia!s. aizawa x fem!reader

genre: mafia!au, quirkless!au, smut- 18+ minors dni

word count: 2.5k

warning: somnophilia, voyeurism, violence, attempted kidnapping, attempted assault, mentions of blood, mentions of guns and knives, degradation, age-gap (reader is 19 and aizawa is 31), spitting

a/n: hello! this is my contribution to the smut pile mafia!server collab, this is both my first smut pile collab (this is so late i am so sorry sksksksk) and my first full-length bnha piece, be sure to check out everyone else’s amazing work here! thank you to @10millionyearsdungeon and @messwriting for your constant support while i trudged through sad pal hours for a fucking month and crawled out of the pits of writer’s block

hymns: hayloft by - mother mother, i’m on fire - awolnation cover

Blood pours over decades like syrup, the tinny-sweet smell was distinct but all too familiar. A muffled gun’s buzzing frames 19 years of life. The barrel feels cool, sitting precariously by the highest angle of your cheekbone.

“I told you not to cause trouble, brat. Now I have to clean up your little mess.”

Aizawa’s body is tall and broad above you, holding you against him with a protective grip on the small of your back. Every word is sneering, punctuated with a growl-- you feel it reverberate against his chest.

The bullet is resounding even through the silencer; a deafening sound, final bell tolling next to smeared streaks of mascara.

Aizawa Shouta has always been around-- whether bringing your dad a hefty stack of reports to thumb through or loosening his tie in the parlor and toasting him to another job well done. A carousel of chauffeurs and bodyguards encircle you, but all are nameless faces except for the man that can make people disappear in an instant: Eraser.

Otsuka y/n, the only daughter of the most powerful man in Japan, is a weighty title against your shoulders. Your father’s reputation has cradled you for almost two decades, keeping you draped in fur and balancing on red-bottoms. He has more money, more power than God. To most of your father’s inner circle, you are the dutiful, angelic heiress to his blood-soaked empire. You play the part well enough, polite, temperate- your hands are painted red in culpability, but perfectly manicured.

Your father’s business isn’t a secret, no matter his attempts to shield you over the years. There’s only so many nights spent humming to the tune of cracking skulls in the next room before “investments in oil” starts to lose its validity. Whenever you ask him, he pats your head, smoothing stray strands of hair, “I do it all for you, bunny. Everything is for you.”

You decide not to think about rouge splatters of blood and bruises against his knuckles, ignoring the clicking of a loading gun before he leaves for the office.

It’s better this way.

“You can’t be serious, Otsuka.” Aizawa paces across the hardwood, heel to toe with Italian leather from one large bookshelf to the other. A familiar habit, you’ve seen the contemplative marching before and know it to mean one thing: Aizawa is pissed.

“Have you ever known me to joke around? Especially with y/n?” Your father’s elbows hit the table in front of him, the jagged scars lining his face seem even more intimidating when coupled with a harshly set frown. You perch on the side of his large desk, swinging your feet lightly.

“Oh daddy, I’m not a child. I don’t need Eraser to babysit me.” You huff, crossing your arms and providing a pout to your father’s hard expression. You hear the mumbled, “Don’t call me that,” from behind you, but decide against a response.

“He’s going to look after you while I’m in Musutafu. I have to handle some…” he trails off slightly, one of his hands coming up to rub against his bald head, “noncompliance, but I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few days.” His disfigured fingers curling around yours, you look up to meet his eye, “Be a good girl, bunny.”

You give your father’s temple a kiss, pulling back to smile sweetly. Your next words have Aizawa snorting, rolling his eyes far enough into his skull to be painful.

“I always am.”

A bend downwards at the hips frames your ass perfectly, the lace of your panties curls around your pussy tightly, hooking against the lips and showcasing your soft skin. Questions swirl in the bowl of cereal in front of him, all but forgotten as soon as a cup“fell” from your fingers and clattered to the floor. The taste, the smell, the feeling of--

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Aizawa is ripped from the reprehensible desires of his senses to meet your eyes, your form still folded over on itself and displayed for Aizawa in the otherwise empty kitchen. You giggle at his scowl, snapping back up and smoothing out your skirt. Aizawa bites down on the spoon in between his teeth, he swears he can feel his teeth cracking. Better his canines than his will.

This only marks the beginning of a long week for your father’s right-hand man. The proceeding days turn to nights at a snail's pace. The past week has been inching towards disaster with every minute of alone time you could steal with Aizawa.

“Eraser, what are you doing up so late.” Your voice curls around his shoulder, the whine tugging him towards your open bedroom door. It’s late, far too late for you to be up to anything good.

You always like to push your luck, playing a game you know Aizawa won’t let himself win. Pressing firmly against the line but never pointing your heel across. Maintaining your immunity, feigning innocence behind a soft pout. Your appointed guardian isn’t fooled by any honeyed façade you build around his associates. He knows what you are at the core.

He tries to shake off your pull, but the way your voice lilts against the long hallway is magnetic. The past few nights have been the same song and dance, your disarming call to him as he trudges to one of the many guest bedrooms. Every night he gets closer, heavy feet and tense nerves guiding him towards your warm voice. He’s weathering a sea, you’re the siren hell-bent on his drowning.

“I told you not to call me that, little girl.” His response to your wanton call is shallow, the nickname is one he hates the sound of, especially rolling past your lips.

“Do you like what you see?”

Aizawa’s brows set harshly as he looks on to where you lie nestled in pillows and silk. You have nothing but a loose, light pink camisole to cover your body, cotton panties pulled down to your ankles with shameless intent. Your legs are spread wide for your viewer’s pleasure, two fingers brush against your lips, dragging lazily- up and back down.

Aizawa knows what you really are, a petulant brat.

You pull at the soft skin, spreading yourself to unveil the tight, clenching hole. He leans his shoulder against the jam, eyes drinking you in where his body shamefully wishes to be. The groan aching deeply in his chest is not lost on you as your other hand pulls the hem of your shirt upwards to catch in between your teeth.

The soft plush of your breasts bounces slightly, nipples peeking out from the folds of fabric, now fully exposed to the inky-black stare of your voyeur. There’s nothing left to his imagination now, the question that haunts sleepless nights, palming a large hand up and down his cock and imagining something softer and smaller. The picture of what his boss’s precious daughter would look like squirming under him becoming clearer beyond all reason.

Aizawa should turn heel and walk away, he should slam your bedroom door shut and count the days until your father’s return with a measured distance. He should walk away. He should-

A soft whimper drags him from contemplation and back to the writhing succubus center stage. Your fingers move quickly against your aching clit, drawing out babbled pleas to hit harshly against the tall, brooding presence at your door.

“I’ve had about enough of your games, bunny. Your father tasked me to keep you out of trouble, but you are the trouble.” Aizawa’s words hit your ears mockingly, but they sound more like an invitation than a warning, especially as his body inches forward, breaching the threshold of your bedroom inch by inch.

Two fingers slip past your lips, pushing in and drawing back slicked with arousal. You repeat the action, slowly, ensuring the boring set of eyes are trained on where you clench desperately; wanting to put on a good show with your bodyguard in the front row.

Aizawa’s head is swimming, dizzy and drunk. He wants to tear you apart, to lay claim to the twitching prize between your legs. If you struggle around two of your own much smaller fingers, it would be nearly impossible to wrap you around his thick cock.

That is, not without breaking you.

The heated pants escaping you pick up in canter, your audience winding a tight cord with his presence alone. Aizawa is unrelenting in his deep, unblinking stare, stepping towards your bed slowly. Once his body is looming over you, the coil in your stomach has turned into a hair pinned trigger.

“Such a messy little slut. Getting off to the attention aren’t you?” You’re rendered dumb at his comment, Aizawa barely has to press his thumb into your chin before your mouth hangs open. You look up with glassy eyes, fingers sore from working against your pussy, chasing a high you can only imagine how fast Aizawa could steal from you. His expression is as neutral as always, but the despondency doesn’t quite shadow the fire burning in his eyes. You watch him lean forward slightly, a string of saliva falling downward to land against your tongue. His spit feels hot, you can taste the remnants of cigar and mint gum as you swallow.

You come undone in a litany of cries, pleading with your captor. His hold is passive as he looks at you, watching you cum against your fingers, the squelching sounds make his mouth dry. The only source of hydration is at the apex of your thighs. Visions flash before his eyes, images of what the curve of your breasts look like as he’s buried tongue deep, lapping you up post-orgasm and pushing you over once more for good measure.

Aizawa retreats, lest he pulls you against his mouth while your cunt is still pulsating, he needs to escape before your knees are pressed to your shoulders. He slams your door closed harshly, leaving you with the taste of his contempt for you on your bottom lip.

You’re quick to sleep, body falling into the warmth of unconsciousness coupled with dreams of what a certain set of fingers would feel like against you. How the scars and calluses would brush against your most intimate inches of spongy flesh, how he would stretch you.

You can almost feel the soreness in between your legs and the heavy slap of something against your stomach. You can almost remember the whispered confessional swimming in the back of your head, the soft grunts from above your sleeping form. As sunlight stretches across your sleep-stiff body, your hand trails down over your naked skin, maybe you aren’t the only one playing games this week.

You could have almost sworn you had gone to sleep with panties on.

The car ride to your father’s bar was filled with unflattering tension. You had protested in vain that going with Aizawa wasn’t necessary, but had been met with a dismissive, “I don’t trust you to behave.”

“I’m not a child, Eraser. I don’t see why I couldn’t just sit at home.” You wobble behind your escort, heeled boots clacking against the gravel.

As you enter the building, a young mop of violet hair flanks Aizawa down with a stack of papers. The man is nameless to you but is familiar enough to be assumed under your father’s thumb.

Aizawa looks over the document’s now held in front of him with care, rolling up the sleeves to his crisp dress shirt as his eyes scan the pages. You note the shimmering silvered skin of a scar under his left eye, pronounced by the harsh lighting surrounding you. His hair is held up partially by a tie, the loose strands framing his face.

“Are you listening to me, little girl?” You're snapped back from watching his mouth curling around syllables to actually make out what they’ve been saying.

“Go sit down, I’ll only be a few minutes.” You nod along and turn to perch at the bar, but stop at the grip pulling you back for one final order. “Don’t get yourself into trouble.”

Aizawa leaves you to stew in the subtle brush of his pointer finger against the tender skin of your wrist, he rubs the skin subtly before disappearing to the back rooms.

The minutes ticking by are agonizing. Aizawa, usually the epitome of brief, has been gone long enough for the condensation on your glass to mar the wood below it in countless ringlets. You twirl the straw against the strawberry liquor, willing time to crank by faster with the action. The drink in your veins isn’t nearly enough to get you drunk but does make the opening of the front door unnoticeable.

Your back is facing the heavy wood, unaware of the two strangers now approaching until the curdling sound of one man’s voice hits the shell of your ear.

“Well, well, look what we have here. Why don’t I buy you a drink, princess?” Each man steals one of your sides, enclosing you into a tight, predatory huddle.

“This is my bar. I don’t need you to buy me anything.” You try to shake off the nauseating feeling of their bodies so close to you, gut twisting uncomfortably as one man’s breath crawls across your shoulder blades. They’re both so close. Too close.

“Wow, this little kitty cat’s got some claws, don’t she?” You feel hands curl around each bicep, a bruising grip right below your armpits. Your body is hoisted up, your balance off at the jarring upheaval.

Possible escape routes flash across your mind but all seem impossible. Would trying to shake off the still faceless strangers even work? And even if you sprung free, would you make it to the back office before they caught up? Should you try to scream? Would Aizawa hear you?

Before you can make any moves, you feel the flat side of a knife at your collarbone. A chill rattles down your spine at the contact, two inches of metal keeping your entire body compliant.

Their intent is clear, you’ll be coming with them, and by the sharp point of a blade digging into the first layer of skin-- you’ll be coming quietly.

A mixture of shock and disbelief compels your body into compliance, dragging you to the front door and closer towards an awaiting trunk.

“Your carriage, princess.” You hear the shorter man on your right, his voice at your neck sounds waterlogged through the blood rushing in your ears. Any protests die at the knife against your skin, digging in shallowly and pricking a small trail of red along your clavicle.

A sharp snap sounds behind you, like a piece of thin wood under a heavy boot. One of your captors falls in a pile next to you. You’re turned around to meet a familiar pair of venomous, black eyes, Aizawa’s words roll from his tongue with a growl.

You’re pulled at the wrist, stumbling back into the strong chest of your appointed bodyguard.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my bunny?”

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[papijean]

EMBARRASMENT J.K.

Summary: Jean was thankful for your aid, not so much about the interruptions he faced. 

Warning: mentions of blood, fluff, 

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: hope everyone is having a good day :) 

"This is completely embarrassing."

"It really wasn't until you said something about it."

As much as Jean acted like he despised being taken care of, he truly adored it - especially when it was coming from you. His front always made him appear as if having someone care about him was the worst thing in the world. On the inside, his heart muddled when you offered to help him out.

Maybe the reason he hated it so much was because it showed he was prone to failure and not consistently the best. Maybe he hated it because it made him feel weak. Either way, his wounds need to be cleaned up before they got worse. He didn't heal like Eren did.

It was a stupid incident ending far worse than it was supposed to. Jean's injuries weren't bad, but you couldn't say the same about the other Cadet. One training session gone wrong all because of the male superiority of trying to figure out who was better through a fight. Jean won, barely.

He sat on his bed in the empty barracks. His shirt off so you could clean the cut on his back. A loud wince came out of him when the damp cloth dragged over the wound.

"Stop being such a baby," you rolled your eyes at him, "you did this to yourself." Jean always felt the need to prove himself, always needing to prove he could be the best there was. Maybe one day even better than the Captain himself. If that was his goal, he had a long journey ahead of him.

"Doesn't mean you have to be so rough with me," he grumbled. There were several other bruises and scratches on his skin, none of them bad enough to need attention but just enough to make you think about how much damage he did to himself. He pushed himself too hard sometimes.

"Maybe I like to be," you joked. Jean's cheeks flushed red at your comment. He was thankful you couldn't see him. Nonetheless, your chuckle didn't help his situation. Jean was weary enough about being shirtless around you, he didn't need these comments to make everything worse. Not when there were already nights he couldn't stop thinking about you.

You set aside the small bowl of now bloody water you used to clean his wound. It wasn't deep but he was certainly going to need to watch it so he didn't get an infection. Knowing him, he'd forget all about it until it was too late.

"You didn't have to help me," Jean was quiet.

"I know," you pushed yourself off the bed to grab the alcohol that was a little too far away for you to reach in your spot. Moving meant you got to face him, and the lingering blush on his cheeks. "But I wanted to. Besides," you paused, looking down his torso and strong arms before meeting his eyes again, "I like the view."

Jean let go of a breath as he felt the bed dip again. You sat closer to him this time, close enough that he could feel your thigh against his lower back and your warm breath against his skin. A clean cloth was doused in alcohol to finish cleaning his cut. Without warning, you firmly pressed it against his raw skin.

"Ah!" He groaned out. Jean's hand shot out, without thinking he clamped his fingers around your leg and squeezed his pain away. His grip was bruising, though you probably deserved it after not giving him a warning. "Christ, that hurt."

He became acutely aware of his hand on your leg. His grip on you loosened but he quickly became fearful of moving his hand away from you. Moving meant you would notice if you hadn't yet.

His palm burned through the thick layer of your pants right into your skin and spread through your body. Jean's touch was out of instinct and yet you couldn't get the thought out of your head about how damn good those hands would feel elsewhere. Everywhere.

For a lingering moment, you were both caught in your own thoughts. You were the first to break it. Standing up, his hand fell off your leg and moved back to his lap. A clean, white bandage threatened to be crushed between your hands. While Jean stared at the floor, you placed it on his cut, finishing your aid with him.

"That's it," you broke the silence. Jean looked up at you with desperate eyes. Desperate to pull you close, desperate to see just how you really felt against him. "Clean it every day, you'll be fine."

A small cut you hadn't noticed before was on his cheek. A purple bruise was beginning to form around it and you were sure it came from a heavy punch. Without thinking your hand went to the cut. It wasn't bad, a few speckles of blood around it but nothing he couldn't handle on his own.

The pad of your thumb swiped just below the wound. While your eyes were glued to the small cut, he couldn't take his off the concern on your face. Jean felt awestruck looking up at you from his bed. He nearly melted as the same hand looking over his wound cupped his cheek entirely.

Fuck it.

Jean grabbed your hips and pulled you towards him. The sudden jerk caused you to tumble onto him and having you both fall on the hard mattress. He gave you no chance to give him hell before his lips were on yours.

His kiss was hesitant, soft like he was waiting for you to peel yourself off of him and give him shit. Without needing to think you pressed further against him. You could feel his lips curl into a smile as your kiss deepened.

His hands grabbed your thighs once more, the intensity of his heat cranked up and instantly making your entire body hot. Jean flipped you around, having your head fall against his pillow. He hovered over you, his bare chest heaving with adrenaline.

"That's one way to thank me, I suppose." Jean chuckled only for a moment, not wanting to stay away from your lips. He adored how your hands trailed across his body - his chest, his shoulder, admiring the muscles on his arms before cupping his face and pulling him closer to you.

"God, I fucking adore you," Jean confessed. His lips trailed along your jaw, your neck, everywhere your skin showed. He nearly collapsed as a breathy moan broke past you when hitting a sensitive patch on your neck. Jean's teeth scrapped against the spot, desperate to get another sound of you. Instead, your fingers threaded into his hair and gave it a harsh tug.

He nipped and sucked at the spot, grinning against you as you whined and wrapped your leg around him. With your heel pressing into him, he lowered himself towards you. His lips were back to yours, desperate for your touch, your taste, everything about you.

"Jean, I-"

"Oh for fucks sake."

You swore your heart nearly burst out of your chest at the voice. Out of anyone who could have entered the room, of course, it had to be your Captain. Levi stood in the doorway, a shameful look on his face. Anyone but him. Hell, you'd take Eren bursting in over Levi. Heat crawled up your neck for an entirely different reason.

"Captain," Jean's voice cracked.

"Get off, (L/N), Cadet. Christ..." Levi dragged a hand down his face. Jean fumbled away from you and did as he was told. The two of you stood up, disheveled and embarrassed, but managed to pull a salute towards your Captain. "Get dressed. Now. You're needed."

Levi said nothing else before leaving. He shook his head on his way out the door, partly amused, partly grossed out. Either way, you'd never seen Jean's face so red in his entire life before.

"That did not just happen," he muttered out, petrified from the experience. Jean looked over to you and became even more horrified at the smile on your face. Were you seriously entertained by the embarrassment? "What the hell are you smiling about."

"Don't worry, Kirschtein," you met his shaky eyes, "you're quite the kisser."

><

You and Jean found yourselves in a crowded room with your fellow cadets. While the pink in Jean's cheek was unlikely to go away anytime soon, you couldn't get the feeling of his hands against you out of your mind. Whatever the hell the Commander was going over, you weren't paying attention to any of it.

To make matters worse, Jean's gaze was constantly going back to you and the Captain kept noticing. It was pretty obvious your mind was in the gutter and not on the task at hand.

How long did Jean want to do that? How long was this pent-up desire going on? By the neediness of his touch, you assumed it was a while. God, his touch, his hands, his lips against yours. Of course, the Captain had to ruin something so god damn perfect. It was too long you were longing for that moment.

A sinister chuckle came from your side. Connie's hand covered his mouth but it was clear he was struggling to keep quiet. The louder he got, the more eyes turned towards him. Jean met your eyes from across the room. It didn't take him long to realize why Connie was in a fit of laughter.

Your neck was tinged purple and a distinct bite mark could be seen from where he was standing. Connie was getting a front-row view. His eyes darted to Jean and upon seeing his expression, could no longer even try to hold back his laughter. Everyone in the room went silent.

"Captain was right!" Connie caught his breath. He pointed towards the mark on your neck. With all eyes on you, you felt yourself cowering in. Never in your life did you want to be somewhere else. "Jean finally gets some and immediately gets cockblocked."

A loud smack cut off Connie's laughing. Without a thought, your hand went up to smack the back of his head as loud as you could with the space you had. It shut him up pretty damn quick. Reiner, who stood beside Jean, not-so-subtly patted his shoulder. Everyone saw how he lusted after you.

"Enough," the Commander cut everyone's disruption off. Your glare at Levi did absolutely nothing to phase him. Truth was, he just found it more entertaining. That's what you got for showing up late to a meeting. "Stay on track, enough fooling around."

"Yeah, (Y/N)," Connie nudged your side, only earning another slap to the back of his head.

You still didn't know the purpose of the meeting or what was discussed by the time it was over. Thankfully, it didn't seem too important. Your brave face of holding back any embarrassment crumbled the moment you left the room. It wasn't like you were ashamed, just more so it being your Captain finding you and spreading the tale.

You made it to the bathroom, eager for a splash of cold water to hit your steaming skin. Jean certainly didn't hold back with his mark on you. You stared at it in the mirror.

The door creaked open. Assuming it was just someone to use the bathroom just like you, you didn't think much of it.

"I'm sorry." The voice caught your attention. Jean was leaning against the wall, his arms over his chest. If he didn't leave that mark on you, you wouldn't have been flustered in front of everyone. He was too caught up in the moment to think about what was next. "I didn't want to embarrass you."

"Embarrassed?" You cocked an eyebrow at him. It was the last thing you were. Frustrated was more like it. "You're giving me less credit than I'm worth, Kirstein. If you think Levi spilling what happened is going to get me bothered you don't know me too well. It's not like he saw me naked."

"I-I," Jean stuttered out. He couldn't move or speak as you approached him. He was horrified, even after all his friends told him he was doing good with you. Having you calm came as a bit of a shock. Even more so, he was worried he lost every other chance with you because of the interruption.

"You what?" Your finger dipped under his chin so he would look at your eyes instead of your neck. "Tell me, Jean, do you wanna kiss me again?"

He didn't hesitate this time. Jean gave you no warning, no confirmation, just the grasping of your face and the softness of his lips. What a stupid question, of course, he wanted to kiss you again, and again, and again until his lips were swollen and his lungs burned for air. That entire damn meeting all he could think about was your kiss.

Your back pressed against the cool tile as he trapped you in once more. Neither of you cared about being in a public washroom as his hands untucked your shirt and caressed your sides. His kiss was more confident this time, he wasn't worried about you having regret, he was worried about fulfilling your needs.

His teeth nipped at your lip as he pulled away for a breath of air. Jean loved the feeling of your hands in his hair, even more so when you used his strands to encourage him back to you.

"You can't be fucking serious."

Not again.

It was Ymir who stood in the doorway, eyes glued to Jean's body pressed against yours. Was this how the Captain felt earlier today? Disgusting. Maybe this time you deserved it. This was, after all, a washroom for the entire 104th cadets. There was nothing private about your situation.

"Hey, Ymir," your voice was a little too steady for what was going on. Ymir wanted to gag at how casually you were for being walked in on a second time in one day. Your head peaked around Jean's shoulder, his body protecting your crumpled garments from peering eyes. "We, uh, we just-"

"Getting it on in a bathroom?" She made a disgusted face. "Thought you had more class than that, Jean. Guess I was wrong. Now get the fuck out."

"Yes, Ma'am," Jean nodded towards the girl. He latched onto your hand and pulled you out of the bathroom and towards the barracks. His confidence of being able to have a moment of peace with you was dwindling by the second. Back to the barracks meant your friends would all be there, anywhere else ran the risk of running into a veteran again.

God did he wish he had his own private room.

"Jean," you gave his arm a tug to slow him down. The hallway was empty, even if it was just for a minute or two. Your free hand cupped his cheek. "I adore you, too," you never got the chance to tell him earlier before Levi walked in. You placed a single kiss on his lips, sealing your words.

"Maybe I should get injured more often," he toyed. If you helped out with every cut and scrape he received, he'd surely get all the kisses he wished for. You smacked his chest at the idea. This wound wasn't even a bad one and you were still worried about him.

"Don't forget Jean, I'm a lot better at kicking ass than I am at kissing."

[likeshipsonthesea]

I don’t know if you take requests for nurseydex fics... but if you do the song “omg did she call him baby” by Beth McCarthy screams a heartbroken Nursey when Dex has a girlfriend

i like really can’t do genuine heartbreak but i CAN do angst that ends happy, so here’s my best shot :)

Nursey’s got a red Solo cup in one hand and a plastic champagne flute in the other and it’s sometime after three but before five and he is definitely not thinking about her or him or them together when he looks up between one sip and another to see the telltale blue hair reflecting the murky spotlights of the basement.

Nursey squints. He could be making things up--his brain is nice like that-- but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things. She’s got very distinctive hair, Dex’s--girlfriend. It’d been rather disappointing, actually, the blue hair. The whole thing had been easier to deal with when he’d been picturing some light-haired brunette going for an economics degree who smiled like a mom at soccer practice. Someone who Nursey could reasonably dislike on grounds of, like, predictability.

But no, Dex had to bring home a blue-haired physics major with a nose ring and good taste in music and the ability to out-argue Shitty while polishing off Bitty’s pie, i.e. perfect. Even Lardo couldn’t pretend like she wasn’t awesome for Nursey’s sake. Even Nursey can’t pretend like Amanda isn’t awesome for his own sake. She’s just so--so--

Nursey squints.

So-- making out with some random girl in a blouse at a frat party.

What the fuck.

Nursey is about two margaritas and three years too deep to be dealing with the emotional ramifications of catching the girlfriend of his best friend (who he’s also kind of sort of possibly maybe totally in love with) macking on some consultant for Goldman Sachs or some shit in the basement of arguably one of the worst frats at Samwell. This one doesn’t even have good music, Nursey’s only here to get drunk without the possibility of Dex calling Nursey Patrol and helping Nursey up the stairs and saying nothing about the poetry Nursey spills or the way his hands linger.

(Fuck does Nursey hate Nursey Patrol, fuck does he hate how much he loves it.)

Nursey downs the rest of the champagne flute--which was probably mostly orange juice at this point anyway-- and hands the red Solo cup to a freshman gearing himself up to talk to a cute boy a few feet away and then Nursey gets the fuck out of dodge. He manages to get a better look at the corporate recruiter Amanda is cheating on Dex with (and really, if you’re going to cheat on Dex, you’re really going to pick a chick in a blouse that probably has opinions on the stock market???) and if he hadn’t been sure before, the distinctive tattoo on Amanda’s shoulder proves that it’s really her.

(“Tattoos? Tattoos? I have tattoos.” “I know you do, Nurse.” “They’re really nice tattoos.” “I know they are, Nurse.”)

Emerging from the basement and then the frat house itself is instantly sobering. The chill from winter hasn’t quite left the air at night and Nursey wraps his arms around himself and doesn’t think about how Dex chirped him about not wearing a coat before he’d left. The frat isn’t far away from the Haus, thank god, but it is slightly farther when he turns left instead of right and then has to a backtrack a bit, but he still gets back in under ten minutes and he can still feel his hands, so overall, a win.

Attempting to get into the Haus quietly is a lost cause, given its one thousand year old floor and the fact that a ladybug could fart in the kitchen and wake up the guys in the attic. Still, Nursey gives it the good college try, which is why he’s creeping ridiculously through the living room when the light turns on suddenly and he screams, much to the amusement of Dex, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Fuck, dude, what the fuck.”

Dex just smirks in that horribly attractive way of his. “How was the Psi-U basement?”

Nursey thinks of blue hair, washed out in the lights, Amanda’s hand on that girl’s cheek, the way Dex smiles when he’s around her. “Fine,” Nursey says, swaying.

The amusement falters and Nursey wishes he could figure out a way to keep the smile on Dex’s face the way Amanda does. Dex takes a step closer. “Are you alright?”

Nursey shakes his head violently and takes a step back, a step farther away. This is the part where he says yes, yes of course Dexy-darling, I’m right as rain, what about you? This is the part where Dex rolls his eyes and loops his arm around Nursey’s waist, his warm side pressed into Nursey’s. The part where they go upstairs, where Nursey writes his best poetry that he’s too embarrassed to write down when he’s sober, where Dex tells him to sleep well and lingers outside the doorway long enough for Nursey’s breathing to slow and then the floor creaks and Nursey knows he’s gone and wishes he’d held on just a little bit longer--

“Nursey, what’s wrong?”

Nursey shakes his head again. He means to say nothing, he means to say, I’m going to bed, he means to-- “Amanda, she--”

The concern turns to alarm. Why can’t Nursey ever make it better? “Is she alright? Did you see her? Is she okay?”

Nursey shakes his head again. He can’t seem to stop doing that. “She’s fine, she--she--” He swallows, and it’s sticky, cloying, citrusy and sweet on the back of his tongue. “She--there was this girl, she-- Amanda, she--”

Dex won’t stop frowning, concern knitting his eyebrows together with three short wrinkles, and Nursey has wanted to smooth them out with his fingertips every time he sees them since sophomore year, and he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be telling Dex this while he’s drunk, shouldn’t be telling Dex this at all, but he’s Nursey’s friend first and Nursey has to believe he’d tell Dex regardless of the love thing, he must--

“She was kissing some girl. In the Psi-U basement.”

The wrinkles smooth out. The amusement returns. Nursey--he can’t make sense of it over the ringing in his ears. Why is Dex smiling? Did--did Nursey do that?

“Did she look like a lawyer?” he asks, and at Nursey’s confusion clarifies, “The girl Amanda was kissing. Did she look like a lawyer?” Nursey nods dumbly. Dex’s smile only grows. Nursey is so, so confused and also more in love than he’s ever been. “Finally. I just won fifty bucks.”

What the fuck. “What the fuck.”

Dex laughs--laughs. “The girl’s name is Tammy. She graduated last year and moved to Boston. Amanda’s been in love with her forever, and I bet her that she’d get with Tammy before I--” Flush appears high on Dex’s cheeks, the soft pink one that means embarrassment and Nursey imagines would taste like cherry pie against his lips.

Nursey is--still quite a bit drunk. He needs--clarification. “You--you bet your girlfriend that she would get with her friend at a frat party?”

Dex’s nose scrunches up in Nursey’s favorite way--the same way it does when he’s trying to write humanities essays, the reason Nursey always says yes when Dex asks for help. “Girlfriend? Did you think Amanda was my girlfriend?”

Nursey remembers the start, hearing about Amanda every other day, then every day, then it was, sorry I can’t come, I’m meeting Amanda at-- and then one day at Annie’s, a girl with blue hair and a sharp grin yelled Babe! from across the room and planted a kiss on Dex’s cheek, her hand lingering on his shoulder, sipping from his coffee cup, getting him to smile like that--

“Well, yeah.” Nursey’s head is spinning and, for the first time tonight, not from the gin. “Is she--is she not?”

“Oh God, no, she’s so fucking gay, dude.” Laughter twinkles in Dex’s eyes. Nursey is drunker than he’s been since freshmen year of high school when Shitty snuck in some of his dad’s hard liquor and the janitors found them on the roof singing Disney songs at the moon. Dex’s girlfriend is gay. Dex’s girlfriend isn’t his girlfriend. Dex is--is smiling at him like he smiles at his girlfriend who isn’t his girlfriend.

“Oh,” Nursey says, dazed, “chill.”

“Oh wow,” Dex grins, leaning into the doorframe, “I can’t believe you thought--and you thought telling me my girlfriend was cheating on me at 3am while shit-drunk was a good idea?”

Nursey says, “Hey, honesty is important, and I’m not--” He stops. He remembers something. He squints. “Wait. If you bet 50 bucks on Amanda getting with Tammy, who did Amanda bet you would get with?”

The cherry pie blush is back. Nursey takes an absent-minded step forward. The room feels so much lighter now that Dex’s girlfriend isn’t cheating on him. The distance between them feels so much sillier now that Dex doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“Ah, well.” Dex rubs at the back of his neck, all country bumpkin sheepish to ask his sweetheart to the dance, and--and--

“I’m the sweetheart,” Nursey realizes with the kind of crystal clarity only afforded by the most copious amounts of alcohol.

Dex’s eyebrows furrow, those sweet little wrinkles appearing between them, and Nursey takes two long strides forward and presses his thumb into them. Dex goes cross-eyed trying to watch, but moves his eyes to meet Nursey’s after a moment.

Nursey grins, likely a bit sloppy from the gin, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. “I’m the sweetheart,” he repeats, beaming.

Dex tries to repress the smile at his lips. “You’re not a sweetheart.”

“Yes I am,” Nursey sings, listing forwards. “You like me.”

“You’re an asshole.” Dex’s smile grows. Nursey watches its progress and sways.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” he says, tracking the pink lips as they spread, revealing teeth and--and tongue and--

“I hate that you can still say mutually exclusive when you’re this drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. See, I’ll prove it.”

“How do you plan on--”

If Dex’s mouth weren’t so preoccupied, he might say that the taste on Nursey’s tongue is a good indication that he is in fact fairly tipsy, but as it is--well. He’s got other things to do.

(Amanda asserts that they tied since it happened on the same night and only pays $25. Tammy throws in five more and a condom and they call it even. Nursey kisses away Dex’s protest and pockets the condom, much to Amanda’s amusement. Turns out, she’s even cooler when she isn’t dating the love of Nursey’s life.)

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

20th June >> Fr. Martin's Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 5:43-48 for Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time: ‘Love your enemies’.

Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

Gospel (Except USA) Matthew 5:43-48 Pray for those who persecute you.

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘You have learnt how it was said: You must love your neighbour and hate your enemy. But I say this to you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you; in this way you will be sons of your Father in heaven, for he causes his sun to rise on bad men as well as good, and his rain to fall on honest and dishonest men alike. For if you love those who love you, what right have you to claim any credit? Even the tax collectors do as much, do they not? And if you save your greetings for your brothers, are you doing anything exceptional? Even the pagans do as much, do they not? You must therefore be perfect just as your heavenly Father is perfect.’

Gospel (USA) Matthew 5:43-48 Love your enemies.

Jesus said to his disciples: “You have heard that it was said, You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your heavenly Father, for he makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what recompense will you have? Do not the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet your brothers only, what is unusual about that? Do not the pagans do the same? So be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

Reflections ()

(i) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The Sermon on the Mount is probably the most challenging part of Jesus’ teaching and today’s gospel reading is the most challenging part of the Sermon on the Mount. ‘I say this to you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you’. It seems to go against every natural instinct to ask people to love those who are out to destroy them and to show their love for them by praying for them. How could the Ukrainians who are suffering so much be expected to love those who invaded their land and have caused and are causing so much misery? The love that Jesus calls for here is not an emotion. No one could have any other emotion but extreme anger in the face of unprovoked aggression. The love Jesus asks for resides in the will. He asks us to want what is best even for our enemies. We are to desire, to hope, to pray, that our enemies would come to embrace the path that God wants for them and that will bring them happiness in this life and in the next. We are to hope and pray that they would be delivered from the evil to which they have succumbed, and we are to do whatever is in our power to help bring about such deliverance. In other words, we are to be instruments of God’s saving purpose for their lives, in whatever small way we can. Jesus mentions praying for our enemies, and that may be as much as we can do at times. However, such prayer for the enemy surely falls within the ambit of Jesus’ wider promise elsewhere in the Sermon and the Mount, ‘Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find’.

And/Or

(ii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

Unconditional love does not come naturally to us. We tend to love people when certain conditions are fulfilled. This even applies to the most intimate of human loves. In particular, we expect those we love to love us in return. If they do not, our love for them can easily wane. In the gospel reading, Jesus speaks of God’s love as a love without conditions attached. God does not only love those who love him. Rather God loves ‘bad as well as good’, those who return God’s love and those who do not. In this consists God’s perfection, according to Jesus. God is perfect in that his love is unconditional and, therefore, embraces all. What makes distinctions between people is how they respond to God’s love, the extent to which they allow God’s love to transform them. In the gospel reading, Jesus calls on us all to be perfect as God is perfect, to love unconditionally in the way God does, and that will mean loving even our enemies, those who would wish us harm. There are outstanding examples among Jesus’ followers of this kind of indiscriminate love. Such people are often to be found in the setting of war, precisely in the context of being badly treated by their enemies. They are an inspiration to us. They show us what perfection, what holiness, looks like. They remind us of the good we are all capable of, with the Lord’s help, even in the face of evil.

And/Or

(iii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

I like that poem of Joseph Mary Plunkett, one of the leaders of the 1916 rising, which begins, ‘I see his blood upon the rose and in the stars the glory of his eyes’. Nature spoke powerfully to him of the person of Jesus. It is clear from the gospels that nature spoke powerfully to Jesus about God and God’s way of relating to us and our way of relating to him. When Jesus noticed that the sun was shining and the rain was falling on all people equally, regardless of their moral standing, it spoke to him of God’s love which was given equally to all. Just as the sun and the rain do not discriminate between the good and the sinner, so God’s love does not discriminate between the morally good and immoral. God loves all equally; what differs is people’s willingness to open themselves to this love and allow it to transform their way of being and living. In the gospel reading Jesus calls on his disciples to be God-like in the way they relate to others. We are to love indiscriminately. How we relate to others is to be shaped by how God relates to us rather than by how others relate to us. This is how Jesus understands perfection. He himself embodied fully this way of relating that he calls for in the gospel reading. He loved others as God loved him, regardless of how others related to him. He prayed for his friends and his enemies alike. In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul prays that Christ would live in our hearts through faith. This is the essence of our baptismal calling, to allow the Lord to live in us and to love through us. When that happens we become perfect as God is perfect.

And/Or

(iv) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The Sermon on the Mount puts before us some very challenging teaching and no more so than the section of the Sermon we have just heard in this morning’s gospel reading. Jesus calls on us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. The second part of that call makes the first part more concrete. We love our enemies by praying for them. Praying for others is always an act of love, whether we are praying for our friends, members of our family, those who in need, or, in the case of the gospel reading this morning, our enemies, those who wish us ill. Of the four evangelists, it is Luke who presents Jesus as doing just that. As he hung from the cross, he prayed, ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they are doing’. That prayer of Jesus - and all prayers in the spirit of Jesus’ prayer - displays an extraordinary generosity of spirit. Jesus calls on us to pray for those who persecute us because that is the kind of person that he is, and more fundamentally, that is who God is like. God’s love does not discriminate between the morally good and the morally bad; he makes the sun to shine and the rain to fall on honest and dishonest alike. God’s love is the same for all; what differs is the response of people to that love. In so far as our love for others is not dependent on how people respond to it, we will be as perfect as God is perfect.

And/Or

(v) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The most demanding call of Jesus in all of the gospels is probably to be found in this morning’s gospel reading. There Jesus calls on us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. We would be tempted to say, ‘Surely, it is not humanly possible to love your enemies and to intercede in prayer for those who persecute us’. Jesus rounds off that teaching by calling on us to be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect. Again we would be tempted to ask, ‘how can we be as perfect as God? Surely it is unreasonable to expect that of us?’ We might be so taken aback by the challenging call that we could miss the fact that Jesus is saying something very important about God there. He is saying that God does not discriminate between friend and foe, that God loves those who dishonour him as much as those who honour him. The only human life which fully reflected such divine love was the life of Jesus. Yet, Jesus clearly believes that the lives of his disciples can and must reflect something of that same love of God which makes no distinctions between friend and foe. For that to happen, we need the help of the Holy Spirit, as the feast of Pentecost reminded us. We need to keep on praying, ‘Come, Holy Spirit…’

And/Or

(vi) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

In yesterday’s gospel reading Jesus calls on his followers not to take vengeance on the enemy. In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus goes further and calls on us to love the enemy. As one commentator on this passage puts it, ‘Who else is left to love, after one has loved the enemy?’ The love Jesus speaks of is not just a feeling but finds expression in active service. We might think of the parable of the good Samaritan, in which the Samaritan renders loving service to the injured Jew, who would have been regarded by the Samaritan as an enemy. Such a love of the enemy will also find expression in prayer for the enemy, as when Jesus asked his Father to forgive those who were responsible for his crucifixion. The human tendency is to focus our love on those for whom we have strong feelings of warmth and affection. This is natural, but according to this morning’s gospel reading, it is not exceptional. Jesus calls on us to stretch beyond those our love would naturally embrace. This is one of the gospel texts that does indeed stretch us. Jesus is calling on us to reveal, by our way of relating to others, the God who in love causes the sun to rise on bad people as well as good, and the rain to fall on honest and dishonest alike. This way of life that Jesus calls us towards is only possible in the power of the Holy Spirit who lives among us and within us.

And/Or

(vii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

The word hate when applied to people always has a troublesome connotation. When someone says that they hate someone, it leaves us somewhat disturbed.  The natural objects of our hate are those whom we perceive in some way or other to be our enemy. Perhaps they stand for everything we are opposed to, or, maybe, they are responsible for some harm that has been done to us. In the gospel reading today Jesus declares that there is no room for hatred among his disciples, not even hatred of enemies. In fact, Jesus makes the extraordinary demand of his disciples to love their enemies. The love which the Jewish Law called on people to extend to their neighbour is now to be extended much, much further, to embrace the enemy. The kind of love that Jesus speaks about here is a divine love, a love that does not know how to discriminate in any way, a love that embraces the enemy as much as the friend. This is what the gospel reading refers to as perfection. ‘Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect’. Perfection consists in loving as God loves. We can only do that with the help of the Spirit that God gives.

And/Or

(viii) Tuesday, Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time

In today’s gospel reading Jesus’ call on his disciples to ‘love your enemies and to pray for those who persecute you’ would have been shocking at the time. It retains its shock value today. Jesus is calling on his disciples, calling on us, to be loving people, full stop. We are to be as loving towards those who hate us and wish us harm as we are towards those who love us and wish us well. The kind of people we are is to be shaped not by how people relate to us but by how God relates to us and to all humankind, the God who causes his sun to shine on good and bad alike. There was a bishop in southern Mexico between 1960 and 2000, named Don Samuel Ruiz. He was well known for having empowered the indigenous people of his diocese and for his role as mediator in the conflict between the Zapatista rebels and the Mexican government. For this work, he had received many death threats. In an interview he gave before his death in 2011 he was asked how he had come to live so completely the command to love one’s enemies, when he had so many. He replied, ‘I have no enemies. There are some who want to make themselves enemy to me, but I have no enemies’. Here was certainly someone who related to people out of something much deeper than how they related to him; he related to all, even his enemies, with a divine kind of love. He lived to the full the calling of Jesus at the end of today’s gospel reading to be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[sondepoch]

Want | Scaramouche x Reader

Scaramouche + “You make me want things I can’t have.”

You don’t need Scaramouche at all—don’t need him, don’t need his men, don’t need any of his diplomatic connections to achieve the goal the Tsaritsa presented before you with. Still, you can’t help but want him.

MASTERLIST

Request a character or a ship and I’ll write a drabble for you ^^

The worst part is that Scaramouche actually respects you.

It’s something everyone in the Fatui knows by now: that you’re the only Harbinger he can tolerate, the only Harbinger he’s willing to work with, the only Harbinger he respects enough to invite to these little strategy missions.

It’s the highest honor one can receive from a man like Scaramouche, who’s known best for his averseness to all encounters that don’t directly benefit him. And yet, it’s nothing more than that: a distinction in his mind between the incompetent and the competent, useless and the useful.

You simply happen to fall into the latter category.

You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

“And I was also thinking that as soon as we’ve set up enough microfinancing loans, we could start to move into the city. Get the towns on the outskirts used to Fatui presence, and then hit the Inazuman capital with our people just as they’ve begun to hear of us. The only problem there is that we’d need to combine our forces if we want to effectively disperse our agents, which would leave us open to attack…”

You tune the man out, barely paying attention as he continues on about infiltration tactics. 

After all, it’s not the Fatui you care about.

It’s him.

“But I suppose getting a third Harbinger involved would only complicate the situation, since we’re the only diplomats who’ve ever been sent to Inazuma. Which would mean…”

“A third Harbinger wouldn’t need to be involved in our diplomatic operations,” you say, interrupting the man. “Assume that your and my forces completely focus on intelligence within the city. If we bring a third Harbinger in, we can keep them excluded from the operation and tell them to solely focus on keeping guard to protect us from attacks.”

Scaramouche hesitates when he hears your idea, and then his face breaks out into the rare, thankful smile that you joined the Fatui to see.

“Of course,” he says, bringing a glass of wine to his lips as he leans further back in the chair. “As expected of someone as strategically inclined as you.”

You can only smile, grateful that the man you adore is giving you a compliment. The fact that he only likes you for your brain is a thought you refuse to entertain.

“You’re too kind, Balladeer.”

“Only because you deserve it,” the man says, something flashing in his eyes that could be counted as less-than-innocent, though you know by now that it’s nothing you can pay attention to.

“Well, my efforts would be useless without your men,” you respond, bringing your own glass to your lips as you lean back in your armor, letting the thick metal clink against the chair when your back hits it. 

“Nonsense. Your mind is sharp enough that a loss in resources wouldn’t hinder you.”

“That’s…” true.

And that’s probably the worst part of all.

You don’t need Scaramouche at all—don’t need him, don’t need his men, don’t need any of his diplomatic connections to achieve the goal the Tsaritsa presented before you with. It’s a painfully obvious fact given your track record: near-perfect except for the single blemish that forced you to join the Fatui in the first place—but the Tsaritsa has always known that your blunder was intentional, that there was never any flaw in your plan, that you consciously outed yourself as Snezhnaya’s most wanted thief so you could get closer to the mysterious enigma that was the Sixth Harbinger.

Yet, as you sit in his room, drinking his wine at his table to concoct a battle plan to work around his men, you’re no closer to the man than when you first joined.

Or—perhaps that’s a lie. Perhaps you know more about him now than you did before.

After all, back when you didn’t know him, you believed him to be a pretty man with a penchant for draconian punishment. Both true, except that now, you know that he’s already been promised to another—and that Scaramouche, the Balladeer, Sixth of the Eleven Harbingers, is someone who would never stoop so low as to cheat.

Yet, he respects you.

Or rather—he respects your mind.

“Something wrong?” Scaramouche leans forward with a hint of vague concern in his eyes, and you hate how you know that it’s that: vague concern, distant and hazy because your relationship doesn’t warrant any actual care.

“Nothing, Balladeer. Just thinking about a plan I’m going to present to the Tsaritsa tomorrow.”

“Ah,” he hums, not bothering to ask because he knows it’s likely confidential. “Well, you should relax. I doubt that your plan has any flaws, and even if it does, the Tsaritsa will trust you enough to allow you to execute.”

“Right.” 

“No, I mean it.” Scaramouche offers you another rare smile, pushing the glass of wine closer. “People need to indulge every now and then. Even Harbingers. You’ll be better off if you give in to what you want.”

It’s out of character for him to look out for you like this, but you accept the glass regardless.

“There’s no point,” you mutter, gazing at your wavy reflection in the deep red liquid. “I want too much. Can’t have it all. There’s a reason I got caught for stealing.”

Not quite the reason he must be thinking, but yeah, the reason does exist.

“I’m sure you can steal whatever you want if you try hard enough.”

“Easy to think,” you mutter, taking a long sip. “But some things aren’t a matter of strategy.”

“Oh? Pray tell, who could be standing between you and what you want?”

Your expression turns bitter, turning into what has to be a sharp glare as you let out all the resentment that has been festering from years of being nothing more than a distant friend to Scaramouche.

“You. You make me want things I can’t have.”

Scaramouche’s smile doesn’t change at that, and your heart sinks when you see how he doesn’t even think to ask what you mean.

He knows, you realize, staring hopelessly into his violet, unchanging eyes. He’s known.

God, that’s embarrassing. That the man you’ve been obsessed with since you joined this wretched organization knows you like him, knows you think about him day and night, knows you’d do anything for him—and he never bothered to say anything.

How humiliating.

This is rejection, isn’t it? This is his way of telling you to crush your hopes and move on because this is as far as you go: being an aid to his strategy, nothing more than a tool to advance his success.

You stand abruptly, not even sure what you’ll say in your shame when you head out—but, then you remember what he said earlier—and things begin to feel different.

I’m sure you can steal whatever you want if you try hard enough.

Your devastation turns incredulous, and you suddenly think about how you first learned that Scaramouche was engaged through some table talk among the low-level recruits. You’d believed it at the time, but Scaramouche is the kind of ass to spread those rumors so suitors won’t approach him, right? He’s the kind of man to consciously put up a distant facade to keep everyone he doesn’t like away, right? And he’s been inviting you every other night to talk about bullshit strategy you couldn’t care less about, keeping you close, if anything, and—

Ah, fuck.

Your face changes as you continue to stare at Scaramouche, trying to dissect his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. Alas, it’s useless: he wears the perfect poker face, lips curled as he waits for you to make the next move.

Hesitant, you take a seat.

He does nothing in response, though you swear his grin widens the slightest.

And so with no encouragement but the unbridled courage of adrenaline running through your veins, you open your mouth and say things you should have said long ago.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Mia Deserved Better: An Analysis of RE8's Themes/Symbolism

Foreword: I would like to thank @lepusrufus for posting about both Mia and Miranda, and at one point directly saying that Mia deserved better, which is a large part of what caused me to start examining her role in the canon story. Now, I will say that this post, like some of my previous explorations of Village (such as my attempt to determine Donna's age), will not be the best organized. My ADHD makes such things rather difficult for me. However, I have tried more than usual, and have broken up this "essay" into several distinct sections. Still, I am worried that my thoughts will not be as concise or coherent as they were inside my head.

Under read-more for length and spoilers for RE8: Village.

Introduction:

Village is, inarguably, about parenthood. Is it a horror game? Yes. Is it also science fiction? Also yes. But is it still, at its core, a story, and therefore contains imagery, symbolism, and themes? Yes. Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with Mia deserving better. My proposal is as follows: While Village is overall about parenthood, it is more about motherhood than fatherhood. Furthermore, Mia's background + actions from the previous game tie her story directly with Mother Miranda's, making their potential interactions massively important to the story... and could have served the theme beautifully. The missed potential in her involvement in the story is honestly a little bit absurd.

Now, let's examine each of the Four Lords + their sections, as the beginning of analyzing the game's theme.

Lady Dimitrescu + Castle:

Ah, perhaps the clearest (albeit unimportant) bits of theme within the whole game. We are immediately presented with another parent, with three daughters she loves very, very much. Initially they work as a team to capture Ethan, easily overpowering him. When they do split up, each still has dialogue regarding their family members. Each of the daughters expresses a desire to be like their mother/make their mother proud. Lady Dimitrescu herself gets very upset every time one of her daughters perishes, and delivers some important dialogue about this in her final confrontation with Ethan.

To paraphrase, Lady D says that Ethan has done something unforgiveable, caused damage that can never heal, and deserves to die before his daughter. That last part is interesting, in the sense that Lady D seems to believe that outlasting your own child is a fate so terrible that she would not wish it upon anyone, including the person who killed her daughters.

Throughout her dialogue and actions, Lady D serves as an important figure of a living mother. What do I mean by that? Well, the only other mothers we see in game are Mia and Miranda. The former doesn't show up until almost the end of the game (seeing as the "Mia" at the start is not actually the real Mia), while the latter does not have a living child, and her behavior has (presumably) changed quite a bit since that loss. As Ethan goes through Castle Dimitrescu, he watches (he causes) Lady D to go through what Miranda did all those decades ago. When we see her loss, when we experience her loss, it is something we connect with, even comparing it (as Lady D does) to Ethan's loss of Rose.

For the more visual side of symbolism, we can turn to Lady Dimitrescu herself. She is very tall, is visibly older than the majority of the Village cast, and has a fairly classic (old-school) motherly look. Everything about her reinforces her position as an example of a mother, especially when she's with her daughters and becomes such a strong figure of protection. Her height allows her to seem the caretaker for her children, even though they are scary/intimidating in their own right.

Donna Beneviento + Waterfall House:

Yes, the baby/fetus/monstrosity is part of this. No, it is not the only bit of thematic work in this section of the game.

To begin, you can find out that Donna is officially the adopted daughter of Mother Miranda. Her birth parents are dead, implied to be from especially tragic causes (more than is the norm when it comes to "orphan making"), and she has suffered greatly from it. We see that she has been seemingly neglected by Miranda, and is incredibly isolated. The tragedy of her loss, along with the consequences presented by it, are something to keep in mind further down the road, when we inevitably deal with Ethan's own death.

One of the consequences of the environment Donna was raised in is, arguably, her reliance on Angie. While interpretations of their exact relationship (aka how much control Donna actually has at any given point) vary, the two very clearly have something akin to a mother/daughter vibe. Alternatively an older sister/younger sister sort of thing. This shows in the way that Donna holds/carries Angie, as well as the contrast in their demeanors. Moreso, the fact that Donna gave a part of herself to create Angie is almost enough to make the symbolism nonnegotiable.

We also see that Donna has a strong understanding of family/family dynamics, through the way that she uses her powers to manipulate Ethan. She dissects his connections to Mia and Rose, taunts him with the lengths he's willing to go to save his child, then shows him a grotesque version of parenthood: The aforementioned fetus monster. Does the monster represent Ethan's fears, or Donna's?

What if the monster is how Donna sees herself, in some way, perhaps thinking that it's her fault her parents died? Bit of a stretch, but it's not a keystone of my theory, so I'm just throwing it out there. We could, however, go a step further and ask ourselves if Donna has noticed the way Miranda neglects her, and the fetus monster is how Donna thinks Miranda sees her. A baby, true, but grotesque, so terribly imperfect compared to her "real daughter" (Eva, obvs).

Regardless, the monster presents an ugly side of parenthood. It shows us the blood, the hunger (with the way it repeatedly attempts to swallow Ethan whole), the wailing. If Lady D shows us the love of parenthood, the bond, Donna in turn shows us the hate, the misery. Everything that one must endure to reap the rewards of family.

Lastly, we get one last bit of symbolism with Donna's death: We play a game with Angie. A childhood classic, hide and seek. Ethan chases her down repeatedly, stabbing away, seemingly only hurting the doll. But what happens when he kills Angie? It turns out that he killed Donna. You kill the child, you kill the parent. A reinforcement of the connection that comes with parenthood, along with another notch in Ethan's family-murdering belt (not saying that he's the "true antagonist" or anything, just keeping track for one of my later points).

Moreau + The Reservoir

Let's get the worst possibility out of the way: Moreau, weakest and sickest of the four lords, lives in a reservoir, where he is relatively safe. To defeat him, you have to drain the water, forcing him onto dry(ish) land. Paired with the main ideas of his section (which I will detail after this nightmare), one could theorize that he's meant to represent birth itself. Again, he's safe in his ("womb") water, and becomes vulnerable when he leaves (like a fragile newborn). Kinda gross, in my opinion, and also not a strong enough connection for me to care much about. It was merely an interesting (albeit horrifying) enough thought that I felt it warranted sharing.

Moving on to the big stuff with Moreau: He's a baby. Evidence: Whiny, has difficulty moving around, struggles to adapt to his growth, throws up a bunch, loves his mother very much, cries for his mother when he's in trouble, etc. Although Mother Miranda does not care for him, he clearly cares for her, and plays yet another role of an abandoned child (like Donna). Without Miranda there to protect him, he perishes terribly, crying out for someone who does not care to answer.

Hearing him cry out for Miranda, over and over, only for her to continue ignoring him is a key piece in the build-up to our confrontation between Ethan and Miranda. The game, in many ways, centers around the comparison between the two. In my humble opinion, Mia should have been involved in this comparison, as opposed to supplying the solution to the result of said comparison. Yes, I know that was a lot of words that don't mean much yet, but trust me, I'm getting there.

Heisenberg + The Factory

Ironically, of the four lords, Heisenberg is the most similar to Mother Miranda. In his massive factory, he is alone except for his numerous experiments, the results of decades of playing God. In comparison to Ethan + Mia, Heisenberg represents artificial parentage, or more accurately, the artificial creation of "life". While the others Lords also performed experiments, they used living subjects. Heisenberg instead chose to use corpses, which he then "brought back to life" with cybernetics + his powers, a somewhat futuristic version of Dr. Frankenstein.

Together, Miranda and him show a rotten side of parenthood (whereas Donna + Moreau showed us the uglier side of the children themselves). To put it simply, they are bad parents. They throw their "children"/experiments into the fray, uncaring, using them as pawns for their own greater gain. The most important part of this is that Heisenberg offers to "help" Ethan: By using Rose as a weapon. In his act of refusal, Ethan demonstrates one of several important distinctions between himself and Mother Miranda. Where she is willing to use her "children" (read: lives that she is responsible for) as tools, he is not.

Miscellaneous Symbolism/Imagery:

The old hag is one of my favorite parts of Village. She's seemingly nuts, has a crazy old lady laugh, wears bones that make soothing bone noises when she moves, and she draws lots of symbols in the dirt. If you look closely (I can provide screenshots if anyone desires, but it will take a bit of work to get them onto my computer), she's drawing one of the most iconic images in the titular village: The winged unborn. This symbol acts as the key you build up after every fight with a Lord, understandably called the Unborn Key (which turns into the Winged Unborn Key). Whether this counts as foreshadowing towards the hag's identity reveal is technically irrelevant, but I like to think it does.

In essence, you build up the key, this depiction of an infant, to progress in the game. The more wings it gains, the closer you are to your goal of rescuing your child.

The cadou itself is very clearly fetus-shaped. Furthermore, the only place within the human body that we know it ever gets implanted is in the "tummy" (thanks Moreau), aka roughly where someone's womb is/would be. Every infected person we see presumably had the Cadou implanted there (though I think it would be interesting if implanting it in different spots caused different mutations. of course, that is a discussion for another day). To become immortal, you have to "bear" a "child". Does it get more direct than that?

Mother Miranda gained her immortality in part for her grief at the loss of her child. She embodied the despair that Lady D spoke of, becoming an eternal source of anguish. Just as the loss of a child is a wound that lasts forever, so too would Miranda last forever (well, until Ethan comes along).

Mia is a loving mother, who puts up with the BSAA making her move across the world, deals with the complications of having a mold husband and mold baby, and has proved herself (see her section in RE7) to be an immense badass. Previously I had forgotten that, and even embarrassed myself in the comments of another person's post by implying she wasn't a tough, ass-kicking machine. Y'all remember feral Mia? People talk about "poor Ethan's arms", but sometimes we forget that Mia was one of the people who did a number on them. Furthermore, she's one of the only living people (from outside the village) to have any connections (pun intended) to Mother Miranda. They worked together, although possibly not directly, on Evelyn. If anyone in Village has a chance of really understanding Miranda's plight, or knowing the truth behind it, it would be Mia. Yet we don't see them interact a single time. Which leads me to the next section...

Conclusion On Theme + Missed Potential:

Okay, okay, so it's pretty obvious at this point that, as previously stated, the game's theme is parenthood. Every section has its symbolism, the story is very obviously about a man trying to rescue his daughter, etc, etc, but what's the point? Is there a lesson, or a more focused interpretation of the central theme? Let's take one last step back, and focus on something I've mentioned a few times now: The comparison between Ethan and Mother Miranda.

Recurring dialogue from Ethan, Alcina, and Mother Miranda all point towards the developers acknowledging that the characters are similar, but there's nowhere near as much conversation about it as I would like. Several times we have the antagonists ask Ethan how he's so willing to kill someone else's child, or prevent them from (essentially) doing what he's doing (aka saving his daughter). While Ethan responds with a mix of "well you started it" and "aghhh fuck-a-you, bitch", there's a much more solid, unspoken difference: Mother Miranda sends her underlings to kill, so that she may revive her daughter. Ethan kills (read: does the work himself) to get his daughter. The difference is much bigger, and more important, at the end of the game, when we realize just how far it goes. Ethan dies to save his daughter. Time and time again Mother Miranda has killed others for her work, but in the end she is stopped when someone willingly dies to stop her.

Where does Mia come in? Mia, the badass mother, the one who once worked alongside Mother Miranda, should have been the nail in the coffin. She is the one who survives, who lives on to raise Rose, she is the silent solution to Ethan's sacrifice. Miranda, you fool, what could you have accomplished if you had held onto your makeshift family? Through Mia (and Chris, to a lesser degree), his "loss" becomes a victory. There's a certain poetic justice that comes with Rose's full family being instrumental in saving her, when Miranda so readily spurned her own family.

Mia could have had an actual conversation with Miranda, their history giving the latter a reason to actually listen. I'm not saying that Miranda would have changed her mind/plans, but the conversation would have been a well-needed contrast to Ethan's "arggg what the fuck is happening, I only have two reactions to things. agg fuck you". Additionally, I feel that Mia (who was captured and had to endure who-knows-what) deserves the opportunity to be the one who points out Miranda's mistakes, who delivers the final "fuck you" to her. More than that, she's the one at the end who can say that hey, maybe she can understand some of what Miranda did. Was there anything her and Ethan wouldn't have done to save Rose? As much as Ethan is a foil to Miranda, Mia could (and should) have played a similar role.

When so much of the story and symbolism revolves around Miranda's experience as a mother, it only would have been fair to shine a light on her equivalent. Her better.

There's more I wanted to say/feel like I didn't properly get across, and I might add more to this at some point, but it's 5:40 AM right now, and I'm starting to feel like my brain is slowing down, so... Feel free to reblog/comment and add your own thoughts!

[pedros-mustache]

convenience

summary: he was within arm’s reach. that’s all.

warnings: suggestions of harassment, alcohol consumption, language, innuendo

a/n: no thoughts, frankie morales and his broad shoulders only. poorly edited so forgive any mistakes you find. i’ll go back and fix soon.

you rarely come to the bar alone. tonight is an anomaly.

grabbing drinks after a long work week is more enjoyable with friends by your side, and you frequent this particular watering hole what feels like every friday but can’t be more than twice a month. life is busy for you and what friends remain from your college days. babies and partners and jobs—it keeps everyone running to and fro like chickens with their heads cut off. (for you, of course, it’s just the job that’s got you strung out. no husband, no babies. that shouldn’t matter, but sometimes it does.) still, despite hectic schedules, there’s a standing date a few times a month: friday, eight o’clock, the booth with the cracked-plastic seat coverings in the far right corner.

you like the noisy atmosphere of this place, and it’s easy to lose a few hours while gossiping over cheap margaritas, a whitney houston song thumping over the tinny loudspeakers. the air smells like cigarette smoke—that’s your only qualm—but the drinks are cheap, the food is passable, and it’s a chance to let loose and really enjoy yourself after a five days of business boredom. 

of course, that’s what “the hot bird” is like most of the time. today is different. today is tuesday, it’s six-thirty, and you really shouldn’t be here alone.

you twirl the thin plastic straw around your drink and risk a glance over your shoulder. there’s a guy in your regular booth—red-faced with alcohol, tie loosened, dress shirt two sizes too big. you know he’s staring at you because you can feel his eyes on your back, your hips, your ass; he’s anything but discreet. his stare hurts like a healing sunburn: itchy, uncomfortable, hard to ignore. even from across the bar, his focus is unyielding, and you doubt he’s one to be easily dissuaded, not with the rabble-rousing friends at his booth, jostling drinks and shoulders alike. you imagine he’s biding his time, waiting for you to feel comfortable so he can strike. which is exactly what you need after being passed up for promotion (again): a drunk asshole bent on making your shitty day worse just for the hell of it.

the bartender—josh—says your name and sets a cocktail down on the counter in front of you. “here,” he says. he jerks his chin forward, indicating the back of the room. “it’s from the guy in the back.”

“oh god.” you resist the urge to look over your shoulder again. the muscles in your neck twitch, scream at you to turn and appraise the self-satisfied smirk on this guy’s face, but you hold still. you are nothing if not resolute in your determination to mind your on business, wallow in self pity, and get home without much of a fuss. “what the fuck is this thing?”

josh cringes. “it’s a b-52, our least popular drink.”

“it looks like spilled motor oil and congealed grease had a baby.”

to your right, in the barstool two over from yours, there’s a snort of amusement. your eyes snap to the side, but don’t register the other patron before josh is tapping your wrist. you hold your breath, stomach clenching at the conciliatory look on his face.

“don’t look now. i think he’s coming over.”

“of course he is,” you mutter, dropping your forehead to your palm. fuck, you really do not want to cry right now, but tears prick the corners of your eyes anyway. traitorous bastards. it’s been a long day, and you aren’t sure you have the mental fortitude to tactfully tell some guy to piss off without causing a scene or bursting into a blubbering mess.

“i can tell him—”

a smooth, unflustered voice cuts josh off mid-sentence. “no, let me.” 

a half-filled pint of beer and a plastic basket of fries slide across the counter, and then a man, shoulders broad and trucker cap pulled low, drops to the stool beside you. you gape at him, jaw hanging. the guy from two stools over—eavesdropper.

“unless,” he continues. “you want to tell him to fuck off yourself. i’m sure you can—you look like a capable woman—but i know men and sometimes...” he trails off, but you catch his drift well enough. you know men too, and the men who frequent this bar are often of the seedier variety.

except maybe not this guy... he seems nice enough, willing to lend a hand, and after the day you’ve had, you’ll take any help you can get. plus he’s easy on the eye, and it’s been awhile since anyone with such a handsome face paid you any mind.

you twist slightly in your stool, turning your body to face him. you open your mouth to offer your name, but he beats you to it, sliding his hand over the low, curved back of your stool. his presence—so masculine yet so gentle—crowds you, and you fight the urge to suck in a sharp breath. mouth hovering over your ear, he lowers his voice, and his opposite hand, long fingers splayed outwards, settles on the counter. you’re boxed in, an arm on either side of your body, but, strangely, it feels... good, safe even.

“i’m frankie,” he says. “just follow my lead, and we’ll both be out of your hair in no time.”

you turn your face to meet frankie’s eyes. he’s so near you can feel his breath on your cheeks, could kiss his plush lips if you dared. his smile, small but encouraging, eases the clench in your stomach. your gaze drifts from his warm, brown eyes to the thumb-sized spot on his chin absent the fine layer of scruff otherwise covering his jaw. god, he’s handsome.

“uh—excuse me? i couldn’t help but notice you ignored the drink i sent over.” the man from the back of the room leans against the counter, his gaze tight on your face, elbows poised casually on the bar. his voice belies none of the uncertainty he should probably feel when confronted with your obvious disinterest and frankie’s breadth. “picked my favorite for a sweet thing like you.”

gritting your teeth, you turn your head. “thanks, but i don’t think—” your resolve wavers when the man’s fat lips spread into a grin. shit, he likes this doesn’t he—how uncomfortable you are? he reminds you of richard, the guy who got the promotion you deserve: smarmy and entirely too good at weaseling. your stomach sours.

“you can’t turn me down until you at least take a sip of the thing.” reaching over his chest, the man picks up the cocktail. the three distinct layers jostle in the small shot glass.

perhaps he sees the fine sheen of tears that rush to your eyes or perhaps it’s just to make a point, but frankie’s hand drops to your thigh. the warmth of his palm filters through the mesh of your tights. without thinking, you twine your fingers through his and squeeze. 

“she said no, man.” 

for the first time, your would-be-suitor’s stare slides to focus on frankie. he arches a thin eyebrow. there’s no mistaking the way his chest inflates as frankie straightens his spine. “yeah? and who are you?”

frankie speaks without hesitation. “her boyfriend.” 

the man huffs, incredulous. “well, you didn’t claim her before now so i’m just taking my shot. free pick, ya know? first come first serve.”

frankie slides from the stool to standing. he’s near the same height as the other man, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw and the way his fingers tighten around yours and the way he moves to grip your shoulder than has you leaning into him despite the anger rolling off him in sharp waves. your shoulder pushes against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and you hold your breath.

“say that again and i’ll crack your skull open on the counter.”

the man blinks, stunned, then laughs. it’s a harsh, nervous bark. his eyes flit to the back of the room then return to frankie. “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. what are you? some macho man?” 

“no—retired special forces. i can and i will make your life a living hell if you don’t crawl back into the hole you came from. leave my lady alone.”

“shit.” the man shakes his head before tossing the rejected cocktail down his throat with a cringe. “ain’t fucking worth it anyway.” he slams the glass down on the counter and, heeding frankie’s advice, returns to sulk in the back booth, tail tucked between his legs.

frankie waits until the asshole is sat snug in his booth before returning to his stool. he pops a now-cold fry in his mouth then tags a long swig of his beer. you watch him and decide you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in your entire life. 

“thank you,” you breathe. “i—fuck, i didn’t realize you’d be so... intimidating.” 

frankie shrugs, eats another fry. he avoids your eye. “hate to see you treated like that. least i can do.” 

you hum in approval, tracing the curve of his nose with your gaze. “i got passed up for a promotion today,” you offer. “put me in a real tailspin. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week.”

fry dangling between his pointer finger and thumb, frankie finally returns his eyes to yours. “i’m sorry to hear that. if it makes you feel any better, i got stood up. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week either.”

“guess we’re just a couple of losers then.” when frankie’s eyebrow lifts, you visibly cringe. you grab his forearm and squeeze your eyes shut. “no, wait—that’s not what i meant. i meant that... in the grand scheme of things, we aren’t... i mean...” squinting, you risk a peek at him. “shit, i’m sorry.”

after a moment, frankie smiles—and your heart leaps to your throat. he motions to josh at the other end of the bar. “what drink do you like?” he asks. “we can make it a real date, if you want? you know, to keep up appearances.” 

“a real date?”

he nods. “yeah. i’m not big on fate and shit like that, but... well, maybe i’m big on fate tonight.” his eyes roam your face, and you wonder if he’s drinking you in, memorizing your features. unlike before, his stare is kind, appreciative, reverent. your cheeks heat under his gaze, but you don’t look away.

the corner of your mouth pulls into a grin. “okay.” you smile at josh when he appears. “i like mojitos.” 

“really?” at your nod, frankie’s smile widens. “me too.” 

you reach for a fry in his basket. “must be fate then,” you say with a shrug.

“yeah.” his hand falls to your thigh again, squeezing the flesh around your knee. you look from his hand to his face, and anything you once thought shitty about the day turns rosy with possibility. “must be fate.”

.

.

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