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goodguydotmp3 · 4 years ago

Note

two questions: why don’t you like harry and do you really think harry villanized the weed video or do you think that was the people attempting to court him (azoffs)

Whew, this is a long one folx!

Why don’t you like Harry [Styles]?

Let me preface this response by saying that I’m a pretty new “fan” if one can still call me that. I got into the One Direction fandom in the summer of last year, and much of my opinions of the boys where shaped by fan reactions. After gathering more and more information however, I realized that the fandom and I were wrong about some things, and over hyping others.

Still, it wasn’t until this year that I actually broke out of the Harry-centric bubble to realize that the shady goings on where much worse than I originally thought. Add to this my realization that Harry’s music really doesn’t withstand the test of time, and that his persona is pretty Stagnant, and I’ve come to feel rather bamboozled.

Of course I know that the entire point of his PR team is to sway public opinion of him one way, and if I ate it up that was part of the plan. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. It also doesn’t mean I feel any less hurt about it. It also doesn’t mean that I like when other people fawn over him, as quite a lot of what I’m going to say has been public knowledge, and some of it before I was even a fan.

A. Music

Actually getting to a big part of the problem here, his music isn’t good. Well, not long term like I said in the preface. He doesn’t really have much of a vocal range despite being a singer for more than ten years. He does not care and acts like he does, often leading to him sounding like he’s screaming instead of singing. He’s lyrics are boring and flat, and his melodies are fine, they just don’t make up for his unmemorable lyrics. I personally think that the cause is him more heavily relying on song writers to fill in more in more, but that’s mostly because I don’t want to believe that the same person who wrote Happily and Olivia also wrote At the Dining Table and Treat People With Kindness, because that would just mean he’s getting worse or putting forth less effort.

Of course one could argue that I’m not a professional, I don’t have the necessary Jargon to correctly critique, and I’m no longer a singer so I can’t even do what he does. But to that I say fuck off. I know what sounds good! I know what I like!

Even more than that though, If you bought a product (non food), and you could only use that product for the first two weeks you bought it, you’d say it was a shit product! You’d scream from the rooftops that no one should ever buy this product because it’s crap! Well guess what? I pre-ordered Fine Line just to listen for two weeks and never pick it up again except for golden, she’s a funky tune every couple months.

Besides the test of time, there is still the subject of actual talent/listenability if you will. I feel there’s four main categories when I listen to music that makes it worth listening to

1.Amazing voice

2.Awesome lyrics

3.Funky/ cool ass melody/Beat

4.Catchy as hell

Now, a song doesn’t need to be all four, however the more they have the more likely I am to like the song. Also, I’ve said “main categories” because I’ve definitely had songs were I just through the beat drop was cool, or maybe the bridge was sick as hell, or maybe I just liked the pacing or the way the singer/singers stressed a note. Alternatively there is a sweet spot for me of super depressing lyrics but a melody/ that makes you want to dance. See: most of After Laughter by Paramore, Lola By Mika. But in general, those four usually make me love a song long term.

If it’s an album, it usually Just has to sound like it belongs on the same album/ tell a story. Like I really don’t like albums that sound like it’s just a playlist of songs personally. I should be able to listen to a song and go “oh yeah, that’s off --- album” or I didn’t like the album as a whole. An album is a bit like an outfit to me. It’s not going to be all tops, nor does it need to be monochromatic, but it does need to go together

For Example, I love Four as an album. I thought it was amazing. I still hate Spaces and Illusion. I hate both of their melodies, I don’t like the Illusion intro, I’m not to keen on those lyrics, and they’re definitely not catchy, I skip every time.

So taking that logic to Harry’s music, I think HS1 works very well as an album, almost all of the songs sound like they’re supposed to be there. And I hate every song but Kiwi. The lyrics are boring/don’t make a ton of sense, the melodies definitely don’t make up for that, he doesn’t have the range, and none of them are catchy! And then you get to Kiwi and she’s got that vibe you know? She’s a pop punk bop and I cannot fucking believe that Harry has one pop punk bop among unmemorable pop rock album.

Going to Fine line, It’s not as great as an album. There are some songs that don’t really feel like they fit? Like just going through the album, cherry doesn’t have any business being there? Like the lyrics fit sure, but what is that weird intro and outro? It probably would have been fine If the song didn’t have those two, but having them there upset the pace a bit I felt. And then there was Treat People With Kindness, which was really Jarring and doesn’t feel like it belongs on the album at all? It actually feels like it’s trying to be Kiwi - it’s loud and garish, and the lyrics are trying to be carefree, but! It just doesn’t work! TPWK sounds like Hippie music! Kiwi sounds like Brendon Urie could sing it and people would be like “good ol Panic!”. And then the album goes back down into Fine line the song, which again is Jarring because you’ve had this TPWK monstrosity right before it.

Then, looking at the overarching theme of his music, It’s whiny piss baby music He hates to take responsibility for his actions! It’s all in his lyrics! And don’t get me wrong, I love Honest lyrics, but not if the person is an asshole! LIke I fucking hate confessions by Usher specifically becasue he’s talking about how much he’s a piece of shit in the most whiny and piss baby way, making it all about him and no the people he hurt. I also really hate that one song that Zayn did with Usher and Chris Brown, because you have these awful men completely misunderstanding what it means to write a love song, and then you have Zayn at the very end all like “actually I really am in love tho…” Esp Chris browns verse! It boils down to “Hey I know I was a asshole seven billion times but I miss you tho :(“ GIRL BYE!

Harry sounds the exact same though, Except he can’t even blame himself for his own mistakes, and just wades through self pity about how the object of his affection won’t love him even though he didn’t even do anything except it wasn’t his fault and why are you still mad it wasn’t even his fault and he was young and reckless and drunk and horny. Like??? WRITE A NEW SONG TAYLOR SWIFT 2.0! There’s only so much you can repackage the same narrative before it becomes stale no Cinderella does not count keep that shit coming. And It really jumps out in his writing, even through 1d, although I will say there were some catchy beats, and awesome lines to keep him afloat back then. Although wtf was Walking in the Wind??? Choke!

Then there are the melodies I’m talking post wondee here which often give this 70’s pop rock vibe. Which fine I guess, it’s his brand, but that doesn’t make it interesting. Or new. Or fresh. Or an interesting take.

Now I completely understand relying on nostalgia to boost people’s opinion, but you could at leas have the decency to actually have good music. For Example, Miss you by Louis Tomlinson has a very distinctive pop rock feel, but it’s also an amazing song. Great lyrics, amazing voice, catchy liddle diddy that happens to be reminiscent of that 2005- 2010 punk pop/emo pop feel. Sour diesel has that like,,,basey 90s pop feel, and it fucking works with the lyrics, and of course his voice is beautiful. When Walls dropped and Lou put out that playlist of songs that were an inspiration, you can hear the influences when you listen to the album, but they’re also really good songs in their own right, with amazing lyrics, and Louis’ distinctive voice. Comparing that to Harry, it seems like he’s mostly relying on people’s nostalgia rather than actually good music.

Okay so this last point I’m making on music is a little petty but it’s been like a week and I’m still pissed about it so I’m saying it now. Someone said that Harry Styles is the best pop rock artist right now???? Just admit that you don’t listen to pop rock tf. Louis Tomlinson is right there. Brendon Urie is right there. Mika is right there. Haley Williams is right there. Janell Monae is right there. I don’t listen to a lot of pop rock lol but i feel my point has been made

B. Public Persona

He get’s so much clout! SO MUCH CLOUT! For doing the bare minimum (this is not specifically about the fandom, that’s for later)! People will write all these glowing reviews of him for him??? Being polite??? Like okay and? Just because a person is polite doesn’t mean they’re fucking Jesus??? There’s a million and one stories so i’m not fucking looking them up but there’s the pizza story and the fish story and the plane story and the snl story and the Stormzy story and the WS story on and on and on! Stop giving this man brownie points for basic human decency. “I didn’t expect him to be like that!” okay is that because of their perception of what a rock star is supposed to be like? Because in that case we need to start holding people accountable for being assholes. Or is it because he seems like an asshole. Cause valid.

I also don’t like him leaning so heavily on the queer image thing. Like! If that’s how he likes to express himself, Fine, But so much of it is just...so manufactured! And I Know I’ve heard people say oh well he wore the one rainbow on his lapel that one time or he wore the shirt or he wore the Keith Harring.

1. That Rainbow pin is sus as hell I don’t care what ya’ll say It absolutely screams set up, if he wanted to not be seen he would have not been seen

2. That goes for literally every other time. I can’t believe it’s not a set up to push a queer image. (that he profits from!)

3. If he actually did his homework on Keith Harring he’d know that the man was a predator, and he wouldn’t have worn those shirts. It seems so performative! To add to that, does he know now? If so, why isn’t he using his platform to correct his mistake? Why didn’t he come out and let people know not to buy Harring’s stuff??? He knows the pull he has! He absolutely could have been like “I’ve made a mistake, if you are looking for queer artists to support, here’s some” But he fucking doesn’t

4. To add on to that last part, It is actually sus that he gets to profit off of this queer image, and yet the only queer voices that he’s propping up are white gays. And then not even directly? Not a “queer artists, esp queer artists of color are important and need their voices boosted because they are the back bone of society” but this wink nod type of deal, where again, he mainly boosts white gays.like??? One queer black woman that doesn’t work for the Azoffs, and then a bunch of white gays. Like?? That’s not racist to anyone else???????Just me? okay.

Now from a professional point of view, it’s even worse. I’m not saying that artists can’t be campy or blurr gender lines, or imply that they ‘re queer subtly. But I think it’s fucking disrespectful to play both ends. Like, he profits off of using the queer image, all while Dancing around the subject, but then on the back end he never says that Homophobes/Transphobes aren’t allowed in his fandom. He gives this empty ass tpwk and then washes his hands of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I am always upset when people who have lots of queerphobes in their fandom bullying and harassing the actual queer people never say anything to let queerphobes know they’re unwelcome (clearly money is better than morals) but for me it’s an extra kick to the gut for it to literally profit Harry to seem queer. Look at that time that gay company sold out shirts in less than an hour,because harry was wearing it and tell me people aren’t throwing money at him because they feel he’s queer.

C. Fashion

This one is a really rough one for me because this is partially what drew me into Harry in the first place. But he’s really not all that in terms of fashion. He’s expensive certainly, but sometimes, the things that are more expensive are worse. Even When He’s not looking like a grandparent out on the town, his style is very dated, and yet he gets paraded around like he’s the freshest new thing?? Like who is his team paying of for him to get that many articles about how he’s fashion’s biggest star. And the thing is, his style is even dated for the mainstream. There’s already a post about how he copies prominent pop/pop rock stars of the 70s, which means that his style is 50 years old for the mainstream. Now don’t get me wrong, I think it’s totally fine if you’re addicted to seventies wear. I don’t think he should be heralded as this huge fashion star if his wardrobe is this dated

Even more than that. Gucci???? The Gucci with a history of Racism?? The Gucci with the child labor??? The Gucci with the 14 hour days Gucci??? Ugly ass Gucci????? Soulja Boy don’t even fuck with Gucci no more and he fuck with Gucci since like 2007. (although that was because of the racism, not cause it’s ugly)

I think that bothers me the most though. Like it’s not enough to exploit people, you also have to be tacky ugly and expensive???? For what??? @Gucci cease to exist please.

If Harry wants to be tacky ugly and expensive, that’s of course his rights to do so! But don’t act like he’s at the very pinnacle of fashion every time he does.

I’m actually always very conflicted about that. I personally prefer a style that’s very loud and campy and avant garde but like,,,,that ain’t it. Maybe it’s something you got it or ya don’t??? Like for example Billy Porter could wear a trashbag and make it work. The expensive sweaters and the slacks? The suits? Not a good look on one Harry Styles. Maybe it’s because they’re expensive sweaters and slacks and expensive suits. What are you, Ted from accounting??? Grow up.

D. Treat People With Kindness

Ugh this is the thing that pisses me off like the second to most. This phrase is so fucking empty. You could not have made up a more corporate mandated phrase if you fucking tried. It stands for nothing! Just like him!

Let’s break it down. “Treat people with kindness” is, at face value, a call to action. It’s asking you to do something. But it doesn’t actually tell you what to do!! So it’s pretty inoffensive! You don’t actually have to change your behavior in anyway for two main reasons:

1. What the hell is Kindness??? This phrase never actually says what it is??? It’s just this short little punchy thing that assumes you know what kindness is! What if you didn’t actually know? What if you have differing ideals of what is considered kindness? I mean to my mother, Misgendering me is kindness, but I don’t think that’s kindness. To my father, not letting his children have autonomy is kindness, but I don’t find that kind. And yet they could both use that phrase and feel confident that they go around treating people with kindness. After all they cooked dinner didn’t they? They smiled at Janice from public relations didn’t they? That’s kindness right?

2. It also assumes you know what “people” are. Queer people are people. Queerphobes don’t consider queer people, people. Racists aren’t going to consider some people, people. So they can continue their harassment and dehumanization of them and still be treating people with kindness, because they never harmed actual people (to them)

E. Harry bots

Bitch?? Corporate spies?? Tf ??? That’s not weird to ya’ll ?? I think the thing that shocked me more than someone from Colombia records admitting that he manufactures the hype around people signed to Colombia, is the fact that the Fandom been knew!!!! Ya’ll been knew and ya’ll wasn’t gon tell me???????? I just found out last week wtf????????

Another thing I don’t like about them Harry bots, is it’s one thing to hype up Harry, but why tf do they need to shit on the other boys??? Is it because they’re more talented, good looking, and charming??? How about you get good!!!! I esp hate that it’s usually Louis. What is Corporate’s obsession with putting Louis down like? What a bunch of fucking weirdos?? It’s not enough to be a Harry fan and live up his ass, I gotta hate Louis too?? You lost yo damn mind. If you reading this and you a spy? Die.

F. Capitalism

Honestly that should be the end of it but here the fuck we go I guess. Now I get that there is going to be some capitalism involved when you get music, especially mainstream music, there are tones of articles out there with people who used to be in the industry telling you about how fucking awful it is, all in the pursuit of money. (Which isn’t fucking real by the way! We made it up! People out here getting traumatized! Belittled! Bullied! Married off! So some corporation can make all the money! The Imaginary Credits! That we made up! I hate it here!)

But it’s another fucking thing to participate in a capitalist system? He invested into that one sleep app, even going to do one of the voice sessions (So you could have Harry Styles themed sleep paralysis) and you pay for that! He makes money off that! It’s not enough that you buy his mediocre music or his ugly ass merch, you also have to give him money through the sleep paralysis app.

Then there was that Google Camp for Rich People Only! I don’t even want to fucking hear that it was on Climate Change oh wow all the rich people took helicopters and Yachts to a resort with manicured lawns??? To talk about how they treat the environment? That’s not at all Counter intuitive! Not at all for show! Fucking disgusting.

Oh and the Covid Shirt! Really bitch??? You need to Profit off a deadly pandemic? Are you profiting off of AIDS next you fucking bastard. And he can of course get a tax write of for his “ charitable donation” fuck off.

G. Racism

This! This is the thing that gets me the most! YA’LL CAN EXCUSE RACISM???

No, I’m not talking about the Native American Headdress thing, that was plenty despicable on it’s own, No I’m talking about the on going racism. The whole, using black people for clout and then dropping them and never returning the favor when they sing his praises thing. Specifically I’m thinking of Sis the activist, Stormzy, and Lizzo.

The Lizzo thing pisses me off the most actually. I think it’s very fucking convenient that Harry started taking interest in Lizzo after there was uproar from black fans noting his hypocrisy of performing for Pepsi (Notoriously racist) and Having BLM sticker on his guitar. So he shows up at one of her concerts dressed like a senior citizen that got lost on the way to the retirement home bathroom. She looked fucking amazing and he couldn’t put forth the effort to at least not look senile. Then there was the covering of her songs, and then there was the cuddling up with her at the awards show. Funny how I haven’t seen any interaction after the fact! And Of course everyone forgot about the Pepsi concert! Fuck all the way off!!

Also! Are we just never going to talk about the fact that he didn’t comment on the blm protests earlier this year until his team could gauge whether or not it would be profitable to do so by DATA MINING HIS FAN BASE???? And then when he actually did he got the most praise for it, truly fucking hate it here. Also when he marched with those protesters he made sure we knew it was him. There were posts flouting around everywhere on how to best cover up to make yourself completely unrecognizable should you wind up on camera or fucking worse, get attacked by the police. Funny how Close Sprouse could follow the advice and not Harry? Also supper funny how he got the hell out of dodge before things got super bad and I have not heard anything on the matter since. Guess what Harry??? We’re still out here fighting for the rights to exist! Still wanna have a photo op while our own government tries to squash us with force????? This is like that Jenner Pepsi ad but with sunglasses and a pandemic.

H. Fandom

I think I would hate him less if I didn’t have to hear about him every hour of everyday. Stop Hyping this man so much. Even after unfollowing and blocking a bunch of Harries and Larries he’s all across my dash. And twitter. And insta. KURTIS CONNER FUCKING LIKES HIM I JUST WANTED CRACK CONTENT AND NOW LOOK.

I. Conclusion.

After writing all this I think the running theme is that Harry Styles isn’t even a person, he’s a brand. I do not like or trust brands! And I definitely don’t like being advertised to! Just like It’s fake as fuck when Absolut is all about queer rights, it’s fake as fuck when Harry does it too. Just like I know Target doesn’t actually care about Black lives, I know Harry doesn’t either. People are always like “oh he’s so nice!” no! He’s polite! There’s a difference. Zayn Is a truly kind person. Liam is a truly kind person. Louis is a truly kind person. It shines though so brightly all the time, and yet people are really out here worshiping the Brand Harry Styles.

Do I think It was Harry or The Azoffs throwing Zouis under the bus.

Truly doesn’t matter! Whichever one did it, Harry was totally fine with it! Which tells me that he doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He’ll go along with anything as long as it gets him to the top, and that’s fucked up on one million and one levels

#hazza curly mchazzerson #This is like 4 thousand words #Have fun #Harry Styles

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clumsyclifford · 4 years ago

Text

though you make me balanced (you can’t make me whole)

tell me it won't hurt; now i, i'm your passenger. Abruptly, Luke shoulders Ashton’s hand off, and immediately he regrets it, wants to take it back, to grab Ashton’s hand and replace it where it had been. Ashton pulls his hand away, and Luke starts to cry. (Luke is not okay.)

TWs: suicidal thoughts, discussion of suicidal thoughts, i really cannot stress enough that a lack of will to live is central to this fic, PLEASE approach with caution. also implied depression, drinking, and general angst. title from passenger by noah kahan.

note: this fic is in the same ‘verse as i’ll be your eyes (you be my face), and though the order doesn’t matter, you may wanna read that one first. (tumblr link for whoever prefers that for whatever reason)

read it on ao3 here

Luke hides in his room. He doesn’t want Ashton to see that he’s drinking, or know that he’s drunk, or know what he’s thinking about. Ashton will be concerned, and Luke cares far too much about the smile on Ashton’s face to let it crease.

Maybe that’s what they’re here for, but it doesn’t mean Luke has to like it.

Unfortunately, the world does not work in precisely the ways Luke wishes it would, and Ashton comes in anyway, louder in Luke’s head than he probably is in real life. Luke looks up, and the world spins. It occurs to him, distantly, that he’s drunk a lot tonight, and possibly he should stop.

“Jesus, Luke,” Ashton says. Luke stares, squints. Ashton’s face looks concerned, which is exactly what Luke was trying to avoid. Aghast, if Luke were more eloquent.

“Just Luke’s fine,” Luke mutters. Ashton crouches down, which reminds Luke that he is on the floor, and that’s not the best place to be. He could stand up, but the last time he tried that he nearly tipped over.

“How much did you drink?” Ashton says, prying the bottle out of Luke’s hand. Luke reaches for it half-heartedly, but Ashton holds it away from him.

“I’m a grown man,” Luke protests weakly. “I can drink as much as I like.”

“How much, Luke.”

“Well.” Luke thinks. Tries to think. “It was full when I started.”

“Full,” Ashton repeats, sounding like he’s trying not to be horrified. “Luke. Okay. Come on. Get up. Let’s get you some water and then you can go to sleep.”

“No,” Luke says, remembering violently why he’d been drinking. “I don’t want to. Give it back.”

“No.”

“Give it, Ashton. You’re not my fucking boss. Boss of me. Give it.”

“Stop it,” Ashton says firmly. “I’m going to go pour this out and get you some water.”

“I don’t fucking want water,” Luke snaps.

“Hey,” Ashton says, curving one hand around the back of Luke’s neck. He’s sturdy and reliable, and this feels familiar. Luke starts to sink into it. “Take a deep breath.”

“Don’t do that,” Luke whines. “I don’t want to feel better. I want to drink.”

“You’re already drunk.”

“And I wanna stay that way, you fucking — get off me!” Abruptly, Luke shoulders Ashton’s hand off, and immediately he regrets it, wants to take it back, to grab Ashton’s hand and replace it where it had been. Ashton pulls his hand away, and Luke starts to cry.

“Hey, hey,” Ashton says softly, although he doesn’t reach out again, which makes Luke cry harder. “Okay. Hey. It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Luke says through gasps of breath. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, do you still love me?”

“Of course I still love you,” Ashton says, in a voice that’s both reassuring and unequivocal, like it’s obvious. Like Luke should have known that. But how could Luke have known? How could he ever consider himself worthy of Ashton’s continued love? Already he’s overstayed his welcome here, if there’d ever been welcome to begin with. Ashton can say what he wants, but Luke is imposing. He hasn’t “moved in”; he’s a glorified houseguest and Ashton is his world-weary host and they’re both so tired, all the time. Ashton must be tired of Luke by now. Luke certainly is.

“You can touch me,” Luke whimpers, grasping for Ashton’s arm despite the way his vision blurs in and out, like a camera trying and failing to focus. Immediately Ashton settles onto his knees and pulls Luke towards him, and this time Luke really does melt. Ashton touches Luke like he loves him, holds him like he’s this piece of artwork made of glass, like he’ll break from a stiff breeze. Luke lets his head fall onto Ashton’s shoulder, still kind of crying. The guilt from the tear stains working their way into Ashton’s shirt stacks itself on top of all of Luke’s other troubles.

“Talk to me, Luke,” Ashton murmurs. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how to help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Luke whispers. That’s not exactly true, though, is it? Ashton’s already helping him. Just by being here, right now. By letting Luke in. By gathering Luke in his arms when he cries and just sitting here with him.

But it’s not help if the problem isn’t going away. It’s just postponing the inevitable.

“I can try,” Ashton says, a very Ashton thing to say. Luke’s never met anyone so tenacious. Ashton will never let a problem beat him. It’s one of the most admirable things about him.

“ You can’t,” Luke sobs, and realizes he’s crying more now, “you can’t, every day you keep me alive but eventually —”

“Don’t say that.”

“You can’t save me forever.” Luke buries his face into the crook of Ashton’s neck. He can’t see the look on Ashton’s face, but he doesn’t want to. It’ll be hurt, no doubt. Fear, probably. And that specific brand of dogged determination that Ashton encompasses.

“I can,” Ashton says quietly. “And I fucking will, Luke.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Bullshit. I need you here.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not — I’m nothing. I’m not worth it,” Luke manages. “I’m not worth anything or anyone I’m just a piece of shit who’s in a band that got lucky and I’m the most replaceable person in the entire fucking world, Ashton, and every single day is so fucking hard, and I don’t see the point.”

“Luke.” Somehow, Luke’s name on Ashton’s tongue sounds like a prayer, a distress call, a promise. Somehow, when Ashton says his name it’s imbued with love. Luke cries harder, gasping irregularly for breath. “Do me a favor and take a deep breath.”

“I can’t,” Luke says desperately, clinging to Ashton’s shirt like a lifeline. One of Ashton’s arms snakes around Luke’s back and his hand makes its way to Luke’s hair, scratching rhythmically at the nape of his neck. Luke shivers.

“With me,” Ashton says soothingly. “You can. Come on. You can feel me breathing, right? Deep breath in.” Luke feels the way Ashton’s chest rises with the breath, hears the steady inhale by his ear. Struggling, he manages some shaky halfway imitation. “And out. That’s it. Again.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Luke catches his breath, and Ashton doesn’t waver, counting him through deep breaths in and out until all of Luke’s senses have tunneled in on Ashton. Eyes closed, face hidden, there’s nothing else in the entire world but Ashton, and the cotton of his shirt twisted into Luke’s fingers, the damp skin of his neck where Luke’s tears have left their mark, the slow, steady rumble of his voice in Luke’s ear, the rise and fall of his chest, one hand carding through the ends of Luke’s hair, the other a warm weight against his waist.

There’s a war waging in Luke’s head, because half of him is still at the edge of the cliff, chanting furiously for him to jump, louder than it’s ever been, terrifyingly loud; not, as Luke had hoped, numbed by the drink, but bolstered from it. But the other half of Luke is all Ashton’s. This is it, he thinks dimly, this is all I am, and all I live for, but he can’t tell that to Ashton, can’t say that some days — most days — Ashton is the only reason Luke brakes at red lights and resurfaces in swimming pools. That’s clingy, desperate. That puts Luke’s life in Ashton’s hands, and that’s a responsibility Ashton doesn’t want or need.

“Are you with me still?” Ashton whispers, once Luke’s breathing has steadied.

Luke doesn’t want to respond. If he answers, the moment breaks; Ashton’s calm, collected voice will be slashed in half with Luke’s, which is scratchy and needy and tired. Everything is fine as long as Luke pretends Ashton is all that’s left of the world. Maybe there’s been an apocalypse, and Ashton’s the lone survivor; maybe the room is in shambles around him, maybe there’s debris everywhere, maybe Luke can just stay here forever and never open his eyes and keep pretending until he runs out of air.

“Luke, love. We don’t have to talk about it now, okay? I can get you a glass of water, and you —”

“Don’t go,” Luke begs, hating the desperation in his voice. “Don’t leave. Please. Don’t.”

“Okay,” Ashton says immediately. “Okay, breathe, Luke, I won’t leave. You want to come to the kitchen with me? You wanna go straight to sleep?”

Luke shakes his head. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and remember that there’s a world out there.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, and Ashton takes a sharp breath in, and Luke knows that Ashton is suddenly scared, too.

“What are you scared of?”

“I don’t know. So much.” There’s supposed to be glue in Luke’s throat, imprisoning his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but now it’s unstuck and there’s no way to stop the flood. “I’m scared that there’s not going to be an apocalypse and — the fucking world is still going to be out there, expecting things from me that I can’t give, and scared that you’re going to leave me alone here, and that you’re going to hate me for loving you as much as I do, and I’m scared that I’m going to give up, one day, and that there won’t be anyone to remind me not to. Ashton. Do you know how important you are? Do you fucking know? Do you know how many bad songs I’ve written trying to tell you how important you are to me?” Opening his eyes means facing the real world, the world he knows is still there, but something feels more urgent. Dizzily he picks his head up off Ashton’s shoulder and blinks some light back into his vision, and though it means he’s momentarily blinded, he clumsily finds Ashton’s eyes and locks onto them. “I’m sorry for how much I love you, Ashton, I really fucking am.”

“Don’t say sorry for that,” Ashton says quietly.

“I am,” Luke says bracingly, “because it’s a burden —”

“You’re not a burden, Luke.”

“I’m —”

“Luke. Stop. You’re not a burden. To me, ever. Doesn’t matter how much you drink, or cry, or how many times you want to kill yourself.” Luke jerks instinctively, but Ashton keeps him in place, the hand in Luke’s hair stalled but still cradling his head. “This isn’t conditional. And I’m going to be here, always. You have to know that, okay?”

“You aren’t.”

“I will be. I want to be. Can you believe me on something? One thing?” Ashton asks, the light of his eyes grounding Luke. Luke nods uncertainly. “Okay. I love you as much as you love me. And keeping you around is my number one priority.”

“That’s a shitty priority.”

“If it were me, would you?” Ashton challenges him, and it’s not even a question, really.

“I’d fucking do anything,” Luke breathes. “Don’t even think about it.”

Ashton presses his forehead to Luke’s. “Whatever you’re feeling right now about me, that’s what I’m feeling about you. I promise you.”

Except he’s not, because Luke is nothing, not even the shell of a man; he’s just nerve endings and love for Ashton, glued together with the feeling of Ashton’s breath on his face, Ashton’s cooking in the morning, Ashton’s laugh when Luke tells a terrible joke, Ashton’s unapologetic grin when he does a perfect play-through on drums.

“Trust me,” Ashton reminds him. Luke swallows thickly and nods once.

“I’m so tired,” he says hoarsely.

“Get in bed,” Ashton suggests gently. “I can get some water and aspirin and be back in two minutes.”

“You’ll come back,” Luke says nervously.

“Luke,” Ashton says, with no exasperation, just a sweet, sad smile, “when are you going to understand that I’ll always come back? As long as you’re around, you’re the one I come back to.”

Something in the sincerity of Ashton’s voice, the way he says it so matter-of-factly, makes Luke feel safe enough to release his grip on Ashton. The shirt is wrinkled from Luke’s grasp, and Ashton’s whole shoulder is wet, drenched in Luke’s tears, but Ashton kisses his forehead and says, “Be right back.”

He goes. Luke heaves himself to his feet and collapses, mostly, onto his bed, twisting until he’s sort of under the blanket. He’s cold and exhausted, and all of his skin feels like it’s too small for his body, stretching thin to keep all of his insides where they belong. Ashton comes back, like he said he would, and puts the water and aspirin on the bedside table.

Without a word he climbs into bed, pulls the covers back to tuck them both in, and wraps his arms around Luke. Luke sighs. He ducks his head into Ashton’s chest, shuffles closer until there’s nothing between them. Ashton presses a lingering kiss to Luke’s forehead.

“Sometimes,” Luke says quietly, “I think you’re the only thing holding me together.” Sometimes, I know you are.

Ashton squeezes him tight for a second. “I fall apart without you, you know that?”

Luke huffs. “We’re well-suited.”

“Yeah,” Ashton murmurs. “We are.”

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claraxbarton · 6 years ago

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MCU Bucky Barnes

So here’s the thing.

I’m a costume designer by trade, and one thing that I actually really love about Captain America: The Winter Soldier (okay, among the things I love) is the costume design and the rhetorical value given to the clothes and, well, costumes in this movie.

For example - when Sam and Steve have their heart to heart on the bridge that ends with Sam saying “but he doesn’t even know you” and Steve saying “he will” before going to steal his old uniform - the one Bucky last saw him in when he was Bucky. There are some other great costume points in this movie, actually a LOT of them (costumes, not wigs, don’t at me because I KNOW).

But one thing that has always stood out to me, and not in a good way, is the “I’m with you til the end of the line” flashback.

Now, here’s the thing, it’s not JUST about the clothes. We’re in MCU verse, so it’s MCU canon - obviously, the Steve and Bucky duo is drastically different in Marvel comics canon so - and Bucky starts this scene by saying his folks wanted to give Steve a ride to the cemetery.

Which is super cool and nice. So one, we know Bucky’s dad is still alive - and his mom, but two, we know they have a car.

So this is supposed to be when Steve is around 16? So it’s... 1936 (according to MCU wiki it totally is)

So cars.

Crazy popular ever since they started having closed bodies and all that. BUT, were they crazy popular in CITIES in 1936? Especially in the middle of the Great Depression?

There’s some evidence that actually no, that car ownership in a city like NYC was something like 1 car per every 43 people. Then again, looking at the NYC.gov 2015 Mobility Report we see that the population of NYC in 1936 is something like 7.2 million, and the number of registered vehicles in 764,000... or roughly one per every 9.4-ish persons. Which is a pretty drastically different number. This doesn't, of course, account for taxis or fleet cars being registered - so the number might seem inflated. I still think it’s probably something closer to 1 car per every 20 than every 43 but... I’m too lazy to dig that much deeper at the moment. Plus I'm sick, which is fueling this in the first place.

So, anyway you slice it, Bucky’s family was in 11%, 5% or 2.33% of New Yorkers who own cars in 1936. Which says something, I think, about Bucky Barnes that we don’t always - ever? - think of in fandom.

I’m not going to say that Bucky Barnes was loaded. Maybe his family owned a garage or a grocery store or a delivery service or a funeral home...?? or something. So, the vehicle could be occupational as opposed to private usage - but either way it’s a statement. Bucky’s family has money and/or Bucky’s family has steady employment.

I’ve been there. I’ve read the fics where Bucky works at the docks to put Steve through art school and get him his medicine. I love those fics. I love that head canon.

But I... don’t think it’s realistic in light of some evidence showing us that, actually, Bucky wasn’t doing too badly for himself.

Let’s now actually look at CLOTHING. Here’s the whole scene via youtube, if you want to follow along with what is about to get RIDICULOUS.

Actually, before I dive in, who is the costumer for this movie? And should I be like... reading into all this as much as I am?

Judianna Makovsky - fellow New Jersey..Ian?ite?no clue - 3 time Oscar nominee and designer of 5 MCU films and a lot of other big budget movies, including quite a few period pieces dealing with issues of race and class (The Legend of Bagger Vance, Seabiscuit, The Little Princess.. and also like Harry Potter and The Quick and the The Dead.) So, should I have some faith in Judianna Makovsky’s designs? I’m gonna go with yeah, yeah I should.

So, back to the movie. The scene.

This is post funeral. We’re in 1936. As a general rule, the dress, colors and style of mourning wear was pretty much formalized in the early Victorian era. There was a great - read PHENOMENAL - exhibit at the MET a few years back on Mourning-wear and I’m still reeling from how lovely everything was - but the gist of it is this: you wore black when someone died. If you were a lady, and especially if you were a rich lady, you then went through a few different colors (dull black to SHINY black to purple/mauve and gray and white and then back to color within six months to one year). By the 1930s only the really rich were sticking to the actual rules of mourning - or like, really old people. And, of course, really old rich people. Really old rich WHITE people. Because it needs to be said: these are WHITE customs. I'm not saying people of other ethnicities didn’t follow them, but these are basically British Victorian practices that were assimilated into American culture.

I’m not going to go off on a huge sidebar about American fashion following in French dressmaking and British tailoring, but I need to say at least that much. Everyone who was anyone knew you got your dresses made in France or in the French style and you got your suits made in England - Savile Row in specific. I am NOT implying Bucky’s got himself an English suit, fyi. I just... have to be thorough.

BACK TO THE SCENE:

We’ve got our boy Steve. STEVE. Who just buried Sarah Rogers and what is he wearing...?

For starters, he’s wearing a windbreaker, check out the 1933 ad below, he’s the guy almost giving us the Fonz finger gesture, or maybe guy in the fedora on the end.

This thing isn’t falling apart at the seams, but it’s a very nondescript not really gray, not really blue - maybe was at one point. It also doesn’t FIT Steve. It also, in the ad above, would cost about $165.40 in today’s money.

My guess? It’s Bucky’s old windbreaker. Because it’s not cheap and because it’s just a bit too big on Steve.

He’s also wearing a shirt that is maybe tan? And a brown tie and maybe - MAYBE black trousers. And if those trousers are black, it’s the only black thing he’s wearing. Not even a black tie, or a black arm band (which I’m pretty sure - but also pretty aggressively atheist so I don’t know - the Catholic Church would have provided for chief mourners and pall bearers right?). We also have our depressing as all shit Depression surroundings to clue us in: Steve Rogers ain’t loaded. Steve Rogers is poor as dirt. Side note: boys. Hiding a key under the ONE FUCKING BRICK on a walkway is not like... a smart idea???

So we can guess a few things here, we can guess that Steve and Sarah were really struggling - this checks out with the rest of MCU canon (wearing newspapers stuffed in his shoes, even when he had nothing he had Bucky, etc.) - and that all money probably went towards Steve’s numerous ailments, food and then the TB medication or treatment, as it was, that was available to Sarah.

We can maybe guess that Steve and Sarah weren’t very religious -but I don’t feel qualified to impart anything except my own agenda here so I’m not taking that stance. But like, real talk, not even an arm band??

But, well, let’s move on to the point of this whole long ass thing anyway?

Then we go to Mr. Barnes, looking dapper AF. Also, hey, check out this ad from 1933 featuring... pretty much exactly what Bucky is wearing down to the god-damn two-tone shoes:

If you’re curious, yeah $24.98 in 1936 is $475.44. I'm not suggesting Bucky Barnes went out and bought a brand new suit for Steve’s mother’s funeral - for one thing, this ad is from 1933. BUT, that suit fits Bucky. Quite well, and it’s in good shape. He’s also sporting that super stylish mid-late 30s into 40s deeply angled collar shirt - as is our dude up in the ad - and so we know these clothes are at least new-ish. We also can see that the suit is definitely of the mid-30s moving into the boxy silhouette of the later 30s and early 40s and NOT the look of the 20s and early 30s, which has an almost bell-bottom fullness to the legs instead of our straight-leg here (though we can debate nuance if you want to hit up my DMs.)

I should note, Bucky’s shirt is not bright and pristine white - it’s kind of grayish? And I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be an old-timey sepia thing or an indication that Bucky can’t afford to... bleach a white shirt? So that’s an odd choice for sure because we’re still in an age when a crisp, white collar shirt means something (Hey, if you want to hear me go on about the democratization of men’s fashion via shirt collars and 19th century Victorian suits, let me know because I am READY).

All this is to say: I don’t think Bucky Barnes is a poor dock worker. I think Bucky Barnes of MCU canon. Okay, so the MCU wiki on Bucky/The Winter Soldier is an actual mess (because it tells us that Sarah died in 1936 and that’s FINE but I’m not going back to change my math because I’m SICK so just... I went back and changed it. She died in 1936. Fine. The damn wiki also says that “a year later, during their art class, Barnes and Rogers found out that the United States of America had joined World War II. Which, like, I’m sick, but there are a few years between 1936 and December 8 1941... just... I’m no rocket doctor but...

ANYWAY. Bucky is a three time YMCA welterweight boxing champion by this “year later”/ 1941-1942. He and Steve are also in an ART CLASS together. Bucky also trained Steve in boxing at Goldie’s gym before the two of them went to enlist - Steve rejected and Bucky, again quoting MCU wiki, “drafted” (which I'm gonna take to mean he didn’t try to enlist when Steve got rejected, they went home and Bucky got called up later but... hey, who knows?!).

So, I can’t easily find the prices of gym memberships in NYC in the 1930s right now because I don’t feel like wading through all of the articles complaining about Equinox pricing in 2019. But I do know that part of Roosevelt’s WPA (Works Progress Administration) building projects included building more public gyms - as well as libraries, auditoriums, pools, parks etc. Check out your local public buildings - if they are WPA projects they will have a cool plaque like my local NJ library does! All that is to say, there were free or very cheap PUBLIC options where Bucky could have trained Steve.

Bucky trained Steve in a private gym. Do I like to think that this is the same gym Steve and America’s ass are working out in in The Avengers? Yes, Yes I do. Do I like to think that Steve likes to box because it reminds him of Bucky? Yes, yes I do.

But moving on: it’s another sign of wealth.

So is this “art class.” Whether we are in 1937 or 1941 - we’re still in the Depression. Steve still has all of his health issues and presumably accompanying “medication” (wanna talk 1930s medicine? Again, slide into my DMs or shoot me an ask). So Steve either has a side job making enough to cover all of that, rent? and enrollment in an art class.

OR maybe Steve is teaching the art class and Bucky is his model for life drawing instruction (yeah, it’s a fic bunny I’m sharing with the world).

OR maybe... Bucky is paying the rent and other things or Steve is living with Bucky and can afford the class and meds... somehow or...

OR I'm not saying that Steve is Bucky’s kept man because Steve Rogers would punch anyone who dared to say such a thing.

All I’m saying is, Bucky Barnes was not a poor dude. Bucky Barnes... had some money.

And also I’m about to be late for my doctor’s appointment so I gotta run.

At me with your thoughts!

#Bucky barnes #James Buchanan barnes #winter soldier #Steve rogers #captain america #marvel #mcu #meta #head-canon #costume design #character thoughts

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weirdlandtv · 6 years ago

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Like the 1960s generation had The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan, the Big Three of the 1980s were Prince, Michael Jackson, and Madonna. Their new albums weren’t just song collections, they were messages uttered by the Oracle up on the mountain, echoing across the valley. They were events, statements, re-incarnations. Each new album presented a new persona for fans to imitate and for critics to evaluate, or, in the case of Prince, decipher. (Artists, back then, had to change with each new release or else be considered irrelevant. David Bowie entered the 1980s a smart yuppie, George Michael in the span of 7 years went from sparkling teen idol to sensitive, searching biker cowboy.)

Michael Jackson and Prince were regarded as rival gods, with the former more commercially successful but the latter preferred by most serious music critics (though in reality, fans, like me, liked both). Michael Jackson played games with tabloid journalists, who in turn responded with growing hostility; Prince played pranks on music critics, who wilfully allowed themselves to be deceived and wowed by this inscrutable prodigy.

Michael Jackson’s Avalon was Neverland, a fantasy dream that always invited ridicule (though not from me); Prince’s Mount Olympus was Paisley Park, a place deemed so mythical that fans constructed their own maps from the few photos and bits of footage that existed of it, and then endlessly speculated on what life was like inside of it: the parties, the concerts, sacred rituals, whisperings, the spontaneous nightly sessions. “Did you know,” they’d say, wide-eyed, “Prince has this huge vault of original masters and unreleased music right under Paisley Park? Only he knows the key code.” Whole albums (all masterpieces of course) had disappeared into that vault, never to be heard by ordinary mortals. And he never slept: nobody had ever caught him sleeping. He just went on and on, creating music. That was Prince, the enigmatic wonder, the living love symbol, and flamboyant question mark.

I still find it strange to realize so many of the artists I just mentioned, who so energetically populated my childhood and early teens, are dead. Michael Jackson, Prince, David Bowie, and George Michael all died within 7 years of each other; but there’s also Whitney Houston, Freddie Mercury, Kurt Cobain, and so many more. (Compare 1960s giants Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan, who are still touring and releasing records.)

When Prince died, a little more than three years ago today, I was on Texel, an island to the north of Holland, where I live. I checked my phone, checked the news, like you so stupidly do every now and then, and then saw the incredible headline. A sunny day, clouds seemed to appear that moment. Some people love celebrity deaths and follow juicy rumor sites about who punched who and who stepped out of the limo without their knickers on; me, I get depressed. It’s like having swallowed a stone. The sensationalist cries around every celeb death to me are like a beehive of bad vibes, a pest, and I have to stay away from it as far as possible if I want to protect my mental health, or what’s left of it. Prince’s death made me take things slow for a week or so. I have to mentally chew on such things, change my settings, ease into the new reality, let my heart adjust to its new weight. I’ve often had to deal with death in my life, sometimes it’s as if every high-profile death shocks me back into that familiar feeling of dread and despair.

Though Michael Jackson’s Neverland has turned into a derelict theme park that carries the curse of being unsellable, Prince’s Paisley Park has become a museum. Occasionally, browsing the internet, I see photos of it, and I’m always struck, kind of uneasily, about how soulless it seems. What does the lair of an extravagant hermit look like? What did I expect? Not something that looks like the atrium of a New Age company maybe. Looking at the interior, those sad police photos that were released last year, I can’t help but see the stupendous mundanity of it all. The building itself, somewhere in a suburb outside of Minneapolis, resembles a bunker, and though the pyramid skylights, that vaguely resemble guard towers, provide some natural light, the rest of the building is artificially lit, but dark. The recording studio is just that. Some of the walls have sayings like “Everything You Think Is True”. Stained glass with stars, clouds, and guitars. There’s a potted plant here, and an ugly tangle of phone cords in the corner there. Prince’s bedroom was sparse with empty green walls, and a plastic trash can you can buy at your local Walmart (but he never slept of course). The legendary vault reminds me of the storage room of my dad’s old electronics company, with its disorderly shelves and half-opened cardboard boxes. And everywhere, in every corridor and every space, there’s Prince iconography, but it’s rather bland, like the cover of a cheap unofficial biography.

For Prince, it must have been strange living in your own mausoleum.

The music that came from that place though. I believe PARADE (1986) was the first full album he recorded there, and then everything that came afterwards. My uncle was a real Prince fanatic, taking a slew of albums with him whenever he stayed with us, bootlegs too, so from an early age I became quite well-versed in all things Prince. Bits of his lyrics are as familiar to me as old family sayings. Personal favorites are the albums 1999 (1982), BATMAN (1989), and the LOVE SYMBOL ALBUM (1992). I like the street-smart humor of his early stuff, the raw passion, the in-your-face sex metaphors, with symbols as loud as cymbals, just the wild mercury sound of it; later on, his work became more spiritual, and harder for me to follow. His whole being though was music, every movement was a melody, every step a beat; he created music the way other people breathe. He had more songs in him than a duck has quacks. If you listen to the posthumous release, PIANO AND A MICROPHONE 1983, it’s as if the piano, microphone and artist aren’t three separate things, but one organism, bleeding and generating music; it features some wonderful, loose playing. It seems to me that towards the end of his life, in physical pain and unable to play a piano or guitar unless stuffed with elephant tranquilizers, he started to drift, and drift further, until he fell over the edge.

Like Bob Dylan, whose mystique and inaccessibility he shared, Prince had a habit of frustrating his fans, by deliberately excluding a great song from an otherwise so-so album and storing it in his vault, or by making his music hard to buy or even find (online, before he died, there was almost nothing). That’s one reason I kind of stopped following him; the other is the depressing decline of his songwriting since the 1990s. Looking at his later albums, which I first dutifully bought until I didn’t anymore, there’s hardly anything I really like. None of the best-of compilations collect anything from after the 90s. What happened? Age is part of it of course. A decline in quality is inevitable, most musical artists do their best work in their 20s and 30s. It’s also possible Prince’s brand of singing about his women like they are divine vaginas simply went out of style. Once cheeky and outrageous (his work was why Parental Advisory stickers were invented), his songs no longer shock us 21st centurians. We’ve seen so much already. Dirty sex wasn’t the only topic he sang about of course (far from it), but it’s the one he pushed forward the most as part of his image; his “royal badness” was part of his appeal. (The BATMAN soundtrack originally was going to feature Michael Jackson as Batman, the force of good, and Prince as the Joker, representing decadence, sin, evil.)

But his supposed “badness” was an act of course. The cocky poses, flashy gestures and mean diva looks were an obvious shield against the outside world, a theatrical defense mechanism. An attempt to dazzle people before they can get to you. When you’re shy—and he of course was the shyest—you feel like everyone is constantly watching you, and you become overly aware of how you look, how you walk, how you come across; you are constantly aware of your physical being taking up space. So what do you do when you’re an artist? You perform. Everything you do becomes a kind of performance, a conscious act. It gives you a feeling of control: you know why people are watching, because you’re making them watch you. But the essence of it is always shyness and nerves.

There’s something endearing about that 1983 footage of him being invited on stage for an impromptu jam by James Brown, who a few minutes earlier had invited Michael Jackson up. Ready to upstage his rival, who had just performed some killer moves, Prince takes the stage, struts, plays some random riffs, struts some more, suddenly takes off his jacket and does some tricks with the microphone stand, claps to whip up the audience—and then as he wants to make a fast and sudden exit, he clumsily goes down knocking over a prop, stage hands hastily arriving from all sides to help him up.

He died in an elevator near the lobby, but the spot itself has been covered up by a new wall (it’s near the watchful eyes in the third image). I keep wondering what happened. Was he making his way down to the ground floor from his production offices, or was he going up from the recording studio to his bedroom to maybe sleep? One associate, questioned by police, stated that Prince had told her he “was depressed, enjoyed sleeping more than usual and was incredibly bored”, and that at his last concert, he felt like he was going to fall asleep on stage. Those were rare remarks. An intensely private person, he mostly hid his problems, not just from others, but even from himself. The end, then, was inevitable. As with Michael Jackson six years before, the drugs relieved him of his pain, and then of his life.

He never slept, and when he did, it was 4ever.

#prince #paisley park #photos #inside #interior #studio #music #pics #pictures #images #house #home

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basicsofislam · 4 years ago

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ISLAM 101: 5 PILLARS OF ISLAM: ALMS AND CHARITY: VIRTUES OF ZAKAT:

DID ZAKAT EXIST IN RELIGIONS PRIOR TO ISLAM?

Past prophets have also been under obligation to take humankind by the hand and show all the roads leading to physical and spiritual ascension; thus, they too have shown the precious path of zakat as part of a primordial effort to diminish class differences in societies and to provide a judicious and blissful lifestyle remote from detrimental excessiveness. By virtue of providing examples of previous Prophetic applications, the Qur’an does much to put the accent on this mission. Following a brief reference in the Qur’an to the prophets Abraham, Isaac and Jacob comes the following declaration:

And We made them leaders to guide people in accordance with Our command: We inspired in them acts of virtue, the establishment of salat and payment of zakat. They were worshippers of Us. (Anbiya 21:73)

In reference to Prophet Ishmael, the matchless significance of salat and zakat as the primordial existence of alms as an essential component of worship is underlined from early on: “He used to enjoin his people salat and zakat, and was acceptable in the sight of his Lord” (Maryam 19:55).

Salat and zakat, in actual fact, are the common denominators of all monotheistic religions, where salat and zakat, after belief in the Oneness of God, form the very core of worship. In fact, salat and zakat are, or at least were, essential characteristics of all of the great religions of the world, those guided by a long line of prophets sent by God since the dawn of humankind, despite the fact that current forms of worship in some faith communities may vary in outward appearance. In support of this, the Qur’an, adamantly states:

They were ordered no more than to worship God with sincere devotion, to honestly establish salat and give zakat. And that is the Standard Religion.” (Bayyina 98:5)

The following verse, which provides insight into how the people of Midian first received teachings of Prophet Jethro (Shuayb) teachings about obligatory zakat, bears testimony to its practice in preceding times:

In sarcasm, they said, “O Jethro! Does your salat command you that we should abandon what our forefathers worshipped or that we should cease doing what we like with our property? Conversely, you are pleasant and right- minded.” (Hud 11:87)

The Midians’ apprehension at being compelled to cease doing what they liked with their properties denotes, almost certainly, a remonstration againstzakat. The people of the Midian, who evidently had complete appreciation for the altruistic Jethro, still could not get themselves to accept or follow Jethro’s brave attempts to encourage them to perform proper salat or give zakat; branding him instead as an instigator, and a rebel. As is the usual case with similar public dissentions, the people of Midian had a ready scapegoat for giving full vent to their frustrations about the obligation of zakatwhich was, as can be seen, salat itself.

Even though the Qur’an does not explain, literally, whether or not each prophet carried the duty of imposing zakat, it is highly possible to argue for its primordial existence through the i d e a l notion of peace, the humane spirit of assistance and support represented and accentuated by each Messenger, beginning with the Prophet Adam, and the Qur’anic references discussed above.

In addition, despite having their initial contents altered, the Torah and the Bible still include many passages which support the proposition that zakatactually predates Islam. As no revelations prior to Muhammad %(upon whom be peace) have survived to this day in their original forms, a fact supported even among Jewish and Christian scholars, the sole, authoritative point of reference in this argument remains the Qur’an itself. Additionally, it is worth noting that the Qur’an stresses zakat was enjoined as a duty on Jews and Christians, as well, not just on Muslims, as the textual references to the Qur’an which are included below will clearly demonstrate. Likewise, an analysis of the Torah and the Bible provides fascinating similarities and conformities with Islam’s all-embracing concept of zakat.

CAN YOU PROVIDE INFORMATION ABOUT

ZAKAT

IN JUDAISM?

The Qur’an generally tends to speak of the Jews as somewhat “skaters on thin ice,” underlining their preponderantly neglectful attitude concerning their religious responsibilities and periodically provides us a detailed account of what exactly those responsibilities were:

And (remember) when We made a covenant with the Children of Israel, We said; “Serve none but God, show kindness to your parents and to your relatives, to the orphans and the needy; speak kindly to humankind, establish the prayer and pay the zakat. But with the exception of a few, you turned away and paid no heed. (Baqara 2:83)

Zakat along with salat is sternly recommended as a requirement for divine acquittal for their transgressions:

God made a covenant of old with the Children of Israel, and We raised among them twelve chieftains, and God said: “I am with you. If you establishsalat and pay the zakat, and believe in My Messengers and support them, and lend to God a goodly loan, surely I shall remit your sins, and surely I shall admit you into gardens beneath which rivers flow. Whosoever among you disbelieves after this has gone astray from a straight path.” (Maida 5:12)

And in spite of undergoing multiple amendments, the current text of the Torah still grants us glimpses of the spirit of zakat, grounded on the relations between the rich and the poor:

Jehovah has not despised or been disgusted with the plight of the oppressed one. He has not hidden His face from that person. Jehovah heard when that oppressed person cried out to Him for help. (Psalms 22:24)

When you help the poor (needy) (lowly) (depressed) you lend to Jehovah. He will pay you back. (Proverbs 19:17)

He who oppresses the poor reproaches his Maker. He who has mercy for the poor honors his Maker. (Proverbs 14:31)

This is what you must do whenever there are poor Israelites in one of your cities in the land that Jehovah your God is giving you. Be generous to these poor people. Freely lend them as much as they need. Never be hardhearted and stingy with them. When the seventh year, the year when payments on debts are canceled, is near, you might be stingy toward poor Israelites and give them nothing. Be careful not to think these worthless thoughts. The poor will complain to Jehovah about you, and you will be condemned for your sin. Give the poor what they need, because then Jehovah will make you successful in everything you do. (Deutoronomy 15:7-12)

He who gives to the poor will not lack. But he who hides his eyes will have many curses. (Proverbs 28:27)

And if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom will be like midday. (Isaiah 58:10)

He who gets ahead by oppressing the poor and giving to the rich will certainly suffer loss. (Proverbs 22:16)

It is certainly easy, by and large, to draw a connection between the above verses and many Qur’anic passages, not to mention the conspicuously striking similarities between some. It is these considerable parallels that lead us to the conclusion that the ideas and instructions all stem from the same source, God, and that the essential issues concerning humankind have, quite surprisingly, undergone very little change despite human’s apparent weakness as a transmitter over time.

One further point deserves mention. The above quotations gathered from the Torah, as well as the upcoming Biblical passages, are from current versions of the texts which have, as is widely accepted and was noted above, been partially or predominantly altered, though the exact extent and manner in which such changes have been brought to these ancient scriptures is a matter for debate. A tentative and prudent approach to the current versions is thus the correct attitude, as recommended wisely by the Prophet Muhammad (upon whom be peace) himself:

When the People of the Book utter a narration, do not agree nor disagree with them, but say, “We only believe in God and His Messengers.” This way, concurrence is avoided if they speak lies, and denial is avoided provided that they speak the truth.48

IS THERE INFORMATION ABOUT

ZAKAT

IN CHRISTIANITY?

The situation in Christianity is no different, for the Prophet Jesus, while still in the cradle, utters the duties obliged onto him by God in the following manner:

(Whereupon) he (the baby) spoke out: “I am indeed a servant of God. He has given me the Scripture and has appointed me a prophet. And He has made me blessed whereever I may be and has commanded me to pray and to give alms to the poor as long as I live. And (He) has made me dutiful to my mother and has not made me oppressive, wicked. So peace be upon me the day I was born and the day that I die and the day that I shall be raised up to life (again).” (Maryam 19:30-33)

Considering the fact that the Bible predominantly focuses on ethical issues, a jurisprudential adherence to the Torah, so to speak, was a social necessity. Nonetheless, there are copious Biblical verses which themselves allude to zakat and sadaqa. The following passages may throw light on this discussion; of course, the possible alterations to these passages must be kept in mind:

Be careful! Do not display your righteousness (good works) before men to be noticed by them. If you do, you will have no reward with your heavenly Father. Do not loudly announce it when you give to the poor. The hypocrites do this in the houses of worship and on the streets. They do this to be praised by men. Believe me, they have already been paid in full. When you give charity, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing. (Matthew 6:1-3)

He looked at him and was afraid. “What is it, Lord?” he replied. The angel said: “God hears your prayers and sees your gifts of mercy. (Acts 10:4)

He said: Cornelius, your prayer is heard and your gifts of mercy are noticed in the sight of God. (Acts 10:31)

Jesus then replied: “If you wish to be complete, go sell your possessions and give the money to the poor. You will have wealth in heaven. Then follow me!” But hearing these words, the young man went away grieving, for he was very wealthy. Jesus said to his disciples: “Truly I tell you, it is hard for a man with much money to go into the kingdom of heaven. Again I say, it is eas ier for a camel to go through a needle’s eye, than for a man with much money to go into the kingdom of God.” (Matthew 19:21-24)

Sell your possessions and give to charity. Make yourselves purses that do not get old, a treasure in heaven where moth and rest cannot corrupt and thieves cannot steal. (Luke 12:33)

And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, I gain nothing. (Corinthians 13:3)

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have left undone the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy and faith. You should do both and leave nothing undone. (Matthew 23:23)

It is thus quite possible to, again, draw connections between the Qur’an and Hadith, on the one hand, and many Biblical passages. The level of conspicuous similarities between the above texts accentuates their unity of origin. Adopting this approach in scrutinizing the Torah and the Bible will, undeniably, offer us much more evidence culminating in the very same conclusion.

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artistic-writer · 5 years ago

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The Paradox of Light :: CS AU : Rated E :: part 2

Title: The Paradox of Light by @artistic-writer Summary: Imagine having one person, one constant, one love in your life that holds your head when you go under the surface. They will be there forever, holding your hand through everything life can throw at the pair of you, but what happens when a crack forms? What happens when it grows into something neither of you can control? What happens when the one person who was there to guide you becomes an obstacle and rather than hold you up, they pull you down? How do you find your way out of the darkness without your light? Rating: E Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, sexual addiction, domestic violence, fighting, choking, erotic asphyxiation (use in a non-informed manner), depression, death of Liam Jones, panic attacks, PTSD, attempted rape/non-con/dub-con, stab wounds, bar fights, rehab/AA meetings

- but there is a happy ending to this story, i promise.

Author’s Note: I missed this ficversary because of everything that is going on in the world right now, but its been in the plan to re-release it as a multichapter for some time. It’s A LOT otherwise and whilst I initially always intended this to be a one shot, because I wrote it in one go, its not logical to expect people to stop and read so many words in one go. The lovely fanart by @itsfabianadocarmo features in all chapters, so go show her some love!

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS!! This fic has a lot of them for a reason. If you want to ask about any, please don’t be afraid to message me.

Part Two [ below the cut ]

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Five months ago

“Hi, Emma, it’s Will.”

“Is he…?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid so, lass.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t let him leave.”

Like so many phone calls before, Emma knew exactly what it meant when Will called her. He was a good friend of theirs, a military buddy of Killian’s and the manager of the local bar that just happened to be where Killian went night after night to poison himself into a stupor. Will could not turn him away whilst sober, despite knowing exactly what he was trying to achieve by drinking more than his weight in spirits, but even Will had a limit to how far he would go to help his friend.

And by Will’s tone, Emma knew Killian had reached his brand new threshold. Steadily he had become immune to the effects of prolonging drinking, becoming even more depressed as he had remained sober for longer, and to make matters even worse, Emma had let him. She felt awful, watching the man that she loved crumble each and every night he returned home in a mess of bitter tasting kisses and sloppy groping.

But she had made a choice, as selfish as it seemed, to ignore the rancid taste on Killian’s tongue night after night in favour of her own high that lie on the other side of her orgasm. They had fallen into a routine of him drinking himself stupid, his emotions getting the better of him when it was never enough, and then the both of them falling into bed and into each other to numb what they were feeling. It was wrong, and it was selfish, but Emma never wanted it to end.

What lay just beyond their grief was their hope, a guiding beacon of deliverance, and the only thing in their way was the pleasure of getting there, each losing themselves in the other and falling asleep in each other's arms. It had been enough and they had managed to function, neither saying a word of what they required because the other always knew. Except now they had become addicted to each other, with no sense of moderation, and that was why Emma found herself driving out to Will’s bar at midnight to retrieve her next fix.

Killian always drank in the same booth because that corner of the bar was dimly lit and he could hide his tears after each glass. When Emma approached it didn’t escape her notice that the table was full of empty tumblers, none with a single drop of alcohol left in the bottom, and that there were more than usual covering the wooden surface. He was slumped back in the soft, dark green leather seat, his chin on his chest and his fingers wrapped around what she assumed was his last drink, even though the glass looked as dry as a bone.

“Will cut me off,” he grumbled against his chest, not looking up to meet her gaze. Emma sighed pitifully.

“Come on, Killian, let’s get you home,” she coaxed gently as she moved some of the glasses away from the edge of the table. If he stumbled she didn’t need him breaking a glass or worse.

“I’m not…” he began, quickly blowing out his cheeks and swallowing the rise of burning bile that had crept up his throat.

“I think you’re done drinking,” Emma offered. She stepped forward and ran her hand through his hair as he lifted his head to look at her, a genuine smile that she had not seen for months plastered across his face, but as quickly as it appeared, it faded and Killian wrenched his head away from her touch.

“I’m not done drinking,” he spat, unable to stop himself when he fell sideways and out of the booth. Killian barely stopped his face colliding with the floor and quickly pushed himself to his knees. “That...That bastard said I’ve had enough!” He waved an accusing finger towards the bar, his eyes squinting at Will who simply watched with a solemn expression.

Emma gave Will a quick apologetic smile before turning back to Killian and crouching down beside him. “I think you’ve had enough,” Emma said seriously, her jaw clenching and her arms straining as she hooked her arm into his elbow and yanked Killian to his feet.

Killian shook his head from side to side, sucking on his bottom lip and closing his eyes just long enough to stop the world spinning. “I know I’ve got room for more,” he laughed maniacally, falling against Emma who struggled to hold him aloft by herself. Luckily, Will had seen the display, on more than one occasion, and was on hand to help instantly.

“Yeah? And why is that, mate?” Will lifted Killian’s arm and ducked under it, holding him with Emma who mirrored his actions on the opposite side. They shuffled towards the back door, that exit closest to Emma’s car, Killian still giggling like he had just outsmarted his biggest nemesis. They stopped briefly when Killian plastered his hand to the side of Will’s head, turning his face to his as his eyes peeled open and he looked him dead in the eye.

“Because I can still feel,” Killian said softly, his voice wavering on the last word. Will paused, the bleakness behind Killian’s eyes something he had never noticed before now. They were dull, the spark of blue he once saw from both Jones brothers now gone, replaced with a blackness that had turned them grey. Killian’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed a lump of tears down his throat and his lips twitched into a weak smile as he patted Will’s cheek and pressed his forehead against his. “It still hurts.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Will almost whispered, grabbing the back of Killian’s head and holding him steady. “I wish I could take it away, you know that.”

“You can,” Killian whimpered. “Just one more…”

“No, Killian,” Emma interrupted gently and Killian looked away from his friend and back to the woman he loved with a slight sway. Will caught him and stopped him from falling backwards. “Let’s just go home.”

Her words were code, Emma knew it and Killian knew it too. Home wasn’t where they lived, parked their cars at night and watched their television. No, home was more than that. It was the place of peace they found inside of each other, the place they went to when they needed each other the most because the guilt of living was too much to bear. And above all else, home was where they could forget about the world and where the weight of misery was lifted from their shoulders.

They barely spoke on the way home, the cold night air whistling through Killian’s tousled hair as he rested his head against the doorframe, the window of the truck rolled all the way down. He sang to himself, songs from his tours of duty, songs that reminded him of his brother’s both familial and adoptive. The words were gut wrenching and Emma had no idea he even knew he was saying them aloud, but she simply drove and listened, the now familiar lump once again forming in her throat as he sobbed through each verse beside her.

“Emma?” Killian coughed her name roughly, a burn tearing through his lungs that was most likely from the cold and the alcohol. He had found the couch, his body too intoxicated to find its way to anywhere else in the house and he had collapsed back into the softness of the cushions as if they had beckoned him.

“Right here,” Emma murmured softly, tossing her car keys onto the kitchen island and moving into the lounge. “Here, drink this,” Emma commanded gently, lifting Killian’s hand and guiding it to the tall glass of water in her hand. He fumbled, barely gripping the slippery glass, so she helped him lift it to his lips and he sipped the ice cold liquid with disgust.

“Water?” Killian grimaced, turning his face away from it like a child. “Where is the rum?”

“No more rum,” Emma chastised, placing the glass on the table in front of them and settling beside him on the couch. She laid her hand down over his knee, feeling how cold he was through the fabric of his jeans.

“It’s not enough,” Killian scoffed, his words quickly turning into a sorrowful sob as they left his mouth. Emma knew what he meant and gave his knee a squeeze. The alcohol was not enough to take away the pain anymore and Emma wished she could ease his burden and carry some of his despair.

“Killian, I…” she began gently.

“You love me, right?” he blurted suddenly. Emma frowned a little as she took in his expression. It was soft, desperate and child like and his lip quivered. Killian’s cheeks flushed red and the tears in his eyes came back, the redness around his eyes reappearing as she saw the fresh wave that threatened to fall.

“Of course,” Emma slid closer to him and flattened her palm to his cheek. Killian leaned into her touch and held her hand to his face as he inhaled her scent. “I will always love you.”

“I want…” he stuttered, searching her eyes for a sign that she could understand what he wanted without him having to force the rest of the words from his mouth. Killian pulled Emma’s hand a little until she had no choice but to move with her arm and so she did, straddling his lap as he had intended.

“I know,” Emma whispered, leaning her forehead against his and cupping his face in her hands. Killian’s scruff tickled her palms but she ignored it as his tears soaked her fingers. “I want it too,” she gulped hard, her fingers sliding up and down the sides of his face, threading through his sideburns and tracing the outline of his elfen ears.

With a hefty sigh of relief, Killian’s dam broke and his audible cry of anguish rumbled from deep in his chest. “I know we shouldn’t,” he sobbed, his breath hitching in his throat and his hands finding the hem of Emma’s sweater. “But I just want to…”

“Feel free?” Emma sighed softly. Killian nodded against her and Emma pulled her face from his and moved off of his lap. He was hit with the very real panic of never letting the stabbing sensation in his chest be replaced with anything else until Emma grabbed the back of her sweater and pulled it over her head. She tossed it aside, made short work of her jeans and bra and left him stunned to silence when she stood before him as gloriously naked as the day she was born.

She was an angel, of that he was sure. She was a celestial being sent to guide him through the path of shadows and light his way to freedom. Only, Killian knew as much as Emma did, that if that was true, she was about to become one of the fallen, an angel tempted by the sins of man and never to be redeemed.

“Me too,” Emma rasped, sitting astride his lap once more and frantically tugging at the belt of his jeans. Helpless to aid her because of the heaviness of his limbs, Killian simply watched her nimble fingers work on the button of his jeans, tugging the sides apart and sending a shock wave of arousal coursing right through him.

This time was about her need, Killian knew that. She was quick, barely allowing herself to become aroused before sinking down onto him, wincing at the stretch and burn he knew she would undoubtedly feel from his girth. And there was a hurriedness in her actions, a hunter like instinct to find her own quarry that scared him a little until she found a rhythm that made her shudder and leaned forward to taste his lips.

“Make me come, Killian,” Emma gasped between bounces, planting her lips against his only long enough to feel them on her skin and not taste the sourness of rum on his breath. “Take me there.”

Killian wrapped his arms around her naked form, planting his hands firmly against her back until he felt the bumps of her spine beneath the tips of his fingers. Emma’s soft, downy body hair sprang to attention and she arched her back willingly when Killian curved her body away from his and loomed forward to capture a nipple between his lips. They were dry and cracked against her skin but Emma didn’t mind the texture. It was like a trigger, her external pain amplifying her internal struggle for release that only Killian could give her.

Nails clawed over her skin and teeth bit down on the peaks of her breasts and Emma screamed out, her orgasm ripping through her body like an exorcism, leaving its mark in the form of weak shudders and soft whimpers as the demon of desolation left her body once more. Killian followed shortly afterwards, his hips jutting into her throbbing core only a few more times before he found his own salvation and went deaf from it, the beacon of light shining through him once more.

There was a moment after they had both peaked that they felt free. They were free from pain, free to let hands roam over gentle curves and through messed up side parted hair, but it never lasted. They both knew they would wake up the next day, the high of their bliss having subsided and the demons of despair making their inevitable return, but for now all they had was this moment, and in this moment, they were alive.

Four months ago

Emma knew this day would come. Killian had left for work as normal, kissing her goodbye and acting as normal as any other person in the world. His breath was fresh and minty, a tiny remnant of toothpaste caught in the corner of his mouth that Emma had wiped away with a wet thumb pad. And there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, one that Emma had not seen for months, a smile of genuine glee on his face and a sparkle in his eyes as he let the door close behind him and waved goodbye.

It wasn’t long after home time, when she had received no messages like she usually did, that panic set in and Emma realised that what Killian had been experiencing in the morning was simply mania. Depression was an evil thing, worming itself into the lives of unsuspecting people, creeping up on them without remorse. Every once in a while, there would be a peak of happiness that professionals would call mania, the manic side of being so low that you can’t physically take it anymore.

Killian had always texted Emma to tell her he was at Will’s bar, but not tonight, and after Will had texted her to say he had confiscated Killian’s keys, she had resigned herself to the fact that he was probably not coming home for the first time since Liam had died. She felt empty and was unable to drink the cinnamon topped hot chocolate she had prepared shortly before bed, simply leaving the milky drink to go cold and lumps of melted cream to float around the surface.

Emma knew she hadn’t been asleep long when she heard the rattle of keys struggling to find the lock on the front door. There was barely even the disorientation of sleep clouding her mind or the fuzz of sleep covering the inside of her mouth before she heard the cursing coming from the kitchen and the breaking of ceramic against the floor. The cold chocolate had met its demise against the slate tiles and Killian hadn’t even lowered his voice as he swore about the mess.

“Swan!” He called out groggily, his voice booming through the silent house. A light chuckle followed his shout but Emma did not move, her limbs heavy and her mind exhausted from her worry that had now been abated. She knew he would find his way to bed, he always had before, but the tingle in her joints and the increase of her heart beat told her that her body was not as annoyed as she should be.

The bedroom door opened with a thud as it hit the wall behind, the indent from the doorknob leaving a mark in the plaster of ever increasing depth. It was fruitless trying to cover it up now because if it wasn’t one addiction making the door fly open in a sloppy maneuver, it was the desperation of the other sending the cold, round handle into the wall night after night as they tore each other’s clothes off seeking their high.

“Swan?” Killian whispered all too loudly as he stumbled over his boots midway through kicking them off. “Are you awake?” He made it to the edge of the bed, falling forward and only just stopping himself with two flat palms to the mattress.

“I am now,” Emma lied, rolling over to face him. He was merry, not doubt about it, his rosy cheeks and red tipped ears telling her exactly his poison of choice. Rum always made him blush in random places.

“I tried to be quiet,” Killian slurred, swaying side to side as he lifted his knee onto the bed in an ungainly manner. He lost his balance instantly and slammed his foot back to the floor before he toppled over. “Did you make the bed higher?” He mumbled, inspecting the edge of the mattress with a frown.

“No, Killian,” Emma sighed, sitting up and flicking her hair behind her shoulders. She never went to bed with her hair tied up anymore, not since meeting Killian, but it had been months since he had absently run his fingers through it in his sleep and inhaled the soft vanilla scent from her shampoo.

“I like your hair,” Killian grinned at her, eyelids heavy and a boyish smirk plastered across his face. Emma rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow at him, shaking her head a little. “It’s so…” He paused, trying to find the words, poking his tongue out and sucking behind his teeth until he made a squeaking noise. “...yellow.”

“Yellow?” Emma asked incredulously.

“Aye, like the bug,” Killian smiled at her and it was real, a soft curve of his lips that were slightly parted and told her that he was happy, if only for this moment. He attempted to mount the bed once again, this time victoriously, and shuffled onto his side once he had taken a good two minutes to free his arms from the confines of his leather jacket. He tossed it across the room with little effort and when he ran his hand through his hair, Emma noticed the dried blood adorning his knuckles in the light of the moon.

“You’ve cut your hand,” She said quickly, pulling his hand closer so she could inspect it. The skin on his knuckles had burst open leaving a jagged edged wound in its wake, the fresh, bright red blood still trying to escape through the dried, dark brown crust. Emma leaned over and pulled the toggle switch on one of their bedside lamps, the room erupting in a dim orange glow as soon as the clicking sound filled their ears.

“I’m fine,” Killian shrugged dismissively.

Emma looked up from his hand to meet his gaze and her eyes went wide, the light flooding into her pupils and making her eyes sting. “Killian! You’re hurt!” She shrieked, moving closer, the feather duvet ruffling around her as she did, her eyes roaming over his face. He was beat, there were no bones about that, a purple swell under his right eye keeping his eyelids together and a dried line of blood that had trickled down the side of his face.

“You should see the other guy,” Killian said joyously, giving her a wink. Emma tutted, mostly at herself because as her hand hovered over a freshly reopened wound on his right cheek, she felt a surge of want that scared her. She was fascinated by the patterns of splattered blood on his shirt collar, turning the blue material into a dark maroon colour under ear spot, and she felt a blush creep up the back of her neck.

“Killian, I’m serious,” Emma chastised, enjoying the weight of his hand in hers, even if she shouldn’t under the circumstances. Her mind wandered briefly when he turned their hands over, brushing his thumb over the backside of her knuckles in a move so gentle her heart skipped in her chest and she had to swallow hard.

“So am I,” he said softly, his good eye fluttering closed when Emma’s featherlight fingertips brushed over the split skin next to his hairline.

“Is this all your blood?” Emma asked nervously as her eyes flickered over his face more urgently. Her gaze roamed lower and took in his shirt, top buttons tore off most likely from an opponent who had grabbed at the material. He had some dark red fingerprint type smudges across his neck, half shaped moon bruises there from fingernails and his chest hair glistened with a wet look.

“I’m sure it is not all mine,” Killian announced proudly. “I gave as good as I got, love, trust me.”

Emma flattened her hands out over his shirt, dread setting into her heart when she felt the warm, wet sensation under her fingers and realised that the wet look to his chest hair was in fact blood, his blood, from a wound that had been newly inflicted or was struggling to stem itself under the friction of his shirt. Emma tore at the remainder of his buttons, ripping the edges of his shirt apart in haste.

“Oh my god,” She exclaimed breathlessly, her face turning alabaster and heat prickling her skin when she saw the damage. “Fuck, Killian, you’ve been stabbed!”

“What?” Killian laughed nervously, craning his neck to look down at where Emma was looking. Sure enough, even through blurred vision, Killian could see the irregular circular shape punched into his pec, the flaps of skin around the edges the faintest shade of white under the layer of caked on blood. He lifted his head again, the colour draining from his face in shock. “Well, bugger.”

The hospital was more than understanding and why wouldn’t they believe the word of the local sheriff when she told them her boyfriend was accidentally injured in a bar fight? It probably wasn’t a million miles from the truth, but Killian could not remember how it had happened. A quick call to Will confirmed that there had been an altercation in the bar that, but nothing more than a few pickled slurs and insults that had fizzled out towards closing time. It seemed whoever Killian had ticked off had followed him out back because Will had found a broken bottle by the dumpster, the bottom shattered, bloody fingerprints around the neck and the sharp, pointed edges covered in dried blood.

“You are lucky,” Emma snapped, tossing her purse onto the kitchen counter.

“I’m alright, love,” Killian said with a wince as he shrugged out of his blood stained jacket whilst being mindful of his injury.

“That’s not the point,” Emma bit out, unable to look in his direction. “Not only did you not come home when Will’s closed, but when you did finally fall through the door you were stabbed, Killian! Stabbed!”

“I’m sorry, Swan,” Killian gulped, the last few hours having sobered him up enough that he could see the pain in her posture and the hurt in her voice as it switched between anger and fear. He moved towards her, his bootless feet falling silent on the tile, sidestepping the congealed chocolate he had spilled a few hours ago.

Emma leaned forward, trembling hands clinging to the edge of the marble as the emotion of the whole evening hit her like a freight train. Killian’s hands were on her as soon as the flood gates opened, drawing slow circles over the curve of her shoulder joints with his thumbs as she cried. Emma shook, her whole body wracked with sobs she had been holding in since the moment she discovered the gaping hole in his chest.

“Damn it, Killian!” She cried, slamming a flat palm into the cold, stone surface in front of her.

“I know,” he soothed sympathetically.

“They said you were lucky!” She screeched, turning to face him. He didn’t step back and ignored the pain that shot through his wound with the twist of his arm.

“I know…,” he agreed.

“Half an inch to the right and that bottle would have pierced your heart!” Emma bellowed, her eyes falling to where the dried blood had turned his shirt a dark shade of brown. The hospital had cleaned away most of the blood that had stuck to his chest hair and he had left his shirt open on the way home, so Emma reached out and pressed her fingers against the steady beat of his heart, the skin warm and supple under her touch. She raked her nails over the patch of hair above his heart, millimeters from the tape of the bandage covering the hole in his pec and couldn’t stop the quiver in her lip as the tears tumbled from her eyes. “I could have lost you,” she whimpered, lifting her head to finally face him, the expression of a broken man staring back at her. “I can’t lose you.”

Killian fought the ache in his chest and lifted his arms, pulling her into his embrace, the bandage on his chest quickly soaked by Emma’s tears. “I know,” he sighed sadly, tucking her head under his chin and rubbing his hands up and down her back.

There were no words that he could say that would make her feel better. Emma had been stronger than he could have ever been but finally her integrity had shattered into a thousand pieces, all of which he held in his hands, a charge he neither felt qualified or strong enough to uphold. Emma’s fingers clutched at the edges of his shirt as she cried, holding him to her with distress in her wails that he would never forget.

She lifted her head and real fear flashed through her eyes, turning the honey hues into a murky hazel. Killian met her gaze, the silence between them saying everything that they needed to. He recognised the look in her eyes, he had seen it before when Liam had died and she had thought she would lose him to the sharp edge of a razor blade or in a bottle of prescription painkillers. It was primal, urgent and miserable want of the highest degree.

And he felt it too.

“What are we doing to each other?” Killian rasped, his voice catching in his throat as his eyes flickered between hers and her lips.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Emma commanded on a heaving breath, her fingers curling around the crusty edges of his shirt.

“Emma, I…” Killian began, his sobriety giving him a moment of clarity in this toxic part of their relationship he hadn’t experienced until now. Emma’s hands were on the back of his neck before any more words could escape his mouth, his body ignoring his brain’s objections as soon as their lips met. The kiss was feverish, burning them up from the inside out and making them gasp for oxygen between tastes of tongues, clashes of teeth and the biting of lips.

They had sex differently now. It wasn’t making love so much as fucking, diving into each other until they were drowning in the sounds of pleasure and the smell of their sweat sheened skin invaded their senses. It was hurried, like a race into wretchedness with no winner, a sprint for the finish line that left them elated but never sated.

Killian wanted her, and Emma wanted him. That was all they knew.

When Emma tangled her fingers into his hair, pulling in frustration, Killian growled and it set a switch off inside of Emma. Gone were her tears, gone was her worry that she might never have him again, instead the vacancy in her core replaced with desire, deep and sultry that had her tugging again at the dark locks and biting his bottom lip a little harder than he was used to. He cried out again and tore his lips from hers, dabbing his stinging bottom lip with a fingertip and inspecting it for blood. Killian looked up at her again, confused and aroused, Emma was looking up at him through her eyelashes, her body arching into his and her teeth troubling her bottom lip salaciously. He grinned, the intense throb in his jeans hurting that little bit more than before.

“There’s my pirate,” Emma cooed his nickname, wrapping her fingers around the chain that Killian wore around his neck. He never took it off because it held one of his most prized possessions, Liam’s ring, and she slid her hand down the cool metal links until she had it in her palm.

Killian surged forward, ignoring the sting of pain as he hoisted her into his arms and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She could feel his length through his jeans pressing into the thin material of the pajamas she had neglected to change out of in her panic to get him to the hospital before and it made her groan, snaking her hands around his neck and pulling his already open mouth to hers.

Their kisses were messy, wet and rushed, tongues diving deeper than they ever had before. Emma noticed the distinctly faded taste of a different brand of rum on Killian’s tongue and wondered if he had drunk through Will’s supply already that week, but it was short lived when Killian swiped an extended arm over the kitchen table, ridding it of a few magazines and candles, and them slammed her down on the hard, wooden surface with a grunt. He stood back, a dark hollowness to his stare as he grabbed the waistband of her pants and underwear at the same time and pulled them off in one motion.

“Hurry,” Emma begged wantonly, writhing on the table and watching his hands fumble with the button of his jeans. “I need you,” She purred as she traced circles over her clit, slicking her nectar from her fluttering core and using it as lubrication over the pulsating bundle of nerves. Killian was free in no time, roughly grabbing Emma’s knees as he stepped up to the edge of the table and pulling her to him, his tip stretching her entrance in just the most torturous way.

“I need you too,” Killian said firmly, his entire body shaking from holding himself back. Emma hooked her legs around his back, digging her heels into his spine and pulled him closer, impaling herself with a raging satisfaction.

“So, take me,” She challenged and it was all Killian needed to begin a rhythm with his hips that left her inner walls screaming for more and her body boneless.

He was relentless, gasping for breath and holding her to him as he thrust into her, barely leaving the comfort of her fiery centre for fear he might never find his way back. Emma yelped when he pulled her a little too harshly, hooking his hands behind her knees, his fingernails digging into her flesh so hard she was sure she would have bruises the next day. They would be a reminder, proof of their devotion and a visual description of the actions of their addiction to each other, hidden from friends but they would know they were there.

They would always know they were there.

As with any dependency, their trysts had become stale and they needed more each time in order to find the shining light within each other and feel the relief of a climax as it washed over them. Killian stopped his pounding thrusts when Emma screamed his name in such a way that meant she was close, cruelty he knew, but he wasn’t done with taking her to heaven just yet. Emma whined with a frown, but it was short lived because ignoring the searing pain from the stitches pulling against his freshly torn skin on his chest, Killian pulled her up off the table and into his arms, spinning them and stumbled into the side of the refrigerator.

“Yes,” Emma whispered, clutching the sides of his face and clawing at his cheeks. “More,” she panted, biting his chin and stiffening as he rolled his hips in that perfect way again and again.

“You’ll never lose me,” Killian panted between thrusts, his hands grabbing the globes of her naked ass as he leaned his entire weight against the buzzing appliance to hold Emma up. “Never,” he affirmed with a deep, core clenching plunge into her that made Emma bury her face in his neck and squeal with her impending orgasm.

“I’m there,” Emma sighed and she felt Killian grab the top of the refrigerator, pulling himself into her even harder to prolong her pleasure. “Come with me,” she begged, her voice almost as if she was crying, ready to explode on the inside, the approaching light inside of her numbing her senses and taking away her breath as well as her pain. Killian crowed, his legs buckling and giving out from underneath him, the pair of them tumbling to the floor and rolling into the remnants of the hot chocolate long forgotten.

Their bliss wouldn’t last, they both knew that, for tomorrow they would wake up still broken and damaged.

#cs au #hurt/comfort #the paradox of light #tpol #icymi

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dailyaudiobible · 5 years ago

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03/22/2020 DAB Transcript

Numbers 33:40-35:34, Luke 5:12-28, Psalms 65:1-13, Proverbs 11:23

Today is the 22nd day of March, welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I'm Brian it's great to be here with you at this threshold that we step through every week into a brand-new week. And just reminding us each week, this is this is something that we have to live into and it's before us and this is a fresh start. And, so, we'll dive in. We’ll pick up, of course, the journey where we left it off yesterday, but we’re in a new week and we’ll read from the New Living Translation this week. Today numbers chapter 33 verse 40 through 35 verse 34. And we’re almost at the end of our journey and numbers. We will conclude this book tomorrow. But this is today. So, Numbers chapter 33.

Commentary:

Okay. We have an interesting story happening in the book of Luke. It's a famous story. It's kind of a Sunday school story because it's dramatic. And some friends have brought their friend who's paralyzed, they brought him on a sleeping mat to Jesus but they can't get to them so they climb up on the roof and kind of carve a hole in the roof and lower him down before Jesus. Super dramatic. But something really interesting happens because Jesus doesn't say like, “do you want to be made well or be healed?” He says, “your sins are forgiven”. Why is He saying that? Which only makes the religious leaders freak out. Like, “that's blasphemy. Only God can forgive sins.” So, Jesus responds to that and He’s like, “what's easier to say, that your sins are forgiven or stand up and walk?” And we can look at that and go like, I’m not sure which would be easier to say. They seem like completely different things.” But in this case, they're not. In this first century Hebrew spiritual worldview, in other words, the world Jesus lived in, if a person was chronically ill or deformed in some way, then it was because of some sin somewhere. So, for that person to be healed than their sins were forgiven, and they would go before the priest to verify this and offer the sacrifice and be pronounced clean or healed. So, with that before us than Jesus has been moving all over the place, forgiving sins. So, in so many ways Jesus is saying to the religious leaders, “are we going to split hairs on this too. Like I'm moving around the countryside doing this. What's easier to say, your sins are forgiven or get up and walk?” And then He unites the two issues, “so that you can see that the Son of Man has the power and authority to forgive sins. Young man get up and walk.” And then the man did. But it brings up something interesting to consider. Jesus continually refers to Himself as the Son of Man or the Human One and we are…I mean the goal of our faith is to become Christ like. And the Bible tells us that the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead lives in us. So, can we forgive sins too. Do we bristle up at that thought? Like, do we bristle up like a Pharisee like this exactly like they did around Jesus at that thought? Can we forgive sins? Of course, we can. We must. We have no power to make ourselves or anyone else righteous before God, but we certainly can forgive those who sin against us. Isn't that what we pray in the Lord's prayer, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”, who sin against us. Of course, we can forgive. Jesus said, “if you forgive, you will be forgiven. If you don't then you won’t.” Forgiveness flows through God's kingdom like water. It sets the captives free and often that captive is us. Forgiveness brings healing to our soul and our lives, our hearts and our bodies as we see demonstrated in this story today. Forgiveness and mercy flow from the heart of God into our lives and then we in turn turn that out into the world. Forgiveness is where the actions add in God's kingdom. Forgiveness brings freedom. This is why we can see Jesus exasperated at times with the religious leaders because they don't get…they don't see it. For them it's in obeying the rituals, it's about obeying the religion, but they've lost the Spirit of the law as we've talked about so many times. What Jesus is revealing is there is a way, way better story going on here. There is way way more authority and power than you can imagine. All things are possible for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. And Jesus, in effect, is merging these two issues. Can I heal you or can I forgive your sins, since it's seen as one and the same in this worldview uniting them? For us reading this, we can see how pervasive the theme of forgiveness is in the Gospels is

Prayer:

Father, we love You and we thank You for Your forgiveness in our lives. Your mercy and grace abounds beyond anything we could ever comprehend or deserve. There's no question about that. And we certainly acknowledge that forgiveness is an irreplaceable part of Your kingdom and something that we must participate in every day. And we acknowledge we can’t walk around forgiving people and making them righteous before You, that's not the point. The point is You have forgiven us so much. You have been merciful so much that the only response is to turn that out into the world and forgive as we have been forgiven, forgiving those who have sinned and trespassed against us, knowing that the burden upon us, the damage that we do is astounding sometimes. And yet You still forgive us. So, come Holy Spirit we pray. And show us again the places that we need to revisit, the things we need to let go of, whether that’s an entanglement because somebody cut us off on the road and so now we’re following them too close to teach them a lesson instead of just forgiving it and letting it go or whether it's something far, far more deeper with tremendous amounts of wounding. It all starts somewhere, and it starts with this posture, this openness to forgiveness, to forgive and to be forgiven. Come Holy Spirit and let us see that this is where freedom lies. This is how Your kingdom works. Come in Jesus in we pray. In Your name we ask. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is home base, it's the website, where you find out what’s going on around here.

And interesting times that we’re in as we great this new week. But no matter what the week may bring in terms of further isolation from each other, this is a safe place. Around this Global Campfire it's always been that. So, no matter how…no matter how we are led into further disconnection we don't really have to change anything about the rhythm of our life around the Global Campfire. This is gonna be a safe place and it's gonna be a different place, it's gona be a place that we know that we can go and exhale and be safe. And, so let's continue to pray into that and continue this rhythm forward as God continues to speak to us through His word. And let’s stay connected with each other.

So, at dailyaudiobible.com in the Community section you’ll find all…all kinds of different ways to stay connected as well as the Prayer Wall. The Prayer Wall lives there and it's a continual ongoing prayer and encouragement for each other. So, let's make sure were aware of that. So, that’s Community section at…at the website. If you’re using the app you can just push the little Drawer icon in the upper left-hand corner to get into the Community section as well.

If you want to a partner with the Daily Audio Bible, thank you with all of my heart. Thank you. In these times or in any other time, we wouldn't be here if we hadn't done this together. And, so I'm grateful that we continue to do this together and create safe space no matter what's going on in the world. Thank you for your partnership. So, there's a link on the homepage at dailyaudiobible.com. If you’re using the Daily Audio Bible app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or encouragement, I mean this is the community for that. We don't have to carry these burdens alone. We’re not alone. We have each other no matter what we're facing. And, so, you can reach out 877-942-4253 is the number to dial or if you have the Daily Audio Bible app, just press the Hotline button, the little red button at the top and you can begin sharing from there.

And that is it for today other than to tell you I love you and I do and hang in there, we’re gonna get through this and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

This is the day our Lord has made let us rejoice and be glad in it. This is Dawn from Maryland and I’m calling for prayer. I had been blessed in the last few years to be surrounded by people, some ministers and being shown a different way of __ and prayer and also to church. I discovered the Daily Audio Bible probably within the last five / six months and I have been __. I wanted to ask for prayer and strength because my husband had divorced me and had taken everything from me - the house, the children and he advised that I did this because I was, you know, like not mentally stable. I had devoted my life to him and to my children and, you know, even…even before that I devoted my life to God. And I taught them about the Lord Jesus Christ. Please pray for me and ask God to release me from this depressive state that I have been in. I am in need of a lot of prayer. I can’t even find any friends. My family, you know, my family has abandoned me. My mother has not answered her phone. My sister has been calling but she’s going through her own issues too. And please keep my family in prayer. Also pray for my sisters, my two sisters that I have and my mother and also too for my two children. Thank you in the name of Jesus Christ. God loves you.

Hi DAB family this is CS from SC. We’ve been told that the best thing to do for this coronavirus is to self-quarantine, stay out of the public. So, I would like to ask prayers for all those that can’t self-quarantine, all those that can’t stay at home because of their job, all those that are the hospitals and doctor’s offices. We think of the doctors and nurses but I would also like to think about those that are the housekeeping staff, the people at the desk, the clerks, the people at the grocery stores and convenience stores, the people at the hotels that are doing housekeeping and working the desk and just all these thousands and thousands of jobs of people that don’t have the opportunity to stay home like some others do. So, Lord I just ask that You have a hand the protection over these…all these people that don’t have the opportunity to just stay at home where it’s a little bit safer, where it’s a little bit calmer, and that You’ll calm their souls, calm their nerves, that they’re not infected with this disease that only because of where they work or what they’re responsible for. Lord I ask this in Jesus name. Amen.

Good morning DAB family this is March 18th, and this is Teresa from Birmingham. I am calling for prayer request for all of our professors out there, our teachers that are trying to figure out the best way to help the students and how to navigate in this world where the coronavirus is ruling everything. All my students are…are being held at home and college students being told they can’t go back to the dorms and just overwhelmingness. Social distance…distancing can make you just feel alone. I pray for the students. I pray for calm. I pray for peace. I ask in Jesus precious name that as our teachers and our professors figure out how to put their lessons online and help their students the best way they know how, the Holy Spirit just watches over and protects them. I pray this prayer in Jesus’ precious name. Thank you DAB family for being there. Thank you, prayer warriors. We need you and I am just thankful to God. Thank you.

Hello family this is Lisa from San Jose. I really need your prayers. I just dropped my husband back up at the hospital because he’s having complications with his feeding tube. He’s probably down to 112 pounds now which he’s normally a robust 200 if not 180. So, please pray for me and him. They wouldn’t even let me in the hospital because of the COVIDS, you know. And, so, now I’m just at home waiting to kind of see what will happen. I’m confident though with all these prayers God has been holding him together and I thank you so much. And I do want to pray for the man who called in on I believe it was the March 7th prayer community line. He’s been on my heart a lot that’s in dark depression. I’ve been there brother and I understand that you’ve had this all your life, very dark and you’re just wondering where God is. He’s there. He’s there in the darkness. Please don’t forget it and hold onto Him with all your might. And, you know, it’s these darkness…these dark times that make us really cling to Jesus. And as somebody recently said, lean into Jesus. Oh…thank you family. We praise you, praise you Jesus. Okay, I’ll let you all know how Craig is doing. Thanks.

Good morning DAB family this is Janel in China. It is March 19th 9:24 in the morning and I just want to pray. I want to let everyone know that I am praying for you all while you are having to isolate yourselves for the coronavirus just like we did here in China. And honestly, we’re still doing that. I’m still working from home. I want to ask the Holy Spirit to give everyone who is listening the peace that only He can give. Have an awesome day everyone.

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acceptingmyowncompany · 5 years ago

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What Is This?!

As cliche as it is to say, the answer is, “I don’t know yet.” For the longest time, I’ve been trying to figure out exactly how to market myself. How to brand myself. How to create a full fledged platform where I can express myself in an assortment of ways. Expressing myself consistently and in the most fulfilling way possible. And with that consistency and fulfillment, a way to live, a way to survive was supposed to be born. In 2009, it was supposed to be youtube. In 2016, it was supposed to be my own website. ALWAYS so much planning, and always such poor execution. So much doubt. All this doubt. It’s always been doubt. I’m still in love with those platforms/ideas. Not so much what they’ve become but what they represent. The idea that I can take something from my head, create it, put it out to the world, they can connect to it, be entertained by it, and it can take me somewhere. I’ve lost my way though. Partially because of the realities of adulthood, the concept of time, and of course the huge doubt in my head. I’ve always been decent at writing papers, verses, things like that, but never felt like I could really write articles. Things people would just read for fun. I write how I talk and I talk real informally. My friend told me that based on how I write to her via text, I’m a really good writer and I should just write, even if it’s on tumblr. So here I am... writing... on tumblr.

I don’t know what I’m going to accomplish here, but I can say what I hope to feel I guess. I hope this relieves some stress. I hope it gives me an outlet to let out the thoughts and feelings I’m having but don’t express to the people in my life. I tweet a lot, but I do tend to hold back because there’s people I care about there. People who will publicly respond, or who will contact me privately. Sometimes I don’t want to talk to anybody about some of the shit in my head. Not on some “rejecting help” shit(even though that is who I am as a person) but just on some “you probably can’t help me so why waste both of our times” shit. Sometimes you do need to vent but what does venting to somebody do but put your issues on them if there’s no like workshopping you know? Sometimes I overstep because when people vent, I tend to go into problem solving mode and they just wanna get their shit off. I don’t particularly operate like that so I don’t do the same. If we’re not gonna try to find some insight or solution or something then I can really do without. If I’m talking to myself though, I can just release. I hope this can be that. When it’s aalllllll building up inside, when I’m stuck in my thoughts late at night, I’d hope I can come here and get it out of my head. That’s all I can ask really.

I don’t think it’ll be that simple though. I mean the process will be but not the impact on me. I think more will happen. I think it could lead to understanding. A lot of what I grapple with is myself and where I fit in the world, where I fit in the lives of the people closest to me. Outside of getting that shit out, I think I might figure out what’s wrong with me. Why I think the way I think, why I shouldn’t think the way I think. Things I can change, and things I don’t want to change. With the proper amount of studying and note taking on myself, this could lead me to the next transformation of who I’m supposed to be. I feel like I haven’t grown in a while. And with that, I hope it’ll decrease the doubts that I have. It’ll make me into a more confident writer because I’m doing it more often. My mind will be used more frequently leading to ideas and inspiration flowing and sprouting like they did in the days when I had more hope. It may not lead me to an answer, but it could be the start.

This is a glorified online journal with a lot of potential. A mere baby, born at 5am during a pandemic being raised by a man who can’t seem to pick of the pieces to his life as they continue to be broken and smacked out of his hands. This is everything and nothing all at once. It really doesn’t have to be that deep at all. It could just be something I scroll thru and mess with when the depressions hitting extra hard. At this point, these are just the inner workings of my mind and I hope that by having these conversations with myself, I’ll get to a point where I accept myself a little more, and make peace with who I am and where I’m going.

#introducing myself #latepost #late night thoughts #self relfection #introspective thoughts #what is this #what am i even doing #new blog #venting #personal #writing #writing sample #personal piece #writer #creator #content creator #new platform

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ariesmode · 6 years ago

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as requested by @kestrel-of-herran ❤️

nikolai, the triumvirate, the twins and also nadia (henceforth known as the palace squad) are all twenty-somethings having the worst (best) time of their lives rebuilding something that was on its way to become a failed state, which is pretty scary, so their meetings are never 100% serious. some headcanons on what probably went down:

nikolai’s first meeting with zoya, genya and david was basically everyone acting like they knew exactly what should be done (rebuild the second army!!), but they really had no fucking idea how to go about doing things and were like “let’s just make shit up as we go along for now, I guess”

ofc nikolai had a vague idea/plan, and zoya was probably up with some suggestions on matters like how to deal with the people who defected from the crown etc but they just had the realization that this was going to be really, really hard

obviously zoya was the one who suggested that they use the darkling’s war room for their secret meeting because she’s that petty (“that sounds like a wonderful idea” – nikolai, equally petty)

zoya, genya and david like these meetings so much more than the ones at the grand palace because they get to be candid and not deal with cabinet ministers who are only condescending to them because they’re grisha and “too young” to actually know anything. they can hold against snide comments well enough on their own, but it is pretty annoying to listen to an old hag talk about how he has more experience than them every single time

(zoya calmly reminded him that his experience has only been sitting in war rooms in a seat that was granted to him only by his privilege as nobility and not merit while she has personally been on the battlefield, thank you very much. genya cackled so much when the meeting was over)

nikolai also likes these better because there aren’t any mind games. they all know exactly what they want and aren’t afraid of challenging him, especially commander nazyalensky

it’s also never been really specified in the books, but i like to think that: david obviously specializes in military engineering, while genya organizes state events (nikolai was very impressed with how she handled his coronation) and oversees training in the little palace along with zoya, who also took on handling grisha matters abroad that are of interest to the state (imo it’s also pretty obvious that she’s the de facto leader of the triumvirate and it’s just not my bias talking)

the meetings sometimes stretch for hours on end – especially in the beginning when they had so much work to do – and it really is exhausting so at some point they start getting distracted and talking/doing some ridiculous stuff

david hardly pays attention half the time (his mind starts wandering when they’re talking about something that isn’t science or grisha-related) though sometimes he’ll just randomly give his opinion about something he doesn’t even know about and it actually makes sense

they’ve all definitely dozed off at some point, except for tamar and zoya. nobody knows how they do it

before the poetry ban tolya could be persuaded to recite epic poems for a long time (“we have WORK to do” “we could do more of that later but that last verse was intriguing tolya please do go on”)

and then they’d end up having a literary analysis discussion that tolya is all too happy to lead, which zoya pretends she can’t be bothered to participate in and they think david isn’t paying attention but then he’ll end up giving his own take and everyone’s like, well that was a good point, how did we miss that?

there was a chess tournament once. everyone immediately agreed that it should never happen again

david, nikolai and nadia, as the respective science nerds™ get really excited explaining new inventions. occasionally they’ll even come up with a brand new design on the spot, which would be pretty impressive if they hadn’t gotten completely sidetracked

nikolai once accidentally doodled on a Very Important document and they’ve never let him forget it

tread carefully when zoya and/or genya are hungover the morning after they’ve had a drinking session or there will be consequences. nikolai learned the hard way

tamar flexing that she and nadia are the first to get married because why not (they have definitely been told to get a room at least once because they’re so disgustingly cute)

genya planned the wedding, of course. they + adrik were the only ones present but that doesn’t matter, it’s still a wedding so it counts as something to be planned. yes, tolya cried

speaking of: adrik definitely tried to eavesdrop on their meetings at some point. we all know that didn’t end well for him

everyone has since learned that it’s not recommended to question genya when it comes to her plans for events. except when it comes seating arrangements, and even then you’d be on thin ice (this is especially so when it came to her wedding ceremony)

one word: hangman (plus crossword puzzles from the ravkan daily)

nikolai called zoya by her last name for the first time during a very long meeting about funding for grisha things while everyone else was half-asleep/already snoozing. needless to say that jolted everyone awake and raised eyebrows

genya whispering to tamar like did i hear that right. are my ears deceiving me and tamar is like no he actually did that and zoya didn’t even care (while they continued to argue)

the banter (flirting) was funny at first but now the ust has become absolutely unbearable and they’re all just suffering. nadia hates them both so much. tolya reminds her that she’s not even present for all of their meetings and “imagine having to witness all of THAT [angry hand gesture] every day when you’re by the king’s side!” + nobody is profiting from genya’s betting pool which makes it worse

the silence™ when nikolai casually told zoya that he wanted her to be the one to lock him up every night when he started escaping from the palace as night mode nikolai would be remembered for years to come

when zoya had to go off to recruit more grisha overseas the rest of the group took turns to read her missives out loud in their best zoya impersonation. they all unanimously agreed that genya and (shockingly) tolya could not be surpassed. they just missed her a lot!

talking shit about some of the old hags that they have to deal with and gossiping about palace drama because tamar’s spies always end up learning... interesting stuff

also talking shit about the lantsovs because wow a) worst rulers in the history of ever b) all that inbreeding LMFAOOOO c) some rooms in the grand palace were really badly decorated. and have you seen some of the heirlooms?! so ugly!

squaller² bringing up stories from their training days: nadia talks about them having a rivalry and zoya is like pfft, i never even considered you as one

tolya and tamar sharing embarrassing childhood anecdotes when they’re getting annoyed with each other

LOOK, I REFUSE TO BELIEVE TOLYA DOESN’T HAVE HIS OWN FANCLUB IN BOTH THE LITTLE AND GRAND PALACE. POSSIBLY EVEN IN OS ALTA. he is a tall, Strong and Silent™ man who is loyal to the king and really likes poetry!! he definitely makes people swoon!! nikolai, genya and tamar love teasing him about this especially. it embarrasses him

on a more serious note, nikolai, genya and david are always the more optimistic when it comes to dealing with politics. tamar and zoya are the more pragmatic ones, and tolya and nadia are somewhere in between

the ravkan economy is in a very sorry state and it’s absolutely depressing so the least they can do is make jokes about how everyone’s too broke to do anything ever

“Your Majesty, how’s the budget?” – nadia “HA, what budget?” – zoya

a few years down the road they’ll start wondering when, exactly, did they start looking forward to these meetings because state affairs were something of an escape from the very exhausting job of parenting

#kos #zoyalai #this is not so serious im sorry jdoisjf #and got too long #and isn't exactly about what goes on in them #anyway can you believe they're running a country #and not just any country! FANTASY RUSSIA #please help them #i'm including nadia here bc i love her and bc i can #i just really like their dynamics a lot where is the workplace comedy au #(also slowly going through my drafts atm)

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miraculousmidnightreviews · 5 years ago

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1989: A Classic

Album: 1989

Artist: Taylor Swift

Rating: 4/5 stars

1989 has been the most successful album of Swift’s career, both commercially and otherwise. It was her entrance into the pop genre, her breakthrough hit that made her even more renowned. (Hopefully, Lover will provide similar successes.) And it was also the album that transformed me into a major Taylor Swift fan.

I remember watching the “Shake It Off” music video for the first time, and then playing it again. And again. After 1989 came out, I decided on a whim to just buy the entire album before having really heard any of the other songs. This was a considerable moment for me, given that I had never bought an entire album before then. But I did buy it, and I listened to all of its songs, falling in love with many of them. Like 1989 brought Swift into pop, it was also my ticket into the discography of Taylor Swift.

The remarkable thing about 1989 (and probably just Taylor Swift) is that not just one or two but 8 out of the 16 songs on the album (including the deluxe singles) gained significant fanfare. Now, if I played a person on the street a song from this album, it’s more likely than not they have heard it before.

1989 also marks a significant point in Swift’s songwriting: instead of focusing on just her relationships with others, this album showcases a more analytical and mature side to Swift’s songwriting abilities as she focuses on the media’s perception of her and how it affects her relationships. This theme is further explored in her later album, reputation. Additionally, 1989 is deceivingly upbeat. It’s purposefully made to garner attention and popularity, to gain hits with its catchy lyrics and synth-pop vibes. However, a closer listen to the lyrics on most songs from the album strips away the facade of carefree rhythms to reveal poignant songwriting and heartbreaking insight into Swift’s life under the media microscope.

In anticipation of Lover coming out on Aug. 23, I will be reviewing each of Swift’s albums up until the forthcoming album’s release. I can’t wait to listen to new TS music, and I hope these reviews will provide a wistful and refreshing glance at past eras as we look forward to a brand new one.

Continue reading below for my review of each individual song.

1) Welcome to New York

Rating: 4/5 stars

Get pumped! (Is this a thing? Did I just make this up?)

A fully inspired love letter to New York City. Clearly heartfelt and filled with awestruck wonderment.

“You can want who you want. Girls and girls and boys and boys.” A subtle nod to the LGBTQ+ community and proof of Swift’s overlooked support.

2) Blank Space

5/5 stars

THE SATIRE

A classic example of Swift’s impeccable lyricism.

I love how she’s taking everything a step further on this album: criticizes the media for believing she enters relationships for materialistic gains. (bro, she’s fucking rich.) And mocks the public perceptions that she begins relationships knowing they will end poorly, making for a new hit single.

LOVE the music video

“Cause darling, I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream.”

3) Style

Rating: 5/5 stars

James Dean reference! AHHHHHHH

In love with the nuance—”I’ve been there too a few times.”

The beginnings of Sexy!Taylor—”tight little skirt,” “he’s taking off this coat”

4) Out of the Woods

Rating: 4/5 stars

Not the biggest fan of this chorus, but I do love how Swift uses repetition to express her anxiety in songs (See “Delicate”).

The polaroid mention not only matches the vibe of this album and its cover but also gives this song a dated yet new feel.

“We moved the furniture so we could dance.”—Swift portrays dancing in a positive light, offsetting apprehensive tone.

“The monsters turned out to be just trees.”—Best. Line. In. The. Entire. Song.

5) All You Had To Do Was Stay

Rating: 3/5 stars

Another perfect example of this album’s timeless, lighthearted facade. Upbeat melody about the depressing reality of one who can’t commit to a relationship.

Not a huge fan of this song, but I enjoy the back story about how the haunting echo of “stay” in the background came to Swift in a dream.

6) Shake It Off

Rating: 5/5 stars

YESSSS THE BOP THAT MAKES EVERYONE (EVEN THOSE WHO AREN’T SWIFT FANS) GO WILD WHEN IT PLAYS!!!!!!

The verses are simple but perfect to sing along to!!! Also, I love how this is her response to: “she doesn’t write her own songs;” “She’s a serial dater;” “She draws too much attention to herself at award shows.”

HEY HEY HEY

“Just think while you been getting down with the LIARS and the DIRTY, DIRTY CHEATS of the world.”

OH MY GOD

Hella good hair

7) I Wish You Would

Rating: 4/5 stars

This is one of those rare gems that you can only find if you listen to an album in its entirety.

Once again, this song continues the theme of on-and-off-again relationships on 1989.

The chorus is so darn cute. Just cute and makes me smile every time I listen.

8) Bad Blood

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Ah the times I played this on repeat before “...Ready For It?,” LWYMMD, and IDSB existed. This song is definitely LWYMMD’s little sister.

The beginnings of Hardcore!Taylor.

LOVE LOVE the music video. Did she start the phenomenon of celebrity cameos in music videos? I think she did.

“Still got scars on my back from your knife.”

HEY—a war cry!

“Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes.”—completely adore her voice during this bridge!

9) Wildest Dreams

Rating: 5/5 stars

Her heartbeat as the background music!

I adore the breathy quality of her voice in this song!

“No one has to know what we do. His hands are in my hair. His clothes are in my room.”—Sexy!Taylor back at again.

Lana Del Rey vibes all over

In a way, this song, along with the majority of the album, unknowingly foreshadows the media circus that became Swift’s life during this era of her music.

TANGLED UP WITH YOU ALL NIGHT, BURNING IT DOWN!!!!

10) How You Get the Girl

Rating: 3.5/5 stars

Catchy and cute!

I don’t really have much to say about this song.

I can imagine this playing in some rom-com right as the couple gets back together.

The switch from third person to first person at the bridge conveys a new level of vulnerability.

11) This Love

Rating: 2/5 stars

This is probably my least favorite song on the album. A definite skip for me. Of course, I still can’t help but sing along with the chorus whenever it plays.

I admire the concept of it, though: how love has its ups and downs but it’s still love.

12) I Know Places

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

THE RECORDER CLICK!!!

Just like “I Wish You Would,” this song is another gem that I found after playing the album on repeat.

Media! Circus!

LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS ALL THE DAMN TIME—a tongue twister

13) Clean

Rating: 5/5 stars

A great way to end the album!!!

I love how this can be a metaphor for many things, not just a relationship. (mental illness, addiction, etc.)

Just as the title describes, I feel so cleansed and calmed after listening to this song.

“The water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud but no one heard a thing.”—Wow, that hit real hard.

This bridge!!!! BEAUTIFUL!!!!!

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this review! Check out other reviews here!

#taylor swift #taylorswift #1989 #music review #music reviews #music #ts #1989 era #Lover era #ts7 lover #1989 album #album review #lover the album #book blog #review blog #Book Review Blog #review #reviews

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obtusemedia · 6 years ago

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Top 25 Songs of 2018: Honorable Mentions

It’s year-end list season again! And with that comes my sixth annual top 25 list.

But before we countdown the best that 2018 gave us, here’s 15 songs that just missed the cut. Like in 2017, this year had more quantity than quality when it came to singles, meaning although there were only a couple legitimate contenders for the top spot, there were plenty of solid songs that I had to give a shout out to. So apologies to great acts like boygenius, Florence+The Machine and Childish Gambino (although he easily had the best music video this year) for just missing the cut.

Let’s get into it!

“Nobody” by Mitski

There are plenty of songs about loneliness, but Mitski turns that emotion into insanity on “Nobody.”

Her emotions ramp up and become more desperate throughout the indie-pop track, as Mitski’s pleads for companionship intensify. She wants to find love, but frankly, she also just needs human connection. And as the one-word chorus repeats into oblivion — “Nobody, nobody, nobody, nobody...” the situation becomes more and more helpless.

My main issue with Mitski’s 2018 album, Be The Cowboy, was that most of the short vignette-style songs weren’t memorable. That’s not the case for the manic, disco-tinged “Nobody,” which instantly became a standout in her impressive catalog.

“Heat Wave” by Snail Mail

I’m not sure what it says about indie rock that its most hyped newcomer is mostly copying the sounds of the ‘90s, but when the tunes are as good as “Heat Wave,” I’m not going to complain.

Nineteen-year-old prodigy Lindsey Jordan, aka Snail Mail, delivers with a simple love song perfect for lazy summer days. Jordan’s vocals are charmingly warbly and mesh well with the crunchy guitars that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Pavement album. It’s catchy enough for soccer moms and with enough alt-rock nostalgia to grab any indie rocker’s ear. There’s a good reason Snail Mail’s star has shot to the top this year among the Pitchfork set.

“Me and Michael” by MGMT

IT’S THE COMEBACK OF THE CENTURY!

That’s not even hyperbole: After they released three generation-defining classic singles, MGMT’s relevance disappeared after their 2010 album Congratulations intentionally alienated audiences (despite being pretty solid). Then, their 2013 self-titled album was straight-up bad.

But thankfully, MGMT decided to return to the synthpop jams that brought them success 11 years ago, while keeping their weirdo quirks intact. And it was a winning formula, as the bombastic single “Me and Michael” proves.

“Michael” is painfully ‘80s, from the glittery keyboards to the thundering drum machine beat. Yet, many of the instruments are off-key and frontman Andrew VanWyngarden’s hipstery vocals aren’t exactly Duran Duran-esque. And the clash of styles helps create a solid tune, the band’s best in eight years.

“Elastic” by Joey Purp

Remember how Azealia Banks used to pump out hip-house bangers like it wasn’t even hard? Then she lost her mind, and now “212″ is a relic of a better time.

Thankfully, Chicago native Joey Purp is picking up the slack, although he puts a much more minimalist spin on the sound. “Elastic” is a very simple, skeletal song, with Purp nearly mumbling over a steady, bouncing beat with couple vocal samples to liven things up. “Elastic” shows that when it comes to club bangers, you really don’t need to overthink things.

“Nameless, Faceless” by Courtney Barnett

Melbourne indie rocker Courtney Barnett’s second album, Tell Me How You Really Feel, had a noticeably more frustrated outlook than her 2015 debut. A prime example is the album’s lead single, “Nameless, Faceless,” all about the difficulties of being a woman in a world that treats them horribly.

Barnett goes after internet trolls during the song’s verses with the droll, snarky tone that made her indie-famous, but the chorus is where things take a dark turn. Paraphrasing The Handmaid’s Tale author Margaret Atwood, Barnett sings, “Men are scared that women will laugh at them ... Women are scared that men will kill them.” She then adds that she holds her keys between her fingers in-between her fingers to protect herself at night.

It’s a fearful song for fearful times, and more proof that Barnett is one of indie rock’s best songwriters.

“Electricity” by Silk City and Dua Lipa

Producer giants Diplo and Mark Ronson teamed up to create a perfect homage to ‘90s house. It’s bouncy, effervescent, and features one of pop’s best voices: Dua Lipa. The fact that a dance jam this perfect was only barely a hit in the U.S. is a total shame.

“After The Storm” by Kali Uchis feat. Tyler, The Creator and Bootsy Collins

I’m not typically an R&B guy, but I couldn’t resist newcomer Kali Uchis’ debut Isolation this year, especially its smooth throwback single, “After The Storm.”

Uchis glides over the off-key synth backdrop, expressing post-breakup optimism with ease. The sticky melody and relaxed vibe are helped out by a blast of smooth (if off-kilter) loverman shtick from Tyler, The Creator and some fun adlibs from funk icon Bootsy Collins. But this is Uchis’ show, and she barely needs to lift a finger to hold listeners’ command.

“Please Don’t Die” by Father John Misty

After releasing an overstuffed and underwhelming album last year, Father John Misty, AKA singer-songwriter Josh Tillman, decided to keep it simple this year, and I’m back on his bandwagon.

One reason for that is how blunt and personal his songwriting is again, particularly on “Please Don’t Die.” Tillman’s concept album God’s Favorite Customer focuses on the real-life story of how his depression caused him to hide out in a hotel for two straight months, and the heartbreaking “Please Don’t Die” tackles this scenario from the singer’s wife’s point of view.

She constantly reminds Tillman that his potential suicide won’t be a victimless crime during the soaring chorus, and he laments how his spiraling has affected her in the somber verses. There’s no snarky winks to the audience here — just Tillman nakedly depicting how his emotional chaos effected those around him.

“My My My!” by Troye Sivan

I never paid too much attention to Australian former YouTuber Troye Sivan. Now I’m regretting that choice, thanks to “My My My!”

Pure bubblegum pop doesn’t play much of a role in today’s music landscape, so it’s hard to call any version of that subgenre “modern,” but that’s honestly how I would describe this jam. It’s a slice of stuttering tropical pop with some indie and ‘80s flavor to it, and Sivan himself sells the tune like he’d been singing these types of songs for years in a boy band. I’ll be keeping tabs on Sivan from here on out.

“Light On” by Maggie Rogers

Last year, I was floored by Maggie Rogers’ unique blend of rootsy nature sounds with blue-eyed soul, particularly in her stellar single “Dog Years.” It seems like she isn’t fixing what ain’t broken, as “Light On” is a continuation of that sound.

Although it isn’t quite as transcendent as her early singles, “Light On” is still a quality power ballad, with a nice mix of acoustic guitar and organic synths, complete with a showstopping, melancholy chorus. Rogers still knows her way around a gorgeous melody, and I’m sure she’ll continue to fill her niche as the best music you’ll probably hear at REI.

“The Opener” by Camp Cope

Camp Cope have had it up to here with shitty men, and “The Opener” is a scathing indictment of the hypocrisy the trio constantly face.

Lead singer Georgia McDonald wails over a ‘90s alt-rock groove about sexism both in the dating world as well as the music industry. The latter is where she reserves her sharpest lines, going after men who’ve said her success isn’t her own doing, and being told to book smaller venues by the same guys who will “preach equality” in public. And of course, how do these men in power maintain their faux-feminist image? “‘Just get a female opener, that’ll fill the quota.’” Scathing.

“We Appreciate Power” by Grimes feat. HANA

If “We Appreciate Power,” the (as of writing this) brand-new Grimes single, was trimmed by a minute or so, it might have made the actual list. It’s a smidge on the repetitive side at its current 5:30-length.

But dear lord: This is a BANGER. As just about every critic has said, the production here is an aggro mix of Nine Inch Nails and Korn, complete with squealing guitars, a pounding, synthetic beat and some random screams thrown in the mix for fun. And yes — it works. Put it on during the next workout and see how fast you start going.

Throw in some legitimately creepy lyrics about artificial intelligence and totalitarianism and you’ve got a classic Grimes single. If only it was a bit shorter...

“Lake Erie” by Wild Pink

For a band from Brooklyn, Wild Pink are shockingly good at creating music that sounds like the sun setting on a Midwestern corn field.

“Lake Erie” is so close to The War On Drugs’ signature sound — heartland rock mixed with whispered vocals and shoegaze-y atmospherics — that I’d call it a ripoff, if it wasn’t arguably better than anything The War On Drugs has put out in a few years. It’s emotive, gorgeous and not too pretentious, like something Bruce Springsteen could’ve released 35 years ago.

“Noid” by Yves Tumor

No, unfortunately, “Noid” isn’t about retro Domino’s ads. It’s much darker than a claymation pizza mascot.

Yves Tumor’s art-rock track is fairly normal for its first half. It even has shades of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” in the lyrics wondering about the sad state of the world. Then, things get weird: the bass starts playing in a different key, the background fills with static and screams, and Yves Tumor keeps singing along, and his lyrics about being “scared for my life” start to seem less like a protest anthem and more like a horror soundtrack. It’s a chilling experience.

“Party For One” by Carly Rae Jepsen

Queen Carly releases another pop banger and you think it’s not going on my list? Come on, now.

I’m not going to pretend like “Party For One,” Jepsen’s triumphant breakup anthem, is on the same level as her all-time classic singles. It’s the kind of bubblegum that she could write in her sleep.

But why penalize a perfectly great song just because the artist has done better in the past? “Party For One” might not be “Run Away With Me,” but it’s still a solid piece of synth cheese that no doubt makes Canada proud.

#top 25 songs of 2018 #pop #rap #indie rock

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minoukatze · 6 years ago

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Homecoming

Chapter Twenty-One

The room somehow seemed to grow darker, chillier, all remnants of celebration for a successful sting driven out. Johann went rigid, the question draining all color and victory from his craggy face.

Johann pleaded. “Victor, this isn’t a good time.”

“Of course it’s not,” Victor countered heatedly. “But there never will be one. I need to know, and I cannot leave the question any longer.”

“I…uh…” Johann ran his fingers through his fluffy white hair. “Victor, I don’t think you really want to know the answer.”

“I have resigned myself to the notion that it must be traumatic,” Victor replied. “Sigmar’s sake, Johann, I am fifty-six years old and I have seen more horror than you can imagine. Do you honestly believe that I cannot handle it?”

“It’s not that, Victor,” Johann replied wearily. “It’s just…whatever positive memories you have of your mother…I don’t want this to color them.”

“I am not a sentimental man, Johann,” Victor stated firmly. “You should know this by now. I need to know the truth.”

Johann sighed. “Very well, but you have been warned. It is not a pleasant tale.”

“Duly noted,” Victor replied. “Tell me.”

“Right.” Johann set to pacing. “So. When you were nearing your Trials, your mother…well…you remember she was always zealous, but when we got word you were to begin them she…she sort of took it to new heights…or depths…whichever way you want to look at it. Sieglinde began raving in the street, preaching to passersby…began to badger the chapterhouse, kept demanding to know your location. When we received word of your success, she lost all sense.” Johann swallowed heavily. “She shaved her head, used one of your father’s brands to burn the comet into her forehead, and then hammered a few nails into her skull for good measure. She pounded on my door, howling, demanding to know where you were so that she could follow you on mission.”

Victor felt the room began to spin. He grasped the chair and slid into it.

“Victor, I can stop. You don’t need to know more than…”

“Continue.”

Johann nodded sadly. “She began to camp out at the door of the chapterhouse, braying verse at the top of her lungs and trying to wear me down. We would have to keep alerting your father to bring her home, and the first few times it worked. After she found the flail, though, there was no use.” Johann paused to rub his temples. “As you can imagine, she didn’t take the greatest care of her injuries, and it’s very possible the nails were rusty. Walburga went to Sieglinde every day, begging to clean her wounds, and Sieglinde would chase her away every time. ‘Slattern! Slattern!’ she’d yell.” Johann shook his head ruefully. “I can still hear it in the back of my head. It was almost like the town clock tolling on the hour. ‘Slattern! Slattern!’” Johann reflexively waved his arms in imitation, then stopped himself, clearing his throat in chagrin. “We could see Sieglinde failing every day, but could do nothing to help. No one could get near her. Finally, Sieglinde fell asleep on our doorstep, and Walburga decided to try to treat her, thinking the woman weakened. As soon as Walburga’s salve touched your mother’s brand, Sieglinde awoke screaming and attacked. She smashed her flail into Walburga’s shoulder. Sieglinde was ready to cave the poor girl’s head in, when her son, just a wee lad at that point, ran up and tried to defend his mother. Had we not been there to apprehend Sieglinde, she would have destroyed the both of them. And if it weren’t for Old Lady Somner, poor Walburga probably would have lost her arm. It took five of us to subdue your mother, and then we strapped her down to a table and had Doctor Knudsen clean her wounds, but it was too late.” Johann knelt down opposite Victor, his blue eyes pleading. “Victor, I’m so sorry. That is probably what we should have done at the start, but I don’t know if she would have just gone and hammered more nails into her head. Your father did not want her thrown into a sanatorium, but…” Johann stood again. “There it is. Your mother was not well mentally. She loved you in her own sick, demented way, but…”

Victor stared blankly at the wall. He felt as if he’d been hollowed out, a shell in leather and chainmail arranged upon a chair.

“Victor?”

“And what about my father?” Victor asked quietly, his voice empty.

“That one was tragic, but mundane,” Johann replied. “Same as in the letter. He was trying to shoe a horse, got distracted, the horse was spooked by something and kicked out. It was sudden and painless. Victor, I am so…”

“Thank you,” Victor interrupted. “I will need a moment, and then I will report to the chapterhouse. Please tell my friends to supplement the guards at the appointed spot in the forest.”

“Victor, are you sure? I…”

“I will be there.” Victor’s breath was steady, his voice even. “Just give me a moment.”

“If you need to talk…” Johann hesitated, seeing Victor’s stone-faced expression. “You can always…”

“Yes, Captain.”

Johann nodded and turned for the door. “Right. I will expect you shortly.”

After Johann departed, Victor was still for a very long time, aware of the avalanche of rage and pain threatening to consume him, but distant as of yet. For the moment, he was numb, stunned, the news not unlike a strike from a Chaos Warrior. He had assumed agony and illness, but the madness…

The worst of it was that it was a madness Victor understood well. He had edged close to that line several times and had drawn back just at the brink of oblivion. Every time the Order shunned him, every scrap of evidence disbelieved, every nightmare of a ravaged town uncovered…They are fools, they are nothing, there is only the lustration of Sigmar, and my will to serve…they will see, the world will see, and they will be forced into submission…I am the hammer of Sigmar and they will REPENT! REPENT!

That sudden terror, the very same that flared the moment the rye bread touched his tongue the first day he had arrived, arose and swallowed Victor whole. He sat petrified in his chair, pulse speeding, gripping the arms of his chair…he forced himself to steady his breath and unclench his jaw, remembering what had dragged him out of this hysteria before. Duty. Purpose.

Vengeance.

Victor stood.

Gilbert Falkenrath awaited his pleasure.

Victor had not had time to assess the Senden chapterhouse interrogation chambers as of yet. From what Johann had told him, theirs was among the most technologically advanced in the Empire, all thanks to the man currently restrained in it. One could slice the irony with a knife.

When Victor entered the chamber, he could appreciate the various cutting edge instruments of destruction therein. There were shiny things that whirred, hydraulic things that pummeled (Dwarven in origin, Victor supposed), racks which required no cranking. They were all well and good, but Victor was more of a traditionalist. He preferred to be a bit more hands-on, and while he did enjoy experimenting with other tools, Victor never needed anything more than a single blade to carve out whatever secrets lurking inside of the heretic before him.

You will find that witch hunters have a certain mastery over time, Victor liked to say. With this scalpel, I can stretch a minute into an eternity.

Victor had been practically salivating over the thought of this very moment ever since he had arrived in town. Seeing Gilbert strapped to the table, though, Victor felt oddly…empty. Gilbert was particularly pathetic-looking on the slab; his fish-belly white stomach bulbous and vulnerable; his arms and legs skinny and stringy; his jowly face wan and haggard; shadowed with scrubby, threadbare stubble. Victor expected to be met with shock, terror, pleading; but received none. Gilbert looked upon the hunter resigned; relieved, even.

“So, Victor,” Gilbert rasped. “Our merry dance ends.”

“You seem unsurprised by your reversal of fortune, Gilbert,” Victor remarked, inwardly disappointed.

“Not so much unsurprised,” Gilbert breathed. “As you know, I have sinned, and sinned greatly. I suppose that for the past two days I have been subconsciously hoping for retribution.” He peered at Victor with weary, bloodshot eyes. “I deserve every scream you are going to rip from me. I only ask that you wait as I give you my confession, as I wish to give it with a mind unclouded by pain.”

Damn. He was taking all of the fun out of this. “Very well, Gilbert. Give me the record of your misdeeds.”

“My son…” Gilbert’s steady voice faltered, broke. “My Axel…they took him, and I let them. I could have gone in his stead, but I was a worthless coward. I would do it now, Victor! I have my courage now!” He broke into blubbering sobs. “Oh gods! Switch our places! Turn back the clock and take me instead!”

It was not the first time a suspect broke down in tears upon his table, but Victor had never allowed it to deter him before. Now, though…Victor felt no glee or satisfaction, rather the opposite. He was curiously depressed at the sight of his childhood enemy, helpless and utterly defeated before him. Victor was not pleased by this turn of events.

“Were your children involved in your criminal activities?” Victor asked tonelessly.

“Gilly never did anything too horrible, and Gretchen…Gretchen liked you, Victor, remember?” Gilbert gasped. “Please…please spare her. She has done nothing terrible, never harmed a soul.”

“By hiding a beastman camp, or worse?” Victor replied coolly. “We know of her work. We know that she is a rogue grey mage, and the Grey Order is currently dismantling everything she has wrought in this town, and they do not take kindly to pretenders…”

“Wait, what?” For the first time, Gilbert strained against his bindings. “Victor, you must stop them!”

“You expect leniency after-“

“VICTOR!” Gilbert yelled. “The town is in great peril! Gretchen’s spell is the only barrier keeping the creatures from invading Senden!”

“What?” Victor demanded. “What are you saying?”

“There is a tunnel into our cellar,” Gilbert replied urgently. “My god, Victor, stop the wizards or get every hunter to the manor, otherwise Senden is doomed.”

“Sir?” An apprentice burst into the interrogation chamber. “Um…there’s a lot…we need your help!”

“It begins…” Gilbert howled. “Oh, Sigmar preserve us, it begins!”

#Vermintide #victor saltzpyre #witch hunter #warhammer fantasy #fanfiction #fanfic #homecoming

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ravencromwell · 7 years ago

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So Brown Girl In The Ring was one of those books it's difficult to talk about: I loved it with such ferocity that to try and articulate why only leads me into hyperbolic babble. It had such clear, elegantly simple writing but was somehow still so lush. It was a book I galloped through in less than a week, and post my depression meds that, gentlebeings, is an achievement, even for such a short novel. Hopkinson lets the narrative view and treat her characters with such compassion, even as the narrative examines the ways in which trauma begets trauma, the ways we break that cycle: redemption and regret and forging better paths for future generations. And those future generations taking those paths: grudgingly at first and then slowly coming into themselves: deciding that this world, this dystopian Toronto with all its beauty and solidarity alongside the ugliness, is worth fighting for and by God they're going to do it. With gentle, extended meditations on forgiveness and love: at its worst and best, and how we learn to distinguish the two. And it's all wrapped in Caribbean magic realism and I need y'all to go read it stat because I need a group of people to scream about this book with like I need to breathe.

But as I move on to The Association Of Small Bombs, by Karan Mahajan, I'm struck by the way these two masters of their craft use language in such divergent but skillful ways. * Hopkinson's style is simple: not spare by any stretch, but clear and economical. There's an excellent reason: much of the characters' dialogue is in marvelously unapologetic Caribbean dialect and unfamiliar English-only speakers are going to have to invest some time into picking up the linguistic ticks and rhythms. (Though OMG when you do, there's such a marvelous fucking return on investment, as particular characters adopt other characters' linguistic ticks to symbolize maturation in the most ingenious way--Nalo, just let me pick your brain for half an hour please; I'll become a thousandfold better writer--and the Caribbean dialect gives her this vast canvas of expression. There was such a power for me as someone insulated for so many years in the white English cultural bubble of being forced to not only absorb foreign concepts, but absorb them in their words, not tailored to my conception of the world.

The one drawback, if you can call it that, is that the way the coolest linguistic tricks Hopkinson uses require the full context of what came before in the novel to be fully appreciated makes it a profoundly difficult book to quote from out of context. Karan Mahajan, covering much more familiar subject matter, if from profoundly provocative angles, feels freer to use ornate language, equal parts gentle and so sharply incisive it feels like your skin is being flayed off. Lord help y'all, because I'm only three pages in, and I'm in love with the way they write and y'all's dash is like to be flooded with Mahajan quotes for the foreseeable future. Just look at some of these descriptions! On the way class effects even grief:

The two boys were the sum total of the Khuranas’ children, eleven and thirteen, eager to be sent out on errands; and on this particular day they had gone with a friend in an auto-rickshaw to pick up the Khuranas’ old Onida color TV, consigned to the electrician for perhaps the tenth time. But when Mr. Khurana was asked by friends what the children were doing there (the boy with them having escaped with a fracture), he said, “They’d gone to pick up my watch from the watch man.” His wife didn’t stop him, and in fact colluded in the lie. “All the watches were stopped,” she said. “The way they know the time the bomb went off is by taking the average of all the stopped watches in the watch man’s hut.” Why lie, why now? Well, because to admit to their high-flying friends that their children had not only died among the poor, but had been sent out on an errand that smacked of poverty—repairing an old TV that should have, by now, been replaced by one of those self-financing foreign brands—would have, in those tragic weeks that followed the bombing, undone the tightly laced nerves that held them together. But of course they were poor, at least compared to their friends, and no amount of suave English, the sort that issued uncontrollably from their mouths, could change that; no amount of sobbing in Victorian sentences or chest beating before the Oxonian anchors on The News Tonight, who interviewed them, who stoked their outrage, could drape them or their dead children in the glow of foregone success.

Just...look at that for a while. This marvelous meditation on class--and on the lingering, awful effects of British colonization--wound inextricably with such a wonderful, dreadful little anecdote about how you survive the unsurvivable.

There's another wonderful passage around the funeral of the boys:

At the cremation, which occurred on the stepped bank of a Yamuna River canal speckled with a thousand ripply eyes of oil, tendrils of overgrown hypochondriac plants thrust deep into the medicinal murk, Mr. Khurana noticed that outside the ring of burning flesh and wood, little snotty children ran naked playing with upright rubber tires. Behind them a cow was dreadlocked in ropes and eating ash and the wild village children kicked it in the gut. He shouldn’t have, but in the middle of the final prayers Mr. Khurana stepped out and shouted, shooing, the entire funeral party dropping back from the wavy black carpet of fire shadow. The children, not his, just looked at him and with beautiful synchronicity dove headfirst into the water, the rubber tires bobbing behind them, but the cow eyed him with muckraking glee and put its long wet tongue into the earth. The prayers continued but a tremor was evident: if the chanting had sounded before like the low buzzing of bees, the vocal swarm had now cleared and thinned as if to accommodate the linger of a gunshot. The exhilaration of Mr. Khurana’s grief gave way to the simple fact that he was a person, naked in his actions, and that as a person he was condemned to feel shame. He felt eyes rebuking him with sudden blinks between solemn verses. He stopped thinking of his two boys as they burned away before him in a flame that combed the air with its spikes of heat and sudden bone crack of bark. More ash for the cow.

That whole passage steals my breath every time: the insolence of the children, not so much cruel as bemused and grumpy. The way the weight of others expectations for how we're to deal with grief can be utterly crushing. All wrapped in a description of a part of the city as profoundly desolate as he is, as unable to get out of the cycle of desolation as he.

And one more, just cause it's my blog and I can damn it; probably my favorite so far:

Strange sights were reported. A blue fiberglass rooftop came uncorked from a shop and clattered down on a bus a few meters away; the bus braked, the rooftop slid forward, leaked a gorgeous stream of sand, and fell to the ground; the bus proceeded to crack it under its tires and keep going, its passengers dazed, even amused. (In a great city, what happens in one part never perplexes the other parts.)

He could, and probably is, as much talking about the way acts of terror are so often ignored in this vast, interconnected world of ours unless they target certain countries or people. But there's no condemnation there: it's just. a fact of life, and the rooftop incident is even used to levin the situation with a bit of gentle humor. Which makes it even more of a searing observation and indictment, makes you want to do better, pay witness and respect to more, just to live up to the gentleness about your failures in the past.

There's such kindness permeating both Hopkinson and Mahajan's tales. But Hopkinson expresses that kindness by letting complicated characters have their own povs to explain themselves and letting them have redemptive arcs and moments. Because she's being so careful with pros, her structure has to be her vehicle for reassuring us that yes, these characters attempts at betterment and redemption are being seen and will be rewarded. I don't know much about what Mahajan will do with their characters: I'm fascinated by so many questions about the victims and the bombers; there's so much grief the parents are expressing, but the why of grief, whether it's because they see their sons as whole people or extensions of themselves, is still murky. But I already adore that even the omniscient narrator exudes kindness and humor. They wrap you in these ornate sentences like blankets: yeah, the trip will be painful but see there'll be comfort along the way. It's just endlessly fascinating to watch such different stylists work their magic.

*Association is my first attempt to conquer the list of nonwestern litfic with badass voice and politics @tobermoriansass made for me. And damn, am I A. even more glad! she did and B. determined to devour it in its entirety this year after this introduction.

#Nalo Hopkinson #Karan Mahajan #Book Babbling #Lit Geekery

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