#i hope you find it beautiful despite its imperfection ;)

[ahqkas]

♯ TOO SWEET ; mattheo riddle

❛ i take my whiskey neat, my coffee black and my bed at 3, you’re too sweet for me ❜

PAIRING! mattheo riddle x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS! in which mattheo recalled the two times you were too sweet for him (based on this req.!!)

WORD COUNT! 4.1k

WARNINGS AND TAGS! consummation of alcohol, lovesick mattheo, fluff, angst, a lot of my hcs for mattheo’s past (i wrote him the way i see him), lmk if i missed smth !!

NOTES! this is purely my view on mattheo’s character bc the hc i wrote suit him sm 😿😿 reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated <3

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

ONCE A MAN FALLS IN LOVE, he finds himself drawn to not just the physical beauty of his muse, but for the essence of who the person truly is - their quirks, intelligence, kindness, and their unique way of seeing the world. Every interaction, every shared experience, every memory he brings, adds another layer to his adoration towards the love of his life.

His love for them is evident in the little things - the way he watches them when they aren't looking, the small gestures of thoughtfulness, the silent support during their dark moments of life. It's in the way he listens, truly listens, to the hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations, always eager to offer his thoughts and ideas. This love manifests in his desire to be their anchor in times of storm, their cheerleader in moments of triumph, and their person in all the in-betweens. It is a love that values their independence and individuality, recognizing that they are their own person with their own journey, and yet, he longs to be a part of that journey, to walk alongside them and share in their joys and sorrows of life.

Mattheo Riddle was no different.

He marvels at your kindness, your sweetness, and the light you bring into his life. You are his muse, his inspiration, a spark of the goodness that stands in stark contrast to his own perceived flaws and insecurities he feels deep inside himself. He sees you as an angel, a pure and radiant being who somehow chose to share your life with him, despite his own imperfections and inner demons.

He sees you as an angel in a human form, who chose to live among the devils, just so he could feel the heavenly touch for the first and last time in all eternity.

He often wonders how he, with all his rough edges, hidden scars, and a past life without a happy memory, could be worthy of your love. He feels like a monster, haunted by past mistakes and burdened by the weight of his own fears and failings. You, on the other hand, are everything he aspires to be - kind, compassionate, and endlessly forgiving. Your presence in his life is a constant reminder of the beauty and grace that he lacks, and yet, your love makes him strive to be better, to rise above his darkness and become someone worthy of your affection.

In his heart, he knows that your love is transforming him, helping him to heal and grow. Your existence is a light that dispels his inner darkness, a reminder for him to cherish that even monsters like him can be loved. He clings to this, that your love is making him a better man, one day at a time.

01. THE PARTY

The Slytherin common room was full of shadows and flickering lights, transformed into a wild moment of freedom for the night. The music, a thundering beat that echoed off the stone walls, could be heard from miles away, yet no professor or ghost visited the common room to cancel the party. It was as if the ancient castle itself had granted this one night of freedom to its most cunning and ambitious students. The rhythmic thrum of bass notes and the infectious melody of the latest wizarding hits filled the air, blending with the sound of laughter and the clink of glasses.

Bodies moved in a hypnotic dance, swaying in sync with the music. The students had discarded their usual aloof demeanors and uniforms, lost in the euphoria and joy of the moment. Green and silver decorations adorned every surface, shimmering under the enchanted lights that hung from the ceiling like glowing jewels. Laughter rang out, high and clear, mingling with the deep, resonant hum of conversation.

In one corner, a group of seventh years huddled together, their heads bent close in a whisper, before erupting into loud laughter. Nearby, a couple twirled around each other, their bodies intertwining like dark waves, eyes locked in their private world amidst the chaos around them. The fireplace, usually a place of quiet contemplation, was now surrounded by students perched on its stone ledge, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of the night and alcohol.

Long tables filled with food and drink stretched along one wall, bearing the weight of a feast other students could be jealous of. Platters of magical meals, charmed to stay warm, smelled of aromas that mingled with the scent of butterbeer and stronger beverages. Bottles of firewhisky and elf-made wine were passed from hand to hand, each sip fueling the atmosphere more and more as drunken the students got. The alcohol flowed freely, loosening tongues, transforming even the shyest students into party animals of the night.

The Slytherin common room had never felt so alive. Tonight, they were not just the students of Hogwarts; they were a family, united by their house and their understanding of what it meant to be a Slytherin.

Mattheo Riddle was one of those students who were enjoying themselves tonight. His breathing features were illuminated by the green lights as he leaned casually against a stone wall, a cup of firewhisky filled to the brim in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed perilously close to the edge with each of his slowed gestures, but Mattheo seemed unconcerned, clearly lost in the haze of alcohol. His dark curls, usually styled in the way that made uncountable amount of girls fall on their knees, now fell loose around his face as you watched from a close distance.

He was engaged in a drunken conversation with Theodore Nott, whose tall, lanky frame was the opposite to Mattheo's more athletic build. Theo's typically serious demeanor had softened, his features relaxed into a rare, genuine smile as he listened to Mattheo's ramblings with a giggle threatening to spill out from his lips. The two of them, often seen together, now looked like true brothers. It was almost scary how much they resembled family when they were drunk.

Mattheo's voice, rich and slightly slurred, carried over the music as he recounted a particularly outrageous story from his recent fight. Theodore threw his head back and laughed. It was clear to anyone how close those two boys were, drunk or sober.

"Can you believe he actually thought I was serious?" Mattheo snickered with a big grin stretching across his face, taking a swig from his cup, the whiskey burning a warm path down his throat. "I mean, I barely managed to keep a straight face!"

Theodore laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're a menace, Riddle. One of these days, you're going to get expelled."

"Ah, but tonight isn't that night, mate," Mattheo replied with a slow wink, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To living dangerously and laughing in the face of consequences!"

They clinked their cups together, the sound barely audible over the throbbing beat of the music and you thought now was the best time to approach your boyfriend. 

Mattheo's brown irises scanned the crowd, catching a look of you as you pushed your way through the crowd of dancing bodies. The sight of you instantly brightened his expression and a genuine smile spread across his face. He felt a rush of emotions that the whiskey in his hand only intensified, each beat of his heart echoing with the certainty that what he held for you was pure love. The Slytherin straightened up, his posture shifting from the casual slouch of a carefree boy to the attentive stance of a man. Theodore noticed the change and a knowing smirk made its appearance on his lips as he stepped aside, giving the two of you a moment of privacy. 

"[Name]," your boyfriend called out, his voice full of warmth. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours as you came closer. "There you are, love."

You beamed up at him, your eyes reflecting the party's enchanted lights, making them look like twin stars. "Having fun, are we?" you teased and the tone of your voice carried a playful match that always managed to make his heart skip a beat. 

"Only now that you're here," he replied. The world around you seemed to blur as he gazed down at you, all the noise and chaos fading into the background. "You make everything better."

Drunk on both the whiskey and his overwhelming affection, the boy's usual reservations melted away. He held you close, his hands resting on your waist as if anchoring himself to your presence. When he was sober or feeling down at heart, his love for you was often hidden beneath layers of stoicism and insecurity, but now, in this moment of happy drunkenness, it shone through. 

He bent down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips, enjoying the sweetness of the contact. "I'm so lucky to have you," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't deserve you, but I'm going to spend every day trying to be worthy of your love."

 “You have no idea what you mean to me. I look at you and . . . it’s like you’re the sun and I’m just a planet orbiting around you, soaking up your light,” he continued without a break. The boy wanted to get every one of his words out as fast as humanly possible. To show you his hidden feelings he wasn't able to tell you before. “You’re my everything, [Name]. I don’t know how I got so lucky. You’re so kind, so . . . good. And me? I’m just . . . I’m a mess, you know? A monster sometimes.” 

You shook your head lightly and took his hands into your own, enveloping him with your warmth. He was starting to get emotional, and you didn't need to have your boyfriend drunkenly mopping around. His mood changed like weather when alcohol got involved. “You’re not a monster, Mattheo. You’re human. We all have our demons.”

��But you,” he didn't allow you to finish your sentence before he spoke up again, his voice raw with sincerity, “you make me want to be better. For you. I see you, and I just want to be the man you deserve. I’m not always good at it, but I try. I try because you’re worth it.” 

You could see the glazed look in his eyes as he swayed slightly on the spot. He was rough around the edges, you couldn't deny the truth, but he was the sweetest boy when he managed to fall in love. Which wasn't exactly difficult, Mattheo fell in love easily. But when he did, it was worth everything. Mattheo was your sweet boy. “Love,” you said softly to him, your voice filled with gentle concern to the brim, “you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Maybe it’s time to slow down a little, okay?”

Mattheo blinked, giving you a lopsided grin, his expression a mix of boyish charm and pure happiness. “But I’m fine, [nickname]. I feel great. Better than great, actually. With you here, everything’s perfect.”

“I know you’re having a good time, but I don’t want you to feel terrible tomorrow. Let’s take a break from the firewhisky for now, alright?”

He pouted slightly, his shoulders slumping as he realized you were actually serious. “You’re probably right,” he admitted, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “But only because you’re asking me.” You chuckled softly at his behavior, threading your fingers through his and gently leading him away from the dancing crowd. You navigated through the common room, moving towards a quieter corner of the space where a plush couch sat, inviting you both in with open arms. The room’s enchantments cast soft shadows on the walls, the flickering lights creating a soothing atmosphere.

“Here, sit down,” you instructed as you guided him to sit on the couch. Mattheo obeyed, sinking into the cushions with a contented sigh. You sat beside him, your hand never leaving his. You took the half-empty cup of whiskey from his hold, reaching for a glass of water on the table nearby instead and handing it to him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Mattheo took the glass, his fingers brushing against yours as he did. He took a long sip, the cool water a welcome relief from the heat of the alcohol he consumed. “You really do take good care of me, don’t you?” he murmured, his head resting against the back of the couch as he looked at you with a mixture of admiration and exhaustion.

“Someone has to,” you replied playfully, brushing a stray curl of hair from his forehead. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else to have the job.”

As the night wore on, Mattheo felt a warmth spreading through him that was only partly due to the whiskey. It was the warmth of belonging, of being surrounded by friends who understood and accepted him, flaws and all. Despite his often rough exterior, he was deeply grateful for these moments, these stolen hours of joy in the corners of the Slytherin common room.

02 - THE MARK

The past has a profound power to shape a man, especially when that past is influenced by suffering at the hands of a father. 

For Mattheo Riddle, his family history was the darkest shadow of all the shadows that clung to him, a reminder of the pain and fear that had molded his entire life. Raised in a home devoid of warmth, where love was a foreign concept and cruelty was a daily reality, Mattheo had learned to build tall and thick walls around his heart. A shield to protect him from more hurt that would come his way. 

The orphanage was a harsh place, stripped of the luxuries the boy had unknowingly been born into. It was a world of strict discipline and a poor form of affection. The caretakers, overwhelmed and underfunded, had little patience for a child with such a notorious legacy. Mattheo grew up under the weight of whispers and sideways glances, the infamous name "Riddle" ensuring he was never just another child. The women of the orphanage knew his father, having taken care of him when he was around the same age as his son. What a wicked child Tom was. Mattheo was different because of that, marked, and this awareness shaped his formative years in ways he could barely comprehend.

As he grew older, the whispers about his family name became more pronounced. The children at the orphanage were cruel. “Monster,” they called him, creating the very fears that nested within his own heart. He began to internalize these taunts, seeing himself through the lens of his father's sins. The idea that he could be worthy of love seemed more and more distant, more of a fantasy that had no place in his reality. But the same idea of letting someone see past his defenses, of allowing someone to love him despite his flaws, seemed not only impossible but dangerous. For how could anyone love a monster, especially one crafted by his own father?

Despite this, Mattheo yearned for something more. He longed for the kind of love he had never known, a love that was gentle and kind, that saw past his scars and accepted him for who he was. But every time he felt himself getting close to someone, the fear surged up, a wave of doubt and self-loathing washed over him and forced him to retreat behind his walls again. It was a never-ending cycle.

Hogwarts had saved him. 

Mattheo Riddle’s first steps into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were met with a mixture of curiosity, awe, and apprehension. For the other students, he was a figure of whispered rumors, his infamous last name carrying with it a weight of fear and fascination. They had heard the stories of his father’s dark acts, of the legacy that haunted the halls of the castle like a ghost. But for Mattheo himself, Hogwarts represented a new beginning, a chance to escape the personal hell he called the orphanage and create his own path. The boy was no longer just another orphan. Here, he could be anything he wanted to be.

He wasn't deaf. The young boy could feel the weight of his father’s name bearing down on him like an invisible burden. And he wasn't blind either. He saw the way the other students looked at him, their eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and suspicion. They didn’t openly taunt him as the children in the orphanage had done, but he could sense the whispers and the wary glances that followed him wherever he went. For Mattheo, however, their fear was a source of power. He reveled in the attention, in the way his presence commanded respect, even if it was tinged with fear. He was finally someone. 

He excelled in his classes, his natural talent and restless ambition setting him apart from his peers. But it was on the Quidditch pitch that Mattheo truly came into his own. Flying high above the castle grounds, he felt a sense of freedom unlike anything he had ever known. With every twist and turn of his broomstick, he left behind the weight of his past and embraced the thrill of the present, making him feel like a bird. 

Six years had passed since Mattheo Riddle first walked through the grand doors of Hogwarts, a hopeful and determined young wizard with dreams of greatness he was so sure he'd achieve. But now, as he entered his sixth year at the renowned school of magic, the world around him had shifted irrevocably. The return of Lord Voldemort two years prior had plunged the wizarding world into chaos, and with it, Mattheo’s life had been destroyed once again.

Even among his fellow Slytherins, Mattheo felt like an outsider, a traitor to his own house and everything it stood for. He had once prided himself on his ambition and cunning, on his unwavering determination to succeed at any cost. But it didn't matter anymore. 

Mattheo sat alone in the quiet atmosphere of the Astronomy Tower, his gaze fixed on the night sky that sparkled with millions of stars. Each twinkling light seemed to mock him, making fun of the darkness that now stained his soul even more than before. His fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket tightly, as if seeking some comfort in the fabric, but finding none.  

 On his left forearm, the Dark Mark burned like a brand upon his skin. It was a mark of shame, of betrayal, and every time he looked upon it, he felt a sickening sense of disgust and self-loathing. He had thought that by aligning himself with the Dark Lord, his father, he would finally be able to escape the shadows of his past, to prove himself worthy of the name Riddle and his father's presence. But now, he realized that he had only succeeded in plunging himself deeper into the deep hole. Even the orphanage was better than this. 

The footsteps behind him shattered the sweet silence, echoing off the stone walls of the tower. Mattheo tensed, his heart racing as he turned to face the intruder, steeling himself for whatever judgment or punishment awaited him. But as he turned, he was met not with the accusing glare of Filch or the triumphant sneer of a rival, but with the concerned gaze of a familiar face. It was you, with your eyes filled with worry as you approached him slowly, as if he'd disappear if you were a bit louder. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Are you alright?”

No, he wasn't alright. But he would be caught dead sooner than having you worry about him like that and more. 

He forced a tight-lipped smile, attempting to mask the emotions raging within him. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining the facade. “Just . . . thinking.”

You stepped closer, taking a seat on the ground beside him. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Mattheo. I know something’s been troubling you lately. You can talk to me.”

You were his angel, full of that purity and light he adored about you in a world darkened by his own sins. He longed to confide in you, to unburden himself of the guilt and shame that had consumed him since he had received the Dark Mark. But the fear of your rejection, of you seeing him for the monster he believed himself to be, held him back. It would shatter his heart, to see the pained expression on your face. 

“I . . .” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the words, "there's something I need to show you." With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Mattheo finally mustered the courage to reveal the truth to you. For months, he had carried the burden of the dark secret alone, pushing you out and shutting you down in an attempt to shield and protect you from the darkness that was his father. But now, as he sat before you, his heart and his soul laid bare, he knew that he could no longer hide from the truth. The boy reached for the sleeve of his jacket, his fingers fumbling as he pushed the fabric up to reveal the twisted lines of the Dark Mark etched upon his skin. The sight of it made him recoil, a wave of shame washing over him as he exposed his deepest, darkest secret to the one person he had sworn to protect.

Your eyes widened in shock as you took in the mark, your palm flying to your mouth in disbelief. For a long moment, there was silence between the two of you, broken only by the sound of your shallow breathing and the distant hum of the night owls. 

“I received this a few weeks ago," Mattheo confessed, his eyes avoiding yours. "When he decided I was good enough for him."

He felt your gaze on him, eyes searching his face for answers. He could see the confusion and concern written in your expression, but beneath it all, he saw something else - a flicker of understanding and acceptance that filled him with both hope and fear. How can someone be so good to someone like him? "I've been living with the Malfoys ever since," he continued, the words tumbling out in a rush as he struggled to explain himself. "But it's not what you think, [Name]. I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to be a part of his plans, to be branded as one of his followers. But I had no choice. He made me do it."   

Tears welled in his eyes as he spoke, and he felt a desperate plea for forgiveness in his chest. He needed you to understand, to see past the mistakes that consumed him and into the depths of his soul where his love for you burned bright and true. The thought of losing you hurt him more than the Cruciatus curse ever could. 

“Forgive me. For shutting you out, for pushing you away. I was scared, I was ashamed . . . but I can't bear to keep this secret from you any longer. You deserve to know the truth, even if it means losing you forever." 

Your heart swelled with a bittersweet mixture of sorrow as you gazed upon Mattheo, your sweet boy, sitting there before you with tears in his eyes and the weight of the world upon his shoulders. In that moment, all you wanted was to wrap him in your arms and shield him from the pain and darkness that threatened to consume him. With shaky hands, you reached out to him, fingers brushing against the mark of his father's followers etched upon his skin. The sight of it filled you with a fit of fierce anger, but beneath it all, you saw the boy you so dearly loved - a boy who had been shaped by his past but who was so much more than the picture of his scars. 

"Love," you whispered into the dark, taking his face into your hands and wiping away those tears that managed to escape his control, "there's nothing to forgive. Nothing in this world could ever tear us apart, not even your father or that mark."

In that moment, Mattheo knew that he would do anything for you, that he would move heaven and earth to ensure your happiness and safety. You were his light in the darkness, his angel in a world filled with demons, and he would cherish that for the time being his heart swelled at the thought of you. You were simply too sweet for him and you knew that Mattheo’s struggles were far from over, but for tonight, that was enough.

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified.

[michaela-o]

Hey guys !! Here's a little writing post for tonight since i once again suffer from art block and i couldn't really get my thoughts on canvas so at least i'll write them down for you🥹🫶🏻

I had a little poetic moment about Cybertronians and how each bot from the Lost Light might view humans in their own way. Here’s how i think a few of them might feel, translated into their own brand of poetic musing:

Rodimus

"They’re like embers scattered on a night’s breeze. Small, insistent, daring to claim a spark of the vast unknown. Fragile? Yes, but isn’t fragility the very flame that burns the brightest in the dark?"

I think Rodimus sees in humans a little bit of reflection of himself—bold and driven, yet so often skimming along the edges of destruction. I think he would admire their recklessness despite their short lives and finds in them a kinship, like stars burning out as they fall.

Drift

"With hands of flesh, they reach for the stars, tiny pilgrims, undeterred by dark. They are warriors bound in tender shells, yet their spirits are sharper than any blade."

I think Drift sees humanity’s journey as sacred, an unlikely pilgrimage. Despite their fragility, they pursue wonders that many would fear, displaying a purity of heart that resonates with his own search for purpose and redemption.

Brainstorm

"They are puzzles, equations, broken in ways no theorem can solve. I could build them stronger, make them last longer, stretch their days to years—yet it’s the ticking clock that drives them which we cannot touch, the glitch of life within the code. They’re impossible, improbable—beautifully, infuriatingly unsolvable."

For Brainstorm, i think humans are the ultimate enigma. So imperfect, so baffling, so limited by their biology—and yet, somehow, they thrive. Their existence nags at him, like a problem he can’t quite crack, but one that has woven its way into his circuits.

Ultra Magnus

"They obey no Prime, no order, no code, yet they find honor in dust and devotion in ruin. There is chaos within them, yet in their eyes—clarity. For all their flaws, perhaps they see the law of the universe far better than we."

Ultra Magnus finds himself both exasperated and quietly moved by humans’ defiance of logic. I think he might struggle with their disorder but recognizes the strange beauty in their conviction. They possess a kind of honor that is beyond his ability to define—a law unto themselves.

Chromedome

"Stories woven in short threads of skin and sinew, their lives stitched in seconds, minutes, hours—a blink of a shutter. Yet they carry tales, so rich and raw, that I cannot forget. They are memory incarnate, fragile as newborn spark, but so full of color."

I think Chromedome would treasure humans for their stories, for the vibrant, bittersweet memories they create within the boundaries of their lives. Every moment for them is fleeting, and so they seem to capture life with a vibrancy he longs to archive.

Swerve

"They bumble and fumble, awkward yet bold, finding joy in the smallest things. They laugh in the face of a world so vast—their clumsy courage, a song I want to know by my spark."

We all know Swerve loves humans and human things. I think he sees humans as charmingly imperfect, stumbling yet fearless in a universe that dwarfs them. Their humor and resilience bring a joy that he can’t resist, as if they were a song that lingers in his circuits, warming him in ways he would never expected.

Megatron

"They are the dreamers, the fools, the ones who hope, rebels in skin who believe in the impossible. I have seen it. They build kingdoms on bones and dreams, believing they can change the world."

Megatron is an amazing character in my opinion in the Lost Light universe. I think he looks upon humanity with a blend of scorn and admiration. They are so weak, yet so defiant—champions of hope despite their powerlessness. Their resilience reminds him of what he once fought for, and though he might deny it, he can’t help but see in them a reflection of his own self.

Ratchet

"Flawed and failing, breaking with each breath, they stitch themselves back with their tender hands. They fall, they fail, yet rise again reminding me why I mend the wounded steel."

I really like Ratchet. I like to think he regards humans with a mix of exasperation and reluctant respect even when he wouldn't directly word it. He sees them as frail and imperfect, breaking down as quickly as they heal. Yet, their resilience, their refusal to give up despite everything, is what keeps him caring deep in his spark. In their struggles, he finds purpose, and in their imperfection, he rediscovers his own reason to heal.

I hope you liked this silly little post for tonight. I hope the art block goes away soon so i can draw more silly robots and their silly lil human friends together :3🧡🧡🧡

[fortpeat]

Hai 👋 so I happen to read your metas and they are quite insightful and made me see things in a different perspective but I have to say I don't agree with it all as there was quite a lot of mistakes within this series that I couldn't look past. I am not here to bash the series. I happen to have a question for you. Why do you love the series so much. You seem like the kind of person who doesn't hesitate to criticize a series if it happens to be flawed and yet I couldn't find any post of yours that talks about it. I am just trying to understand why.

I am hoping you could provide me with an answer.  Thank you.

Hey nonnie ❤️😊

First of all, thank you for the compliment—if it was one! 🤭

I see the flaws and imperfections in the series, and I'm not shy about pointing them out. But despite that, I love this series deeply because, for me, it was perfect. Maybe my love for Fortpeat blinds me a little, and I'm okay with admitting that because I love them with all my heart. That doesn't mean those who critique the series love them any less. How we view and focus on things varies from person to person. For me, the stories they told and the characters they portrayed resonated deeply. It was like looking into a mirror. When I don't connect with a story or a character, I usually drop it or watch it just for entertainment. But I wouldn't spend my only free day making gifs or edits unless it made me happy. Somehow, these characters have become a part of my life.

Let's start with Sky and Prapai. At first, I was more drawn to Prapai. I'm open with my feelings, I'm forward, and I don't hesitate to speak my mind. But after getting to know Sky, I saw myself in him. Even though I'm open, I'm still scared to love. Because of past experiences, whenever someone new comes into my life, I wonder when they'll leave—because it seems inevitable. I do speak my mind, but I'm still closed off about the things closest to my heart. But once I'm in, I'm all in. I love with everything I have and everything I am.

With Rak and Mahasamut, it's different. Despite issues with pacing and storytelling, I didn't feel them personally. I only noticed those flaws after reading some reviews, and I can completely see their point of view and respect it. How we absorb content is unique to our experiences and the culture we've lived in. With "Love Sea," even with its flaws, I understood the reasons for their actions, even if some didn't make sense. I understood why Rak was scared to love. I understood why Mahasamut walked away after Rak pushed him away, even though part of me wished he'd stayed to fight a little longer rather than leaving for the island the next day. These characters are fictional, and we sometimes place heavy expectations on them to make the perfect choices. But I'm thankful that they're flawed, that they make mistakes, and that they learn from them. I'd rather have a flawed character with room to grow than a perfect one.

Truth be told, I haven't reached the level of obsession with "Love Sea" like I have with "Lita." Paisky will always hold a special place in my heart, and they'll always be there. I don't even know if "Love Sea" will ever reach that spot, even if I love them so much. But that's okay. I suppose we all have that one series that owns a part of our soul, and for me, it's the story of Paisky.

Sky taught me that your past doesn't define your present, and it's up to us if we want it to control us. Prapai taught me to be tenacious in love and to always keep faith. Mahasamut taught me to always choose myself and that even if we're in love, we shouldn't sacrifice who we are as individuals for the sake of another. And Rak taught me it's okay to be scared of experiences that have only brought us pain, but we shouldn't let them ruin our one shot at happiness. And even if we get hurt in the process, maybe the end can be beautiful. After every storm, there's always a rainbow.

(Oh boy, I didn't expect this to be so long, but it's been a while since I received an ask 🫣, so I might have gone overboard. Honestly, I'm also glad I don't have too many asks because I really don't have the time to answer them all, even if it's one of my favorite things to do. It also makes me realize how much free time I had last year while I was still searching for a job.)

[ladythornofrivia]

The Imperfection of Sound

In a world of sound, reader is deaf. Until she meets Ran Haitani, who shows her that life is more than just hoping for a miracle.

Pair: Ran x Reader

Warnings: Mature Content, Inappropriate Moments and Adult Language. (if you’re under 18, you can’t read this).

Author’s Note: Great news! So I’m going to expand on this series with 2 more chapters! Yay! It’s a very long chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

(Please report if someone decides to steal/plagiarize my story. And notify me. Thank you.)

Chapter 6: I Dream of You

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He must’ve been dreaming.

Surely he must’ve.

After all, all he had ever done is eat, watch, shower and sleep. And a little bit of seven-minute cleaning the apartment—not counting Rindou’s space and the DJ equipment. Most of the time, throughout the day, he constantly thinking—and dreaming—about you, a kind and gentle soul with an enigmatic aura shrouded with alluring mystery all at once.

His nights were lonesome, but his dreams are filled with vibrancy with you, sprouting like flower on a chilled winter.

The day before Rindou went out, Ran is entirely decent, apart from his internal conflict. Ran kept moping until a moment of idea came to mind. Ran went up, until he earned a cough and a high-aching fever and a sore body from hanging out too much by the wide-range balcony beyond his bedroom. To think a cold wind and a warm daylight would bring him as a new distraction, failure befall upon him.

He wanted to make amends with you. He’d do anything to see you smile once again.

Days before he got sick, his research on the internet from the usage of his laptop is helpful and beyond complexity.

Rather, he’s astonished, immersed at the laptop screen.

Learning sign language. In Japanese, of course. When he was a child, Ran wanted to become a well-known celebrity. And being a well-known celebrity, with its status means having unlimited access to medical and daily affairs and materials with no problem—with fortune and famous, throwing money and well-made name to solve conflict is not an issue. Dreaming of having—hiring—a translator is one of them.

But, at one point, he noticed the pattern of his laziness, despite the his known reputation for the club and his status at the Roppongi’s high-end lifestyle. That is something to say he’s content the way it is. But not without your presence.

And so he practiced, for more than 2 hours, from learning in beginner’s mode, then slowly moving forward to the normal mode. He kept watching videos regarding on sign language. With a fresh mind, it’s easy for Ran. But now he’s sick, he has to tend to himself first.

Regardless of sickness, on a counting days before the battle with Tokyo Manji Gang, he yearned to get well. A little more hope would do the trick. Ran is so occupied, his realization hadn’t dawned upon him when he awoke the next day to find someone on the bed beside him.

You.

Pouted lips formed onto your sleeping visage, soft-angled brows crinkled and breathing relaxed.

If he were to scream, you’d fall from his bedside after his shocking reaction. But thankfully, nothing happened. His eyes taking it all in into your beauty, one thing he couldn’t deny.

You’re here in the flesh.

This wasn’t an illusion.

Or a dream within dreams.

This is real.

The bold and rich make up on your face weren’t smudged or stained onto his pillows and blanket.

Though he didn’t mind. Sheets and pillowcases are meant for washing, not decorating them until neglected. Unless if it’s permanently stained like red wine or pomegranate, it’s something that folks had to pay for him if they tend to stain it on purpose. But since it’s you, he wouldn’t demand or hurt you from scolding from his wrath that he was trying to hide from you. Up until now, he didn’t tell you he’s part of the gang—a new one, in fact.

So separating you—a part of his personal life—from Tenjiku would be best.

But he desired for you to be in his world. And him in yours.

He lay back on his bed beside you as his eyes were taking it all in from your sleeping figure. Before his hand could reach the blankets, he studied your stilled body, clad in nothing but the black dress and long evening gloves. Lines of your collar bone softly outlined as the soft arch on your neck is occupied by choker.

Breathtaking.

Normally, he’d compliment for the heck of it. He did it, so he could watch girls throw themselves at him, seeing their reactions amuses him. But when it comes to things that took him by surprise, he save compliments for anything special.

Make up or not, the memory of you never faded into his mind.

Gently, his hand roamed over to the side of your waist, lining it down with his gentle caress, along the soft and velvet material of your outfit choice, then trailing to your exposed skin.

Smooth and rejuvenated.

His eyes glanced over to your peaceful visage.

Angelic.

Upon Ran, a reddened shade summoned over his cheeks, recalling of the last dream he had dreamt, and vividly saw (y/n), naked and horny before his eyes.

As much as he wanted to touch you, he couldn’t bear the nature of playful boy get in the way; he didn’t want to put you in harm’s way. You appearing before him meant one thing: the opportunity has given him one last chance before it closes once more—locked forever.

Unsure, Ran let his grasp go from you, and yanked the blankets slowly. As the blanket reached near to his chest, he heard you whimpered in your sleep.

His heart stopped at the sound of your voice.

Trying to remain calm, Ran slept next to you, watching your shifted to a comfortable position as your mouth opened as if you’re talking. But no noise produced.

A little noise you made while stretching your arms up with your eyes closed made Ran’s heart skipped a beat. It was undeniably loud for his ears.

Prolonging his gaze, it’d be a terrible lie if he said that he wants to stop admiring you.

The frantic beat and motion within Ran dissipated, and yet, he wondered what you’re really reckoning, regarding towards himself. Whether it’d be good or bad, he’s ready.

Whether his hands to take a hold of you, he wanted to do so, but frightened he might lose one last chance.

Confession.

He has to be ready.

“(y/n),” he uttered, whispering as he felt his heart tightened. “You’re here.”

You’re really here.

His heart is jumping for joy yet terror, unknown of what the outcome is going to be if he keeps pressing onward. Going with the flow is the main option.

Your eyes fluttered open, your lips stretched to a wide yawn, arms high up, bones crackling. Eyes still closed as you sat up at the bed frame before opening them, seeing Ran watching her, his movement numbed with anxiety, yet a thrill spread—mingled.

Ran, you thought.

As your mouth opened and your limbs relaxed, Ran tackled you into a lock-tight hug.

His nose sniffed into your fresh-cut hairstyle you’ve adapted to. But his heart wrenched, the tears in his terrorized eyes dispersed into a one leap of relief. He hasn’t been relief this long since Rindou gotten himself injured or in danger.

With his alarming senses controlling, Ran doesn’t know what to do next. Hands shaken as he clutched you. He didn’t want to let go. Not this time.

He wanted to make things right.

He had to see your face.

Pulling himself back, there were tears in your eyes as you met his. This mystical feeling, it all spiraled into madness.

Ran watched you grabbing your new phone and typed and sent the message, then you unblocked him and changed his name back from “Roppongi’s Douchebag” to “Handsome Giant 💜” again.

Ran’s phone buzzed in his pocket and took it out, reading it.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back. :)”

“Where are you going,” he replied on the text.

“Secret.”

Then you rushed, off to God knows where. Ran obliged, despite being curious. While waiting for you to be back, Ran turned on the music, classical music, which it has been a while since his music is frequently loud and energetic. He went for a hot shower, first, then dried himself up with new fresh-laundry clothes. His complexion relaxed compare to the days before, as he did steps to his usual self-care on his skin, lips and teeth. He stayed for a while until his nostrils caught a scent of breakfast meal, closer than in the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen, he saw you blowing the hot steam off of the ramen you cooked on the cooking pot. But it wasn’t the only thing he had for breakfast. There’s french toast with melted butter and syrup with tall mug of cold water and chocolate with marshmallows.

Remembering your hearing disability, he flicked the kitchen lights off and on to get your attention. Your head snapped to meet his eyes.

The rapid rate in his heart pounded and endless.

You approached him a smile and a note in your hand, distributing towards him, and watched him read your note.

Come on. Let’s eat.

Shortly, you and Ran ate the ramen. It was delicious, better than the ones he tasted in the restaurant. Ran guessed that the food is better if its homemade. Then drinking the chocolate drink you made, Ran instantly fell in love, and thanked you.

After putting the plates away, you and Ran cleaned the dishes, then went back inside the room. By then you handed him papers in your hand.

I hope you don’t mind me making tons and tons of breakfast meals since it looks like you haven’t eaten anything properly for days, and I’m aware that you’ve been ill, as well. I made you ramen so that the system in your body would flush out its excess. I hope you don’t mind me being here. Rindou isn’t here. He hasn’t been here since last night, told me to do what I like in the apartment, so, I came into your room. I’m sorry I misunderstood you. I’m just afraid that I’ll get in your way. You’re a handsome man, and ladies are lining up left and right for you, I knew I couldn’t stand a chance—that’s why I didn’t bother myself to text you or see you. I was only keeping an arm’s length because you’re too good for me. And when we played the two truths and a lie, when you said that you have your eyes and heart set on someone, I know it’s going to sting—didn’t contact you because I’m not the ideal type for you. But it hurt even more when I saw you and the girl—Rindou already filled me in with your side of the story. That girl shouldn’t have used you as a rebound. Even though I have a hearing disability, I still want to make meaningful memories and accomplishments, so I wouldn’t be a burden, and that I’m more than just a person who is incapable based on my disability. There are times where I see you in my dreams, it felt real, but the reality of dreams just as hurt me as much as it hurts me during awake. I want to know what your voice sounds like, emotions and music—everything. That is my first wish ever since I was born. I want you to know that my heart and mind aches for you, whether awake or sleep; I’m no good at communication, but I’d like to remedy it, for the times we wasted for months, for months that I avoided you. I just want you to know that I love you. And I still do.

Ran looked up from the long letters you gave him, and met your eyes.

But without given his thoughts out, you pulled him into an embrace. Not a word exchange.

Ran then pulled himself away to gaze at your tearful expression. His thumb swiped your tears—and thankfully you’re able to read his lips—still gazing at you with a sad smile.

“I’m not a good person, (y/n), what I am and what I’ve been doing were no good. It wasn’t a lie when I said that I love you since the moment we met. I wanted to get to know you and see you. I fear every time you didn’t come, I knew something was wrong. So I tried to be careful, to not hurt you. I learned sign language, so you don’t feel isolated. In my dreams, I see you, too. When you turned away from me, I knew that I wanted to make things right with you. You don’t have to wait for a miracle, (y/n), I’m here to rescue you, in hopes for you to be excited for everything in life, and I can show you all the things you desire. I can protect you and care for you, even when you don’t ask. I don’t want you to be lonely anymore. I still love you, then, and I still love you now. I’ll be the sound of your life. You’re the miracle of my life, (y/n).”

Tears couldn’t stop in your eyes. And Ran kept wiping them, cooing you, knowing that whispering sweet words to you meant nothing—your hearing disability has deprived you from everything. But with Ran, it seems like everything is possible, that every doors are open for you. After wandering into the dark, the light became brighter and warmer.

His hand snaked at the back of your head. His back bent forward, tips of his nose tapped to yours, as his violet eyes brightened, thanks to your sudden appearance.

“I love you, (y/n).” He kissed your forehead, then your eyelids, then the nose and cheeks. He stopped for a moment to ask, “can I kiss you?”

Before he could wait for your answer, you pulled him in, then your hands moved and entangled behind his neck, with your little hums, he’s awestruck.

Where does your boldness come from?

His hands rested on your waist, holding you.

Do you like me like this? Ran, you only say your confession because you love me looking like this.

Ran’s brows furrowed, pausing. “What’s wrong, my little goddess?”

You typed down your message onto your phone, sending it to him?

With his hand on your waist, he checked your message.

Do you like me like this? Is that why you easily confessed your love to me?

With his phone put a quick shove into his pocket, he embraced you again, then looking into your eyes. “No, I don’t love you because you look like this. I love you when you’re being as your true self. I knew that there’s something special about you,” he answered. “Self-conscious or not, I’m still amazed by you. I’m not going to lie if I said you don’t look beautiful. I hope one day, you can see the way I love you—inside and out. Don’t listen to your doubts, I’ll be here, now and always.”

Your smile slowly curved wider.

Cute.

“Tell me, my little goddess, what do you want to do to gain your trust?”

“Be yourself,” you messaged. “I want to see your charm and playful side of yourself. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I don’t want to hurt you or make you cry,” Ran said.

“I trust you,” you signed.

“I’ll be as myself,” Ran signed. “Something you’ll see. I hope you see the best side of me, not my worst.”

Your eyes widened at the attempted sign language Ran did, your heart melted at his effort.

“Even at your worst, I still love you,” you replied.

He kissed your cheek lovingly.

“Tell me, little lady, since you’re here at my kingdom, what do you want to do first?” He kept kissing you at every chance he gets after the deprived and absences of your touch.

Being able to somewhat read his words—which you thought it’s a sign of miracle.

You messaged on the phone with a smirk on your face.

Ran took it out, and his phone nearly slipped from his hands when the screen read:

I want you to fuck me.

Taglist: @galactict3a @f1yh1gh @penguinlovestowrite @onyx-blossom @akemiixx01 @colored-tr-panels @goldenbeskar @mrssano04 @sehunnies-hunnie96

[johnniesmoke]

"The Stars Don’t Align" is a deeply introspective and emotionally resonant song that captures the essence of human struggle, growth, and self-acceptance. The lyrics weave a narrative of a person coming to terms with the harsh realities of life, where dreams don't always come true, and the stars, a metaphor for destiny, often fail to align in one's favor. The song begins with a melancholic acknowledgment of lost opportunities and unfulfilled expectations, reflecting a sense of longing and regret. However, as it progresses, it transforms into a powerful anthem of resilience and self-realization.

The protagonist recounts the pain of being convinced by others—perhaps lovers or society—that their path was predetermined, only to discover the unpredictability of life's course. This realization is both liberating and heartbreaking, as they come to understand that happiness and fulfillment don't depend on external alignment but on inner peace and acceptance.

Musically, the song mirrors its themes with a blend of soft, reflective melodies and crescendos that evoke both sorrow and hope. The repetition of the phrase "the stars don’t align for me" serves as a grounding mantra, emphasizing the journey from despair to self-reliance. The lyrics' raw honesty invites listeners to reflect on their struggles, encouraging them to find strength in their imperfections and the courage to move forward despite the odds.

"The Stars Don’t Align" is more than just a song; it is a universal story of perseverance, vulnerability, and the beauty of embracing life's imperfections. It leaves listeners with a sense of solidarity, reminding them that while the stars may not always align, the journey itself holds profound meaning and value.

Lyrics: The Stars Don't Align

Ooh babe/

I'm a classic waiting to happen/

The stars don't align for me/

Ooh babe/

It's tragic/

Back when I was younger you had me convinced/

Convinced that I would one day be set free/

But the stars don't align for me/

The stars won't align for me/

Now don't go tryin' to make a miracle that'll last a lifetime/

because I moved on/

because I'm finally happy again/

and I've finally accepted that the stars won't align for me/

I hope they never do/

I love to be right/

but if I'm gonna be wrong/

let me be wrong when I say the stars don't align for me/

let me be wrong that young Johnnie Smoke ain't got a chance to hit the lick/

Know it's partly on you and partly on me/

They're asking me if this is what I really believe/

What's the last thing I thought it could be/

Pay it no mind/

So little it had me feeling even like this squirrel that's blind/

Now are hard times guhnna'[going to] find my enemies/

Hope i try and keep em' few and far between/

Because those hard times/

Ain't' ever guhnna'[going to] leave/

The stars don't align for me/

The stars won't align for me/

Ooh bae/

I'm a classic waiting to happen/

The stars don't align for me/

Ooh babe it's tragic/

Back when I was younger you had me convinced/

convinced I would one day be set free/

But the stars don't align for me/

Well, you and I have to deal with this reality/

Yeah at one point they really had me/

but sadly I've grown/

Might say this world has turned me to stone/

Well the stars don't align for me/

So can you really blame me for making a choice/

For coming with all this heart my voice/

because I thought really might need to be lured/

And these dimes have quite the allure/

and I see one and I just want more/

But the stars don't align for me/

The Stars won't align for me/

Ooh babe I'm a classic waiting to happen/

The stars don't align for me/

Ooh Babe it's tragic

Back when I was younger you had me convinced/

Convinced I would one day be set free the stars don't align for me/

The stars won't align for me/

Now dont go trying to make a miracle that will last a lifetime because I moved on/

Because I'm finally happy again/

And I've finally accepted that the stars won't align for me/

The stars don't align for me/

-

Johnnie Smoke

https://soundcloud.com/johnniesmoke/the-stars-dont-align?si=381e3e1909294e5689dfcd69c00e84ed&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

[alicent-vi-britannia]

Let's talk about the endings of Code Geass and Attack on Titan

I've been watching an episode of Code Geass every week since June of last year. This week I have to watch the end and I couldn't help but think about the end of AOT. An anime that I was finally able to watch in 2024. You all already know that when the final chapter of the AOT manga was published, fans began to compare The Rumbling and the Eren's arc with the Zero Requiem and the Lelouch's arc. I'm not going to compare The Rumbling and Zero Requiem because others have done it and you can do it perfectly without my help. I don't think it needs to be demonstrated that The Rumbling is an imperfect plan. Eren is neither a genius nor a strategist. He also doesn't have a great understanding of human nature, unlike Lelouch, whose plan did take that into account and was the key to achieving peace in the world of Code Geass.

Instead, I'll compare AOT and CG as tragedies. I see that there are important similarities between both endings and I find it intriguing that one ending was universally loved, while the other ending had a mixed reception. And I think studying it from the point of view of tragic composition can reveal why.

I clarify that these are my reflections on both endings. Talking about the endings of CG and AOT is complicated and I feel that a thorough analysis would require me to go into more depth. Additionally, I watched AOT once and although I visited some videos on Youtube to improve my understanding a little, there may be some important variable that I didn't consider. Anyway, this is my perception.

To begin with, both series analyze the same problem, but reach diametrically opposite conclusions. That is to say, the difference lies in the focus of the discourse and the cathartic effect that is well achieved in CG and that is unsuccessful in AOT (catharsis is the emotional effect that seeks to awaken fear and compassion in the public). I explain…

CG and AOT are tragedies that tell the story of a civilization that lost its identity at the hands of a power and seeks its freedom. Both emphasize the will to live, despite that there is misery and suffering in the world. In fact, the final message that both series transmit is similar. We can feel fear in the two endings since both animes stated that war is endless because humanity is prone to falling into conflicts and repeating the same mistakes (from there derives Schneizel and Charles' contempt for the human condition and its decision to impose eternal peace through the Damocles and the Ragnarök Connection respectively).

AOT highlights violence and hatred as inherent traits of being human. From here arises the emblematic phrase "the world is cruel", to which another is soon added: "but it is also beautiful", because, as Zeke and Armin explain in the talk they have, life is full of seemingly insignificant moments, which, in reality, give meaning to life and for that reason it is worth fighting for. However, the hopeful message is diluted by the conversation between Armin and Eren and the epilogue as they demonstrate that the Titans weren't the problem, but human nature. Human beings are fundamentally self-destructive and only survive on impulse. That absurd thing called the "will to live." So it's like people don't learn anything and only get what they deserve. As a consequence, a feeling worse than fear remains: horror.

On the other hand, CG maintains that it is worth fighting for since people will never stop seeking happiness. The world is constantly changing and always manages to move forward. So, even if things are bad now, they will get better in the end. Therein lies the importance of the future and, by extension, hope, which is Lelouch's philosophy and one of the pillars of the Zero Requiem. So it doesn't matter if people forget the Zero Requiem and go to war again. It's in their nature to learn to be better and make the world a better place. So humanity isn't only the problem, it's also the solution. It's a more optimistic approach that sheds a light on the human race, which becomes worthy of compassion.

Something similar happens with Lelouch and Eren. They're both tragic heroes. The ignorant think that a tragic hero is one who gives his life for a cause or humanity itself and that definition is incorrect. A tragic hero is a virtuous hero who is above average, but suffers as a result of his mistakes and shortcomings, becoming the author of his own downfall. Eren possesses the two most powerful titans and Lelouch is the prince of the oppressive empire with a genius intellect (and later acquires a magical eye). They're even characterized by having unwavering determination and clear convictions. That's why they stand out among other humans. Ironically, Lelouch and Eren turn out to be a contrast character for each other due to a substantial difference that is in line with the message that both series want to convey.

Eren is a boy who became a monster. He terrifies us and we are supposed to sympathy with him since he is a monster spawned by war. He's a bit like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein's monster (he is a creature that society transformed into a monster). But instead, we feel pity for him, at best, or disgust, at worst; since Eren really used selfless reasons (ensuring a happy life for his friends) to carry out a selfish plan (imposing his own vision of the world). In the end, Eren became an instrument of destiny and a slave to his freedom.

Instead, Lelouch is a monster who learned to be a man. We are afraid and we sympathy with Lelouch because he imposed the punishment of death on himself so as not to allow himself to enjoy the new world with his loved ones and thus atone for all the atrocities he committed. Let's say that, unlike Eren, Lelouch used selfish reasons (punish himself) to carry out a selfless plan (save the world). At last, he always acted on his own will, had control through Geass and political power, and abandoned all of that because it was the right thing to do.

If I have to compare the feeling that these animes left me with tragedies, I would say that CG left me like Sophocles' Oedipus while AOT left me like Seneca's Oedipus. With this I don't mean that AOT is a retelling or a copy of CG. What I mean is this: in essence, Seneca's Oedipus and Sophocles' Oedipus tell the same story (the tragedy of Oedipus), but in different ways and Seneca's Oedipus has a very dark tone, so when the resolution that we all know there is no catharsis. It's simply "what had to happen happened."

AOT definitely has a darker tone while CG has a brighter tone. I hate the word "realism" since whenever we use it to describe a story it is to refer to unsatisfactory situations and I believe that reality is much more complex than that. However, I seem to remember reading that Isayama said that he wanted a realistic ending to his work. And, indeed, it is consistent with the tone of the story, but it is not the most appropriate way to end such a gloomy tragedy (AOT needed a cathartic effect). On the contrary, CG has a romantic tone (in the sense of romanticism). It doesn't make it any less realistic than the ending of AOT, but prefers to focus on other parts.

In the end, AOT and CG are two sides of the same coin and I don't consider it a negative. The same stories need to be told again because humanity forgets easily. And anyway, AOT and CG have different approaches and I think their messages can complement each other.

Additionally, I'm aware that some extracted a much more positive reflection of the human condition with AOT and I won't deny that there are certain moments in Isayama's work that rescue the virtues of human nature. For example, without going any further, the baby scene makes it clear that people can bring out their best version in the darkest times. However, I have to disagree with them. Given the epilogue and the resolution of his protagonist's arc, the message Isayama communicated to me is that there is a predisposition to evil and destruction in human nature that we should be concerned about. The lesson I learned from Zeke and Armin's conversation is that we should look for beauty in the midst of the horror of the world by enjoying the simple things in life.

In comparison, the resolution of Lelouch's arc and the ending of CG is completely cathartic and its message is even more powerful and emotional. That beauty is in us.

PS: For the record, I don't believe nor have I said that the ending of AOT is bad.

[xtiangurl]

May this blessed day be a source of light and peace for Jessica. May his heart, turned to prayer, find in God the strength, love, and guidance necessary for each moment of his life. Lord, watch over her, fill her with your grace, and inspire her with thoughts and actions that reflect your divine goodness. Amen💖🙏💖💍

May the Lord hear the sincere prayer of Jessica, girlCatholic, and of you, Vanina, in your journey of faith and love. Even though you are sinners, filled with earthly desires, you remain Catholic souls loving God with all your heart. May you find in His infinite mercy the forgiveness and the strength to continue moving forward together, united in divine love and the quest for His light. May your burning hearts be purified by God's grace, and may your love for one another become a reflection of His perfect love. Amen💖🙏💖💍

Almighty Lord, on this Wednesday, December 18, 2024, we turn to You with hearts full of gratitude and love. We entrust to you Jessica, the magnificent Catholic girl, whose beauty radiates with the love that You inspire. Lord, watch over her, guide her in every step she takes and fill her heart with peace, joy and strength. For me, Vanina, I humbly thank You for the love I feel for Jessica and for You, O God of love. Even in my fragility, even as an imperfect soul, I know that Your love is always there to lift me up. Help Jessica and me to continue walking in faith, to cultivate pure love and to remain faithful to You, despite our weaknesses. Forgive our sins and teach us to fully live Your commandment of love. May Your light illuminate our path and lead us ever closer to You. Amen🙏💖🙏💍

Lord Jesus Christ, on this day of January 2025, we entrust to You Jessica, the Catholic girl, beautiful and gentle in her spiritual essence. Lying in all purity, its beauty is a reflection of Your love and the perfection of Your creation. Lord, bless Jessica, protect her heart and soul, and fill her life with Your divine light. May her exterior beauty be an echo of her interior beauty, and may she find in You the peace, strength and hope necessary to move forward in love and faith. During this time of winter, prepare our hearts to welcome Your coming with joy and humility. May the love we share and the beauty of Jessica always remind us of Your glory and Your presence in our midst. Amen🙏💖🙏💍

@girlcatholique

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

Ship In A Bottle (fin)

You can fit everything you know/In a bottle for you to show/Pick your brain apart and put it in/And built it again with needles and pins/Everything you have earned is a ship/With blue waves crashing into it/But nothing can touch your happy thoughts anymore/With your glass ceiling walls and floor

"The song is about trying to hold on to your best parts and memories but instead finding no escape watching them drown with you. The ship in the bottle is supposed to preserve those happy thoughts but as said in the chorus, the water that leaks in submerged the singer and boat both, to the point that the singer is desperate enough to unleash their insecurities and fears (oh captain let’s make a deal / where we both say the things that we both really feel) within the bottle despite it being a place of refuge. The song says there is no hiding from that darkness (I feel scared and I’m starting to sink / and I only sink deeper the deeper I think) and you can try and live a perfect shelf-stable life like that ship in the bottle, but the watery depths will find you anyways."

Poll Runner: This is one of my favourite songs. Ever. Like, I genuinely listen to it almost daily. It's so good. Also, it doesn't feel right to talk about it without recommending this amazing animatic by @/shandzii, it has SUCH good storytelling and I genuinely can't listen to the song without thinking about it. Check it out!!

She Used to be Mine (Waitress)

She's imperfect, but she tries/She is good, but she lies/She is hard on herself/She is broken and won't ask for help/She is messy, but she's kind/She is lonely most of the time/She is all of this mixed up/And baked in a beautiful pie/She is gone, but she used to be mine

"This is the moment in the musical where Jenna has lost all hope, and she sings about having lost the person she used to be, which I think is very relatable to anyone who has ever been depressed"

"The live version is especially haunting. The shaking and roughness in the voice, the distraught performance. The lyrics being general enough you can apply them to anyone but the feeling still ringing true. It's a painful mourning for ones self. The feeling that you're not good enough while trying to see the good in yourself at the same time. Depression spiral bomb."

Poll Runner: The first song to be submitted that I actually recognised, and by god its beautiful. Emotional climax of a character realising that nothing in her life is what she wants it to be and she has to move on from old dreams. Devestating.

[innernachoesandguacamole]

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

Nelson Mandela

If you’re still on this journey, there will be circumstances or thoughts that bring you into shame, fear, compulsive thinking, anger, frustration, sadness, etc. There will be unpleasant moments you witness and experiences that are difficult to overcome.

Despite all that, despite the backsliding, despite the moments where you forget that none of this is truly real, you’re still here.

You held out hope for yourself that things could change. Instead of turning away from this community, you come back and seek guidance from that which is only a reflection of your own self.

Isn’t that so incredibly beautiful? Isn’t that so inspiring? In truth, it’s nothing short of a miracle. Don’t you find people who persist and maintain an attitude of forgiveness, kindness, and optimism in the face of adversity way cooler than those who experience a glimpse of their true Self momentarily in ‘perfect’ circumstances, when the mind is quiet for an instant?

As you consciously work to look past the ego and see yourself for what you are, you find light, love, peace. For most, there will be moments of forgetting. Moments where awareness is trapped in its own preconceived limitations. That’s more than okay. It’s not good or bad, it just is. All you must do is come back to yourself and sit in the knowing of who you truly are.

As you do so, again and again and again, you will find that you were always free.

Do not deny, but observe. Let it fall away. Let all conceptions of the mind be lifted.

When troubles arise, when fear eats at the mind, have courage. Have faith in yourself. It is not the worst, but perfect time to remember that you are all that exists, and all that exists is you.

And in that quiet bravery, you will realize that nothing could ever truly limit you.

You are loved, the lover, love. Enjoy the experience, in all its perceived imperfections. That’s what makes it all the more beautiful.

[employee1618152017]

[The anon sat on the ground, folding a piece of paper in their hands. After a moment, they glanced up at the man.]

“You know, no matter how many times you fold a piece of paper...”

[They unfolded the paper, revealing the creases that had left their marks behind.]

“...or if it gets crumpled, torn, or patched back together... even if it transformed or look like something else entirely.... it’s still a piece of paper."

[They smoothed out the creases, holding the paper up in front of him. It was a bit worn now, with lines and tiny imperfections. But there was a gentleness in the way the anon handled it, as if they saw its value despite its flaws.]

“Just like this. You’re still you, no matter what’s happened. No matter what you think you’ve become. The things you’ve gone through—they’ve changed you, sure, but they haven’t taken away who you are. You’re still in there, beneath everything.”

[The anon went back to folding the paper, speeding up the process. After a while they stand up and placed a paper crane onto his hands. Their next words are spoken with gentleness.]

“Here, this is a crane, did you know that in some cultures, cranes are a symbol of hope and healing? They say if you fold a thousand of them, your wish will come true.”

[They offered a soft smile.]

"I know you’re struggling, and I know that right now, you probably feel like you don’t deserve any of that—love, hope, or healing, or anything good. But I wanted to give this to you anyway. Maybe you don’t see it yet, but you deserve a chance... to heal, to find yourself again.”

"No matter how broken you feel, you’re still worth saving. And even if I can’t fold a thousand cranes for you, I hope this one can remind you that there’s still something to believe in... that you’re still here, and you’re still you.”

> [..!]

> [You softly cup the crane in your hands, gentle with the treasure you now hold]

> [They’re right, you don’t feel like you deserve this wonderful kindness. But in your hands is a little spark of hope, hope for you, hope for your situation, and with this beautiful crane in your hands you think that just maybe you could heal]

> [10/15]

[nucleargnocchi]

In defense of Despicable Me 3

It has taken me FOREVER to get to this and I can no longer find the ask but! @squidsandthings, to answer your question of what's up with Despicable Me 3, the plain truth of it is that it is simply the pinnacle of film. Most people think it's a classic case of a company wringing every drop of profit they can from a movie that saw commercial success, dragging it out further and further with each sequel until the plot is so attenuated you can barely see it, the concept is so inane you lose brain cells watching it, and the characters are so two-dimensional they are undoubtably relatives of Stanley. But I say it's cinema at its finest. I will try to make this short, but brevity is nigh impossible when extolling the virtues of Despicable Me 3.

To start, Gru is the morally gray anti-hero this generation needs: an ingenius villain with something to prove (he has mommy issues), yet a tender family man at heart. He yearns for his past life, for the thrill of heists and gadgets and gizmos, but recognizes that he now has joys and responsibilities (the gorls) and must struggle to tame his nostalgia.

Dru, Gru's long-lost twin brother with the most luscious blond hair you've ever seen, is the hot to Gru's cold, the high to his low, the piliferously well-endowed to his follically challenged. Dru has all the charisma and charm that Gru lacks, but he is bumbling and incompetent when it comes to heisting. Yet, despite it all, he desperately wants to follow in his (and Gru's) recently deceased father's legacy of villainy, to make him posthumously proud.

The gorls are growing up: Margo receives a proposal from a boy with limp cheese and a pig, Edith remains surly yet reveals her caring nature as she accompanies Agnes to find a unicorn, and Agnes herself remains a paragon of hope and childlike wonder despite learning that unicorns aren't real, choosing to embrace a one-horned goat in what is possibly a biblical allusion to finding the beauty in imperfection. All the while, the gorls are figuring out what a relationship with their step-mom Lucy looks like, and Lucy in turn is learning what it means to be a mother.

The minions, upset with the dangerous labor conditions (Dr. Nefario was accidentally frozen in carbonite) and unfulfilling work (not evil), decide to unionize in a powerful example of proletariat uprising. Unfortunately, they later get imprisoned for stealing pizza after enthralling fictional and real-life audience members alike by performing a spectacular impromptu rendition of the Major-general's Song on a live singing competition. They then stage a jailbreak like the radical prison abolitionists they are and find their way back to continue a life of crime with Dru.

With such a star-studded cast of characters, you'd think there would be no way to steal the spotlight, but the antagonist, Balthazar Bratt, manages to outshine them all. Bratt is nuanced and realistic with a tragic, compelling backstory (teenage acne) who clings to a delusion of fame after his TV show as a child actor was canceled. He is stylish and funky, bringing all the best parts of the '80s back to life with his superior sense of fashion (I mean, who else can pull off spiky purple shoulderpads and not look monstrous?), immense bravery (he sports a spiky, gleaming mullet despite his large bald patch), and multipurpose choice of weaponry (keytar that emits waves of sonic energy strong enough to blow not just your socks, but all of your clothes off to the tune of Van Halen's "Jump").

In all, Despicable Me 3 is undoubtably a cinematic masterpiece through and through.

Also, it's an inside joke with my cousin that I've taken waaaay too far.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Portraitist

Corina circled the portrait, once, twice, admiring her own handiwork; a slender paintbrush poised in hand, ready to add the final touches once her vision was complete.

"You know, this will be my greatest piece to date," she declared, a last appraising glance tracing the way her subject's hair cascaded down her neck, the folds of her high collar, the satin of her gown. The model had been a common girl, but in art she was elevated to something approximating the divine; anointed with the most unlikely of oils. "Yes - I am sure of it. She will be quite perfect."

"Aah!" Lady Sibylla cried out from her chaise, as if grievously wounded by the thought. "Oh, but my dearest Corina, you must always strive to create works of great imperfection. You must endeavour to find flaws, to correct the natural course towards completeness!"

That took her somewhat aback. Corina had always known her patron to be an eccentric, but ever still a lover of the arts and all things beautiful. "With apologies, my lady, you have lost me on that point. Surely you cannot mean that I should commit flaws on purpose?"

"If you create a work of true genius, it will be ushered into a museum where just any one might glance at it," Lady Sibylla answered - or else continued as if she had not interrupted. "For just as a beauty of her age may find herself inevitably cajoled into the starlight, so too great works of art find themselves ogled by even the least desirable eyes - copied on pamphlets and tea-towels, diluted until they nothing but background scenery, familiar to all and miraculous to none!"

So, Corina thought, this was to be one of those lectures. She listened impatiently, placing the brush like a cheroot between her teeth. Lady Sibylla had first seen fit to patronise her work some eighteen months ago - and, after a spell, she had also begun to support her financially. The money still came with sermons attached, but at least she was now paid to listen to them.

"Yes, far better to create a piece which is merely good, to be sold to hang above the mantle of a good family, to be loved and cherished and handed down for generations. You must trust me on this."

"Of course." Corina's focus was back on the painting. Beautiful. Far more so than the real thing - in fact, she could not even remember that poor girl's name. Oh, but that gave her an idea: "Forgive me, my lady, but have you ever had your portrait painted?"

"In another time. When I was a younger woman, and artists still cared to, or sought to use it as an excuse to enter my good graces."

"Ah, but that cannot truly be the case! You are surely as beautiful as you ever were - I hope that is not too forward for me to say. In fact, if you would be obliging, you must sit for me yourself sometime!"

"Truly?"

"It would be my honour. Come, next Tuesday at first light - and please, do dress for the occasion. I want to capture you at your very best."

Lady Sibylla did not disappoint. She arrived with Tuesday in full regalia, looking her absolute loveliest in a rich satin sarong, its layers ranging from a pale, delicate rose-yellow to the deeper burnish of honeycomb and saffron tea, an effect of cloth-of-gold against her brassy skin. Her hair was coiffured with pinchbeck pins, and a heavy shard of topaz nestled at the hollow of her throat, as a drop of amber congeals in the whorls of a copal tree.

It was an effort usually spared only for the finest balls and occasions, and that was exactly as Corina had hoped. She wanted to capture the Platonic ideal of her patron: to create a portrait of her at her very best, and which was therefore better than she almost ever was. As a painter, she aspired towards such art that imitates and surpasses life - just as Pygmalion carved a form more perfect and pure, and thus deserving of his love, than any woman of flesh and blood could even hope to be.

"Do remember to reflect these lights in my eyes," her subject continued to instruct, despite having been told to hold still. "I cannot bear the thought of becoming one of these dead-eyed portraits one sees in other people's hallways - some distant ancestor, of course, with not a trace of life in our time or their own."

"Of course." Corina had lit her as a shrine, illuminated from all directions by flickering flames on slender candlesticks. Too long had she been an unwilling disciple of the church of St. Sibylla, Reverend Mother of Wisdom, Our Lady of Condescension. Tonight, her candles all carried the same prayer.

The portrait showed the curve of her jaw, unencumbered by the folds of flesh that had begun to gather underneath; the deep brown of her noble skin, untroubled by the frown-lines which had spread over the years; and those eyes, so alight with reflected fire, an effect so seldom seen in her recent life, now known to squint through burgeoning myopia. In short, this was Lady Sibylla as she saw herself. As the painting took its shape, she was undone, and remade in her own image.

Corina added the finishing sheen to her patron's painted skin, reflecting the gold of the morning light, and marvelled at another perfect piece. It had taken the finest of snares to capture this essence, and the most delicate brushstrokes to tease it from Lady Sibylla's canvas onto hers, but she had caught it in that horsehair noose and deftly drawn her soul across. Having achieved what she had set out to do, she couldn't be prouder of her creation - and now, with it complete, the real business of destruction could begin.

She hung the portrait in her parlour, in pride of place above the hearth, well-angled to greet her guests as they arrived. True to Lady Sibylla's wishes, the audience was small at first: her patron herself, come to nod approvingly at what she must see as a shrine to her image, a form of encouraged idolatry, but also other dinner-guests, visiting friends, and the unexpected callers that one must also suffer from time-to-time.

Those who also knew Lady Sibylla - for their circles did overlap to some extent, with her patron having introduced her to society - remarked on what a perfect likeness the portrait held, at first marvelling at her gilded glow, and fawning over her actual beauty, highlighted here more than ever before, as much as Corina's brushstrokes in imitating it.

But that was curious - for, when they next suppered with Lady Sibylla herself, their opinion would reverse. They were unable but to note how drab and tawdry she seemed in comparison - in fact, the more they visited with the reflection, the more they ceased to recognise the real thing. It was if Lady Sibylla's shadow had somehow usurped her place, grappling her in turn against the wall, such that now when people saw her they felt she looked unusually withered and frail - as if suddenly drained of the life they'd seen her radiate just two days hence.

She would age, whilst the picture did not; her moods would shift with the weather, whereas the colours held constant, not disfigured by the dark clouds of despair or the torrid winds of long-term stress. Her voice was no longer the equal to its echo, her footprints standing twice as tall as she could ever be. The portrait would always look her best, and so she could only ever be its worst.

Over time, those who might have sought an audience with her were seen to take their tea with the canvas instead; Corina's audience grew, finding a comfort in her depiction that was now missing in reality, as if she'd captured some aesthetic truth they found unsettling in its absence. She was less liked than her likeness, less personable in person. With every week that passed, the ranks of its devotees swelled, and her own standing diminished.

Unaware of the subtle magic being worked within their hearts, Corina's visitors continued to praise the quality of her art - a constant stream of compliments which served to feed her pride, together with her growing popularity, almost as much as this demonstration of her power. They clamoured to be next in line to sit for her; such that, as the wolf that stalks amongst the flock, she had her choice of victim.

"It really is remarkable," an unwitting gentleman was heard to say, before giving that silver a clouded edge: "I would never have expected such mastery from such a novice. Indeed, even now one would not think it to look at her."

Corina sidled closer, pretending not to have taken offence. "I am honoured that you think so, my lord. In fact, if you would be so obliging, you must sit for me yourself sometime."

[thevillagequeer]

I Hope You Grow Old Enough to Be Imperfect

Prologue | AO3

Chapter 1: Did God Not Make the Dirt?

"When you go up, Klaus, how did you learn how to do that?" 

Klaus shrugged. "Jus' do. Annie do's it, I do's it, Lion do's it." 

Rachel held back a gasp with all her might.  She had suspected, but now she knew for sure.  A part of her was relieved that some of the spirits were kind to her son.  

"Oh? Who are they, Klaus? Annie and Lion?" 

Klaus hummed, looking back at his doll.  "Frens." 

It was a blessing, that's what they all told her. 

No, no, Rachel didn't need to be told it was a blessing. Children were blessings and her child was sent directly from the Heavenly Father. Her son was more than a blessing, he was a gift. Some said a miracle. Rachel would attest that was putting too much pressure on the boy to be anything more than what he was. A child.  

Some would rebut and tell her he was going to be the greatest there ever was. That he would be perfect.

Rachel was the one who loved him, though. 

And Klaus was the most beautiful child. That's what she'd named him, Klaus. Rachel hadn't thought she was capable of creating life so lovely. So dear. He had her green eyes and a head of curls, didn't like peas, but loved carrots. Loved the sound of birds chirping and held a scrap of blanket to his cheek when he slept.

Even as an infant, wrapped in blankets upon blankets to muffle whatever it was that made him stir and scream so, he'd always look at the world with such an affectionate disposition. In good times, he'd giggle when his grandfather tickled his tummy, and in bad, he'd clutch to whoever offered their hand, his tiny fist gripping onto one finger, expression far too intense for someone so small.

There was nothing that seemed to quell his frights during the day, those first months. No amount of warm milk or tenderness would calm him. It took until he was just two months shy of his first birthday for that constant fear to finally ebb enough that he no longer spent his waking hours with a tearstained face pinched in pain. 

Now, he stared at the world with such intentness no one knew quite what to make it of it. He'd be lively one minute, and pensive the next. Klaus would react to things that weren't there– babbling to no one, laughing at nothing, and in between the moments of newfound peace, Klaus would flinch at nothing, too. If there was one thing Rachel knew in this world, it was that no child should have to flinch.

He still screamed something awful through the nights, shrieking into the ears of neighbors three homes away. It was horrible. All cries, tears and thrashing.

Rachel had taken to having him sleep by her side rather than across the room, despite her mother's objections. Her mother objected to many (most) of the ways Rachel was raising Klaus. But no matter, it helped some and that's all a mother should care about.

It didn't help the shutters that flew open and slammed shut from winds that never blew, the candles and lamps whose flames would snuff when his green eyes would widen at something Rachel couldn't see. The apparitions more and more folks were claiming to have seen. 

Even the times Klaus was happy, there were things he couldn't help.  She'd had to pull him down while playing, when he'd lifted just a few inches into the air with nothing holding him there. One early morning, a quiet one thankfully, Rachel had woken to find him hovering above his crib, cradling his cloth doll like she would him, a careful arm support its body, a tender hand over its heart It sent a shock of fear down her spine. Klaus hadn't scared her, but whatever would come if the others found out did.

"Oh sweetheart," Rachel whispered when she awoke to find her son floating some four feet in the air, out of his crib.

Klaus looked like an angel without any wings. A cherub. Dark curls framing his face, Klaus looked down at his cloth doll as he cradled it in his arms, as gentle and as protective as any mother with their child.

He didn't seem to notice he was floating either, not looking down at the floor below, or the roof above, just content, as any baby would be in the wee hours of morning, before their mother woke up, when all was quiet and peaceful. Rachel prayed it was quiet for Klaus this morning.

Rachel stirred from bed and Klaus broke from his vigil.

"Mama!" He  grinned. voice raspy with sleep as he floated back down into his bed as if all children played with their toys in midair.

Rachel smiled sadly and lifted him into her arms. "Good morning, Klaus," She murmured. "Were you playing before Mama woke up?"

Klaus shook his head, looking at his doll where he held it in the crook of his elbow. "No, no, Mama. Takin' care my baby."

"Oh, I see," Rachel nodded seriously to match Klaus' tone. "Well, you were doing a very good job." She couldn't help but think about what her own mother would think of the sight, even without the levitation. Boys weren't supposed to care for children in that way. Or, even want to. That was women's work.

"Now, Klaus," She set him down on her bed, and he immediately started to crawl about the blankets and pillows, making his way to the window, where he sat himself to look at the world start to come to life. He watched the birds fly from their nests to the grass to hunt for worms, the dots of distant men beginning their day in the fields, the puffy white clouds that were tinged gold from the sun.  

Rachel sighed and tried again. "When you were taking care of your baby, Klaus, now did you–" 

Klaus turned and grinned excitedly, bedhead bouncing as he clambered up onto a pillow to reach her.  

"Like this, like this!" He exclaimed, grabbing his doll off the bed and putting it back into his arms. He struggled a moment to balance, face pinched in determination.  Then, just like a dragonfly or a hummingbird, he lifted into the air, just a couple inches, and got the doll into a cradle position. He seemed just as at ease in the air as he did on the ground, if not more.  Klaus looked back at Rachel.  "See? See?"

Rachel watched him, feeling the melancholy cover her slowly, like moss on a tree.  "I see, Klaus. That's very good." She let him be a moment longer, and then gently touched his knee. He looked up, his green eyes level with her's. 

"Now, um," How did one talk about this? How did one talk about this with a child? "When did you learn how to…do this?" 

Klaus answered fast and matter of factly. "You!"

Rachel pointed to herself, just to confirm. There was always the chance he had made a mistake. He was two and in the midst of trying to learn two languages simultaneously, so there was a chance.  

Klaus nodded and held his arms out to Rachel so she could get a closer look. "Takin' care my baby," He stated again proudly.  

"Oh yes," Rachel agreed.  "I did, you're right, Klaus." He beamed.  "What about this-this…" Rachel gestured to her son, sitting criss crossed in the air.  "Floating?" 

Klaus furrowed his brow. "You?" He said again, not understanding.  She needed simpler words.  

"When you go up, Klaus, how did you learn how to do that?" 

Klaus shrugged. "Jus' do. Annie do's it, I do's it, Lion do's it." 

Rachel held back a gasp with all her might.  She had suspected, but now she knew for sure.  A part of her was relieved that some of the spirits were kind to her son.  

"Oh? Who are they, Klaus? Annie and Lion?" 

Klaus hummed, looking back at his doll.  "Frens." 

Make no mistake, Rachel knew her son was special. She also knew he wasn't special the way the village hoped. That's what was frightening. 

Rachel had sewn that doll for him around Christmas of his first year. She hadn't been able to prepare anything for her son's arrival, so she'd been trying to make up for lost time. Klaus had still been a bit too young at the time, but once he could grasp it, the doll became a constant companion. He clutched onto that doll day and night, sometimes using it to hide his face and other times he'd set it beside him while he played. Like a friend. 

Rachel prayed Klaus would be able to make friends. So much troubled him and there seemed to be so little Rachel could do about it.  She held him close, sang to him to remind him his mother was there, brushed gently through his curls with her fingers. He'd burrow against her side, face buried in her dress like he was hiding.

Maybe he was.

If he was hiding from the eyes of those in the community, Rachel couldn't say she much blamed him. Ever since things had turned in favor of Klaus, of his instantaneous creation, the others could not get enough of him. And her own mother was the leader of the pack.

He'd gone from a scourge from the womb to their own North Star. Rachel despised both.

Nearly everyone in the village had recounted the story of his birth to her at least twice.  

Some spoke of a devil in an English's clothes, coming to steal their miracle away. Their miracle, not hers. Would exclaim that God intervened at just the right moment, and sent them all a reminder of his power. 

Never did they speak about her parents signing the baby away to Reginald Hargreeves for three thousand dollars. How Rachel had to fight to protect Klaus the moment he arrived. 

They had been truly blessed, they said, again and again. With the most tangible of symbols of God's grace. Unto us a child is born.

Her child was going to lead them into an age of piety and security, holiness and contentment.

Her child was a signal of great things to come, they told her. 

Her child was perfect.

Her child was playing in the yard, pressing hand prints into the mud. He had been transfixed the whole morning, squeezing the dirt between his hands, baking mudpies in the sun. Rachel had a pile of dandelions and stones Klaus had carefully delivered to her while she was mending.  

 He was nearly toddling by himself now, in their room or out in the soft meadow under the old oaks. He would out to her with happy squeals--Mama! Mama! 

He'd babble with anyone, but Rachel, Rachel was Mama already. His vocabulary was growing everyday, but still, he only called to her by name. She was so proud of him. All of him. Proud when he shared with one of the other young children proud when he sat quietly in her lap during a sermon. And prouder still when he'd throw a tantrum because his shirt was too itchy or another one of the two year olds had gotten to the wooden blocks to play before he had. 

Pride was a sin, but when Rachel looked at Klaus, how could it be? And if it was, Rachel would be a sinner the rest of her life.

"Oh Klaus!" Katherine Herschberger had stepped out of the house to get the washing, only to find her grandson playing in the dirt. She clicked her tongue, lifting her skirts and stepping off the porch towards the boy.

"Making such a mess! No, no, good children don't do that! Come, come," She whisked Klaus into her arms before Rachel could even mutter a word. Klaus still had a mudpie in hand. Immediately she dropped her sewing and followed on her mother's heels.

Katherine hummed with displeasure, a facade of sympathy over bitterness and scorn. She set the two year old down on the counter and went to the wash basin for a rag.

"Now, now, child you need to be cleaned up." She tsked, starting to clean the mud from Klaus' hands and feet. He giggled as the damp rag touched his skin. It tickled!

She sighed and grabbed one of his legs firmly– not enough to hurt, but enough to make him stop. "Be still." She said simply. An order. 

Klaus' smile froze and dimmed. Grandma was upset with him?

Rachel came storming  after her and had to swallow the fury that rose in her chest at the sight. 

"Ma, stop. I got him, I got him." She pulled Katherine's hand from Klaus and stepped between the two. Rachel ruffled Klaus' hair and smoothed out his shirt, giving him a reassuring smile, which he readily returned.  Her mother watched the pair for a moment, waiting. Then, when Rachel had not dealt with her son correctly, she pushed  back out with her presence and her stance and continued what she'd started.

"You must be a good boy, Klaus. You are our special gift. Our most special blessing." She scrubbed over his nails and in between each finger. Klaus watched her work, clearly uncomfortable with the new, rough sensation but tried not to show it. He didn't want to upset Grandma again. He loved her.  She smelled like baking and would tell him stories. 

"God didn't send you to us to be any less, hm?"

"Ma-" Katherine steadfastly ignored her daughter.

"You were sent to us from God, a perfect child. Klaus, you must act like it." Klaus tried to pull his hands away, but Katherine's grip was steadfast. Tears welled in the boy's eyes, his whole face quivering. When he managed to free himself, Klaus picked up his doll that Ma had brought back inside for him and held it close, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of its clothes.

Katherine frowned at his lack of focus as she spoke and his apparent attachment to the doll.  She took the boy by his chin to get him to look back at her. Klaus' gasped and Rachel glanced quickly to the open window. Her blood boiled, but she knew if she fought her mother now, things would get ugly. And the idea of Klaus being scared of her hurt more than her mother being controlling. She couldn't fathom why her own mother didn't feel the same. 

"Good boys don't need dolls." Klaus's grandmother went to take it from Klaus but Rachel yanked her hand away before she could manage. Katherine was undeterred. 

"Good boys don't muss up their trousers in the mud, yeah? Good boys play quietly with the toys God made for boys, not girls." She looked Klaus right in the eye. Not a hair was loose from her bonnet, nor was there a wrinkle in her apron.

"And they always do what they are told." She clicked her tongue again, shaking her head in disappointment. 

"God didn't send you to us to play in the mud and hold onto a dolly. You must be strong. You are here for so much more than that. Better, Klaus. "

Rachel scoffed softly. "Did God not make the dirt?"

I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you so much for reading :)

Taglist: @frozenwafflesagain @incorrectklavekatz

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[choccccy]

i borrowed that ending in the middle of a little poem i wrote. in fact, i've carried that quote with me ever since i read it. --- Love I miss that one sort of love.

I have no misconception that I am lonely. Despite my introversion, I have a wonderful family who love me unconditionally, and am lucky enough to have friends who cherish me, and I them.

And yet, I know I miss that one sort of love. The kind you find from a certain, special sort of partner(s).

I even have longtime friends though. People who I hope I will get to keep in my life for as long as they and I live. I know that we may grow distant, or that I might encounter new friends, but such is the nature of living among others.

It's a love I didn't even know I could participate in. I had assumed that I was incapable as a younger, smaller person.

A love where you trust and forfeit your whole soul to the other person, and they do the same to you. A brutal, painful sort of love, that when it ends, invariably leaves me crumbled and broken.

But I still seek it out. I must. In the moment where that love can be kindled, it burns with such an incandescence that I cannot fathom, and in that crucible my soul is reforged.

I am a mosaic of everyone I have ever loved, even for a heartbeat.

The foundation of my soul is still constructed from those other sorts of love. I am filled full, and perhaps even beyond, with the love my friends and family offer, and I hope that I might be such a useful component to them, too.

I know that there is more to build upon, though. My soul's foundations and structure are laid, and await purpose.

I look forward to the next time I get to continue this construction. I don't know what sort of shape it will take. In fact, that is the exquisite, imperfect, and incredible thing about that sort of love. To take my existing soul, and imbue it with such a unique quality, a quality based in the connection it is constructed out of, might appear in so many different configurations. None are the same as the last, but neither are any of them particularly better than that which came before, in that they are all unconditionally beautiful.

I know that I have only scraped the surface of this sort of love. That it can, in fact, become so much more intricate than I have yet had the chance to explore. I can sense its potential detail, the fractal intricacies filling out far beyond my wildest imagination, like layers of the universe unfolding before a telescope, then an eye, then a microscope.

It may be weeks, or it may be years. I know I will find that sort of love again, probably when I'm least anticipating it.

It's gonna be so cool.

have you ever noticed you pick up little habits and phrases from the people you love? it’s no wonder our hearts are so easily broken when people leave. we become a reflection of the people that we care about and those personality traits stick with us even if the people don’t

[unfoldingmoments]

Heart of Worship

I was first drawn to a charismatic church because of the atmosphere of worship—the music truly lifted my soul, almost like being at a live concert. It was during these moments of praise and worship that I felt most connected, even though I wasn’t a great singer. My favorite part was how the songs moved me, not through talent but through the emotional power of the music. It was like a stress release, and I felt compelled to join the choir for a short time. The music became a personal outlet, and despite my lack of skill, it helped me feel closer to God.

The song “Heart of Worship” was the first one my friend taught me to play on the guitar. Even though I still can’t play well due to postural issues, I remember the chords to that song, though they’re imperfect. It remains special to me, a reminder of that time when I felt more connected to worship.

But as much as I was immersed in worship, I eventually drifted away from it. Music became less of a focus, even though I still enjoyed listening to it. It’s strange how deeply music can influence emotions, especially for someone like me who’s so sensitive. Music can heal or harm—its power is undeniable. Sometimes, I feel that musicians, with their stage presence, can create a magnetic influence over others. People worship artists, just as much as they worship in church, and that power is both beautiful and intimidating.

In my own journey with God, I’ve been told that worship should come before prayer and Bible reading, but I struggle with that. I find it difficult to find the motivation to sing or pray. Even though I love music and words of affirmation, it’s hard for me to truly engage in worship. I feel disconnected, like I’m just going through the motions without really inviting God into my heart.

I also struggle with reading the Bible. I often treat it as information to absorb, not as something that should transform my life. I read it but don’t yet apply it to my daily experiences—it’s not yet life-giving knowledge to me. I know I should be meditating on the Word, allowing it to shape my thoughts and actions, but I often feel like I’m missing that connection. I want to apply what I read, but I don’t always know how.

I haven’t truly followed Jesus as His disciple. I can’t obey His word, let alone surrender or grow in faith. I feel like I’ve been stuck in the same crisis for so long. With each passing year, the fear becomes stronger. The world feels overwhelming and loud, and sometimes I just want to shut it out. But then, I have so many questions, so many things I want to say, but no one seems to be listening. I feel like a failure, and the weight of that is hard to bear.

As much as I desire to trust God, I can’t seem to let go of the control. I’m afraid I’m not enough, and the fear of not measuring up holds me back. But despite all the doubts, I still hope that God will help me in my unbelief. I’m still learning, still searching for a way to surrender.

Ref: https://www.crosswalk.com/church/worship/song-story-matt-redmans-the-heart-of-worship-1253122.html

[lettersfromcitizenjoan]

Alive to the Moment

It’s a funny thing we all do. Trying to act like we’re okay when we’re so clearly not. You go on doing everyday things, brushing your teeth, brunching, lunching and dining, taking photos, like everything is okay, fabulous even, when you know deep inside, inside that secret place you don’t share with even your closest friends or your lover, that something is wrong. Wouldn’t it be nice if the whole world would stop just for you? If everyone around you would just freeze, for a moment and allow you to catch up to them, catch up to where you believe they are, where you want to be? Scenes where people are frozen in time. What was I doing here again? There are these things we all do but no one talks about in pleasant conversation at parties or dinners. We brush it under the rug to save face or in order to make each other not feel so uncomfortable or even more importantly, to not be made to feel as if we’re singling ourselves out. We all feel lonely sometimes, we all secretly want to have the ability to switch off sometimes, to be small again and to be held again by our mothers and fathers or our grandmothers. We want someone to look us deep in our eyes and tell us we’re beautiful and that life will turn out the way we see it in our heads but its very rare that you come across someone who you can share that secret part of yourself with, without fearing the secrets you hold so dear, will be exposed. Some of us have found that person. We love them despite the fact that when everything is going well they come coupled with the fear of losing them, others of us are still searching. So what do we do? The ones still searching. Do we stave off expressing ourselves out of fear or do we courageously say what is in our hearts and hope for the best? More importantly how do we express ourselves? Do we hold back or do we lay it all out of the table? "Would they be able to handle it?" is the question we ask ourselves so we make the judgement call for the other person. "They will definitely handle it well" we assure ourselves and we push forward. Ultimately its up to them to answer that question "Can they handle it?" and ultimately its up to us to accept whatever answer they provide and find a way towards having peace with it, if its not what's hoped for. That's what the courageous do. That's what we as the brave do. Their answer may surprise you or it may be exactly what you thought it would. Now that little person inside, that tells you to hold back is either validated or invalidated. Is our fear the reigning entity inside of us or will we make our little voice of bravery more powerful? When do we listen to the voice of fear and when do we go ahead anyways? Wouldn’t being able to tell the future be nice? Can instinct be trained? 

The more I study history the more I see that every generation has had times when everything goes dark. When the lights go out and the party stops and maybe now is our time for that, our time of darkness our time of the lights going out. Even more than that, every generation has also come out of those dark times and saw the lights come back on and lived to party again and its this I am certain of. That this is a time we will come out of and yes there may be more dark times to come but I'm even more certain, that there will also be more times of light, more time to party, more time for love and laughs and joyful warm hearts colliding. I think this is a year I have seen that proven true. 

We must remain alive to the moment and open to change. Alive to the dichotomy of light and darkness that exist married in this imperfect life. I hope we all can live our lives with an unrivaled alacrity and let Jehovah God always make up for that one bad moment in a great life. Armageddon may be coming soon but its a joy to look forward to if you're on the right side of history.