#somebody draw two priest MAKING OUT

[catbuspass]

Drawing faggy religious smut right now!! Thanks Anon!

YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 22 - Mic Drop

You meet somebody's pawpaw.

On AO3.

Guards watch from every possible corner. You let the others handle the ones who comes down the stairs to y'all (good god, they got fucking brainworms, how the fuck are there so many). You do your best to stay small and quiet in your own head as y’all head inside. Cold. Condensed.

The lord knows your heart of hearts better than anyone or anything. He who created you knows every inch of you, down to the last atom of sinful thoughts, which are the same as a sinful deed—

Astarion bumps hips with you. Nods over to a big, hairy sonuvabitch who shouts at a bunch of people stationed at what has to be a makeshift, indoor archery range.

“Tsk,” he says. “If that’s the quality of the average Absolutist, I suddenly feel much better about our chances, darling.”

A lot of arrows stick outta the wall around the targets. One guy whimpers as somebody in robes and a tall hat works an arrow outta his shoulder.

“Huh,” you say.

Even you can tell they’re practicing some real bad range safety—two goblins dart and weave among the targets, swiping arrows off their marks and cackling about it.

Until one takes an arrow to the thigh and starts to holler.

Holy shit.

More tall hats—priests?—greet y’all further in. Say y’all need to talk to somebody named Swell. The fuck kinda name is that?

But there’s more stairs leading up to some thickass double doors, already open. And as y’all climb even higher, the shouting drifts out.

There’s a high pitch to it all. You know that. Have felt it. It sours your gut and lifts the hairs all over your body.

Ill-fitting shoes from a box pulled outta the deep, dark corners of your memory. You slip them on. Let the cold wash over you. Fill your innards, your lungs, like that breathing goo from that old ass ocean movie with the water-faced aliens.

You are a child of the lord. Chosen. Special. Pure.

There’s a pack of goblins cowering—ain’t no other word for it—in the middle of what looks like it used to be a church, but now doubles as a throne room (golden seat for the lord to watch over you and guide the hand of his faithful as you press your face to the floor, knees aching on concrete).

Child of the lord. A disciple. Selected by his hand to join his true believers.

There's more guards, and more pointy hats in here. Up on the lifted dais at the end, seated on what is definitely a throne, is a figure covered in armor. All except his head.

You seen a lot of fantasy movies. Would expect a Sauron helmet or Tim Curry and his giant devil horns. Maybe even some old ass racist Jafar goatee and a hooked nose for extra anti-semitism.

But evil ain’t never like that. Evil is somebody’s pointy-eared pawpaw staring down over the whole scene and looking…tired.

He’s just some guy. Some old guy with a beard and prominent eye bags.

The person next to him, though, has the look. Seven feet tall, wide in the shoulders. Green skin, jutting jaw, and fucking boar tusks lifting from her bottom lip.

“That’s a half-orc,” Astarion leans in to whisper. “You can tell she’s only half because she’s not ten feet tall or reeking of cow shit.”

There's a lot in that statement, but you glance at him and mouth, “Cow shit?”

“Oh yes. They mix it with clay and water and slather it over their skin. They’re surprisingly sensitive to sunlight, I’ve heard.”

That…huh. That’s actually pretty smart if that’s the resources they’re working with.

“Y’all ever think of that?” you say. “Vampires?”

The look on his face makes you bite your tongue so you don’t make an unfortunate noise and draw everybody’s attention.

“—did as we was told, General!” one of the goblins says to the pawpaw. That must be Mr. Unkillable, then. Your brain latches onto that, so it can shy away from literally everything else. “We followed every order!”

The goblin looks familiar. The emo haircut, the face paint. That’s the shit who tied that poor gnome to the windmill.

The half-orc sneers. “The facts suggest otherwise. You were to retrieve the artifact. You failed.”

There's something fucking wrong with her. Not just that she’s in this room with all this fucked up shit. More than the twinge your brainworm gives when you look at her. There’s something in the air around her, like the memory of a bad smell. Something cold and sharp and mean.

“Us?” Short Shit says. “No, no, that was Minthara. She got the orders, she—”

“Enough! You failed your mission. And you failed to protect your True Soul. You do not deserve to live.”

“We did as we was told! We’re loyal to the Absolute! All the clans gave up everything for Her—”

“Silence.”

An invisible wave swats your head like a tree trunk in a tornado. Plows into you and staggers you. The brainworm twists and writhes. If you had a microphone in your skull, you’re sure you’d hear it screaming.

Kneel.

A command. Word from the lord to obey, to bow to the will because he loves you, he cares for you, wants to save your wretched soul and sometimes that means teaching you a necessary lesson—

You lock your knees. Give your head a shake because by god your legs will not give out. Not one more minute kneeling on bare concrete. Not one time more.

The wave passes. The goblins cringe away, save for one with a mop of tight, blond coils who looks around baffled.

Your friends shake off the remnants. Astarion’s teeth are bared in a snarl.

When you blink and look forwards again, it’s to meet the gaze of Pawpaw. His eyes…they’re old. Not just tired. There’s something deeper than that, something almost, well, sad. But fixed on you. A flicker of interest in that gaze, which draws the attention of the half-orc, whose brainworm reaches for yours.

Child of the lordAbsolute. Chosen by himHer. Faithful. Obedient.

“You,” Pawpaw says. “True Soul. I hear word of you, that you were near when these creatures demonstrated their capabilities. Is that so?”

Oh fuck, he’s talking to you.

Why in the fuckshit does he sound like he’s from motherfucking Ohio? Is it the pawpaw face?

“I…was, yes,” you say.

Pawpaw eases back on his throne. “What is your judgment? Were they inadequate?”

You feel your group looking at you. Like spiders running up the back of your neck.

Child of the lord. You keep your hands clasped tight before you, because a woman must be demure and dutiful and never seek attention. You can’t think about that, even as you catch yourself falling into old gestures.

You are proper. You are righteous.

The goblins notice y’all for the first time. Short Shit boggles up at you before recognition sparks in him.

“You!” he says. “You was the one—”

“True Soul,” the half-orc, must be Swell, says. That title rolls around in her mouth like she’s savoring a hard candy. Her chin lifts. “Tell the General how the goblins served our cause.”

Your brainworm is fucking line dancing around your frontal cortex. All the other worms around you, and yes one of many one of all yes it seems is tickled pink. At least Not-Sasha has shut the fuck up. No shit this is the seat of the Absolute. Fucking clown.

Swell reaches out, trying to press into you. Spectral fingers brush over your mind—

Like drow claws. Gentle, almost soothing before they dig sharp into your mind and you scream and your body gives out and you piss yourself—

The switching stump outside the church, your dress pulled up and your thighs stinging and throbbing—

No.

Not you on the stump. Not you. Judith fucking Engel after you caught her kissing Daniel Sharpe. The Aunts who led her, head down and sobbing, before the congregation. Flipped up her dress to expose her underwear (only so much later would you realize how fucked up that was to do in so many ways) so she could kneel and drape herself over the stump. Then her searching gaze found you, standing next to Mother.

Mother, who rested her hand on your shoulder (the contact lit up like a star in your head) as she said, “You did the right thing.”

Then Aunt Patty May lifted the switch and it whistled as it came down. The slap and crack as it met the backs of Judith’s legs.

Y’all were less than ten years old.

You did the right thing, Mother said. The shining line in your head knew that the second you saw her.

And there you stood, with Mother as Judith cried out and yelped and screamed. All on your word. Because she was sinful. Filthy. A girl, and so nothing but a whore but for the vigilance of her sisters and brothers and her Aunts. But for you.

These goblins, here in the defiled church turned throne room, tied an innocent man to a windmill for shits and giggles. Laughed about it. Slaughtered druids and tieflings. Pretty sure they was eating something with five toes and no fur in their camp. And they would’a done a lot worse, hurt even more people if y’all hadn’t…well.

“I saw the terror they caused in the Absolute’s name,” you say. “Until they faltered.”

“Y-you fucking pile of worg shite!” Short Shit all but screeches.

But it’s Pawpaw’s soft sigh that cuts through it. His gauntleted fingers drum on the moldering arm of his throne.

“Terror without cause is childish,” he says. “Weak. We’re too close to the end, and the new beginning. I can coddle weakness no longer.”

He looks to Swell. “Deal with them. Quickly.”

“What?” Short Shit says.

But it’s Curly who screams. “You creaky old bag of shite!”

She lunges for the guard next to her. Snatches the axspear clean off him, and that thing is twice as long as she is. Before the guard can do anything about it, she fucking hail mary’s that thing straight at Pawpaw like an Olympian in a goddamn javelin contest.

It hits Pawpaw square in the chest. Skewers him so hard it pins him against the back of the throne as the front legs bounce up.

“Holy shit,” you say.

No wonder the little fucks was so good at killing. Them bitches are strong.

But Jaheira said Pawpaw got shot through the goddamn eye. So you watch. The body sprawled backwards over the throne. Dark blood fanning halfway up the wall behind him like a hellish set of wings. More blood dripping over his armor to plip-plop to the floor.

Astarion, beside you, recoils. You almost ask, because usually he’s a house cat chittering at the hummingbird it wants to kill the shit out of. But—

You don’t…feel it, exactly. Nothing physically changes. But there’s a sense of…tugging. A frayed piano string plucked, the noise so low it’s not even audible; only a vibration through your chest.

Unkillable fucking Pawpaw opens his unkillable fucking eyes. Looks down on Curly, who gawps. Then he reaches up and grabs the handle. Casual as you please, like he’s adjusting the buttons on a retirement home polyester one-piece jumper, the one with the single breast pocket.

Pawpaw gives a meaty tug. The wet squelch and grind sends quivers through your stomach and your mouth floods with pre-vomit spit. But the axspear comes out in a smaller spray of blood. The fucker stands—stands. Looking for all the world like somebody let Pawpaw wander out in his flip flops and found him at the ren faire down the road. Only this one’s got viscera hanging outta his middle like blood-soaked cloth scraps.

He takes two steps off the dais. Stops in front of Curly.

And mic drops the weapon.

“I-I’m sorry, my lord!” Swell babbles. “She’s an unbeliever, outside of my control—”

“Try again,” Pawpaw says softly.

“Please,” Short Shit says. “Please.”

But Pawpaw only leans in, looming over Curly. “I said. Try. Again.”

[buzzdixonwriter]

The Client [FICTOID]

“Are you a detective?”

“I am.”

“I want you to solve a mystery.”

“Okay, what mystery?”

“Why did I do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill my wife.”

I took a long draw on my cigarette.  “She’s dead?”

“She will be.”

“Then why not save her?”

“It’s fatal.”

“What is?”

“AIDS.”

I took another long draw.  These things will kill me.  Eventually.  “You gave her AIDS?”

“No.”

I stubbed my cigarette out.  The client -- the would be client -- proved irritating.  “Let’s stop talking in circles.  What did you do?”

“I encouraged my wife to have an affair.”

“Ah.  Because she was unhappy, or you were guilty?”

“Both.”

“Let’s start with her unhappiness.”

“I’m a businessman.  I work hard.  I make a lot of money -- but I don’t have time for love.”

“Old story.  Kind of cliché.  To be frank, pathetic.”

“Yes.  Pathetic is the perfect word.”

“So you encouraged your wife to play around, to get her jollies behind your back, but with your permission.”

“Yes.”

“Did she pick her lover, or did you?”

The client-to-be hung his head in shame.  “I did.”

“Somebody you knew?  Or somebody you both knew?”

“Somebody I knew…mostly.  She met him once or twice.  He worked for me.  A rough sort, muscular.  In the shipping department.”

“And he had AIDS?”

The client hung his head again.  “Yes.”

“Did you know?”

The client looked out my office window for a long, long time.  The view was the alley between the buildings; the day was cold, wet, and grey.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“What do you gain through your wife’s death?”

“Millions,” said the client.  “My wife stands to inherit a fortune.  It’s in a trust, so it can’t be denied her.”

“Does she know you know her lover had AIDS?”

The client closed his eyes.  Tears leaked out.  “Yes.”

“So why doesn’t she divorce you?  Or at least rewrite her will?”

“She loves me,” he said, voice cracking.

“Are you worthy of her love?”

His voice cracked again.  “No.”

“Then either kill yourself, or prove yourself worthy.”

“How?”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Don’t you solve mysteries?”

“This isn’t a mystery,” I said.  I wanted another cigarette badly but I told myself I needed to wait at least half an hour. 

“You murdered your wife -- “ here the client sucked his breath in harshly but didn’t deny it “ -- because you hoped to gain from it.

“Now she’s dying, or at least cursed with a potentially fatal disease she’ll never escape.

“You could divorce her, give her a generous settlement, but that will only be more pain and suffering inflicted on her, dragging out over weeks or months, and you’ll still keep some of your wealth.

“Or you can devote yourself to her, make her happy, brighten her days, make her glad she is alive.

“Or you can kill yourself swiftly, make the shock sudden but final, and leave her everything to comfort her last days.

“They’re doing a lot with AIDS treatments these days,” I said.  “She could still have many, many comfortable years ahead of her.”

“What do you recommend?”

I decided not to wait.  I shook the last cigarette out of the pack, tapped it on my desk, lit it, and drew in a deep lungful before answering.

“That you even came to me -- that you came to anyone -- reveals volumes.

“’Why’ you did this is easy enough to explain.  You love money.  You thought you loved it more than your wife.  You realize this might not be the case, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.  It’s dawning on you what you might really lose, and you can’t weigh that against your greed to decide which matters most to you, so you’re looking for outside help.”

Another long drag.  “Have you spoken with a therapist?  A psychiatrist?  A doctor?  A lawyer?  A priest or a rabbi or a minister?

“Yes,” said the client.  “Yes, yes, and more yes.”

“And they gave you the same answer, didn’t they?”

He gulped and nodded.

“One of the answers I gave you, right?”

He hesitated, then shook his head slightly.  “Only two of the three options you offered.”

“So there you go,” I said, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs.  It felt good.  It felt clean.  Certainly cleaner that this client.

“Don’t speak in riddles,” he said.  “What should I do?”

“Do you go hunting?”

“Occasionally.  Pheasants, mostly.  Why?”

“Make sure you get your whole head over the barrel of the shotgun.”

  © Buzz Dixon

[lazyscience]

I think having an extra person there who's not part of the grieving process as long as they're an sympathetic listener who draws people out could be really great, actually, because sometimes grief support groups can get kind of...taken over - and I don't mean this in a deliberate or narcissistic way! - by the members who are more extroverted or comfortable being vulnerable generally, or in more extreme crisis.

Like, say Alicia's in that group because she lost her twin sister a month or two ago. She's had a shitty day because the next book in her and her twin's favorite series came out today and for a second, she was so excited about thinking "oh, I can't wait to tell Deniece--" and then it crashes in that she can't. But when she gets to grief group, Marguerite is in tears because Social Security wants to get back her Gustavo's last month of benefits because someone made a mistake on the paperwork notifying them of his death, and she's worried that if she does have to give it back she can't make the rent payment on their apartment, and she's already making payments on the funeral and the hospital debt collectors are blowing up her phone - well. How can Alicia cry about a book, when Marguerite might not have a place to live?

But Carole who hasn't lost someone but just brings the snacks? while Donna and Henry are talking to Marguerite about how their appointments to get surviving spouse's benefits set up went, and the priest is going through his contacts for church-affiliated rent and utilities assistance programs, Carole can pass Alicia the plate of raspberry dark-chocolate dipped madeleines she saw on GBBO and no one in her family will eat, and say "and how about you, Alicia, how are you doing this week?" and give her a chance to cry a little without feeling like she's burdening somebody worse off. And maybe Marguerite reads that author too, and says "really? There's a new Morgana Mythhaven?" and has a little distraction in her week that doesn't remind her of Gustavo, because he was more a Jack Reacher guy than a werewolf shifter romance guy. And the group feels a little bit more balanced and connected.

My mom accidentally joined a grieving support group (long story, she's not grieving tho) and she's missing it this week while visiting me and she's VERY concerned that Lorraine, who very kindly offered to bring a baked good like mom usually would, will NOT bring the correct kind of dessert, she says citrus tarts aren't "griefy" enough

[radiosandrecordings]

Crossposting my @summer-in-the-archives-event fic here too. [AO3] [Accompanying beautiful art]

He’d never get used to the rolling fields of quiet.

Miles behind and miles to go, not that he could see any of it through the thick blanket of fog that clung to his ankles, and his wrists, and his eyes. Miles to go before I sleep…

It was hard to describe the rain that fell, because even ‘fell’ felt like too active a descriptor. It didn’t pour, it didn’t ‘beat down’, it didn’t pelt, because those all required a sense of agency that the landscape just felt too apathetic to muster. It simply existed, and just happened to be moving downwards by coincidence.

Jon wasn’t sure if he knew or Knew that it seeped into his clothes, coating his skin, but he couldn’t even feel the droplets landing, even pinpricks of touch creating too much of a sensation for this place. He briefly wondered that, if he still had need for his glasses, would the rain even make the effort to trickle down and cloud the lenses.

The last Lonely domain he’d passed through, he’d never seen the avatar that lorded over it. He didn’t have any real interest in finding out, not like the personal vendettas that lead him to seeking out Jude, or Jared. Because with Peter dead he wasn’t left with any Lonely avatars left to chase, save the vague notions of the Lukas extended family. He was simply going to keep his head down and keep trudging, hopefully emerging through the thick banks of mist before he lost his mind to the monotony. If there was ever something to make you miss muffled cries from beneath the earth…

“Why are you here?”

The sound was accusatory, and may as well have been a shotgun in the silence. The damped chill was nothing in comparison to the ice that shot up his spine. The voice had no clear origin, no figures even silhouetted in shadow against the overgrown grass, but it came in close, delivered on the gentle, numbing breeze. Despite this, though, never in a thousand domains could he forget the sound of it. Of course it was his. Of course. Of course. “Martin?”

“No! ”

The voice sounded… Angry. But hurt, like it flinched away from the word. Like something that had been left to sit in the dark too long, that recoiled back from a stinging source of light.

“... I’m going to assume no one has called you that in a long time.” He tried to keep his voice light, as much as the stifling atmosphere would allow it.

“No one is anything here. It’s easier that way. If you’re somebody, you can be hurt. If you have too much personality, too many little facets and cracks, things start to snag and catch on it, and it drags you down to where things ache. But if you’re nothing, then they don’t have anything to cling onto. You can just slip away unharmed.” The voice sounded like it was moving, curling around him and moving from ear to ear, forward and back as it droned on in that echoing monotone that Jon had hoped he would never hear again, and at the same time, had longed to.

“And what about the good things?”

“There isn’t anything good, not anymore. You saw to that.”

Jon snorted. “Low blow, but fair.” He hesitated for a moment, trying to summon the words.

He’d had time, after he left the Lonely, to consider his actions. Regret pooled like acid in his stomach at the memory, and somehow it hurt more than ending the world. He wouldn’t say it was more important. He knew whatever he felt, and moreso, knew that one human life, was not paramount to the suffering of every creature great and small, but it felt more tangible. When he walked through the hellscapes, they were dreamlike, hazy, information in such clarity but to an extreme where it still felt nonsensical to perceive it as reality. He knew the fundamental truths that surrounded him but it still felt hard to accept them even as he lived them.

Yet despite having lived without it for eight months prior, the space beside him that failed to solidify into Martin still stung with his absence. And Jon regretted it every not-day he spent walking the hellscape, both in knowing he doomed a good man to suffering, or worse, revelry, in this new world, and in the far more personal, and far more selfish, part of him that missed him so goddamn much.

“But- But Martin, I think I made a mistake.”

“Obviously.”

“Not- Not that. I mean, when we were in the Lonely. The- The first time. With Peter Lukas.” The silence droned on, and Jon took that as his cue to continue. “Do you remember what I said? That maybe you were safer here? And that’s… That’s why I let you stay. I didn’t push you to, to leave with me because I thought you wanted to be here, that you’d be safer here than you’d be with me. But I don’t think that was entirely true.”

“I am safe here.”

“Maybe so. It doesn’t mean it’s better though, does it. Martin, I saw those people, in the last Lonely domain. I know it’s different, they were victims and you’re… You’re an avatar, here, you’re feeding off of all of this, but I promise you they were not happy. They were so alone and it didn’t protect them, it just made it worse. Think about it, the logic of this world. There are threats out there of unimaginable horror, and yet they were still assigned here, it’s their worst nightmare. And you were assigned here too. You’re all suffering, just in different ways, but all calculated to be your personal worst.”

“The Martin Blackwood you thought you knew doesn’t exist anymore. He had to be filed down, too many breaks and tears in him that grew and grew, any time someone raised a harsh word. The best way for him to be protected, is for him to go away entirely. You cannot hurt something that doesn’t exist.”

“Are you sure about that? Because you just said ‘I’.”

“What? ” That anger reemerged again, and as staunched as it was it was beautiful, a return to form amongst the dull monotone, reminiscent of the few times Jon had been privileged enough to witness a truly pissed off Martin Blackwood.

Jon found himself grinning. “You said ‘I am safe here’. Emphasis on the ‘I’. Ergo, you still have some form of identity left, and thus I would wager that the part of you left is Martin. Unless I’ve wandered across some other avatar of the Lonely who sounds like him, of course.”

“You’re always so fucking smug, you know that?”

The voice is coming from behind him. Actually, physically, presently behind him and Jon spins around so fast he’s almost dizzy.

And as much as it made his heart soar, and much as he was glad to finally, finally , see him again when he’d thought he never would, Martin looked… Bad.

His skin had darkened, mottled and blotchy with large swathes of a bruise-like blue or sickly green cropping up across his face and neck, or the parts of his forearms visible where his cable knit sleeves rolled back. It was like frostbite from the cold, or some disturbing onset of trench-foot from the damp, corpselike and unsettling. What was worse, though, were the parts that simply ceased. His hair didn’t even reach the tips, simply fading out into a grey static that merged with the mist, and it consumed his eyes whole, tear tracks streaking down his face in patterns of fuzzy, crackling grey that snapped and popped in the silence, far too reminiscent of a tape.

The sight made Jon’s heart clench like a fist, the combination of relief and horror, and in that moment he understood Jane Prentiss more completely than he ever had before. It would’ve felt like a rude comparison to consciously make, the person he cared for most equated to a pulped and writhing mass that churned out creatures that made your skin crawl before tearing into it. But he knew what she had seen in it, that call towards the thing that fascinated you, despite the turning it causes in your stomach.

Despite this, however, Jon steeled himself. This was rapidly becoming a battle, and he couldn’t afford the cost of emotions. He had to keep Martin, well… Martin. Draw out the emotion. In short, be a bit of a bastard. So instead, he cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you liked that about me?”

He could see Martin’s fists clench, the colour of his extremities dyed black from frostbite. The irritation was still clear as he started into “Fucking hell J-” but they both appeared taken aback as he dissolved into a choking, hacking cough.

It took everything in him for Jon to tamp down the need to surge forward, put a hand on his back and ask if he was okay. It was a strangely mundane thing; the man was made out of static and fog and despite seeming to have an on-and-off-again relationship with his corporeal form, this was the first recognisably human thing to adversely affect him. Why, though? What had Martin done to trigger- Oh. Oh .

“That- That priest from the statement… 0113005? Father Burroughs. He couldn’t say the name of god. Anything related to it, really. And you… You couldn’t say my…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Martin spat. “You’re not a god or thee god, whatever your new eye magic might imply. It’s just…” He let out a breath that turned into a grumble. While his eyes had always been cloudy, he was now refusing to meet Jon’s gaze.

Regardless, it still drew a breathy laugh out of him. “No, I’m not that far gone into my own self importance yet. But… It’s about the connection, isn’t it?” Something in the conversation had changed, it’s tone or it’s flow, that felt contradicting. Tension coiling up to spring, or they’re barrelling towards a culmination, but at the same time, Jon felt like the wind had been kicked right out of him. He lowered himself to the ground, slowly, settling among the grass and trying to ignore the unpleasant dampness under him. Hey, he could feel the damp again. That was something.

“That’s more flattering, actually, I would say… The Lonely, it thinks if you acknowledge me directly, that would loosen it’s hold on you.” Jon huffed out a breath. “You know I listened to all the tapes. What was it that Daisy said to you, when I was on the run? ‘People say you two are close’? Well, the Lonely appears to agree.” He took a minute before adding, “I would, as well. And, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too… Too in my own head, before, to admit it. Too much of a coward to do it before that, even. But you need to know I love you. And I know that you… Cared for me, at least? Even if I stuck my head in the sand to ignore it. But the Lonely seems to think you do, still. So will you please come back to me? I know it’s not- I know it won’t be much better, travelling through the domains, but it’s all I can offer and it has to be better than this. I can’t promise anything kind will be waiting for us in London, but you’d be yourself again, and I can’t… Martin, I can’t lose you again. To leave here, again, without you, I’d be losing you. Please.”

“No.”

There wasn’t even a delay to his response, stating it in monotone the second Jon had finished speaking. It felt like ice, lancing through his heart.

“Martin. Martin, please -”

“I said no. I thought you would’ve learned by now; I’m not exactly amenable when you come crawling to me with half baked plans of escape. Because you don’t love me, you love the idea of me. You are quite literally the only free man left in the world and you’re lonely . So you’re looking for a familiar face. Kind Martin, caring Martin, always there with tea and taking your side in every argument. Defending you to Tim when you’d just as soon slag him off behind his back, or on tape. Pretty appealing when everyone else is trying to kill you. At least he treated you like a god before this even started.”

Each sentence felt like another dagger to the chest, and it took him a moment to compose himself, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Eventually, though, Jon spoke. “That’s not true, though. I- Martin I can’t apologise enough that that’s what it’s felt like, for you. But I need you to know, that isn’t true. A-At the start, maybe, I can’t deny I was stupid and spiteful, but you didn’t deserve any of it. And after that… I didn’t do a one-eighty and decide you were a doormat. I liked you because you were secretly enough of a prick as well. Any time you’d pull me out for lunch when I dragged my heels, or argued back when I said something shitty, that was… It felt like I was seeing the real you. The one you didn’t want to let people think of you as, but the one you were, because despite wanting to appear like the picture of innocence, you are a bitch, Martin Blackwood. And that’s my favourite thing about you. Maybe time is sweetening my memory, slightly, but I truly don’t believe there’s rose coloured glasses here. If we walk out of here, I’m not under any sort of illusion that it’ll be a honeymoon. We will doubtless find something to argue over, if not several, but I want that. I want you at my side to, to disagree and point out all my blind spots. We’re both stubborn bastards but I’m stupidly fallible, and I need you to keep me balanced. I don’t want a yes-man, I want you, Martin, and I’m asking for that knowing full well what it entails.”

When the words stopped flowing, he found himself gasping for breath, sobs building in his chest and threatening to spill over. But Martin was standing closer.

“That’s- I don’t- Fuck.” As Jon looked up, wiping at his own eyes, he could see fog starting to trickle from Martin’s mouth, coming in short bursts as his nostrils flared and chest rose and fell noticeably for the first time that Jon had seen since he stepped foot onto the moors. This caused a conflict of emotion in Jon, because while it seemed to be another step towards humanity, Martin letting the Lonely fall to the wayside in favour of reclaiming himself, it also looked far too close to a panic attack to be something worth celebrating.

“I don’t understand,” he finally settled on, voice cracking on the words. He slowly let himself sink to the ground opposite Jon, knees pulled up to his chest. “I left you. Time and again I left you. I left you to work with Lukas, and I left you when you tried to get me to run away, and I left you when I stayed on the beach.” His palms were pressed into his eyes, mist seeping from between his knuckles as he dragged them across his face, though Jon couldn’t be sure if he was attempting to wipe the fog away, or if he was stalling while he faltered, trying to summon the words. Both, maybe. Jon took the silence from him.

“You didn’t really choose that, though. You didn’t feel like you even had a choice. So Martin if… If you’re worried that I think badly of you for that, I don’t. Martin, I’ve done so many terrible things, so to- No, no, actually I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that you’re a good person, compared with me. I think you’re a good person full stop. And I just want you to be able to see that. I know the Lonely is quite literally clouding your judgement right now but… Please, just, just make me a deal?”

Martin’s palms were resting on his chin now, cupping his cheeks and curving around his neck. He nodded once, wearily, for Jon to continue.

Jon drew in a breath “I think I’m in some sort of… Bubble. Like a miniature domain, when I’m travelling. I think, if you agree to come with me, even for a little bit, that might dissolve some of the Lonely’s more adverse effects. Make it easier to think, to, to be yourself without its influence. If that is what happens, and you want to return… I’ll bring you back. But please, just… Try? For me?”

Martin sighed, hands dropping from his face. “...Fine.”

“You- Really?”

“Yes. I… Look, J-” Martin bit back another coughing fit. “Look. I am… There is a lot of me right now that wants to leave. The fog is… It’s in my head, figuratively, probably even literally, but… I remember something Basira said. When she got back, from, from The Unknowing . Melanie wanted to know how she got out, when the other three… When you, and Daisy, and Tim, didn’t. She said she reasoned her way out. So I’m going to listen to reason for a minute, as much as it’s paining me.”

Despite those final words, Jon felt his face crack into a smile. “That’s… Yes, you’re right. Well that’s… That’s a very reasonable connection to make.”

And for the first time in a long time, Martin smiled.

“Uhm, so how does this work then?” He eventually said, hand coming up again to scratch the back of his neck in an old nervous habit Jon could not be more happy to see.

“Well”, Jon said, taking a moment to brush sodden grass from his trousers as he got to his feet, “I would say, based on the dream logic that everything here seems to run on here, it should be rather simple.” He held out a hand to tug Martin up after him.

Martin took it.

It was almost cliché, how the Lonely fell away from him. It only took a few seconds, all in all, for the bruising to fade, receding their colourful splotches until his skin lay clear again. His frostbitten fingers healing themselves, sewing broken skin back together and returning to a healthy colour. His face, too, was returning to its original pallor, the change creeping up his neck and across his cheeks and leaving rich brown in its wake. Dark eyes stared down at Jon from behind long lashes, blinking away the last of the fog. He was beautiful.

“Hi,” Jon managed to choke out.

“Hi,” Martin said, and pulled him into his arms.

Jon just let himself be held in the pressure of the embrace for a moment, before bringing a hand up to card his fingers through Martin’s hair. While it had solidified into soft curls, the colour had stayed the same, bleaching it white under his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if Martin had noticed or not, but that was a conversation for another time. They were both a little preoccupied for the moment.

“How do you feel?” Jon eventually said, words pressed into the side of Martin’s neck.

“Uhm. Strange?” Martin eventually settled on. “It’s… I can remember what my thought process was, what the Lonely was pushing me to believe, but it’s like… It’s like the camera panned out, and now I can see it all clearly, and it looks… It looks stupid. Thank you, Jon. For coming to get me.”

“Of course,” Jon whispered, “Of course.”

Another moment passed before Martin spoke up again. “...Did you mean what you said, though? Or was that… Was that just to try and get me to leave? I- I won’t be angry, if it was, that- that’s very clever, I just want to know.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Which part do you mean?”

Martin let out an agitated sigh. “You- You know which one I mean, Jon. The- The part where that you said that you…”

“That I love you?” Jon said, picking up where Martin trailed off.

Martin’s face flushed, and just the sight of colour spreading across it made Jon’s heart soar, let alone the implications of why . “Of course I did. I- I’m sorry that you would think I would lie about that, even for something like this. No, Martin, I love you. So very much. And I know you might not feel that way anymore, in which case I am very much embarrassing myself here, but I know that you did at one stage so I hope it won’t make things too awkward between us.” “I do, Jon.”

“What?”

“I do. Still feel that way. I love you too, of course I do. My hero.”

It was Jon’s turn to feel his face flush, pleasant warmth bubbling to the surface. “Oh,” was all he managed to stutter out.

“Can I- Jon do you mind if I…” Martin trailed off again, and Jon began to think this might be a recurring theme between them. He’d make it work. He was pretty good at reading Martin, and the eyeline pointed directly at his lips made intentions quite clear.

“Is- Would just the cheek be okay?” He replied. It didn’t really feel like the time for a full run down on where boundaries lay, but he figured it was a start.

“More than,” Martin said, leaning down to press his lips softly against Jon’s cheek. He lingered for a few seconds, skin largely healed but still chapped from the cold, and it was one of the most beautiful things Jon had ever felt. He slipped one hand into Martin’s, and he felt their fingers twine together.

Martin leaned back, clearly trying to calm his grin into something more close-lipped and calm. “Where to now then?”

“Uhm. Forward, really, is just how I’ve been going. There isn’t any real sense of geography to it, we’ll just…. Get there when we get there.”

“Right. Because nothing can be simple these days.”

Jon missed this. He missed him. But he didn’t have to miss him anymore, did he? He was right there.

He squeezed his hand once, and started leading the way.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Superstitions and Curses

Pairing: mummy!Bucky Barnes x archaeologist!Reader

Warnings: slight dubcon, obsessive and soft!dark!Bucky, mentions of torture and being buried alive.

Words: 2163.

Summary: It wasn't your first expedition, but pretty much the first time when you had helped to bring an ancient being back from the dead.

P.S. Huge thanks to dear @navegandoaciegas who helped me get inspired again <3

_______________

"Please, let me in."

You clenched the amulet in your hands, nervously staring at the door of a hotel room and hoping he wouldn't enter. Despite the fact that you were an archeologist, a woman who believed in nothing but science, you were ready to pray to all the gods if it would help to keep this creature away.

"I mean no harm to you." His husky, dangerously low voice made you lick your lips as you thought of all the things he whispered in your ear the other night. "Didn't you like the way I treat you, love?"

"It was a spell you put on me!" You furrowed your brows, making a step away from the door and bumping into a nightstand with a loud thud - the bottle of water in top of it fell down to the floor.

"A spell?" The man behind the door chuckled, and you could hear him breathing out loudly as he peered through the crack in the door, his hands pressed against the dark wood. "You know I haven't done anything of this kind. What you felt was the chemistry between us, don't deny it."

It was true. That night when all you wanted was to forget the events of the last couple of days, forget all about the whole reason why you came to this ancient country, you rushed to a bar to get drunk like a fish, hoping the next morning once you'd wake up, it would all be a bad dream and nothing more. That's where you met him, the man who you had seen laying in his grave just a couple of hours before. Of course, you didn't know it was him - he looked like any other man, enough flesh on his bones not to cause any suspicion.

Oh, but it was him. He had followed you in that bar, pretending to be a stranger eager to know you; fooling you, he soon slipped into your room where he made love to you, completely drunk and fallen under his charms. How stupid you were, trusting a complete stranger after what had happened that day.

It was several hours after when you woke up in the night, and the moonlight coming from the window lit the room a little: as you stared at the man sleeping soundly next to you, you saw the ancient symbols on his chest.

The next minute you were out of your room, hoping he wouldn't wake up in the next hour. It would give you enough time to reach the railway station.

Why was he following you? You could understand his reasons since you had pretty much broken his tomb and opened his grave, but why on Earth did he sleep with you? Why didn't he kill you? Was it some kind of a ritual? Despite the fact that you were specializing on local customs and traditions, you have never heard of anything of that kind.

"You can't get rid of me." He murmured behind the door, and you sensed something wicked, resentful in his voice.

"Why can't I? What do you want from me?" You asked on the verge of tears, your arms trembling - you very much doubted the amulet you were holding was of any use to you.

"Shhhh." He cooed softly, feeling you fear and somewhat content with it. "I promise I won't hurt you. Let me in, love. Let me in."

For a couple of seconds you froze, listening to the man breathing softly behind the door. Strangely, you could almost hear his heart beating in his chest as if he really were human, not a rotten corpse you saw in the coffin a couple of days ago. The night you spent together you felt like he was the most tender and affectionate man you had ever met. Why did he do it? What was his purpose? Why were you opening the door for him when he ordered you to do it with that hypnotic voice of his?

You realized he had entered your room once he touched your cheek with his hand, rough fingers brushing against your wet skin. Oh, apparently, you were crying.

"I know it is beyond your comprehension, but please trust me, My Immortal Beloved." He made a step forward as you shriveled and slinked back, staring at his perfectly blue eyes adorned with black kohl. "Do not be scared. Even though it seems horrifyingly wrong to you, things are exactly as they were meant to be."

Despite the fact you had a thousand questions inside your head, the words were stuck in your throat. You couldn't even scream, asking for help. Besides, it would be pretty worthless, wouldn't it? No one could protect you from someone who rose from the dead.

"You were meant to open my tomb and set me free. You were meant to resurrect my body and let my soul return to it."

When you reached the wall, your back pressed to it as if you wanted to slip through the stone, the man had inched closer to you and lowered his hand on your chest, the other one right in front of your face as he moved his hand, drawing a circle in the air with his palm. I see you. You are important to me, a sign of both trust and affection - you had seen it so many times on ancient drawings it was imprinted on your brain.

What? Why was he doing it? Why it was you who set him free? You were just one of a whole team of archaeologists and wage earners. You did nothing special, nothing that differentiated you from others - you weren't the one who physically opened it nor did you read any ancient spells locals were so superstitious about. You were as much in shock as all others when the mummy had suddenly disappeared from the tomb.

At first, even though most of you were people of science, all of you thought of ancient curses and all those archaeologists who had supposedly died from it. Then, when you came to your senses, you thought of the thieves who might had taken the mummy. But then again, although it were the remains of someone very, very important, no treasures were buried with him - apparently, this person had done something terrible when he was alive, especially remembering the curses written on the walls. So why steal just the corpse, then? Without decent care, the bones would crack within minutes of carrying them. Why would thieves want the mummy?

"I want to come back home." You whispered, shivering and averting your eyes.

"I will bring you whenever you want once you swear loyalty to me, love."

You blinked as you stared at his tanned face, symbols painted with gold shining on his temples. It was getting more and more insane with every passing minute.

"Why would I swear loyalty to you?"

"Because I am your Sun, Moon and the Stars in between."

The silence felt heavy, suffocating as you kept looking at the man, not knowing what to say. He was right - you didn't understand a thing. You didn't even know who he was and why you swearing loyalty to him seemed so important so this stranger. The only thing you knew for sure was that he was dangerous, far more dangerous than any other human being - you felt it in your bones.

"Before I d-do that, may I know your name?" You wanted to add something like "Your Majesty", but you had no idea what kind of title the man once had - that is, if he had any at all.

He chuckled, "It would be hard for you to pronounce. But you can call me James, it is the closest you can get."

A part of you was offended - for heaven's sake, you were specializing on this exact area and surely knew how to pronounce ancient names - but the other part of you now wondered how come this being knew a real English name and could actually speak modern language. Surely, he was at least a thousand years old. How come?..

"Why were you buried so disrespectfully?" You started questioning him out loud, furrowing your brows. "This is not my first expedition, but I have never seen a tomb like yours before. No treasures, no name, nothing that could identify you at all."

"The Witch-king, that's how they called me." His handsome face darkened, and the man took a step away, turning his back to you. "The one who had surpassed his high priest and could read the Book of the Dead. Once my chancellors learnt about me practicing the magic of the ancient, they made my priests spread the word to my people, and I have been overthrown. They have tortured me, blinded me, cut off my limbs, and then sealed me away in the tomb when I was still alive. Because of their fear of me and my powers, they condemned me to the worst of fates, and broke the line of kings."

As he kept speaking, his dark long robe fell down to the floor, opening his half-naked tan body to you: you saw two deep scars on his shoulders that still looked raw, horrifying you - the man was telling you the truth. He had been dismembered.

"They have cursed me to stay neither truly dead nor alive till one day somebody would open my tomb and set me free. They have kept the location of my grave a secret, thinking no one would ever discover it in the sand, but they all were wrong. I will suffer no more in that place where not a single ray of light had shone over two thousands of years."

Your head was spinning from all this, and you quietly slid to the floor, your hands in your hair as you tugged on the roots in frustration and fear. For the love of God, was it all true? Did you help resurrect the ancient being that could use some scary black magic and probably kill lots of innocent people? Did he want to drag you along with him once you swear loyalty to him? If you didn't, would he actually murder you?

"But this is of no importance now." The man turned back to you and, suddenly seeing you on the floor, hurried to gently pick you up and place you on a spacious bed, watching you with worry. "I am sorry for I have frightened you, love. I swear this was not my intention."

You had troubles understanding what his intention was, but you kept silent, too scaried to say something to him. You had a dozen thoughts what a creature like him would want to do to people for all his suffering.

You should have left that damn tomb alone when your team found twice more death traps than in any other grave. You read the curses left on the walls, but they only fueled your interest. Of course, you had never been superstitious in your entire life, so you simply disregarded all the signs that now seemed so clear you were ready to slap yourself.

"Why am I important?" You asked in a shaky voice, your eyes trailing down his chest with ancient symbols tattooed on it. "Why spending a night with me? I am just a woman. I have opened the tomb, but I was one of many."

"No, you are special. You won't understand now, not yet, but think of it as your destiny. Your fate is bound to mine."

As he inched closer to you, you finally realized you were almost in bed with a half-naked handsome man resurrected from the dead. Immediately crawling back, your stared at him wide-eyed. No, no, no, whoever he was and whatever he thought your fate was, you didn't want him in your bed the second time! Well, almost. Maybe you wanted a little bit. Just a little.

"S-so, are you going to destroy the country and claim your kingdom again?"

Your words made him laugh as he bared his perfectly white teeth while touching the side of your face.

"Two thousand years were enough to change my priorities. Ruling the world of humans who know nothing of magic isn't interesting to me anymore."

"I see. That's a relief." You murmured, still very uncomfortable with him being so close to you. "Please, can I just leave? There are millions of women, I'm sure you'll find someone more attractive to be your... your concubine."

_____________

"Concubine? I did not have a concubine, and neither did my ancestors." The man tilted his head to the side, looking at you surprised as you were ready to bite yourself for your own stupidity: of course, the rulers of these lands only started having concubines in the fourth dynasty and onwards, James was definitely either from the first or second one. "I can't let you leave, love. You will have to come with me."

Part 2

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @iheartsebastianstan @ninefuckingoneone

[tintinwrites]

Poe Dameron Imagines Masterlist

I haven’t made a masterlist in a while and some people have asked for one!!

Series:

fifty ways to kiss someone (has NSFW chapters)

love (Modern)

the stars were made for falling

tonight (has NSFW chapters)

a friend in me (has NSFW chapters)

the light side | one two three

soft | one two (Modern)

arranged | one two (1800′s AU)

provocative | one two (Professor!Poe)

captain dameron | one two (Pirate!Poe)

a stranger in paradise | one

please never fall in love again | one two (Bartender!Poe)

phobias | snakes heights blood draws claustrophobia the dark/power outages spiders thunderstorms

not while i’m around | one (SVU AU)

you will be found | one (Zombie Apocalypse AU)

what kind of fool am i | one two

forbidden fruit | one two (NSFW) (First Order!Poe)

first series | first commander first time (NSFW) (First Order!Poe)

forgive me, please forgive me | one

out of my dreams (Modern)

the fallen soul | One (Priest!Poe) (Regency Era)

One-Shots:

Smut

hypnagogic: You can’t sleep, so Poe suggests another activity.

Fluff

ineffable: You and your husband, Poe Dameron, are captured and need to escape.

quixotic: Poe is always there for you when you fall which happens often.

dulcet: You don’t want to make friends in the Resistance, but Poe is gonna try anyway.

contentment: The war is over and you and Poe have a daughter who wakes her father up at night because you fell asleep in her bed.

caf: You need caf and Poe took the last of it.

benevolent: You and Poe try to do some things in a closet and are brought in for a talk with Leia.

redamancy: Finn and you apparently love each other. Except you don’t and a certain pilot has a problem with all of this.

Angst

eccedentesiast: Poe is hurt during a mission and just wants to see you smile.

eunoia: Poe imagines you freeing him as he’s being tortured by the First Order.

latibule: You comfort Poe when he has a nightmare about the First Order.

desideratum: You express to Poe how much the war is affecting you mentally.

AU

the wasted years (Modern AU): You go to see the Phantom of the Opera and find yourself relating to the title character.

Poe singing Dean Martin (Modern AU): Poe sings Everybody Loves Somebody and the two of you dance.

gli occhi belli

figure

pour some sugar on (NSFW)

requited (NSFW)

something stupid

characters witness their baby’s first laugh (Modern)

character introduces their baby to their pets (Modern)

bloodlust (Vampire!Poe)

enceinte

alone

romance

dawn

c’est lui pour moi

i’ve got my love to keep me warm (Modern)

insatiable

mistletoe underwear

procrastination

but beautiful

if you are but a dream

you are not alone

i never before loved life so much

the story of a starry night (1950′s AU)

so this is love

hold my hand (NSFW)

the beach

ignorance then bliss (NSFW)

pretty moon

reader meets Poe’s corgi (Modern)

perfection (Modern)

i do, you know

how you might have met Poe (Modern)

forget about the boy

you don’t have to convince me (Regency AU)

sympathy, tenderness

melts in your mouth (NSFW) (Modern)

ghosts would be preferable (College AU)

you can see me? (Ghost!Reader) (Modern)

the sky is blue (Soulmates AU) (Modern)

with only a word (Modern)

and then they are bored of me

mr. pilot

everything else goes away

“Shit, are you crying? I didn’t mean to do it that hard.”

Christmas sweaters

have yourself a merry little Christmas

the arena

rain

try to remember

entitled

some enchanted evening

reunited and it’s kind of awkward

wisdom? (Modern)

breathe, baby (NSFW)

bondage and discipline (NSFW)

yes, general (NSFW)

“How would you like to have a sexual encounter so intense it could conceivably change your political views?” (First Order!Poe)

they’ll never believe me

when love is all that i recall (NSFW)

sweet mystery of life (NSFW)

“You know, hiding one’s face behind a mask only works for Ren and his Knights.” (First Order!Poe)

“We all have our reasons, love.” (First Order!Poe)

“For a spy in hiding, you’re making a lot more waves than I expected...I like it.” (First Order!Poe)

“Well, we’re both stranded, so you have no choice but to work with me, sweetheart.” (First Order!Poe)

Poe taking you over a small desk (First Order!Poe) (NSFW)

“Sweetheart, panic as much as you like, but you can’t hide what you want from me.” (First Order!Poe)

Poe hates your daughter’s boyfriend of course

Poe singing to his little son (Modern)

till there was you (NSFW)

“I’m sure the Resistance can’t give you what I can give you.” (First Order!Poe)

A, B, C (Modern)

sanisteamy (NSFW-ish)

above ‘em

Poe holding you

a table for two (Modern)

“You can’t just take the X-wing whenever you want, young lady!”

Road trip with Poe and your kids (Modern)

oh

“His finger was right on the trigger, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“We need to understand that we did love each other, but that wasn’t enough.”

Reader dominating Poe (NSFW)

First Order!Poe taking you against the wall (NSFW)

“If you hurt her...” (First Order!Poe)

“I can’t believe I got the first date, let alone a year.” (Modern)

the drop (Modern)

“I can’t believe we’ll actually be parents in a few days.” (Modern)

“I’ve been in love with you since we were eighteen.”

“Well, I’m not in school anymore, but you could teach me too, if you’d like.” (Modern)

“I just want to take my time with you.” (First Order!Poe)

“You’re all I have too, you know.”

that reminds me of you too (Modern)

please say you’ll think of me (Modern)

it was a pretty good bad idea, though (NSFW)

Headcanons:

being married to Poe (Modern)

domestic Poe x Reader (Modern)

Poe teaching reader how to dance (Modern)

deciding with Poe not to have kids and then wanting them later (Modern)

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by @ejunkiet

Warnings: Catholicism, somebody being extremely sarcastic about the holiest of the sacraments; if those things trigger or upset you, scroll on by.

So, the thing is, it wasn't supposed to go like this.  He gets about four seconds of, "oh shit" when he puts his foot down inside what was apparently a circle of something.

A whole lot of things seem to happen in those four seconds.  He recognizes the circle -- formed in salt!  He doesn't know much about magic, but he knows you can't write spells in salt! -- and looks up at the witch chief.  She looks over-fucking-joyed, and expectant, and he can't watch that, so he looks to Alucard and Sypha.

Sypha reaches for him, fingers splayed and arms out like she's trying to cast.  He sees the determination locking down her jaw, thinning her mouth, and the wide edge of real fear that makes the corners of her eyes smooth out.

Alucard reaches too, and he's fast.  He blurs red around the edges; Trevor almost doesn't see him coming.

Their fingertips touch.  Sypha screams something, ragged and desperate and horrible --

His hand slips through Alucard's, somehow translucent, like a silk screen or a chemise.  Like a ghost.

Alucard's eyes go so wide, the red burning away inside them out of what's probably rage.

The world falls away.

He wakes with a bony elbow prodding him in the ribs.  He jabs back reflexively without opening his eyes, muttering, "Fuck!" as he does.

His voice sounds weird. 

Those are the two stupid, stupid things he first notices: some arsehole's bony elbow and that his voice sounds higher pitched than it should.

He opens his eyes to find a pew in front of his face.  An actual church pew, complete with the kneeler and the carved cross cut-outs and everything.   Hell, his knees are on the kneeler, how's that for hopelessly wrong?

He looks around out of the corners of his eyes.  He hasn't been in a church in thirteen years, but he remembers how shitty people get about other people not paying attention.  It just looks like a normal congregation; everyone in what's probably their best and the women all have their hair covered.  Their eyes are all on the priest ahead of the chancel.  He looks and sounds and moves like every other parish priest Trevor has seen.

At the front, the priest calls, "Oremus," in that rhythm they have, and apparently Trevor is still a Christian in deed, if not in heart, because he rises smoothly, automatically, with all the rest.

This church looks familiar, he thinks as he rises.  There's the transept with the little crack in its window.  The chancel is a little more in shadow than it ought to be; it takes the shine off the altar, which is arranged simply.

Something is fucked.  He knows something is just in a new land of wrong and upside-down.  He just can't tell what it is, besides his presence.

The priest chants in Latin.  Trevor fights not to roll his eyes.  Yes, yes, he wants to say.   Praise be to God for the Eucharist.  What would we do if we didn't literally eat and drink our Savior?  Praise him, praise him, forever and ever.

Everyone around him repeats after the priest.  It's all such garbage and he's still trying to figure out how the hell he got from the salt circle to a church, and how he's not on fire for being in said church. 

The person next to him jabs him again with their bony-ass elbow.  Trevor jabs back, again, muttering unkind things about their parentage.  The next jab is harder, and shortly after that there's a familiar cuff to the back of his head.

He almost starts looking around more, but fourteen years of getting cuffed for looking any way but forward are very fresh in his mind.  Best not to draw any more attention to himself.

With no better options, he recites with everybody else.  His voice still sounds wrong in his head, and it cracks and feels uncomfortable when he tries to speak lower.

After the Postcommunion, they all kneel again, then rise.

"Benedicamus Domino," the priest sings.

They all chant back, "Deo gratias," and the general shuffling toward the exit begins.

And now that Trevor can actually look around without getting smacked, he's starting to see precisely why everything seems so familiar.  He knows this nave.  Knows this church.  They'd come here his whole life.

And, filing away toward the narthex, he sees four familiar dresses, four familiar white veils, made of fine linen from Targovişte.  They move with the smooth, graceful glide over the rough stone floors that he'd thought he'd never see again.

His sisters.

It hits him like an actual sucker punch, like somebody slamming a chair into him in a bar fight.  His stomach clenches up like a fist.  He makes some sort of horrible choking noise as all the breath in his lungs decides to leave.  He wheezes in another breath, feels it whistling down a throat that doesn't want to open. 

And ahead of them, his mother shines in the doorway, outlined and turned into a smudge by the early afternoon sunlight.

Ahead of her, Father turns.  He makes an impatient gesture, calling Trevor's name.

His whole body feels numb.  He goes anyway.  Now that he's doing something more complicated than standing and kneeling, he can't help noticing his balance is off.  Like he's not just shorter but slimmer, lighter.

Like, for instance, he's fourteen or so.

This can't be happening.  Salt doesn't work magic.  People don't step into salt circles and find themselves in fucking consecrated churches from thirteen years ago.

Near Father, Luminița gives him a smile from under her hood.

Trevor smiles back.  Even if this isn't happening, even if it's some cruel dream, she's his closest sister.

They walk home from church in a thick knot, exactly the way he remembers.  The way he's longed for.

It's Sara, his second-closest, who laces her arm in his and leans in.  The hem of her cap has frayed a little; it needs re-sewn.

Ha.  Like he can talk.  He only launders his clothes regularly because otherwise Sypha and Alucard probably wouldn't speak to him.  And sure, he can darn his own socks, but that doesn't mean he actually does any mending when it needs done.

"You seemed distracted during Mass today," she says, and her voice is the same mixture of high pitch and dry delivery that makes everything short of a threat sound kind of funny.

It's not real.  Can't be happening.  Not.  Real.  Just a fucking vicious, painful dream a witch came up with.  Somewhere above him, Sypha and Alucard are dealing with a small coven and trying to wake him up.

Knowing all that doesn't stop the warmth in his chest, that huge bubble of impossible fondness that always accompanies seeing his most precious people after a long absence.

"Just thinking about things."

It's Luminița who asks, "What kinds of things?"

"Just things."  One good point of being probably four-and-ten again: he can get away with that.

Both his sisters laugh at him.

The walk home is long and surprisingly warm.  He thinks it must be Lent, and that means early spring.  He would have expected grayer skies, the last few flurries of snow, but instead it's all an expanse of blue.  The sun pours down on his head, gradually warming him.

They reach the great gate by late afternoon.  A nod from Father, and Mother takes her keyring from her belt and fits key to lock.  There's a resounding click and then they're swinging it open.  Trevor, as the last one through, pulls the gate shut, listening for the sound of the mechanism.

He still has a hard time believing any of this is real.

He stares up at the stout walls, of good oak and better stone, at the windows with real leaded glass, at the pennant of the Belmont crest hanging from one of the windows.  A hunting party must be away; they only display that when someone's left the house on a hunt.

This all feels… It's completely crazy, but at the same time, it feels right.  Accurate, maybe: it feels like he's walking, all too aware, through a Lenten Sunday that really happened to him.

Father and his sisters go directly into the house.  Except for Luminița and Sara, none of them has ever had much patience for him when he's being slow.

It's Mother who waits on the front step.  She reaches out to catch his face in between her palms.  They're softer than his own, than Father's, but they're still callused and chapped, just in different places.

"You've been out of sorts," she says, sweeping her thumbs over his cheekbones before resting the back of her hand against his forehead.

He doesn't protest the touch.  Maybe he would have, at fourteen, but he hasn't been anywhere near his mother in thirteen years.  Instead he allows it, unwilling even to close his eyes if that means losing sight of her.

"I'm fine.  Just thinking."

His mother hums.  "If it's about Old Marta… Well, you're kind, Trevor, but there was nothing we could have done for her."

Old Marta?  He thinks back, trying to remember.  He has the vaguest, dimmest memory of an aging woman with apple cheeks who always smelled of onion.  She sold cheese, maybe?

His mother mistakes his confusion for something else.  She does the thing where she squeezes his face in her hand.  Squeeze isn't the right word -- but she cups his cheek and grips, and instead of threatening, it's comforting.

How had he forgotten that she did things like that?  Does things like this?

"It's not the fire or the heat.  It's the smoke.  It's very quick -- minutes, at most.  Almost as good a death as a beheading, and then they're made pure and good again.  She didn't suffer."

The sheer fucking irony of those words coming from the mouth of this woman.  This woman, who didn't die of fire or heat, but of being trapped in a smoky little room, who died coughing, is telling him that burned witches don't suffer?

He squints at her, looking not with the eye of a self-absorbed youth, but of a man.  The last thirteen years taught him to read a room, to read a face, to listen to what people weren't saying.

That's why he sees it: the faint tremor at the corner of her mouth, the flickering of her eyelids.

She's lying.  She's lying to protect a boy who's always been a little too soft to be a Belmont.

And that's when the memory finally settles in place, and he remembers Old Marta.  Burned as a witch in the town square in Sighișoara, and they hadn't been able to do anything about it.  It had been uniquely galling to the whole family.  Even Grandfather Rafael, who always focused more on killing what was wicked than on protecting his countrymen, had hated everything about it.

Of course, less than a year later, they'd all been accused of black magic, excommunicated, and burned alive.  Fuck.

[whereareroo]

KINDERGARTEN WISDOM

In 1988, a Unitarian minister named Robert Fulghum released a wonderful book entitled "All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten." Fulghum had been ordained in 1961, and the book contains 50 essays that he wrote during the first 25 years of his ministry.

The title of the book is taken from the first, and most famous, essay. Here it is:

"All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the sand pile at Sunday School. These are the things I learned:

Share everything.

Play fair.

Don't hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

Clean up your own mess.

Don't take things that aren't yours.

Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

Warm cookies and cold milk are good from you.

Live a balanced life--learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.

Take a nap every afternoon.

When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.

Wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup--they all die. So do we.

And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned--the biggest word of all--LOOK.

Everything you need to know is there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics and equality and sane living.

Take any one of those items and extrapolate it into sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your family life or your work or your government or your world and it holds true and clear and firm. Think about what a better world it would be if we all--the whole world--had cookies and milk about three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankets for a nap. Or if all governments had as a basic policy to always put things back where they found them and to clean up their own mess.

And it's still true, no matter how old you are--when you go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together."

It could be the best essay ever written. We should all post it on a wall and read it every day. (For many years, it was posted in the break room at my law firm.)

Today, I want to focus on Fulghum's first basic rule: "Share everything." I think Fulghum made it #1 for a reason. Communities cannot survive without sharing. The world cannot survive without sharing. Sharing is an essential element of life.

In an interview 20 years after the book was published, Fulghum was asked if he thought his essay was too simplistic. Here's his response: "It would do no good to tell a six year old that: 'Studies have shown that human society cannot function without an equitable distribution of the resources of the earth.' While this statement is profoundly and painfully true, a child cannot comprehend this vocabulary. So a child is told that there are twenty children and five balls to play with; likewise four easels, three sets of blocks, two guinea pigs, and one bathroom. To be fair, we must share."

Nobody likes to talk about it, but one of the things that must be shared is time on earth. Currently, the world population is just under 8 billion people. Based upon calculations related to the limited resources in the biosphere, scientists believe that earth has a maximum carrying capacity of 9 to 10 billion people. We know, however, that approximately 105 billion people have lived on earth. Life on earth has survived because people die. We all get a turn at being alive on earth. Then, others get their turn. If nobody died, and the population continuously grew, life on earth would have ended a very long time ago. We should all be thankful that 95 billion people have died during the course of history. If they hadn't died, we wouldn't be here. We're all here because time on earth is shared. We all get a turn.

In 1965, a few years after Fulghum was ordained and many years before he wrote his essay about kindergarten, a group called the Byrds released a famous folk song called "Turn, Turn, Turn." The song explains that there is constant turnover in life. The song begins with: "To everything--turn, turn, turn--there is a season--turn, turn, turn--and a time to every purpose under heaven." The very next line deals with the difficult issue that we've been discussing: "A time to be born, a time to die." The writer of the song, Pete Seeger, understood that we have to share earth and take turns at life. He addressed that concept in the very first line of the song.

Not everybody knows that the song Turn, Turn, Turn was essentially plagiarized from The Bible. Take a look at the beginning of the third chapter of the Book of Ecclesiastes. You'll see the lyrics to Turn, Turn, Turn. Forget about the Byrds, and forget about Fulghum. The Bible tells us that time on earth is shared and that we each get a turn.

Go back to the top of this post and read Fulghum's essay again. This time start at item 15 and read upwards. Item 15 says: "Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup--they all die. So do we."

If you read upwards from there, aware of your own mortality, you'll see excellent tips for leading a moral and ethical life. In our limited time on earth, our turn, Fulghum tells us how to take care of ourselves, our families, our communities, and earth itself. Following Fulghum's rules will make you a better and happier person during your turn at life.

At my childhood Church, there was a priest who used to say: "You don't control when you're born. You don't control when you die. You do control most of the middle. Make good decisions and make the most of it."

We should all strive to make the most of our turn at life. When the end of our turn arrives, we need to take comfort in the fact that we are stepping aside so others can take their turn at life. Death is a noble act of selflessness. It's the ultimate way to follow Fulghum's first rule: "Share everything."

[itsmoonphobic]

🗝️ 𝕽𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝕽𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖘𝖔𝖉𝖞

"𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆?𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒖𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚.𝑷𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆,𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈.𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒕."

Listen to this song if you want extra vibes while reading :) ❗TW: Death | Corpses | Angst

"Death is the opposite of life,that's not true.Death is a part of life that catches up to us at any given time."

His life was turned upside down in a matter of days.After the tragic death of their ruler and friend Techno,the blond boy would lock himself in the king's room and declined to come out,unless it's highly necessary.Neglecting both his mental and physical health during the time of Techno's departure,he refuses to talk to another human being,doesn't eat even if the chefs prepare his favorite meal they knew he never turns down.But even by that he seems unfazed and just picks around his plate and leaves it on the table while excusing himself so he make his way back to the king's chambers and sulk in despair.

Hours and hours worth of sleep only then became evident when he crawls out of Techno's room to get a glass of water and scurry back where he came from.His eyes would turn red and dark valleys painted themselves under the blue orbs,who seemingly grew with every sleepless night. He thinks other people around him don't notice but everyone in the castle sees the dried tears that ran down his pale cheeks.Phil and Wilbur would leave him alone and only occasionally check up on him to make sure he's doing okay and not having an existential crisis.Most of the time Phil finds him sitting on the windowsill,longingly staring out the pink stained glass and loyally waiting for the king's return just like he remembered doing when Techno left for one of his many journeys,traveling out into the far lands. Everytime Tommy would see a carriage approaching over the hills he would run outside and excitingly hope it's Techno who arrived.Only to be disappointed when he realizes that it's not the person he is wishing to welcome. Phil would try his hardest not to let the tears escape but after seeing Tommy devastatingly staring out into the far stretching hills and forests,he gives up fighting the urge.

Tubbo would visit the castle and inquire Phil or Wilbur if he can step inside to see Tommy.They hesitantly let him in and make sure to warn him beforehand that he doesn't mention the king or anything regarding him around his miserable best friend.Tommy was practically a ticking time bomb,one word or mention of Techno could set off an explosion.So to prevent that from becoming reality everybody in the castle is ensuring how they act around the sad blonde.His usual bubbly and cheerful energy drains out which is concerning to others around him for the reason that it's unnatural for Tommy to behave this strangely.Tubbo makes sure to keep in mind the instructions that were given to him,carefully and gently taking care of Tommy while letting him cry his heart out into one of his many green tunics.He tries to cheer him up by taking him outside to breathe in some fresh air and clear his mind from distracting thoughts.

Tommy couldn't and didn't want to accept the truth.He didn't want to admit to himself that the first person who showed him love and tought him valuable lessons in life that he would always treasure deep in his heart,died.It felt so surrealistic,so unsettling,that feeling of something missing. It was as if somebody took away a piece of him,a piece of him that kept Tommy going,a piece that reminded him of the person he wanted to become one day.Techno was and always will be the boy's will to live on and continue seeing the wonders of the world he still yet has to explore himself. He will never forget the memories they collected along the way of building up their friendship,from the moment he first spoke to him to their last shared words.He didn't like reffering to the king,nevertheless he payed a visit to his grave.The smooth,polished stone displayed itself in the center of the cemetery.A marble crown was sculptured by it's side as a representation of power and respect for their once ruthless but nonetheless caring ruler.Flowers of all kind which have been picked from widow's gardens layed on the gravestone filling it up with vibrant colors and making it come to life amongst the other dull monuments surrounding the meaningful tombstone.

Many children came along with their caretakers,leaving behind drawings and letters for the king.People came and silently stood by the grave,some cried others kneeled down and shared their prayers.Either way,Bladestrom was in a depressive state,shops got closed during the funeral which was held a few hours after his passing,schools got shut down and the majority of the kingdom's citizens didn't talk or leave their houses unless they visited his grave.The king's death was something nobody could have predicted to have happend so early into his rulership,the young king has been in control for only ten years which was nothing compared to how long his father and grandfather ruled.

Tommy,Wilbur and Phil would never forget the adventures and shenanigans they went through with their friend.Their friendship was a bond that not even death was able to break and tear apart.So many memories came rushing in once the priest spoke his ending line.Countless tears have been shed that night the coffin was burried underground, all sorts of reactions and emotions were shown.It was hard. King Techno Blade's funeral was an occasion everybody would carry on their backs like a heavy stone keeping them from walking straight,till the rest of their lives.

Tommy had it the hardest.Techno was like a father he never had,a person he could rely on,a person he trusted with all of his secrets,fears and insecurities.Somebody he saw himself going through life with,a person who changed his way of looking at all things around him.A person who cared for him,protected him and most importantly loved him.The young orphan was drowning in sadness,he was devastated. All of this new chaos and information was thrown at him out of nowhere,his brain had tried to process what's going on but failed.It just didn't make sense,only a few weeks ago the two of them were playing around in the castle and now here he was,standing infront of Techno's grave.A place where a corpse could rest,give up it's soul and carry on their destiny in the afterlife.His pale blue eyes pooled up with salty tears,the idea of giving up and joining Techno wherever the king is right now had crossed his mind multiple times in the past few days,but he kept bringing forward a promise he made with Techno.Tommy was never the type of person who took promises or pacts seriously,he either forgets about them or simply changes his mind on them and doesn't care anymore.

But this was a whole different story.This promise was something Tommy will never leave in the dust,a promise he engraved into his heart just like two lovers their capitals into the wood of a tree trunk.

"Never give up Tommy,great things take time."

Those eight words structured into a sentence stuck with Tommy the day he heard them.He wasn't sure what the king met when he told him the saying back then,but now he was completely aware of it's meaning.Techno knew that he couldn't always be there by his side even if he wanted nothing more then to see him grow up into the man he dreamed to be.He knew Tommy had to continue his experiences and reach his goals alone,he never doubted Tommy's abilities or his strange,yet effective determination that kept him going.Techno may have never said it out loud but he saw a picture of himself in Tommy.He saw the boy who once strictly followed his parent's expectations,who let himself be pushed around for no apparent reason,a boy who also had a dream,a dream he later on accomplished.

Now that Tommy was by himself in the world with his dreams,without Techno next to him,he was scared.What was he supposed to do?Where was he meant to start?How do you figure out when the right time comes?He had so many questions running wildly in his head,all of them he wanted to ask Techno,wanting to hear his opinions.

A petite gesture on his shoulder brought Tommy out of his daydreams.He didn't even notice his spacing out,he had been staring at the king's grave for the past half an hour. Silently wishing that it didn't exist.The blond boy hesitantly retrieved his eyes away from the stone looking behind him to witness none other than Wilbur.The musician was waiting for him to finish placing down the pink roses they had brought along with them,which Tommy was still steadily holding in his grip.Wilbur's eyes darted towards the fragile blooms in the orphan's hands,back to the grave as a mute signal to let them go.At first a bewildered look crossed his face but after seemingly getting the hint he gave the roses one last look and gingerly deposited them on the smooth stone.His hand lingered on the thorn filled flowers but after his fingertips left them he stood back up.

The two of them shared a moment of silence and peace. Tommy didn't have to glance at the man beside him to know that he aswell must have been struggling not to cry. Wilbur was the first to speak up:"C'mon Tommy,let's go." Blue eyes scanned the guitarist's features,his jaw clenched and his nose flared.Tommy knew if they stayed a second longer Wilbur would flood the cemetery with tears.He nodded,following Wilbur back to the castle,or atleast that's where he thought they were heading to.

Wilbur didn't take Tommy to the castle.He was suprised to see that the orphan didn't even question why or where they were going.He may physically be behind Wilbur but his mind was constantly thinking about Techno.The brown haired man stopped in his tracks,admiring the view from the cliff they were located on.Tommy came to a halt next to him,almost stepping over the edge if Wilbur didn't stop him with his arm.His pale orbs scanned the area around them, he wasn't familiar with this place but he couldn't complain about the breathtaking rivers collapsing together beneath their feet.The turbulent and foggy waves danced across the river's indigo,silk coat.The rain from the night before fed the carefree water flowing under them.

"Don't you see Tommy?" A stray tear fell down Wilbur's cheek,a small sob escaping his lips.He looked at Tommy who seemed confused and concerned.

"The waves are crying with us in harmony." Wilbur's eyes traveled back to the rising rivers willed with dangerous mountains of water.

"People say that death is the opposite of life,but that's not true at all." Tommy followed Wilbur's view,locking his eyes on the beautiful water.

"Death is a part of life,that can catch up to us at any given time or moment.It comes at unexpected times."

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 ☔︎

[spnwatch]

Season 2: The Rankings

Whew. Oh boy.

They were still puttering about in season 1 to an extent. But now? Now they’ve really hit their stride. This season was a veritable chocolate box of delights and I ate my way through it. The overall myth arc was kind of nonsensical, but that emotional throughline? Christ. Spn buries SO MUCH emotional complexity into its leads, and they cashed in every cent in that two part finale. It packs one hell of a punch. And yeah, okay, I knew the broad strokes, the twists and turns. It’s hard not to be spoilered for a season of tv that aired over a decade ago. But reader! It mattered not!! I. Still. Wept. That’s when you know it’s the good kush.  1.) 2x12: NIGHTSHIFTER. This one just snagged the top spot by merit of its sheer ambition. Supernatural often feels like a very empty universe to me, just two guys and one car drifting from place to place. Which is fine, it makes for compelling TV, but they totally flipped the script here and this episode really dazzles precisely because of that contrast. It’s a huge, cinematic episode, a metropolitan setting full of uncontrollable elements, and it’s great to see Sam and Dean so profoundly vulnerable. The outside world is pressing up against the windows. They have sniper dots trained on them! They are, literally and figuratively, out of their depth! We’re not in Kansas any more, baby. God, I haven’t even mentioned the supporting characters. The entire mandroid rant deserves an Emmy. Victor Henrickson’s entrance! Heist movie antics! Agh!  10/10  

2.) 2x07: THE USUAL SUSPECTS. Again this episode was a cut above precisely because it showed us what the brothers look like from the outside: sketchy as all hell. It’s so good when reality ensures, because it’s great to be reminded they lead objectively insane lives! Through Linda Blair’s eyes we get to see just how unknowable, feral and amoral they appear to the eyes of polite society. Put under a microscope like this, they’re scary guys! They’re just not socialised like normal people. They don’t really care about being arrested, or about the felonies. Getting arrested is an irritant above everything else. They’re still working the case from the inside. They’re professionals; excellent liars, and totally in sync with each other. The handwritten notes they pass, like delinquent school kids! A delight! The thrill lies in watching Blair slowly unwrap their strange logic, and unravel the mystery of both the brothers and the ghost. Ugh, what a great perspective shift. I’m 100% here for it. 10/10 

 3.) 2x09: CROATOAN. Ugh, this setting. Small Town Gothic, complete with eerie mist, hostile locals and creepy Stepford vibes. Sam really shone in this episode. He’s so soothing and giant, and it made his suffering at the end all the more devastaing. The real reason this episode ranks so highly is their conversation in the surgery. It just killed me. Dean’s sheer, bone-deep exhaustion, his admission that he’s tired of the life. Sam’s despair, because he knows Dean won’t leave. The performances were so steller. I can’t even really think too deeply about it because it makes me too crazy. 10/10  

 4.) 2x21: ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE: PART ONE. I loved this finale so much more than the finale in Season 1, LOL. It might just be because I’m more invested now, who knows. The opening of this episode is a piece of art: Boston playing on the car stereo, the rain, the small cafe, the lighting. Gorgeous. I love when they have to interact with ordinary people! It adds so much: texture, humour, personality! It draws things out of Sam and Dean that we just don’t see when they have each other to bounce off of. It was so good to see Ava and Andy again. “I just woke up in freakin’ Frontierland!” The gang’s all here, folks! This episode would rank higher, but recieves minus points for the long boring speech the demon gives Sam, and killing off the first gay in the show 0.2 seconds after her introduction. Anyway. The ending of course unzipped me; Dean cradling Sam’s dead body, muttering “It’s okay, it’s not even that bad.” The elation of their reunion, so devastaingly cut short! Sam, twenty two years old, bleeding out in the mud. The sheer, hopelessness of it all. The horror. My notes for the end of the episode simply read: “Dean oh Christ. Oh my God. Oh no.” It’s just one of those scenes that stay with you long after the credits start rolling. 9/10   

5.) 2x20: WHAT IS AND WHAT SHOULD NEVER BE. I never thought I could be so profoundly upset by watching a man happily mowing a lawn. Dean’s trauma over the loss of his mother has undercut the whole show up until this point, and here it bursts to the fore. What really got me was the simplicity of it all. Just a sit-down dinner, an engagement. A beer on the porch. Fuck, he deserves it. He deserves everything. All the performances were great, they really served to show there’s a whole life in these AU characters. The fact it wasn’t all perfect was bizarrely more devastating. AU Sam’s weird straight hair and dorky jacket sealed the deal for me, as did his baffled terror in the warehouse. But even here, with no training and no idea what’s happening, he gets into the Impala! Because that’s his brother! Because I’m a huge baby I had to remove points because of how upsetting I found Sam’s quiet hostility towards Dean, HA. But that’s really just a testament to how well-realised their dynamic has become by the second season. 9/10  

 6.) 2x15: TALL TALES. Every single thing Sam does in any of Dean’s memories. Also alien slowdance set to “Lady in Red.” Also Bobby breaking them up like they’re petulant children. Gold, all of it gold. 9/10 

 7.)  2x11: PLAYTHINGS. So I’m a slut for a cool setting, obviously. Turns out, Supernatural did The Haunting of Bly Manor fifteen years ago. The swimming pool! The attic! Creepy dolls! The weird little playground! This episode has it all! I loved the saga between the ghost sister and the old lady, which would honestly make a killer movie in its own right. But I’m digressing. The main star of this episode was, of course, Dean’s profound and escalating sexual insecurities. “Well, you are kinda butch. People probably think you’re overcompensating.” FATALITY. I would’ve placed this one higher but the weird incestuous undertones kinda squicked me out... however, I did think we were meant to be creeped out by it, which is more than I can say for some other uh. Instances. It was, after all, beautifully paralelled at the end with the two sisters reuniting in death. “I can’t leave here, and you can’t leave me.” SHUDDER. Also, honestly, can Sam have one (1) breakdown on his own without Dean’s own emotional baggage taking over? Older siblings, smh. 9/10

8.) 2x22: ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE: PART TWO. This one ranks lower than part one purely because I thought the yellow-eyed demon’s overall plot was kinda nonsensical, and I cared not for John’s weird deux ex machina moment. Like do you expect me to feel sorry for that bitch? I don’t! Anyway, that being said, let’s move on to Dean’s eyes in the junkyard when Bobby asks him, “do you have that low an opinion of yourself?” They’re so flat. So dead, like a shark’s. He doesn’t need to say anything back, because it’s all over his face. That non-expression says it all. This is the culmination of the emotional arc that began with his savage beatdown of the Impala in episode 2x02. To call it survivor’s guilt wouldn’t even begin to cover what Dean goes through this episode. It’s all in Ackles’ performance; in the the way he yells, “What am I supposed to do now, Sammy?” The complete claustrophobia of it all. There’s nothing for it but to make the deal. Dean’s been moving inexorably towards this moment for the entire season. 9/10   

 9.) 2x13: HOUSES OF THE HOLY. What a kooky little episode! Magic fingers! Sam’s costcutter seance purchases! The scooby-doo placemat he uses as a makeshift altar! I love him, your honour. Obviously this episode has a lot of *~dramatic irony~* in it because of the later seasons, but it stands alone as a total banger. I was so gutted for Sam when the "angel” was revealed. So many good little Sam moments to be found in this episode. His soft, quiet little revelation that he prays every day. His awkward, earnest explanation to the horrified priest! Dean gets some great moments chasing down the would-be rapist down those dark, snow-covered streets. His speech to Sam where he explains his lack of belief is brief, but it’s a total gut punch. Rounding it off with Knockin on Heaven’s Door was just the cherry on top. 9/10 

 10.) 2x14: BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN. Ahaha I love the way Dean acts whenever Sam’s psychic powers come up. He treats him like a rebellious teen, it’s so funny. “What’s going on with you, Sam? Smokin’, drinkin’?” As if Sam’s behaviour was a) at all under his control or b) anything Dean wouldn’t HIMSELF do. Dean’s just like, this isn’t how I raised you! Truly hysterical. The whole sequence between Meg!Sam and Jo was fantastic and horrible. Sam’s huge physique is never threatening, but it really was in that moment. The interplay between them was totally spine-tingling. Meg’s impression Sam slowly crumbling away over the course of the episode was so compelling and I’m sure it will be a really fun rewatch now I know the *twist*. 9/10  

Favourite lines this season: 

The way Sam says “black cat’s bone” in 2x08

“You’re not gonna go kill somebody because a ghost told you to, are you insane?!” - Dean, 2x13

“Dean, this is a very serious investigation, we don’t have time for your blah blah blah blah.” - Sam (according to Dean), 2x15

“I’m fine, except for every single thing that’s happening.” - Ava, 2x21 

[isnt-it-pretty]

Super uneditted WIP about Ishvalan Ed (and Al) Elric, because I need more of this au in my life.

TW for war stuff and mild wound description. 

He waits until just before the train departs. Pinako will pick them up from the train station at Resembool. Mr and Mrs Rockbell cannot accompany them on the trip. No more trains will be running to or from Ishval, and there are people who desperately need their aid.

Al is asleep across from him, curled on a seat with an old blanket laid over his shoulders. It’s one of the few belongings they were allowed to take. One of the few remnants of their home.

The train is about to move, so Ed climbs from the window, whispering an apology to his sleeping brother.

He’s nine years old, so much bigger than Al. He’s an alchemist, even if the word sounds dirty in the mouth of their priests. He can fight.

The train leaves, but Ed stays. He will fight with the others, throw rocks if he has to. Ishvala will protect them, and if He doesn’t, then Ed will protect them all in His place..

His mother bawls when she sees him. Anger and hopelessness coalescing into one as he stands in the doorway of his childhood home. She screams, shaking his shoulders as she does. Curses Amestris and alchemy, curses his father and even Ishvala. 

Two weeks later, the state alchemists arrive. 

...

This place is hell, and Ed wonders what they did to have Ishvala forsake them to this fate.

Bullets ring out all hours of the day, lodging themselves in the walls of the buildings. He wonders who’s shot them, the Ishvalans, or the Amestrians. 

It's been a month, and the front is within the city now. Amestris has taken portions for their holy land, and is trying to strike to the very heart of it.. 

The adults speak of other countries helping to fund this war, others speak of what will come after. This land is soaked in blood now, the blood of His chosen. No side will back down, and they cannot beat all of Amestris. 

Ed has been kept busy. He’s transmuting medicine for the Rockbells when he can, helping the wounded. He’s only nine years old, but they need all the aid they can get, even that of a child.

He learns to comfort dying men, learns to stitch wounds and smile when every part of him feels like dying. He holds the hand of a crying woman, who’s child will never come home, and thanks Ishvala that Al isn’t here to see this. He does not regret staying, not when he is so obviously needed, but his little brother does not need to know the sound of anguished screaming which accompanies each day here. He does not need to know the smell of burnt flesh, and festering wounds.

...

The Rockbells die, and Ed isn’t there to see it.

Ishval is falling around them, the state alchemists pushing forward even through the night. The sky has been lit by bright orange fire the last few days, and Ed can hear the screams of thousands as they burn. He isn’t sure whether or not they’re real.

His mother is pulling him along, trying to avoid open areas where they know The Hawk’s Eyes lay in wait. Somewhere far away, there’s an explosion, and Ed can’t help but wonder if it is the work of the Crimson Alchemist.

He hates himself. Hates himself for knowing the names of those that are slaughtering his kin. Hates that bullets and guns and alchemy are destroying everything that he has held dear. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Ed is afraid that this is all his fault. Perhaps it was his practicing of alchemy that has brought this upon them. Perhaps this is his punishment for forbidden arts. Would Ishvala be cruel enough to damn them all for Ed’s own transgressions? He doesn’t know, and he’s too afraid to ask.

His mother is holding him close, a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet as a group of soldiers march by. They’re laughing at a state alchemist who had to be sent home, the Strong Arm Alchemist, how he had a breakdown over the body of a worthless Ishvalan child. The soldiers pass, and he and his mother continue on through the wreckage of their city.

For once, Ed regrets not going with his brother. Maybe if he wasn’t here, Ishvala would have let his people live. Maybe his mother wouldn’t put herself at risk to keep him safe. Maybe he wouldn’t be questioning whether or not he will ever see Al again.

They arrive at the Rockbell’s clinic, only to find it coated in blood. Few survivors remain, but they join Ed and his mother as they try desperately to move through the falling city.

Night falls, but they don’t stop. It’s slow going, trying to avoid Amestrian soldiers, but they do what they can. Even as they hear the sound of death all around them.

Their luck can’t last forever.

Bullets ring out as those in their party begin to fall dead, nobody can see where they’re coming from in the billowing smoke from the raging infernos. 

Every shot sounds like a slice through his heart as Ed’s mother pulls him through the chaos. Desperate to reach cover.

They don’t make it.

She falls in front of him, ignoring his cry of:

“Mother!”

She doesn’t move, doesn't stand up and smile or pull him close.

Suddenly, the building behind them explodes, burning shrapnel raining down upon them.

They are going to die. They are going to die. Ishvala has abandoned them, condemned them to hell. 

Somebody grabs him, and it's only then that Ed realizes the burn across his shoulder. He shakes the person off.

Even through the panic and pain, Ed focuses. Flames are caused by a combustion reaction. When the ignition point is reached, flames will appear. Those flames are primarily made up of carbon dioxide, water vapor, oxygen and nitrogen. If he can just...

Maybe Ishvala is punishing him for using alchemy, but if he can get them out, then it will be okay. It will all be okay. 

There's just enough blood in his body to draw a transmutation circle. 

Nowhere in any books was transmuting fire like this mentioned, but scientific discoveries often happen in times of crisis.

He glances toward his mother’s unconscious form. Unconscious because she has to just be unconscious, please Ishvala I know what I did wrong but please- and touches the circle just as the fire reaches it.

There’s a blast of heat, he thinks he screams again, but everything has turned black.

[religioused]

Words Never Die

by Gary Simpson

1 Samuel 3:1-20 (King James Version) And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli. And the word of the Lord was precious in those days; there was no open vision. And it came to pass at that time, when Eli was laid down in his place, and his eyes began to wax dim, that he could not see; and ere the lamp of God went out in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was, and Samuel was laid down to sleep; that the Lord called Samuel: and he answered, Here am I. 5 And he ran unto Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again. And he went and lay down. 6 And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again. 7  Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet revealed unto him. 8 And the Lord called Samuel again the third time. And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child. 9 Therefore Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if he call thee, that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth. So Samuel went and lay down in his place. 10 And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak; for thy servant heareth.

11 And the Lord said to Samuel, Behold, I will do a thing in Israel, at which both the ears of every one that heareth it shall tingle. In that day I will perform against Eli all things which I have spoken concerning his house: when I begin, I will also make an end. For I have told him that I will judge his house for ever for the iniquity which he knoweth; because his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not. And therefore I have sworn unto the house of Eli, that the iniquity of Eli’s house shall not be purged with sacrifice nor offering for ever.

15 And Samuel lay until the morning, and opened the doors of the house of the Lord. And Samuel feared to shew Eli the vision. Then Eli called Samuel, and said, Samuel, my son. And he answered, Here am I. And he said, What is the thing that the Lord hath said unto thee? I pray thee hide it not from me: God do so to thee, and more also, if thou hide any thing from me of all the things that he said unto thee. And Samuel told him every whit, and hid nothing from him. And he said, It is the Lord: let him do what seemeth him good.

19 And Samuel grew, and the Lord was with him, and did let none of his words fall to the ground. 20 And all Israel from Dan even to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was established to be a prophet of the Lord.



Reflection:

There is an old public domain hymn titled “Kind Words Never Die.” Sadly, angry words take on a life of their own too. In no realm does that seem more accurate than political and religious discussions.

Three general principles you might want to look for in this sermon. (1) Ridicule and insults can cause religious and political divisions and political tension. (2) We can reflect on how our theological beliefs and political news consumption may cause us to hate others. (3) Look for ways to build people up.

There are times when a dose of Biblical trivia feels right. And this is one of those times. In the Septuagint, 1st and 2nd Samuel were called 1st and 2nd Kingdoms, and 1st and 2nd Kings were called 3rd and 4th Kingdoms.(1) A few people think 1st and 2nd Samuel would be better named Saul and David, or 1st and 2nd David.(2)

First and Second Samuel were probably written about 900 BCE(3), and the events described in 1st Samuel might date back to somewhere between 1200 and 1000 BCE.(4) The book was written after the division of the nation into two kingdoms, the northern and the southern kingdoms.(5) The events in the book of 1st Samuel take place during a time of political change. The children of Israel were transitioning into a monarchical form of government.(6) We see a shift from the leadership of priests, prophets and judges to kings.(7)

As we look to contemporary issues dividing Canada and the United States, we may find parts of 1st Samuel, a book written for a people divided into two kingdoms, valuable. A major theme in 1st Samuel is that the main characters, Samuel, Saul, and David, all “make mistakes that cost them dearly.”(8) This last point, which seems quite trivial, could be important. Religious institutions and religious leaders, combined with political institutions and political leaders, made mistakes that could be challenging for North Americans for many years. Decisions relating to the creation and operation of residential schools made by the Canadian Government and church denominations hurt generations of Indigenous people. Contributors to the NIV Foundation Study Bible observe that Samuel’s ministry is built on a foundation of an “attitude of listening.”(9) And listening could be critical to the future for people of faith.

There is some literary foreshadowing in the passage. Samuel means “requested of God.”(10) We can get the sense that there is something special about Samuel, and that sense increases as we read the narratives in 1st and 2nd Samuel.

In the ancient Near Eastern world, prophets gave messages from God. Should a god not give messages through prophets, it was considered a sign that the gods were unhappy.(11) Contributors to the Cultural Backgrounds Study Bible indicate that some people speculate that Samuel was in the temple area at night in hopes of receiving a “divine vision,” but there is nothing in the Biblical passage that supports that conclusion.(12)

Verses 15 to 17 are worth exploring for a moment. Warren Wiersbe draws attention to the fact that Samuel got up and went about his daily duties. He gives Samuel credit for being mature enough not to run around telling everyone that God gave him a special message.(13) I am not sure if it was maturity or dread of telling Eli the message God gave Samuel. Because Eli was almost like a foster father, Samuel might have loved Eli. His love for Eli might have been why Samuel was reluctant to tell Eli God’s message. Samuel did not want to hurt Eli.(14) Eli had a long vocational calling as a judge, having judged Israel for 40 years. Knowing Eli's vocation might have made it even more difficult for Samuel to deliver God’s stern message.(15)

Eli appears to threaten Samuel. He says Samuel must tell the whole truth and not to hide anything from him or God will deal severely with Samuel. Eli may have spoken strongly because he realized that God did something “rare” when God bypassed him and gave Samuel a message.(16) Eli, who recognizes physical maturity does not always go hand-in-hand with spiritual maturity, takes the rebuke God gives him through the mouth of young Samuel.(17) I think Eli shows significant maturity in his willingness to seek out and to accept the message Samuel gave.

Moses understood the children of Israel wanted to have a king.(18) There could be many reasons why the children of Israel wanted a king, a person of power, leading their country. They might have been seeking power, prestige, and a feeling of safety. Chapters 8-12 of 1 Samuel describe the establishment of a king for the children of Israel.(19) Was a desire to have a powerful leader, a person who could protect people of faith, a factor in some Christians being involved in the Capitol protest, a protest that claimed the lives of people? Did some people of faith believe they needed a strong president, a virtual king figure to protect their faith? We may never know.

When protesters took over the Capitol Building in Washington, DC., a few Americans carried crosses and Christian banners. Photos show somebody put up a noose. There was a massive juxtaposition between the images. As Canadians we cannot look down our noses at our American neighbors and congratulate ourselves that this could never happen in Canada. Increasingly strong and polarizing rhetoric is not just an American thing. We have the same problem here. Polarizing language between conservative and progressive Christians is both a Canadian and an American problem.

There are a few things that we may want to consider when reviewing how you live out your religious and political convictions.

• Is our shared theology and understanding of the Bible helping us feel more compassion for others, or are we finding ourselves progressively feeling more angry with those who do not share our values or our doctrine?

• When we hear a politician or a minister speak, do we find ourselves feeling increasingly angry because we believe that we are being cheated?

• Have we studied, to understand, and not to prove other people wrong, the beliefs of other Christian denominations and other world religions?

• Do we find ourselves engaging in calling members of other religious or political groups names? Do we find ourselves calling either progressive or conservative Christians names?

• Do we decide to vote based only on one political issue?

• Are there times when we seriously want to punch people who disagree with us on core issues?

• Do we spend hours each week listening to all news, all talk shows? Are we feeling anxious and angry after we watch hours of news and opinion shows?

If some of the things I mentioned seem to describe you, this might be a sign that you need to focus less on news and theology. You may want to limit your consumption of news to the morning news and the evening news. That might help you feel less like your core values are being assaulted.

Anglican theologian John Stott states, “No theology is genuinely Christian which does not arise from and focus on the cross.”(20) Historically Christians have seen love and grace as being symbolized in the cross. This means Christian theology is only genuine Christian theology when it shows love and grace. A prime test of love is respect. When we express theology in a loving manner, we attempt to show respect for those who disagree. The use of sarcastic language, ridicule, and insults might win the argument, but it generally loses the war, since the tactics offend and alienate.

I am going to conclude with a story.

Lawrence Welk is a big band leader who had a highly successful career. There is a website that estimates the net worth of celebrities. According to the website, when Lawrence Welk died in 1992, he might have been the richest person in show business, possibly being even more wealthy than the legendary Bob Hope.(21)

I hope that I recall the story correctly because it has been years since I read Lawrence Welk’s autobiography. As I recall the story, Lawrence Welk was reminiscing about his early days in show business. Welk and his boss, the leader of the band he was in, were eating in a café. Evidently, the food was pretty awful. Lawrence Welk complained about the food. The leader of the band complimented the waitress on the coffee. Later, Lawrence Welk asked the leader of the band why he didn’t complain about the bad food. The bandleader replied to the effect that whenever the waitress heard his name, she would think about how he complimented her for the coffee and whenever the waitress heard Lawrence Welk's name, she would remember how he criticized the food.

I encourage people to change the topic from political concerns and religion to other topics and to look for a reason to praise. Your kind words will be remembered and will build a bridge.

Kind words can never die,

Cherished and blest,

God knows how deep they lie,

Stored in the breast:

Like childhood’s simple rhymes,

Said o’er a thousand times,

Aye, in all years and climes,

Distant and near.

Kind words can never die(22)

End Notes

(1) Joel Rosenberg. “1 and 2 Samuel.” The Literary Guide to the Bible. (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard Univ. Press, 1987), 122.

(2) Rosenberg. (1987), 122.

(3) Marshall Shelley, et al., eds. The Quest Study Bible. (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zandervan Pub., 1994), 358.

(4) John H. Walton and Craig S. Keener, eds. New King James Version Cultural Backgrounds Study Bible. (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zandervan Pub., 2017), 480.

(5) Shelley, et al. (1994), 358.

(6) Walton and Keener, eds. (2017), 480.

(7) Rosenberg. (1987), 122.

(8) NIV Foundation Study Bible. (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zandervan, 2015), 283.

(9) NIV Foundation Study Bible. (2015), 286.

(10) Merrill F. Unger. Unger's Bible Handbook: An Essential Guide to Understanding the Bible. (Chicago: Moody Press, 1967), 187.

(11) Walton and Keener. (2017), 486.

(12) Walton and Keener. (2017), 486.

(13) Warren W. Wiersbe. The Bible Exposition Commentary: History. Colorado Springs, Colorado: Victor, 2003), 216.

(14) Walter J. Harrelson, et al., eds. The New Interpreter's Study Bible. (Nashville, Tennessee: Abingdon Press, 2003), 399.

(15) Bruce Barton, et al., eds. Life Explanation Study Bible. 2nd ed. (Wheaton, Illinois: Tyndale House Pub., 2004), 413.

(16) Shelley, et al. (1994), 363.

(17) Christian Community Bible. 2nd ed. (Madrid, Spain: San Pablo, 1988), 277.

(18) Kenneth Barker, et al., eds. The NIV Study Bible. (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zandervan Pub., 1985), 372.

(19) Barker, et al. (1985), 372.

(20) John Stott. The Cross of Christ. (Doners Grove, Illinois: InterVarsity Press, 1986), 216.

(21) “Lawrence Welk Net Worth.” Celebrity Net Worth. 2020, 16 January 2021.

<https://www.celebritynetworth.com/richest-celebrities/rock-stars/lawrence-welk-net-worth/>.

(22) Abbey Hutchinson Patton. “Kind Words Can Never Die.” Public Domain Hymns. <https://www.pdhymns.com/SheetMusic/B_Normal/I-Q_Normal/K_Normal/Kind%20Words%20Can%20Never%20Die_N.pdf>.

[search-for-light]

Shameless Music Video Interpretation part 1

This has been a long time coming but life keeps interrupting my plans. The Shameless music video is incredible and not a lot of credit has been given to it. However, we can't just selectively interpret the visuals without also paying attention to the lyrics and I'll be focusing on both. So let's get to it!

Don't speak, no, don't try

It's been a secret for the longest time

Camila appears to be referring to a relationship and not simply a one-sided crush that has been hidden for the longest time. This is because she's asking the other person not to speak.

Don't run (oh), no, don't hide

Been running from it for the longest time

Again, Camila is asking the other person not to run because they've been running from it for the longest time. This sounds like a secret relationship that both have kept to themselves. But the question is, why have they had to keep it a secret for so long?

The visuals might have our answer...

Camila's seated inside a confessional. However, we see that instead of the typical male priest, there is a young female priestess. Notice the angle of the camera. It's positioned on the side of the priestess. This person is important and we are being forced to pay attention to her.

Camila isn't simply confessing her feelings. The way she looks towards the woman, she is actually speaking TO the priestess. Could this person be the object of her affection?

But if both are together why is it that Camila is communicating across a screen? The camera pans head on from Camila to the priestess again highlighting her importance. But throughtout these moments, we don't see the priestess look towards Camila or react in any way. Could this screen be a metaphor for an actual phone or computer screen? She knows the other person can hear her but she's unable to see her reaction thus we don't either.

Even today, Homosexuality is considered to be at odds with Christianity and this would explain the use of a confession box and a priestess as metaphors. It would also explain why this relationship was a secret for so long.

We see more highlights of the priestess as Camila pleads...

So many mornings, I woke up confused

In my dreams, I do anything I want to you

My emotions are naked, they're taking me out of my mind

These lines suggest that though both are attracted to each other, they aren't free to be with each other. Camila's subconscious creates dreams where she is finally able to be herself. But upon waking up she is left confused and her emotions are taking a toll on her patience.

Right now, I'm shameless

Screamin' my lungs out for ya

Not afraid to face it

I need you more than I want to

Need you more than I want to

Show me you're shameless

Write it on my neck, why don't ya?

And I won't erase it

I need you more than I want to

I need you more than I want to

Camila is shown standing in room where a party is taking place and she's staring at someone. We see a guy with his back towards Camila and he appears to be talking to a girl. But is Camila looking at him or at the girl in the shadows facing him? You might need to increase your screen resolution to see her.

For those who equate this song to be about Shawn, ask yourselves if a guy would need to be "shameless" to express his affection for Camila? Or would it be more "shameful" for a girl to come out into the open and be in a relationship with her? How would that be perceived? It might draw some harsh reactions which is why Camila sings about not being "afraid to face". Whereas she's been seen openly spending her time with both Matthew and Shawn. In these lines, she's being Shameless but she needs the same from her love who's still hiding.

"Write it on my neck" sounds a lot like asking for a hickey and other fans seem to agree that there is a connection with the fifth harmony song, 'Write On Me' which used to mean a lot to Camila.

So we're there, now it's real

Now that you have me, do you want me still?

Camila has opened up her heart to this person and is ready to be 'Shameless' but she's wondering if they still want her. This again shows that there's a distance between the two. They are communicating indirectly which is why Camila isn't certain if they still want her. If you're already together you wouldn't need to wonder if the person you love still wants you or not. You'd know it.

My kisses are history, they go back a long time, uh

They were once together and affectionate but it was a long time ago.

And I'm tired of loving somebody that's not mine, no

But now she doesn't know where they stand. She loves this person (she is notably gender neutral throughout the song) from a distance but they aren't hers still.

It's at this point that Camila reaches out and tries to touch the priestess in the music video. She's repeatedly showing us shamelessly who the object of her desire is. But are we really paying attention?

I can see why Camila had a hard time deciding when to say she wrote this song. In order for it to be linked to Shawn, it would have had to be written before they were officially seen being affectionate. But Shawn and Camila had multiple opportunities to date each other. They had no reason to be shy about it. They've had shippers ever since 'I Know What You Did Last Summer'. Why would they need to be a secret? And prior to this relationship, Camila had been said to be completely in love with Matthew. Is she saying she was in love with Shawn as well but he wasn't ready to be with her? Why? I don't see any reasonable explanation for why Shawn and Camila could not date in the past. If anything, this relationship has been quite profitable for both of them. Contrary to what LGBTQ relationships are like and are thus hidden for long durations of time.

Continued in part 2 where she really makes it obvious who she's talking about. If you're clever, you've already figured this out.

[cheshasleverage]

The Miracle Job Rewatch

Wow it sure took me a while to watch this episode damn. Also I’m gonna start putting these under read mores because they’re too long

Anyways, I think I understand why they might’ve switched the Two Horse Job with The Wedding Job, on account of it would explain why Nate is ordained and can marry off a couple without anyone questioning the validity of it

If we think about it going in the order it was supposed to though, with Nate marrying off the couple before telling the team he was a priest (or was going to be anyways) its kind of funny because that means the team didn’t care about its validity and just wanted to get the con over with

The mural in the church though, it’s gorgeous. The statue? can’t stop laughing at his little Y arms

The priest is definitely a guy Nate would be friends with, what with his humor and all

Listen I’m not religious and I know this is a running theme throughout the episode but seriously who beats up a priest, or any holy man for that matter? Unless the guys a fucking asshole I understand but come on

How did Sophie get that role? Knowing her the actual cast member dropped out or something and she jumped on the chance to play

Eliot playing Russian roulette with a bunch of criminals is somehow not as bad as watching Sophie’s play and I want to think he’s just exaggerating to get his point across but also Death of a Salesman is almost 2 and half hours long so maybe it really was that bad (either way I think Eliot needs to lighten up on Sophie)

Ok Ok, smooth Nate really smooth

Do you think Nate actually watched the play? He probably already knows the premise of Death of a Salesman so he can cover his ass if he fell asleep but the way he was watching Sophie in the first episode makes me think that maybe he is just fascinated with watching how her version plays out

First mention of Maggie, and with Sophie’s tone and with what we already know, we can kind of figure out that whatever she’s telling Nate is important and that the client is possibly connected to Nate (great writing tbh)

“You read the police report?” “Yeah, I do that.” 

The back and forth with Nate being All Business and Paul trying to get him to tell him if it had been Maggie he was talking to is very.... telling of how Nate feels about his “job” and his old life. Nate lost everything, including the wife he really loved, and now he’s driven himself into the ground trying to do anything that might distract him from what happened to Sam and his old life basically. 

I never realized before but parker has probably never actually experienced church or interacted with any religion in a....... religious way

Nate trying desperately to convince the team to help out his old friend like they hadn’t already helped out Sophie’s against the mob, or like they wouldn’t be all over it after learning some dudes jumped a priest. 

They have better hearts than I think themselves, and Nate, give them credit for

They were fully prepared for Nate! Hardison knew he was gonna start asking about who wanted the church and got signs of each place.

“I don’t do gangs” Do you think this is the episode that Hardison started to learn how to defend himself from attackers?

oof, look at how happy and proud Nate looks. That little boy was his life

This scene really drives home the fact that Hardison and Eliot have had very different experiences in life. While Hardison has mainly done cons behind the safety of his hacking and never really had to fight anyone, Eliot has done this before. He knows where gangs have their hideouts, he knows walking into their turf will draw them out, he knows they’ll pull guns or knives etc.

Side note: Eliot grabbing that dudes gun and holding it down his pants while he interrogates them? kind of hot ngl

“A specific range of efficacy” Yeah ok sure, he hates them because most inexperienced people use them in the least effective range instead of the fact that he’s probably got PTSD 

ANYWAYS DISARMING THAT DUDE WITH A HEADBUTT IS KIND OF HOT ALSO

However, Hardison freaking out is exactly how I would feel in that situation, mainly because I (and Hardison) realize that Eliot is there and after seeing what Eliot can do there’s very little chance he would let anything happen

What was that move, Hardison? Did he shove him??

Hey, at least he noticed that dude was acting weird. He’s very observant and picks up on a lot of things which helps out when he’s hacking

“Somebody’s gotta fight the injured, shoot that’s my niche”

Can we talk about how Eliot keeps looking back? Like he’s expecting a gunshot, whether it’s at the gang member or at them

God when the team is going hard against someone they really go hard. First smacking him with wood and changing his pills, then dumping his assistant on the floor to get him alone in an elevator

“You gave speed?” Hardison’s half-assed attempt to make an excuse for Parker because he did beat up a priest but also, speed?

Parker is so smart. Like, especially when she’s doing anything involving stealing but there are moments like this where she comes up with an elegant way of saying “let's ruin this dude”. 

I peg Hardison for being agnostic. Or something along those lines. Mainly because I feel somewhat similarly toward what they’re doing. Cus there’s a difference between taking advantage of someone’s greeds/fears vs taking advantage of their religion and faith

DID PARKER REALLY DRAW BLOOD FROM HIM

Sophie is vicious. I think they all are in their own way but Sophie gets next to her mark, gets cozy and they trust her and then she turns around and uses them for her con

1) Hardison is an amazing artist 

2) Eliot’s got a point because at 10 feet when you’re not moving and your target is standing still, you should have time to aim and hit it

Alright so digging in: Nate harbors guilt over Sam’s death and the falling apart of his marriage..... and his little game of cat and mouse with Sophie. He never cheated on Maggie, there may have been some flirting but he was honest and never slept with Sophie or anyone else, and I highly doubt Sophie ever tried to push him to sleep with her knowing he was married. But he still feels guilty because, well come on, one guilt piles on another and soon it’s snowballing. He’s thinking about every little mistake, whether Maggie cared about it or not, and wondering if he could’ve done things differently, how would things have turned out?

Sophie, on the other hand, knows he was honest, knows there’s nothing he should be feeling guilty about, at least not when it comes to what they had before the team. Maybe she harbors some envy toward Maggie, but she’s also in a very unstable and unsure spot. She doesn’t know where she stands with Nate personally, only professionally as a grifter on his team. And maybe she does feel somewhat guilty, but she’s trying to lessen the burden that Nate’s put on himself (not that she’s supposed to do that, and it’s another reason I’m glad the writers pushed off their romance)

You know you fucked up when the Vatican rolls up

(now I wanna see a job that takes place in/near the Vatican where the team has to avoid the Vatican and try not to get themselves smited for another fake miracle because Hardison, Parker, and Eliot booked it as soon as they heard the Vatican)

Paul really nailed Nate. At this point, Nate is an alcoholic and he’s depressed, like severely. Nate is using this team as a way to maybe redeem some part of himself, and possibly end him in a way that’s well.... it either does some good for someone or it ruins his reputation

I also wonder if Nate ever did go back before they moved. Maybe just once or twice, even if it was just to talk to Paul. 

Also very clever to use Saint Nicholas. After digging around (googling about him) I found out he’s technically the patron saint of repentant thieves

[welcometoitalia]

21 Cultural Pointers about Life in Italy

1) TIME: Kick off your shoes, throw away your watch... everything is relative. Whilst much has improved in recent years, trains, buses and people tend to work on an "approximate" timetable. Learn patience and go with the flow.

2) LANGUAGE: Other than in Northern Europe, English is not as widely learnt and used in Italy. Until recently, French was promoted above English. Italians suffer from a sort of language inferiority complex so that even those who do speak good English are convinced that they do not and therefore only speak when absolutely necessary. A common mistake in listening to an Italian speaking his mother tongue is to assume that they are angry or excited. This is not always the case as you may witness in seeing two Italians "argue" and then kiss each other on both cheeks and disappear for an Aperitivo (pre-dinner drink).

3) NATIONALISM: As reflected in regional dialects, modern Italy was actually only unified in the mid 1800's. Still today, great divisions exist between North and South. This means that culture, traditions and life style vary significantly between the various provinces. True allegiance is to the local town or province and less to Italy as a whole. If you want to compliment an Italian, remark kindly on his home town.

4) POLITICS: Often called "the Politics of Favors", politicians don't fade away, they just become prime minister for the 10th time! Bringing down Government is a national pastime, averaging nearly one government for every year since World War 2. Reflecting the national divide, Italy has a strong ex-communist and a strong ex-fascist block. Most Italians believe the country is successful despite the best efforts of the government; tax avoidance is another national obsession. One of Italy's stronger parties is dedicated to the break up of Italy. Lega Nord (Free the North) has a passionate following - in the north! To mis-quote Beppe Grillo, a famous Italian commentator: “One Italian makes a Latin lover, two together can never agree, whilst three make up four political parties.”

5) DRINK: Italian bars often double up as coffee shops as there is a much more limited drinking culture than in other European locales. Italians on the whole do not have a "drinking culture"; many bars reflect this less intense relationship with alcohol, although the club scene is more "traditional" in its appeal. Wine is often less expensive than bottled water and whilst a staple feature of Italian meals, it is very rarely drunk to excess.

6) FAMILIES: Careful of stereotypes but, whilst waning, the family is central to everything and all. It is normal for unmarried children to live at home, even if they are in their 30's and 40's. Children move away... to the house next door! ;) ... and shouting between balconies to borrow some sugar is common. The grandmother plays the role of matriarch and family members like to turn up for a meal and are gladly received.

7) RELIGION: Catholic, of course (about 90%). Strangely though, Italy now has one of the lowest birth rates in Europe, So called Mafia bosses may fastidiously attend church on Sunday and married Catholic men may happily have an “amante” (lover). Many Catholics are uncertain if they are Christians as well as Catholic, such is the hold and “brand” strength of the Catholic church. Church attendances are, however, in decline and the number of new priests has declined by 85% in the last 50 years.

8) SPORT: One thing all Italians agree on is the national football/soccer team, often referred to as Italy's "true" religion. When Italy won the World Cup, people took to the streets in their cars, blowing horns, standing on car roofs and the entire nations transport system ground to a halt for hours as Italians demonstrated their passion for the game. Other sports take a back seat although cycling, volleyball, skiing and Formula One have their place on the front pages. One of the largest selling national newspapers is entirely dedicated to sport (LaGazetta dello sport).

9) WORLD AFFAIRS: Not our affair... so who cares, right? 

10) FOREIGNERS: In most cases are greeted with enthusiasm and delight, although heavy non-European immigration has started to create phobia and resentment of the non European invasion in recent years.

11) FOOD: Italians are passionate about... Italian food! So much so that even when abroad, many Italians will go out of their way to seek out the nearest Italian restaurant. Each region of Italy has its own "local dish" and each dish may be prepared in a different way according to local custom. A wedding meal may last more than 6 hours and feature up to 20 courses. Such is the strength of Italian food that finding a Chinese, Mexican, or other type of restaurant outside the big towns is a challenge.

12) DRIVING: The Italian zest for life is well reflected in the Italian driving style! Cars are viewed as a status symbol; Italy has one of the highest percentages of Mercedes owners in the world. Speed limits, like train schedules, are considered approximations. Recent clamp downs and a new point system is beginning to dampen this zest and the best advise for foreign drivers is not to panic if a car cuts in, speeds by, or tailgates you. Don't worry, they have had lots of practice and are very good at it!

13) QUEING: Or lines. Until recently, the concept was an enigma for Italians. The advent of supermarket deli ticket lines and other such devices are being readily adopted and even when no line exists, Italians appear to have an uncanny sense of when it's their turn.

14) GREETING: Even vaguely familiar acquaintances will kiss each other on each cheek, but a hand shake will suffice. “Buongiorno” (formal) and “Ciao” (informal) being the classic accompaniment, followed by "come stai?" - the (informal) “how are you?”. In English-speaking countries, it's normal to reply "fine, thank you" even if you feel awful, in Italy they may well tell you how they actually are! Failure to greet or say goodbye to somebody can be taken as an insult.

15) FASHION: Italians will generally conform to the latest fashion trends, colors and styles, indeed foreigners can easily be spotted, even in a crowd, as they often do not conform to this hidden code. Italians take pride in their dress and are much more brand-conscious than some other nationalities.

16) BUSINESS: Italians prefer to do business with those they know and trust (hence, the relatively low success of Internet companies). Unlike some other industrialized powers, the back bone of the Italian economy is based on people, not multinationals. This is reflected in the proportionally high level of family businesses. Even large Italian businesses are often originated, directed or owned by a family (Benetton, Fiat etc). The local family shop concept still prevails, even though supermarkets are beginning to change the fabric of shopping.

17) PLANNING: Whilst many Northern Europeans are busy planning their next summer holiday in September the year before, summer holiday catalogs in Italy are not even printed till March! Planning ahead is considered restrictive and often Italians will decide what to do for the weekend on Saturday morning. Don't try and force Italians to plan, or expect next seasons bus timetable to be published months before. 

18) EUROPEAN: Italy is a great believer in “voting European”, agreeing to many issues and then simply not implementing the directive. Italians themselves see Europe as an escape clause from their own government's perceived incompetence and corruption, however when put to the test, Italians in reality dislike anybody who tells them how to live their lives. Most Italians were enthusiastic about the Euro, until they found that most shop keepers used it to increase prices twofold.

19) HUMOR: Warning: “Sarcasm is not defined”. Do not try sarcastic or ironic jokes on Italians, many will think you are serious. Humor is a lot more lighthearted and obvious (Benny Hill was a big hit) and Italians are not afraid to make fun of themselves. The famous Oscar-winning actor and comic Roberto Benigni once remarked: “If the Berlin wall had been built by Italians, it would have come down on its own.” The prime-time nightly comedy program “Striscia la Notizia” goes out of its way to poke holes and find humor in Italian news and politics. Few Italian comedies work well when translated but have an avid following in Italy itself.

20) TELEVISION: Italians love game shows and reality TV (Big Brother is a yearly event). Like Italian fashion, brand names are important. The host's "brand" is critical and what he or she wears is critically examined. Nearly all shows feature "dancers or assistents", nearly always women, and nearly always clad in mini skirts and revealing tops. Where other countries would cry foul, Italians revel in the female form and are happy to have it presented to them as often as possible, even when totally irrelevant to the show.

21) HOTELS: Contrary to popular belief there is no unified star rating system in Europe. Each country provides its own system. A hotel's ambience is not assessed in any system, only facilities. In Italy, a 3-star hotel will have a restaurant, on-suite bathroom, bar, and lounge area. Room sizes in Italy are below the European average, mainly because many hotels are converted residences. Most hotels are family-run with attentive, very friendly service and homecooked meals. It is not unusual for the grandparents to take over responsibilites when the owner is away or to be greeted during school holidays by the 14 year old son (who probably speaks better English than the parents). This family atmosphere is one of the charms of smaller Italian hotels.

Oh, and one last warning: be careful of the stereotypes. Whilst you can always draw a thread (or even a rope) of similarity (as above) between the nationals of a country, the extent and size of the thread can vary.

Edited and adjusted from an article by A. Reed, a Brit in Brescia, Italy